I heard a voice through my fog of pain. "Wake up, boy. Open your eyes." I obeyed and met the dark eyes of a red-haired woman. She extended her hand, but I felt too weak to take it. "Do you remember who you are?" she asked me.

I frowned, feeling the burning feeling on my chest, blood covering my shirt. "My name is Morpheus," I said. The name didn't feel quite right, but it was the only name I remembered. I examined the blood on my shirt, feeling the heavy, sticky liquid tacky on my skin. I realized the blood was my own. "What am I doing here? Why—why does everything hurt so much?"

"You've been shot," the woman told me, her voice matter-of-fact. "With three arrows. Honestly, I'm surprised you survived the trip here."

"I was dead," I said, remembering a hand clutching mine, a girl's voice pleading with me. I couldn't picture her face. "Did you save me?"

"I have power over Final Death," the woman explained. "I nulled your deal with Hades."

"Hades?" I repeated. I closed my eyes, recalling a vivid memory of the god of the dead bartering for the life of a girl. I had exchanged my Final Death for her life. Why she mattered so much, I didn't know. "Why would you do that for me?"

"Because you are Morpheus," the woman replied. "And if you underwent total Final Death, a woman would take over your role completely."

"Someone already has," I said.

"I understand that. But that can be fixed. Trust me," the woman said. "You help me remove the woman who has replaced you as Morpheus, and I will return you to your position."

"Who is the woman?" I asked, curious. Not that it mattered; someone had taken my place. All that should have mattered was to remove her and retake my position. Yet a strange desire to know my replacement's name lingered. What woman would be written into a man's role?

The woman's eyes narrowed, resulting in her first unfriendly expression. It lasted only for a few seconds, but it was there. "Her name is Rachel."

Rachel...the name rang in my ears. Where had I heard that name before? The woman disappeared from my sight, and I heard a strange scratching sound. Seconds later, my doubts were gone. It didn't matter. This Rachel had stolen my position, most likely been the one behind my Final Death. She deserved no pity. I inclined my head to the woman. "What do you want me to do, my lady?"

"First, there will be a man coming to see me. You are to take him to the prisons when I instruct you to do so," the woman explained. She touched my chest, and I was surprised to find that there was no pain in the gentle touch. "Now stand up, Morpheus."

I did as she commanded. Her hand gently touched my shoulder, a smile on her lips. "Good. We will do well together, you and I."

And I smiled back at her and nodded.

. . . . . . . . .

Ewan opened his eyes, sitting up in the comfortable bed. He rubbed his forehead. He knew what he had seen; it was his first meeting with the Editor, and, actually, his last. She hadn't called him back after his failed attempt to kill Rachel. She didn't like failures, and Ewan unfortunately fell under that category.

He once more had full control over himself, and seeing his first meeting with her and how idiotic he had been made him curse himself. What made him feel even worse was that he had been going to murder Rachel—his own sister! What had he been thinking? He swung his legs over the side of the bed, massaging his head ruefully. Guinevere had clubbed him twice with a shoe. He'd probably deserved that.

Ewan went to the door of his room and tried the knob. Locked. Wonderful. Well, he thought, trying to be optimistic, at least he wasn't dead.

But he had been; he'd undergone Final Death for four months. He knew how the Editor had pulled him out of it; she'd unwritten his deal with Hades and brought him back. He'd technically never been dead. It was confusing, and it made his head hurt, but he understood it—mostly.

He also knew Rachel, the new Morpheus, had seen that same dream. The thought of his sister seeing him being such an idiot was infuriating. He wanted to punch the wall, but he decided against it. He'd probably only end up breaking his hand.

Ewan went to the mirror in his room and peeled open his shirt, revealing the three large scars on his chest. He could clearly remember getting shot now, and it wasn't a pleasant memory. He carefully replaced the shirt, still uneasy about the scars. Despite the fact that they appeared to have healed months ago, he still feared tearing them open again. He sank down, his back to the footboard at the end of his bed, sitting on the floor.

Ewan casually wondered if he was going to be allowed to starve in the bedroom. It had no windows and only a bed, which was actually really comfortable. Much better than the cave where he had "died" last time. At least he could be comfortable while starving to death.

It was a small comfort.