Something of a companion piece to Ashes to Ashes. Though Ashes followed Raem's life, from boy to god, this will follow only a portion of Mio's, mainly the parts in which hers and Raem's lives intersected.

Some things may not add up between the two pieces. It is up to you, dear reader, how to interpret this. Are they two separate stories, two separate canons? Are they simply two sides of the same story (with all the lies and biases such an explanation might entail)? This is my take on Mio and Raem's struggle. Someday I'd love to read yours.

In life, she was a weaver. Blankets, rugs, and shawls formed on her loom while she pictured distant lives and loves. She died young, but don't all the gods?

For a life so full of potential, but always so far away, they allowed her to live again, in a way. Clad in white, armed with loom and dreams, she was to weave once more. What was so easily forgotten upon waking, she was to create and place in her eternal tapestry.

The people called her the Lady of Dreams, prayed for portents, begged for signs of things to come, wished only sweet dreams upon their loved ones. On occasion, she obliged.

When Dreamweaver met Raem, she was less than impressed with the archivist. For a minor deity not long of age, he affected such weariness and superiority that he bordered on the ridiculous.

In the seemingly endless chamber of memory she wandered aimlessly, looking for new inspiration to send to the people.

"You are the new goddess," he said, intonation somewhere between question and answer. "What does memory have to do with the Lady of Dreams?"

She frowned, drawing her silvery garments closer. "Simply seeking inspiration, ah," she searched for his name.

"Raem," he told her. "The Archivist. And you were once Mio."

She blinked, mouth agape. How did he-but of course. He had stood in the Death God's court for her. Strange, how just the sound of a name could bring a forgotten life rushing back.

"Lord Raem, I," she began.

He cut her off. "Your memories were dull," he informed her offhandedly, "But happy enough, I suppose."

Turning on his heel, the strange being strode away before she could utter another word. It was as though the calm she carried as a minor goddess had been shattered. She seethed at his words. Her life had not been particularly exciting, no. And yet her dreams had been bright tapestries hanging in the hall of the mind.

What was crueler, she wondered, night after night. To give them the sweet dreams they longed for, or to let the mind spin its own narrative? To save them from nightmare, or to force them to save themselves?

Below her, the boy tossed and turned. In the bed nearby his sister slept, filled with the same eerie calm that never left her. He was such a good boy, so patient with his catatonic twin. Mio knew what awaited him in the realm of sleep-the horrific phantom of Cu Chaspel.

She could ease his mind. It would be so simple. And yet, she wondered. Would it not cause him more grief, to leave such happy dreams come morning?

The boy sighed, rolled over, jerked as the beginnings of the nightmare hit him. She chose.

Running a glowing hand over his brow, she swept away the fear. In the court of the gods, her metaphysical self tied off the last thread and selected another. Shuttle clacking, she continued her task.

For tonight, the boy could dream good dreams. He could laugh with his father, be held by his mother, and listen to his sister for once. Tonight, he could turn back the clock and do it all over again, the right way.

Tomorrow, they could both cry at the injustice.

Raem never quite left her alone after that first meeting.

"Mio!" he would call to her, voice loud, echoing, and sardonic. "Lady Mio! The people remember you in their prayers. Mio bless!"

She never looked at him.

"Bless me, Mio!" he would say, ignoring personal decorum, standing close enough to touch. His clawed hands would reach out; she always recoiled. "Bless me."

She would turn and walk away, footsteps ringing in time with his jeers. "Dreamweaver, Dreamweaver, let me see my loved ones! I beg you!" Each time he let out a harsh caw of a laugh. "How useless. How pathetic. Another worthless god."

He never gave pursuit, but his words would follow her all the way back to that tiny cushion before her loom.

She was so deep in creating the night's dreams that a gnarled hand on her shoulder was her only warning. Her shuttle dropped and the fantastical began to unravel. It was too late. Her fear had summoned those timeless creatures of terror-nightmares. Smoothing her robe with both hands, the better to hide their shaking, she turned. "Lord Raem," she said, not surprised in the slightest. "How unusual to see you."

Staring at the ruined work, he ran a claw down the length of its wooden frame. "I have a request," he announced, cowled face jerking over to see hers.

"And what makes you think I will aid you?" she asked, feeling suddenly bold. Maybe it was his subservient tone. Maybe it was the way he was completely cloaked, hiding even his face. maybe it was the absurdity of the situation. No matter, she would take the given advantage.

"There is something I must dream," he told her. "A vision I must see."

How odd. Only the greatest gods prophesied. Still uneasy, she frowned. "I cannot weave a god a dream, not the way I create for the people."

Even odder that he'd yet to remove his cloak. "Forget the humans. The vision exists already. It is a memory of mine. I simply need you to turn the key, so to speak, and unlock my mind."

"The archivist needs me-"

"Laugh all you will!" he shouted, fingers digging into the loom's frame, the wood creaking under the sudden pressure. "You think I do not see the irony? You think I do not laugh and curse the gods every day for such a fate? I can experience any memory ever made...except my own. No court in the land would name this a just punishment, and this was to be my reward? Fine. I am a god without an identity, as are most of the fools here. But this vision, I must know!"

He ripped off his cowl and Mio fought not to shout. Where a human visage had once reigned, now misshapen, distorted, metallic features had begun to emerge. His gnarled hands were no longer fingers but gripping talons. One crooked as he beckoned her closer.

"Turn the key, girl," he told her. Face turned away from the monstrous sight, she did.

It wasn't for another century that she understood the significance of that moment.

Now he towered above the court, a great and terrible creature, battling the deities he had once bowed to. One by one, in groups, in tandem, alone, they fought him and died. Their powers meant nothing. Raem consumed, and consumed, and consumed.

There was nothing she could do to stop him. Leaning heavily on the trembling walls, she returned to her chamber and set up the loom. She selected only the brightest threads. For tonight, her last night, there would be only good dreams.

Projecting goodwill and affection, she wove. Thinking of the sleeping children, the sleeping people, only filled her with more love. Across the world the people wept in their sleep, for an unconscious moment knowing her sorrow. Then she was there, her glowing form hovering in the world. Her gentle touch soothed the restless one last time.

The monster entered the room as she sat stiffly upon her cushion, divided between two realms. Once again his claw gripped her shoulder, and she turned, the sleeping innocents still in her mind's eye.

"Ah, my friend Mio," Raem said conversationally. His voice was no longer low and sardonic, rather the throaty caw of a raven. "I couldn't have done with this without you. Had you not released my mind, I would never have known how to slay a god."

Half a world away, her voice felt hollow. "Would you?" she asked. Her ethereal form rose to hover over a small village. Below the people slept, in the throes of the most wonderful dream of their lives. She had given them that, at least.

The scent of burning from the realm of the gods mixed with the scent of a cool, damp, earthly night. She listened to the breeze and animal cries and the sound of Raem, so cheery as he related how, as a man, he had slain a demigod, how he had learned the truth of godhood. One must have believers in order to have power. And how easy it had been for the Memory-Eater to take away the memories of those gods from the people. On and on he talked, and though it sickened her, Mio was grateful. It gave her more time.

"Now, I will truly prove to the people that their gods are dead!" he gloated. "I will create catastrophe, and no one will answer their pleas."

On cue, a small bright light began to travel down from the heavens. With double vision she watched the star fall to the west, saw the fire and dust and ash rise up from the impact.

"Mio," Raem said, and that present part of her looked at his terrible face. "Even your memories as a goddess were boring."

It took less than a second for his sharp talons to pierce her belly. By the time she had realized she could unleash that nameless, timeless beast of terror on him, she had been a century too late. The writing had stained the wall, the markings etched on the frame. Raem had become the nightmare.

One set of eyes on the quickly darkening night sky, the other on her swiftly unraveling tapestry, the Lady of Dreams, Dreamweaver, Mio, was the last of the gods to fade.

It was perhaps appropriate that of all the gods, she was the only one to survive, if one could call such a meaningless existence survival. Broken, her ethereal form had remained in the mortal realms, flitting in and out of the dreamscape at random. She had existed, but nothing more than that.

Years, decades, perhaps centuries later, she landed in a dream. The dreamer, confused, had startled. "Lady of Dreams!" he'd swore.

It was only a curse, but it was enough. She was a goddess again: Mio, Dreamweaver, Lady of Dreams. Though weak, she quickly gained belief, gained strength. Raem was out there, she knew. She could sense his dark influence in the world and in their minds. And yet they'd effected completely different areas-the conscious and the subconscious. He didn't know she'd survived. If she was careful, subtle, she could remain that way.

She dabbled in their dreams as best as she could with renewed purpose. It wasn't about battling Raem, though someday she would guide a chosen her to do so. No, it was about preserving the hopes and dreams of the people, letting them know that their gods had not forsaken them.

The caravan rested at the entrance of the path to the meteor. They shifted and muttered in their sleep, tossing and turning.

She passed a hand over each brow and, soothed, they settled. Tonight, she would take them home to their loved ones. Tonight, she would give them good dreams.

They could face the nightmare tomorrow.