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thepaintedlady00 · 1 year

Text

Burden

Chapter 11 | Chapter 13

Chapter 12: The Endless and The Forest Queen

TW: some angsty Dream, lots of fluff, Hob Gadling meets Munin and both of them are confused as hell, both of our immortals have it BAD for each other, remembering a few not so fun memories, Munin is a cute mom & Dream is the reluctant storyteller, a few very sexually charged scenes, Dream is a tease, Munin is too, and finally some tender smut for y'all. 😂 Lots of good stuff this chapter.

Just a quick note, this chapter is longer than I expected (almost 30 pages) and took a LOT to finish so I'll likely not post chapter 13 until after I get back from my break. Sorry! But now that I'm going to do a sequel I'd like to take my time with the last few chapters so it'll end in a satisfying place for everyone 🥰

This was also edited kind of poorly 😂 The website I use was glitching sooo take mistakes with a grain of salt please 🤣

She did not remember him.

Daunt, Munin stood perched upon the steps to his throne, looking at him with eyes he did not recognize. She was moonlight wrapped in wreaths of earth and golden hues that reminded him of sunshine. No longer the dark being he knew with the eyes that spoke to the darkness inside him, but instead acted as a mirror. In a puff of mist, she was standing in front of him; head tilted back to compensate for the height difference. It took everything within him not to reach out and hold her or press his lips to hers in a fervent kiss to remind her of who he was, what she meant to him, and… subsequently, what he meant to her.

In her eyes, he saw himself, golden hues swirling within them like sand while the silver and white rippled like pools of liquid metal and ethereal water. Her eyes showed him the life he’d lived. Memories pulled to the forefront of his mind almost against his will as a power took hold of him as gently as a lover’s touch. This was her power, the being that stood before him no longer the fractured and dull hum that Daunt’s power had been. This was stronger, urgent, and… other. It made him ache with an uncomfortable sensation while at the same time making him want to curl into her even more.

Her eyes lifted away from his, looking above his head as she walked around him, lips tugging up into a blinding smile. He nearly closed his eyes when she’d held her hand up, anticipating the soft touch. “Your memory is so beautiful.”

She carefully reached up, plucking something from the air above his head and pulling it back to reveal a shining star between her fingers. Cradling it in her hands as a mother would a newborn babe, she watched the light curiously as a small memory lit up within her palms and played between them. Of course, it was an insignificant memory of one of his first creations. Still, it was noteworthy how he felt as though he were reliving it as she gazed down. “How…”

Looking back up, she smiled. “Memory is always unique in the shapes and forms it takes, but I’ve never seen ones that look like this before. An endless crown of stars, all your memories displayed so proudly. It suits you, Dream of the Endless.”

This felt odd. Dream had never encountered one like you before, save his brother, but Destiny didn’t go around spouting off your life story. “You can see my memories. How?”

“I can’t see all of them. As to how memories are my function. They are me, and I am them.”

“Memory,” he whispered as the realization dawned on him. All this time, you’d been right… you’d felt incomplete because you were somehow. Memory… that was why The Forest was so connected to The Dreaming. Why Daunt had followed the voices of the dreamers into his realm and not elsewhere. Dreams and memories shared this plane, shared a purpose, and he had punished her for it.

She said nothing, simply plucking another memory and pinching it between her fingers, pulling to expand it, when a sudden and raw pain exploded in his mind. “Here in the darkness…” Old voices echoed as the memories of the small glass cage were forced back into his mind like a rush of water he couldn’t stop.

For a moment, he was back in the glass cage, staring out at Daunt as she beheld him. “For so long, you sat in silence… desperate, pleading… hoping for someone to come for you. So angry and hurt and full of sorrow that they knew and yet… no one came.” She stepped forward, pressing her hand to the cage. A whisper rattled the glass as he saw the memory with unclouded eyes.

Daunt had been there. She had come and gone, watching him with deep sorrow in her eyes. She had used what little remained of her power to help free him. And all she’d asked in return was that simple whisper. “Find me.” He’d failed at that as well. Failed you in every sense he could. This meeting only confirmed what he’d long feared. Daunt had died hating him. Though she’d told him she was not angry, she spoke softly and lovingly to him and promised him that they would reunite… She had to have hated him.

“I know this pain.” Her voice startled him out of the memory. His hands moved quickly, grabbing her wrist and forcing her eyes away from the cage in her hands to look up at him in fear. He saw that day in Fiddlers Green play within her eyes as she quickly tore away from him.

“Apologies,” He said in a strangled voice. Dream did not want to repeat his past mistakes, not with you. “That… that is a memory I’ve no wish to relive again.” With a mournful weight in his chest, he remained still as you cautiously lifted the memory back where you found it. “Did I harm you?”

He watched her hands shake, guilt consuming him. “No.”

The white wolf growled, pressing its snout to her wrist with a simple question and a threatening look gleaming in his eye. “Are you hurt?”

Munin looked down at the creature, her face slowly easing into a more relaxed expression as she ran her hands over his fur. “No. Be still, my star. I am well.”

As the wolf he’d only ever known to be cold and cruel pressed his head into your chest, Dream felt a powerful sense of loss consume him. The beast was at ease beside you, yet all he could feel was regret and disappointment that you were not her. Bowing his head, he spoke, “You are most welcome in my realm,” Daunt. “Lady Munin.”

“Thank you, Dream of The Endless.” she reciprocated the bow but a wariness held in her eyes.

“Morpheus,” he insisted. “You may call me Morpheus.”

“Lord Morpheus,” she tested, the sound of her lithe and musical voice speaking his name sent a chill up his spine. “It suits you well.”

“My lord!” Lucienbe called as she hurriedly made her way to the throne room. “Have you found the creature? Or shall I- Sirius!” She smiled at the beast as he moved to greet her, stroking his fur and shaking her head like a mother scolding her child. “There you are! We’ve been looking for you for ages. Where have you been?”

Siriys nuzzled her cheek before turning to look up at Munin. “Home.”

His librarian’s eyes cast upward and filled with tears as she smiled. She stood, moving quickly to wrap her arms around Lady Munin and pull her tightly into the embrace. For a moment, he feared she would react adversely to this intimate act from a. However, she stood still for a second before returning Lucienne’s embrace. “Lucienne…”

A pang of jealousy and hurt filled his chest. She remembered Lucienne but not him?

“Lady Daunt,” Lucienne whispered, pulling away to look at your face. She quickly noticed the differences but said nothing but, “It is so good to see you.”

“Daunt…” the lady whispered, her hand lifting to her chest, to the thin scar that remained. Dream held his breath as he gazed upon it, remembering all too well the sight of Daunt thin and weak with her chest torn open and the tree’s roots curled around her heart. “That was my name. Her

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. I hope you and I can be close… like we were before.”

“You already are my friend, Lucienne. The memories I’ve seen have told me such,” Munin said gently.

Lucienne smiled, bowing her head. “I am honored.”

Her eyes shifted to the misty figures that now filled his throne room. She was curious, tilting her head and examining each one with bright eyes. “There is so much memory here, swirling in the air wanting to take form.” As you moved, the figures turned more solid, moving as though they were real as voices, memories filled the throne room.

Munin danced beside them, twirling and twisting to match their movements with a bright smile and a soft laugh that made him want to profess his lingering feelings to you. But then, you turned to a familiar figure. The Corinthian. And she stopped. Dream could see the pain and the sorrow mixed with a joyful look plain on her face, and his heart ached all the more. Yet, even in a new life, she could not bring herself to hate the nightmare that had caused this. Slowly she lifted her hand to the memory’s cheek. “I know your face.”

The golden owl swooped from above, cutting through the misty figure with its talons and an angry screech. Munin did not appear surprised by the creature’s behavior as she shook her head and turned back to face him. Her eyes trailed back to his head, to the memories she said she could see there. With a curious noise, she asked, “So many of them are locked away… Hidden even from you. Why?”

“Perhaps there are things I do not wish to remember.”

“You cannot run from them,” she said, voice reassuring in a way he’d not expected. “Memories are a part of you, good and bad. I can help you if you’d like. It is part of my function to aid in confronting one’s darker memories. I suppose I’m not unlike your nightmares in that regard.”

Her, like a nightmare? His eyes beheld her otherworldly beauty with an unfaltering knowledge that she was the most beautiful being he’d ever seen. Any human graced with the sight of her would compare her to an angel. With a light laugh, he shook his head. “You, Lady Munin, are no nightmare.”

“Thank you,” she said, a blush rising to her cheeks.

It took everything within him not to step closer, not to take those rosy cheeks in his hands and whisper the words he’d been holding onto for years. Instead, he straightened his back, forcing himself to look away from her as he asked, “If I may inquire, what is it that brought you to my realm?”

“I’ve already found much here. But I came to inquire in your library for an answer to a question.”

Lucienne’s face lit up as she stepped closer to Munin. “The library is full of information. Surely your answer will be within a book.”

She smiled. “This is my hope.”

“What is it you wish to know?” Lucienne asked, carefully leading you down the hallway toward the library.

Matthew glanced up at him from the ground. “You… uh… alright, boss?”

“Yes,” he whispered back.

The golden owl landed in front of Matthew, straightening up and beholding the smaller bird with large eyes. “You’re quite a small little thing, aren’t you?”

Matthew gulped. “Uh… I guess so.”

The gold of the owl’s eyes flared. “I like that.”

“You, oh, um…” The raven looked up at Dream and cawed loudly. “I’m gonna go do that thing you wanted me to.”

He shook his head, turning down the hallway and catching up to Lady Munin and Lucienne as she continued to explain her problem. “It seems my recollection of my past life… of Daunt is splintered. I recall some things vividly, and others I cannot find.”

Lucienne hummed, a thoughtful look passing between him and her. “It will take some time to find something within the vast expanse we’ve at our disposal.”

“Yes, I was expecting a bit of searching.”

Lucienne’s eyes went to a white book that glittered atop her table. “While we wait, perhaps it would interest you to see this.”

“The book of mists,” she breathed, slowly moving closer to gaze at it. “So few have read it.”

“I’m afraid we’ve not read it,” his librarian corrected, sparing a look at him. “It appears to be fragmented. There are only a few words, and they don’t make much sense.”

Munin shook her head and replied, “You do not read memories.” She opened the book to the first page of the tree with the simple words scrawled messily at the bottom. “You remember them.” Then, with a deep breath, she read, “In the beginning, there was a tree.”

Mist rose from the book, taking the shape of the words and bringing the memories they held to life. It twisted into a tree, small and frail looking, shifting as it began to grow, showing the progression of it throughout the pages until the first tree towering over everything and stretched up toward the ceiling.

“Memory. That was our name long before. We were not this… We had no physical form, for memory is no tangible or mere object. It is everything and nothing all at once, unique to each being.”

“How did you come to be then?” He inquired, watching the figures dance beneath the great tree.

“The first tree saw all, across every realm and every plane… We saw memories. The humans, the gods… your memories,” she breathed, looking away from the book to him, eyes swimming once again in things he’d long forgotten. He’d visited the tree before with his sister and seen these humans dancing and living their lives. “We saw so many things, but it was you… Your dreamers that created that song. The first song.” The tune Daunt had always hummed began to play all around him. “It made us... Want... For the first time, we wanted memories of our own, something tangible to hold in our hands and feel and love.”

Flipping the page, her face twisted in pain. “They cut us… The tree and we were forced… split apart from The Great Tree... Split from Memory, and so I… She came out fractured. Wrong. Distress. Discourage.” Turning toward him again with tears in her eyes, she whispered, “Daunt.”

Daunt. For as long as he’d known her, she had spoken of a feeling of incompleteness. A feeling that there was more to her and her function. He’d laughed at the notion, of course. Mocked her with whatever cruel words he could conjure at the time, and he’d gone about his days unbothered. Now he paid the price. If he had listened to her then, had done any amount of research, he likely would have discovered the origins she so desperately wished to know. Dream, with all his wisdom and power, could have helped her. Dying would not have been the only way she could recover what she’d lost at the hands of humans. And he’d denied her even that.

“Thank you. For sharing this gift with us,” he whispered, pain making the words difficult to speak.

Lucienne beheld the book with adoring eyes, as she always did. “I’ve not seen a book like this before. It is marvelous!”

“A fine addition to your library.” Munin offered it to her.

“It belongs with you. Back in The Forest.”

Munin chuckled and shook her head. “Memory has no need for books. I think the dreamers would find more use for it than I would.”

Lucienne’s hands curled around the leather, and she nodded. “I shall keep it safe and well cared for.”

“As you do with all the other books under your care,” she assured her. “It will bring me great joy knowing it is getting such attention.”

“I will search the shelves for an answer to your questions, my lady. How will we call to you once we find answers?”

“I will return in a few days,” she looked at Dream. “If that is alright with you, Lord Morpheus?”

He couldn’t nod fast enough. “My realm is open for you to come and go as you please, Lady Munin.”

Lady Munin appeared unconvinced. Her head tilted slightly as she looked at him long and hard, searching for something. “Return to The Forest,” she eventually instructed the wolf and the owl. “I’ll be joining you shortly.”

“We can remain with you, my lady,” Sirius insisted.

“It’s alright. I would like to see a location that’s been plaguing my mind. A pier, I believe.”

The pier. The place he’d spent many long nights watching Daunt from afar with a bitter look of disdain before he’d actually cared enough to see the human’s depictions of her. He squeezed his hands behind his back. This was not likely to end well. “I will escort you there myself.”

“Thank you,” she replied, looking down at her companion. “I’ll be home soon, my star.”

The water lapped beneath the sturdy as Dream walked beside the Lady Munin toward the edge of the dock. She gazed off into the mist - the mist he’d spent so long staring into, hoping to find Daunt staring back - and the calm waters below. “Though much seems to be lost within my knowledge, I still hear voices of the past. Voices mocking me… her.” Dream grew stiff, forcing himself to take a breath, preparing for her to confirm his fears, “It is your voice I hear loudest among them. It says such cruel things, but the word that seems to repeat is burden. Why did you hate her so?”

“I did not hate her,” he answered low and remorseful. What more could he tell her without letting the truth slip from his lips? How would she react to hearing a stranger, a being whose voice she only knew in insults and cruelty, tell her he loved her?

Looking up at him, she said, “Yet you spoke words meant to harm her.”

I am sorry, he longed to say, though the words would likely mean little to her. “I made a great many mistakes when you… she… was concerned.”

“Yes,” she agreed with furrowing brows as confusion replaced everything else. “And yet… it is not anger, hatred, or pain I feel when I look at you through her eyes.”

“What do you see then?” He needed to hear it. Tell me she hated me. Tell me you hate me. Say it so I might be able to use the truth of your words to finally cast me away. He was begging her, begging to receive the long overdue punishment.

“Hope,” she began softly, eyes trailing along his form like fire. “And starlight and… longing…”

When she dared meet his gaze again, she no doubt saw his tears. “Longing for what?”

“I do not know,” she replied. “But, I suppose the simplest answer I can give you is this: I do not hate you, Dream of the Endless, and neither did she.”

He wanted to let his tears fall then. Daunt’s voice, her voice, spoke them back to him. I do not hate you. It was more than he’d hoped for. More than he’d ever thought he would receive, and it only made his love grow stronger. She was not Daunt, but she was. She was all that Daunt had ever wished to be but could not. Munin was more Daunt than the woman he’d known, and he loved every part of her, old and new. “A new beginning.”

“One for us both, it would seem.”

“You are always welcome in my realm.”

“As you are in mine,” she replied, eyes turning to the water as it rippled and revealed the realm that now waited for its queen.

“Until we meet again,” Dream said, closing his eyes and bowing before her. “Lady Munin.”

“Until then, Lord Morpheus.”

I love you still.

I love you in every body, every name, every lifetime… I love you.

You’d spent the passing days coming and going from the memories of humans. You fulfilled your function with joyful pride in significant and small events. You helped humans find lost objects, helped the elderly remember bits and pieces of their lives, and even helped animals find their way home. It was peaceful and even predictable in a way you enjoyed. That is until you stumbled across one tree. It was older than the others, but the face etched within it was young. You’d passed through the roots and admired all the memories this man seemed to hold. Latching onto one among them and following it to the other side to find yourself within a tavern standing before your human and Dream of the Endless.

They sat beside one another, speaking like they were old friends. “I suggest you find yourself a different line of business, Robert Gadling.”

“You’re giving me advice?” the man asked before you turned away, moving through the mist to find the man still very much alive in the present day. He stood at the head of a large room, speaking intelligently and showing the large mass of students multiple slides on the large screen.

You stood near the back, curiously watching as he explained the history within the book. At the same time, his memory shot out like fireworks recalling the events he should not have been alive to remember. Once his speech ended and the other bodies filed out, you descended the stairs. “Robert Gadling?”

He turned, eyes growing wide as he beheld you, white hair and flowing gown with eyes that mirrored the joyful and rambunctiousness of the man before you. “I… That… Who are you?”

“I am a being of memory,” you answered simply. “What are you?”

“Excuse me?” he asked with a chuckle. “I’m a man.”

“No mere man holds so much within him.” You moved around him, examining him closely as though you’d find something to tell you exactly what creature stood before you. “You are no demon. That much is certain. A wayward spirit, perhaps?”

The man laughed, turning to follow you through the room. “What makes you say I’m more than man, fair stranger?”

You lifted your hand to his memories, fire, and powder sparking in your palm as you pulled one down to show him. “It is as I said; no mere man holds so much within him.”

He watched you with narrow eyes. “Are you a student or some weird new professor I haven’t met yet?”

“No,” you replied, face scrunching together. “I don’t believe so.”

“Well, I could show you around,” the man offered, looking at the clock on his wall. “I’ve got some time between classes.”

You turned on your heel, vanishing from the Waking World and returning to the grove of trees. Climbing out from beneath the man’s tree roots, you examined his face carved into the wood. You’d never met a being like him, more than mortal but persistent upon being called such. The Dream King had, though, you reminded yourself. He’d been there in his memories. Surely he’d know what manner of creature this man was. You owed him another visit anyway. It would be an opportune time to discuss the oddities you’d discovered.

With Sirius remaining in The Forest while you and Kat flew through the portal and into The Dreaming, you sought out the palace, meeting the small black bird in the skies once again. This time you slowed your approach, trying not to startle the poor thing as you had last time. He took notice of you quickly, the giant shadow cast over him being rather difficult to miss. He flew beside you the whole way to the palace, where you landed in the throne room in a puff of mist and white wings exploding.

Matthew cawed beside you, hopping just a step closer. “Looks like you need to work on your landings.”

You hurriedly snatched the feathers out of the air and gathered armfuls of them up off the floor. “Landing is difficult.”

Kat made a noise, golden eyes watching the petite raven. “We meet again, little bird.”

With a nervous noise, the raven scooted closer to your side and further from your golden companion. “Yeah… uh, so what brings you to The Dreaming?”

“A few things.” You continued picking up the feathers as you spoke, “I came to inquire about a mortal as well as to see what progress has been made in the library.”

“Okay,” Matthew replied, cocking his head to the side. “Why are you picking those up?”

“It’d be rude of me to leave this mess,” you insisted. “I doubt the all-powerful Dream Lord would appreciate feathers all over his throne room.”

“He would certainly not,” Dream’s voice echoed through the ample space as he walked out from between the pillars. “Though, given the circumstances, I suppose I could simply aid you in their disposal.”

With a wave of his hand, the feathers vanished. You straightened up and bowed your head to him. “Lord Morpheus.”

He bowed his head to you. “Lady Munin. I assume you’ve come to see Lucienne.”

“Yes,” you admitted meeting his eyes as you added, “And you.”

For a moment, he seemed dazed by your confession, but then with a slight twitch of his lips, he gestured toward the library. “Lucienne will wish to speak to you as soon as possible.”

Following close behind him, you looked up at his face, watching the light roam across it as it filtered in through the windows. “I saw a memory of you.”

“Oh?” He questioned, starry eyes dropping to spare you an amused glance.

“There is a man, a tree older than it should be, with a face that remains young.” You shook your head. “He has so many memories, ones far beyond the lifetime of a normal human. You were in some of them.”

With a slight upturn of his lips, he asked, “Did this strange man have a name?”

“Robert Gadling,” you said. “That’s what you’d called him.”

A fraction of a smile lined his perfect lips as he nodded. “Hob Gadling is an old friend. It is not surprising that you’d find the number of his memories a bit confusing. He is a mortal being granted immortality from my sister, Death. He has lived many lifetimes, and I would assume he has quite the collection of memories.”

You nodded, recalling the vast array of them he’d held. “Does he not know of the powers that run this world?”

“I’ve not explained it to him,” Dream admitted. “Why?”

“He seemed quite confused to see me,” you replied. “At the time, I mistook him for another being. I may have called him a wayward spirit.”

Dream chuckled. “He’s been called much worse.”

Lucienne had found a multitude of books focusing on memory and the vast theories behind it. Though none truly answered the question you sought, they provided Lucienne with more than enough to think about. She paced around the desk for a moment. “Perhaps it is simply a defense mechanism.”

“Defense from what?” You questioned cautiously, leafing through the pages of the book she’d set in front of you.

“Well, the last portion of your, Daunts, life was rather… horrific. Perhaps when you rejoined The Great Tree, it chose to omit them from your mind to ensure you would be able to shift into your new life.”

It made some sense. “How do I retrieve them, now that I’m no longer… new?” The librarian scoured the shelves for a moment before handing you a book. You took it without question, dropping it as though it’d burned you as the sleek leather cover turned white beneath your fingers. The chair scraped against the floor as you pushed yourself to your feet, and with wide, almost frightened eyes, you turned to Dream, who’d been quietly observing. “I’m sorry. I… I forgot about that…”

His face was soft, eyes even more so as he approached you slowly, lifting your hand and placing it back on the cool leather. “It is just a book. Red or white, its pages have not changed.”

“I-”

“Do not apologize,” he insisted. “Not for something so small as this.”

The two of you stood there momentarily, lingering close to each other with his hand still atop yours. It felt soft to be touched by him… a sensation you’d not expected but one that lit a spark within your lungs. You wanted to keep touching him, wanted him to keep touching you. And as though he could hear your thoughts, his eyes shifted away from yours, and he slid back, gliding to the other side of the table and taking a seat.

You sat in the library for hours, searching book after book, roaming the shelves with the sleek black of the Dream King following you. The close proximity brought a chill to the air, something you found was normal in his presence. He was cold and often stoic, but whenever you caught a glimpse of that smile or a hint of a laugh, it felt like the sun was shining on you after a long and cold winter. Dream of the Endless was rather intoxicating to be around. You found yourself staying close beside him, enjoying each slight shift of movement that brought his coat sliding against your skin or, even better, his skin against yours.

Once you’d gone through every book you could find, with a few promising theories to test, you found yourself following Dream into his realm. He showed you everything, explaining it all and providing you an answer to every question you asked. He’d likely done all this before, but you found yourself gladdened to see just how willing he was to do it again. You’d never seen him look so proud and regal. It only added to the pit of growing fondness you seemed to hold for him.

You were speechless when the ground beneath you shifted to a small dirt path lined with wildflowers and surrounded by trees. Beside you, Lord Morpheus turned to glance your way. “This is Fiddler’s Green. One of the most beautiful places within my realm.”

“It’s magnificent,” you answered, running your hand through a patch of tall grass. “It reminds me of home.”

“Perhaps a part of you remembered it when you forged your realm anew,” he suggested.

The thought brought a smile to your face. “A gift from another life.” A final gift from Daunt.

Twigs snapped on the path ahead as a great stag leaped out from the trees and halted before you. He was large with great antlers that bowed and bent in a unique design that made you want to stare at the creature forever. Then, with wide eyes, it moved forward, craning its neck out toward you. You reached out, fingers just about to brush its soft snout when a voice angry and cruel echoed in your mind. “Was it not your touch that did this?” You stilled. “Everything you touch spoils…”

A cold swept behind you as Dream pressed his chest to your back, gently taking your hand in his and guiding it forward into the stags snout. Its fur turned white beneath your touch, spreading through its coat like frost. “I think white suits it far better, don’t you?”

Deep within your chest, an old lingering hurt warmed, healed by the gesture in a way you didn’t fully understand as you watched the white stag prance back through the trees. “Yes… It was a beautiful beast.”

Dream received your invitation and immediately answered. It was a rare gift to have you share your realm. It’d taken Daunt centuries, and he’d not waste this opportunity. With Lucienne at his side, the two of them walked the delicately carved path, admiring the trees and the vibrant flowers of purple and blue. With a smile, Lucienne said, “It is so beautiful here.”

“It is,” he agreed. “It’s everything she wanted her realm to be.”

“I am glad she is back,” Lucienne replied softly. “And that she is happy.”

He could only agree, even with the weight of her memory loss weighing against his heart. “As am I.”

“My lord,” his librarian began quietly. “I cannot help but notice the… fondness between you and Lady Munin.”

“Ask, Lucienne,” he prompted.

“Do you feel for her as you did Daunt?”

Dream had thought long and hard about this question, preparing for the day that someone would ask him or that she would remember something that hinted at his past feelings. The answer was always the same. “Yes. Though she’s not exactly Daunt, I can see that being within her. She is all that and more. I am fond of her.”

With a smile, Lucienne nodded. “I am glad to hear it. If it’s not too forward of me, the two of you make a fine pair.”

They came to a clearing, a large crevice separating the surrounding forest, and a large gate across a floating stone courtyard. The circular platform was decorated with statues carved of wood, each appearing to be a woman bound in different colored vines and holding braziers of glowing light. Standing tall in front of them was a gate of intricately carved bark.

The smooth surface depicted carvings, the most noticeable among them a great tree in the center, tall and etched in gold at the top, slowly bleeding into white and silver. Owls and a growing tree, and a woman decorated the surface, along with a rising sun. The middle was lighter but appeared more aged… damaged by flame around the edges. The white brought out the carvings, making Dream’s eyes linger on every part of it. Wolves and wilted plants, great clouds of mist, and a weeping woman. Daunt. The lowest part continued in white but was lined with veins of gold and the carved figures gleaming with silver. Roots and leaves with a multitude of figures gathered around a woman. Munin.

What lay before him was a history, Munin’s and Daunts alike. Beautiful and tragic and inspiring. A story even he could not have written. Two white snakes slowly emerged from the center of the carved tree, slithering down onto the stone around them, pulling the gate open with the ends of their tails. The path continuing ahead was neatly cobbled with clean white stones forming various patterns. As they moved, lush forests and blooming plants hung from the treetops, and the sound of rustling bushes and animals chittering followed them.

Out of the trees, white whisps in the form of wolves darted out, exploding against Dream’s feet and cloak in a puff of white mist that left small white particles hanging off his clothes. He chuckled as he watched the whisps lovingly weave through Lucienne’s legs. Daunt’s previous companions, their spirits at least, seemed to have also found their way to this new realm. Sirius sat at the base of a great bridge, waiting for them. He offered him no bow or grand greeting as he stood and began walking.

“My lady is this way,” Sirius instructed, leading the Dream King and his librarian across the bridge to stand before the grand palace of The Great Tree. Dream examined the markings of the bark, eyes fixing on the woman carved in black. Daunt. Her voice echoed like a song through the large doorway as Sirius continued forward.

Her throne room was a stark contrast to his. Bright with natural light and filled with the humming of spirits, beings coming and going freely. It was warm and safe and everything he’d felt when he’d been lucky to stand beside her. Munin sat upon a wooden throne of twisted and curled antlers, lounging beneath a canopy of greenery and mist that somehow created the pool that separated them. In her lap, three children clamored as more sat beside her feet, watching in wonder as she wove the mist into shapes and figures. Two sat on either side of her, happily braiding flowers into her hair.

His heart threatened to burst from within his chest at seeing her surrounded by children. Is this what would greet him should they be blessed with their own children? Dream swallowed, once again forcing himself not to shout his profession of love across the room to her. “And there standing between our mighty adventures was the winged beast.” The mist took the shape of an odd creature with giant bat wings but a bull body. “The beast reared its head, spewing fire, smoke, and ash from its mouth as it charged forward.”

“Oh no!”

“Move out of the way!”

“I can’t watch!” The children all cried out over one another.

Munin smiled. “And just as all seemed lost…” She waved her hand, building a creation of vines and roots. “The Forest Guardian caught the beast in its hand and hurled it back to the cold dungeons of the mountain.”

The children cheered, jumping up and down in her lap. “What about the adventures?”

Sirius continued across the path of lily pads. “Well, the adventures got back on their feet and continued with their mission, of course.”

“But the fairy lady is hurt!”

“Oh, she pushes through,” Sirius replied, nuzzling the children’s cheeks. “What matters is they remained together.”

Munin shared a knowing look with her companion before her eyes lifted, and she sat up straighter at the sight of him. “You did not tell me he’d arrived.”

“Dream of The Pretentious is here, my lady.” The wolf mocked.

“How helpful you are, my star,” Munin replied. “Children, our guest has arrived! Lord Morpheus may perhaps be able to entertain us.”

His head tilted as he slowly crossed the water to join you. “You seemed to be faring quite well without me, Lady Munin.”

“True, but I am no Prince of Stories.”

The children hopped to their feet, crowding around his long legs and inspecting his coat. “You’re a prince?”

Dream looked down at the child with gentle eyes. “I am a king.”

They murmured amongst themselves. “Do you have a castle?”

“I do,” he answered. “It resides in a far-off land of dreams and nightmares.”

“And an abundance of sand.”

“There are nightmares in your castle?” One child wondered. “Isn’t that scary?”

Munin smiled, carrying a child on her hip as she moved closer to him. “It can be,” Dream answered. “But I’ve found that some of the most gentle beings are ones forged of darkness.”

Her eyes sparkled as she shooed the children away from him, instructing them to take Lucienne on a palace tour while she and Dream spoke. Munin showed him the village and introduced him to the spirits that now resided within her realm. “They are those forgotten by the world. Whether that be a feeling of unfulfillment or an unmarked grave, they passed here in death and now live to help this world remember.”

“There are a great number of children,” he noted, watching a group of them bring flowers to Munin.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Innocent beings such as them are often the ones forgotten quicker. It’s deplorable… A child should never be forgotten.”

He felt a twinge of his own pain mingle with her words. A child should never be forgotten. “At least now they will know the love their lives lacked.”

She offered him a smile as they continued forward, weaving through the growing town and deeper into the forest. The longer they walked, the older the trees seemed to grow until they came upon a small grove with seven old trees, all decorated with unique things hanging from their branches. The first was draped in paper. Pages with writing as old as the world itself. The second held statues of varying sizes, shapes, and colors within them, nearly outnumbering the leaves. The third is where they stopped. Stars hung from the tree, twinkling and shining even brighter as he approached it.

“This is your tree,” Munin said. “It holds your memories.”

“The others, I assume, are my siblings.”

“Yes,” she answered. “Though I’ve not explored them.”

He looked at her with a slight smile and a brow lift. “Have you explored mine?”

She blushed. “Somewhat. Only what remains here, on the surface.”

“Is there more?”

Stepping forward, you waved your hand, the roots curling up and exposing the path down below, the memories that he held most closely to him. “Lucienne believes that traversing within your memories will help me recover mine.” You looked back at him as he hesitated to follow you into the dark earth. “We do not have to if you are worried.”

Dream merely smiled. “If you were going to smite me, it would not be in the dark.”

You would have laughed at the notion of you warring with such a powerful and ancient being. But the Dream Lord's hand slid into yours, and all thought was replaced with a memory. The two of you stood before the mouth of a cave. You smiled at him, offering up your hand with a teasing tone, “Come now, Dream Lord, if I’d wanted to smite you, I’d not do it in the dark.”

Leading him down into the deep roots of his memory, you watched him closely, hand still twined with his as he admired the jewels hanging, radiating memory. “It is beautiful.”

“Yes,” you breathed, forcing your eyes away, along with the thoughts of how soft he was brushing up against you. “The roots of your memory run deep, as do all of The Endless. Your roots are twined with the very fabric of the world just as The Great Trees.” Then, reaching up, you ran your fingers along some of the roots and crystals, causing Dream to shiver beside you. “The memories we see here are ones you hold with pride and joy. Memories of your creations and your victories.”

“I’m assuming those are not the ones we seek.”

“No,” you answered. “We are here for those you remember with great sorrow or shame. The memories of you and Daunt.”

A look passed over his face as he stared down at you, eyes glowing like moons. “Why do you wish to see them? You and Daunt are separate beings, are you not?”

You shook your head. “No. Daunt is me. A part of me that I’ve been cut off from.” With a sigh, you looked ahead to the path. “We have spent too long apart from one another. Split and torn asunder to dwell within this world feeling half-formed. I do not wish to be condemned to the life she was forced to live.”

“You will not be,” he assured you, hand squeezing yours. “I would see to it you never feel the way she did.”

“That is why we are here, is it not?”

That small smile made yours grow as he answered, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Then think of her,” you instructed. “Think of your time with Daunt so I might be able to see her life, the parts of it missing from me, through your eyes.”

Dream did as you asked, the roots shifting, leading you down further into the recesses of his mind. You gazed upon frail white peonies that lined the pathway and large vines of royal blue hydrangea that hung from the roots above your head. As you passed, the flowers opened their faces, voices echoing around you. Dreams and yours, hers. As you ascended the steps, a cold light broke through the surface ahead and emerged within Dream’s memories.

The memory before you was the first time he’d visited your realm. You remembered it, remembered the ache that had settled in Daunt’s lungs as she turned to greet him coldly. He had demanded you to ignore your function, and you’d laughed at him.

“Why must you be such a Burden?” There was that word again and the feeling that came with it. Cold prickles consumed your spine. Beside you, Dream’s face cast down into a mournful expression.

“Do you think I asked for this? Do you think I enjoy bringing people this feeling?” Your voice sounded so cold, so angry. “I am what I am, not by choice or out of pleasure but simply because it is the role that was given me by whatever fucking powers that made me. If I could trade places with you and inspire the minds of men, I would… You’ve gotten what you came for. Now go.”

“Bur-” He stopped himself from completing the word. “Daunt.”

Cold frost glossed over your eyes, quickly covering the split second of vulnerability you… she had shown him. “Leave.”

Dream took a step forward when thick roots wound around his legs and pulled him back into his realm, and everything turned to mist, shifting around both of you as another memory was built. “Why did you call us a burden? When did this name become the one you associated with us?”

“Burden is what I called you after it became clear you would not vanish.” His admittance was outwardly cold, but the depth of his words was something you could feel. “I long thought you to be a punishment of sorts. Another task for me to manage.”

“A burden upon your shoulders.”

He stepped closer to you, the soft material of his coat brushing against your arm. “I do not think that now… I do not know if I ever even truly believed it. I was simply… surprised by you and frightened.”

You looked up at him with gleaming eyes. “You were frightened of me?”

He smiled. “You are rather terrifying.”

“Only when I have to be,” Daunt’s voice layered on top of yours as the next memory came to life.

This was when you’d shown him your realm and the minor improvements it had made because of your more profound connection to it and yourself. Acceptance had been the key to Daunt’s existence within the wooded realm, so different from what you knew. Dream had given her that… given you that.

The disorder of the memories made your head spin for a moment as the pier came next, the night that had plagued your mind keeping you from a restful sleep. The sapphire waters were as beautiful as they had been the night you’d journeyed to his realm, but the two of you stood far more rigidly this time. “Daunt… please speak with me.”

“I’ve nothing left to say to you, King of Nightmares.” You had spit the title at him so venomously you’d nearly flinched yourself.

“I… I regret my actions all those years ago.” A vision of Dream standing before you amidst a forest of dark trees, his hand curled around your throat, and hatred shining in his eyes played before you. “My brother’s decision affected me more than I thought, and I was… I was looking for a way to release it.”

“Fortunate for you that you just so happened to know where the cosmic mistake resides.”

“That is not what you are,” the memory of him answered. You could feel the insult of it bubble in your chest, swallowing that grain of broken hope that he’d meant it.

“You’ve made it quite obvious what you think of me. You and Desire see me as little more than a thorn in your sides, a mistake, a burden meant to make your lives miserable.”

Dream was quiet beside you, watching you more than the memory. “Perhaps that is what I thought of you once. But I see now that I was wrong.”

“You see now? Don’t insult me.”

“Let me show you then? Please?”

As you moved through his realm into the Waking World, you watched the memory shift. You watched him show you what the creators had thought of you… a guiding hand more than a hindering one. A helper along their journey instead of a burden. And then you were back on the docks, watching everything between the two of you shift. Your wishes, vulnerability, and innocence made everything come snapping back to you. “I remember this…”

The memory shifted to the last… the one that Dream of the Endless felt the most guilty and remorseful for. “No… Even if you are, it will not be the same. It will not be you.”

“This is what I want, Morpheus… It is what I spent so many long nights wishing for… to be different. To be born again as something better, something good. I do not want to live the rest of this long life as a mistake… as a burden.”

“You were never that.” You watched tears stream down his cheeks as his hands flexed to keep from pulling you into him. “Please…”

“I wish to be as I was meant to be. I can feel something greater waiting… but first, I must surrender this form. This may not have been my choice then, but it is now.”

Looking over at Dream, whose eyes remained glued to the weak and dying body you’d left behind, you felt not only your own pain but his. He thought he’d failed you… thought he’d doomed you to your fate by not finding you fast enough. All this time, his final memory of you had been one etched in sorrow and regret. It had not been as you intended.

“May I trouble you with one last dream to lay me to sleep?” You had asked him. “Would you grant me that?”

“I would grant you everything.” You felt how deeply he meant it, felt how true the words were.

The pier once again came into view before you, a welcoming sight to a dying being. “I remember this place. It has been so long since I’ve felt this.”

He could hardly look at you as he asked with tears building in his eyes, “If you could go anywhere, where would it be? Tell me, and I shall make it so.”

“I would walk among the stars one last time,” you had answered, though now you could feel the words you’d not spoken… the admittance that the dream itself mattered not, so long as he was there beside you in the end.

Dream stepped closer to you as he watched the memory of him wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his dark chest. “Open your mind to me.”

Stars, endless shining stars, twinkled in the radiant cosmic clouds and filled the space of his memory, brighter than they had been in yours. But Dream only looked at you. He was studying everything about you, you now realized. Committing you to his memory.

You watched as the memory of you wiped away the tears of the Dream Lord. “This is not the end. It is a new beginning... Perhaps one for both of us. It is good.”

“I will not see you again.”

“Of course, you will,” you assured him. “You will see me, Dream of the Endless. You will see me in the mist over the water. You will see me in white clouds and in books with empty pages. You will see me in your precious dreamer’s masterpieces.” You reached out, brushing your fingers along the back of his hand, looking up into his eyes as he tore them away from the memory. “When I return, we will see one another again.”

“It will not be the same you that stands before me now.”

“Change is a part of life. You will also be different when we next meet.”

“Daunt… All this time... All the years I was imprisoned, all I wanted was to see you again. And now that I have that...”

“Hold onto those words, my Dream. Hold onto them and tell me when we meet again.”

Dream stepped closer to you, mimicking the memory as he set his forehead against yours and said in unison, “I will hold them forever if I must.”

You could feel your old body growing weaker as you leaned into his gentle touch, closing your eyes to listen to the last request you had asked of him. “Kiss me, Morpheus. So I might remember the feel of your lips on mine and carry it with me to whatever life awaits me.”

“I remember,” you whispered into him. “All of it.”

The memories faded, and you found yourselves back within your realm, holding one another beneath the old tree of the Endless being. The sun began to set over the emerald trees, and the two of you carefully pulled away from one another. Dream pressed a kiss to your hand as he bowed. “It is time for me to depart.”

You wanted to ask him for a kiss… Wanted to act on the centuries, eons, of memories that now filled your mind with him and him alone. “Perhaps tonight will be the one I find my way to dream,” you said instead. “Perhaps I will see you there.”

“I am but a call away, my lady.”

“Goodnight, Morpheus.” The words left unspoken hung on your tongue as both of you watched one another, now nothing barring you from speaking them but your own foolish nervousness. I love you still.

“Goodnight, Munin.” Dream’s eyes shined brightly as he took a step away, hoping you’d be able to see the words he’d been holding onto for so long now he did not know how to speak them to you without foregoing all notions of duty and function and honor. I love you.

That night you laid your head on the soft pillows, staring up at the glittering canopy of leaves and starlight. Sirius snored at your feet, curled on the bed beside you, relaxed and dreaming. You were nervous about closing your eyes. Nervous about submitting to the unconscious power of dreams and nightmares. What would you see in this dream, your first dream? Would he truly seek you out among the billions of dreamers within his care?

Foolish, you chided yourself driving your eyes to close and quietly waiting for sleep to consume you.

When it did, you were pleasantly surprised to be flying. Your raven form glided through the puffy white clouds, a gentle wind caressing your face as your soul soared. You flew for what felt like hours before landing in a meadow of soft grass, a plume of feathers floating in the air as your normal form emerged with an ethereal pair of wings hanging from your back. Smiling, you ran your fingers through the white feathers, hugging as the motion tickled.

The meadow was gorgeous. Green with vibrant flowers and a crystal clear pool of water that sparkled in the orange, pink and yellow hues of the rising sun. As you looked across the great plane, your thoughts drifted to the being behind such beauty.

“Morpheus,” you called out softly. “Are you there? Can you find me within the well of dreamers?”

From across the realms, he heard you. At first, only the sound of his name slipping from your sweet lips, but then he heard your voice whisper, “Find me.” His heart nearly stopped as fear consumed every step he took. He knew it was unlikely you’d found danger so soon after his departure, but he’d heard this call one too many times. He’d not ignore it, not after what befell you last time.

Finding your dream among the vast multitude of mortals was far easier than most would think. He knew you, knew what you felt like and sounded like. He knew what your dreams looked like better than anyone, especially after the years he spent forging them by hand.

As he entered the misty outer wall of the dream, he felt his form shift. His clothes and hair resembled that of the attire he’d worn hundreds of years ago during one of his meetings with Hob Gadling. Leather lined his body, tight and chilled with his skin, and the familiar weight of his ruby hung around his neck as he ventured deeper into the meadow of soft grass and a sky, half of starlight and deep blue night and of golden sunrise and soft white clouds. It was peaceful here, the wind light and gentle as the sound of rippling water echoed in his ears. It reminded him of Fiddler’s Green, though this was different.

There rising up from the sparkling water Munin appeared like the first glimpse of sunlight peeking over the horizon of a long night. Two wings of blinding white spread on either side of her, dripping with water as it ran off the silken exterior of the feathers. The simple nightgown she wore glistened with hues of gold and pink, and orange as she quietly rose from the water, but Dream had a difficult time focusing on anything but the sight of her body beneath the now sheer fabric.

The Dream King’s eyes slowly traveled down the length of your body, admiring every curve of your body accentuated by the sheer, wet fabric that clung to you. He sucked in a deep breath, forcing his eyes to tear away from the peaks of your breasts before the sight of the soft, ample flesh plainly visible beneath your slip made the urge to touch you grow too great for even him to contain. You were practically bare before him.

White feathers ruffled, bringing a spray of water to hang around you like frozen jewels. Your eyes were bright and shimmering like the sun over water metal his, and for a moment, he felt like you’d stolen the very breath from his lungs. “Lord Morpheus,” you said quietly. “I did not think one such as yourself would care to greet me in my first dream.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat, swallowed the heated words it contained. “Apologies. I did not intend to intrude, Lady Munin.”

You smiled with a gentle tilt of your head. “Can you intrude if it is a dream? I thought such was your domain.”

“It is,” he answered, casting his eyes away from you as you ventured closer to him. “But individual dreams are intimate things. I do not venture within them lightly.”

“Then why venture into mine?”

Starlit eyes met yours as he answered, sweet and gentle. “Because I heard your voice call to me. I thought…”

The crown of stars shifted, consumed for a quick moment by memories of Daunt’s demise… Of all her calls to him left unanswered. “Forgive me,” you said. “I did not mean to worry you.”

Dream pushed the memory’s away, once again casting his beautiful eyes elsewhere. “Did you need something, my Lady?”

“Do you find me ugly, Lord Morpheus?” You asked, examining his tight face, great white wings curling toward him as though they’d wished to embrace him as you did.

“No,” he answered, eyes boring down into yours, the stars within them quaking.

With a simple tilt of your head, you inquired further, “Then why are you so adamant about looking anywhere else but me?”

“I look elsewhere for fear that if my gaze lingers too long, I shall want for more than just the sight of you.”

You hummed quietly, a thoughtful sound that shouldn’t have made him burn with want but did. “Do you wish to touch me?”

“That is hardly-”

“Because I wish to touch you,” your soft admittance nearly brought him to his knees. It was why your thoughts, your being, had called out to him in this lovely dream. Ever since he’d departed from your realm, all you could think of was him. Was the accidental touches and the way each of them made the longing in your heart ache more.

Dream forced himself to refrain as he quietly said, “This is your dream, Lady Munin. You may do as you wish.”

You wasted no time lifting a hand to run along the shining dark leather of his fine attire, the feeling of longing within your chest stilling as you touched him, replaced with a powerful thrum of want. He was soft, softer now that you’d actually meant to touch him. You moved your hand up, watching the great Endless being practically shaking with restraint beneath your palm. “You say I may do as I wish, but does this plain not belong to you?” You asked as your fingertips brushed against the skin of his neck, lightly tracing up his throat until you reached his lips. “Is this not a dream conjured into being by your power?”

“I could change it,” he admitted against your fingertips. “But this is your dream. Brought to life within your mind, and I would not steal away your control over your own unconsciousness, not ever.”

“A relief,” You said. “For I do not wish this dream to end. It is far easier to touch you here, where you’re not like to pull away from me as though my touch burns you… Where it’s not entirely real.”

Something in his eyes shifted as a slight shadow darkened over his form. He took a step forward, placing himself right up against you. The chill that swept over your peaked your nipples beneath your gown even more as you stared up at him with a gasp. “Does this not feel real?” He inquired, voice echoing… a thing of dreams and nightmares and something so entirely other you could hardly understand it.

He slowly lifted a hand to touch you, lithe fingers brushing against one of your wings, gliding along the silken feathers and bringing a rush of pleasure down your spine. “Do you not feel my touch?” His hand continued, moving down your neck to brush against one of your nipples. “Does my voice not echo through your soul as your voice did mine to call me here?”

With a soft breath against him, as your hands found purchase against the thick chilled leather of his chest, you replied, “It does… I do.”

“Was this your wish this night, fair Lady Munin?” he asked, fingers mirroring yours as they ran up the valley between your breasts and the length of your throat, his fingers brushing against your jaw. “To feel me.”

You nodded, looking up into his eyes. “I have wanted to feel you for longer than even I can remember.” With a gentleness that made Dream want to weep, you lifted your hands to cup his cheeks. “Mighty King of Nightmares,” you whispered, soft, warm breath fanning across his lips. “Prince of Stories,” you leaned in closer, drawing him into you with nothing but your sweet voice. “I would feel you, mind, body, and soul, if you would only let me.”

His hand cupping your jaw stilled you from pressing your lips to his as the shadow seeped back into him and the dream rippled around you. “I will not have you here. I will not sully your first dream with my own selfish wants. Nor will I risk you forgetting what has transpired this night.”

You merely smiled. “I am Keeper of Memory. I would not forget this… not a moment of it.”

“That may be, but my answer remains the same.”

“Will you grant me one request then?” You asked.

Dream chuckled. “I would grant you anything.”

“Kiss me,” you said. “So I might once again remember what your lips feel like on mine.”

He leaned forward, closing the distance between you to seemingly grant you your request, but just as your lips brushed against his, his eyes beamed down at you, lips tugging up into the thinnest smirk you’d ever seen. “I will kiss you when next we meet, my little forest queen. But, for now,”

“Don’t,” you hissed. “Don’t you dare.”

The velvet sensation of his lips just barely sparking against yours made you dig your nails into his leather chest as he whispered, ever the smug and self-important Dream you’d once known, “This dream is over.”

You awoke in your bed, the soft canopy of leaves overhead and the wooden bed posts curling with vines and flowers. Breathing out a short breath, you sat up, the feeling his touch still lingering on your skin as you shook your head with a scoff. “That bastard!”

Sirius’ head lifted from the bottom of the bed as he turned to look at you. “Nightmare, my lady?”

“Yes,” you replied. “A very annoying one.”

If it was Dream’s hope to bait you into seeking him out… begging him for a mere kiss, then he’d be left just as frustrated and wanting as you. You’d wait him out as long as that took.

Bent over the library table, Dream listened to Lucienne’s research, albeit halfheartedly. His librarian had poured herself into finding more information on the part of you that predated even Daunt, this Memory. She had many interesting theories, but none were as interesting as the image of you, wet and wanting beneath his touch. Your dream had plagued his thoughts all day.

He’d thought you would come to his realm in search of the kiss he’d dangled in front of you, but it would seem you were either busy or too proud to give in to his teasing. Either way, he was miserable. Dream wanted nothing more than to turn back time and kiss you when you’d asked him for it, to do far more than simply kiss you… his want was little more than a sinful carnal need to have you moaning beneath him.

As Lucienne’s voice faded from his ears and he let his mind drift into the memory of the dream, making changes to improve it, you heard his voice echo within your realm. “I did not intend to intrude, Lady Munin.”

You followed the sound of his voice through the trees, walking to the ancient grove where his tree was alight with stars. Tilting your head, you ventured forward, moving through the roots and out to the other side. He was recalling your dream… though in his mind, he’d changed some aspects, added more sunlight to kiss your skin, and, if possible, made the material of your gown far sheerer. This was more than a memory, but not quite a dream.

With a smile, you watched from the edges of the meadow as events played out similarly to the event in question. Finally, when the hazed vision of you was chest to chest with the Dream Lord, you couldn’t help yourself. You assumed the memory in front of you, staring into Dream’s eyes as he played through the memory of your dream. Then, with an unscripted smirk, you tilted your head, breaking the events he knew. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Munin?” He asked softly, color rising to his cheeks as he leaned back.

With a smugness born of Dreams teasing, you looked around at the memory mixing with dreams. “Are you fantasizing about me, Morpheus?”

He pulled his hands behind his back with a thin smile. “It seems rather pointless to deny the obvious.”

“How flattering,” you purred. “And here I thought you’d take more pride in leaving me weary and wanting.”

You could see the smugness on his face. “Perhaps I did,” he admitted, watching you as you circled him. “But then you did not come to my realm in search of your kiss.”

“Is that what you’d hoped for?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“I am terribly sorry to disappoint you, Dream Lord. I was merely trying to teach you a lesson.”

His eyes swirled with darkness as he tilted his head to the side, and the deep chuckle that vibrated through the very fabric of the fantasy sent a shiver up your spine. “Is that so?” Stalking forward, the dark figure towered over you, crowding the very air you breathed. “Did I leave you so weary and wanting that you would stoop to punishing me, my lady?”

You held his gaze unflinchingly. “Yes. You did.”

“My apologies,” he teased, the tone of his voice lowering to little more than a heated whisper against your skin. “I would ask for your forgiveness.”

“I would have you kneel for it,” you taunted.

With a chuckle, he tilted his head to the side. “Was my transgression so great?”

Your hands clutched one another behind you as you kept the sinful noises you wished to let loose buried within your throat. “It was. I was under the impression you’d come to make my dreams come true.” You shook your head. “And yet you cruelly denied me the simplest of requests.”

“Cruel am I? I offered you what you sought,” he countered. “You were the one that chose not to seek me out.”

“You’d have me beg you, King of Dreams?” You asked.

“I would very much enjoy the sound of you begging,” he answered.

You shook your head. “I’ve no doubt of that. But I will have you be the one to do the begging.”

He hummed, eyes dragging down your body lazily. “You forget, this is my fantasy. I can do things that would make me far more… as you say, smug.”

The thin slip was gone in an instant, your delicate skin now exposed to the slightly chilled air radiating off Morpheus as he held your gaze. The white wings on your back curled around your front, shielding you from the breeze. You answered him with an arched brow and a scoff, “You forget you are not the only being that can shift the unconscious mind. And fantasies are dreams mixed with memory.”

You blinked, and his clothes were gone. The smooth planes of his silken skin glistened in the falling light as he leaned further into you, seeking out the warmth of your body. You lifted your hand, trailing it down his throat and chest, traveling lower until his resolve broke. His hand caught yours, forcing it to settle on his abdomen, and his eyes turned wild, drinking in the sight of you, winged and bare before him. Then, with his free hand, he lifted it to your hair, running his fingers along one of the strands that framed your face. “You are a wicked thing.”

“Only when I need to be.”

“Now, who is being cruel?” He questioned, gently pulling you in closer. Face to face, chest to chest, you and the Dream Lord stared at one another until he finally whispered, “Come to me, my fair and wicked lady. Come, and I shall give you the kiss you wanted.”

Your eyes cast down to his lips. “Apologize.”

He let loose an amused breath as he raised his hands to cup your face. “I would make amends in person.”

“Ready to beg?”

“If it will get you here,” he replied. “I shall even kneel.”

You smiled wider. “Perhaps I shall show you a similar kindness.”

Dream’s hands gripped your face tighter as he closed his eyes. “Come to me. Please.”

“As you wish,” you whispered against his lips, meeting his eyes. “Time to focus now, my Dream. Lest you forget your dear librarian’s presence.”

Dream opened his eyes to find himself still within the library, Lucienne’s soft and slightly concerned voice pulling him from his own mind. “My lord? Is everything alright?”

He burned with need. “Yes,” he forced the words out. “Everything is fine. Excuse me, Lucienne. I have something I must see to.”

Turning on his heel, he quickly fled the library, using the walk to his chambers to calm his racing heartbeat and nerves. He threw the door open and nearly groaned at the sight of Munin standing in his room, white wings wrapped around her bare body, just as he’d left her. She smiled at him over her shoulder. “I let myself in… I hope that’s alright.”

“It is,” he answered, closing the door behind him as he joined her in the room. “Tell me, fair Munin, what can I offer to make amends for my cruel behavior?”

“You already know,” you said, turning to close the distance between the two of you, soft eyes looking up at him and practically glowing.

“I would hear you speak it again,” he prompted, stepping closer… chest to chest with her. “Here, awake, where the sweet sound of your voice is not distorted by a dream.”

“Kiss me,” you replied. “Kiss me, and I shall forgive you.”

Morpheus smiled, hands moving to cup your face. “Is that all you wish of me?”

“For the moment,” you replied, wings falling away from you, revealing yourself to him. Your hands took fistfuls of his coat to keep him from vanishing again. “We’ll see how good of a kiss you offer.”

When your lips pressed against his, you realized why it’d been one of your dying requests. His hands slid back into your hair, securing you against him as you moved your lips against his. Soft and gentle with an underlying need that made both of you want to shake. His lips were heavenly… sinful in how they masterfully coaxed your mouth open, allowing his chilled tongue to sweep into your mouth.

He tasted rain, sweet berries, and a tang of something you couldn’t even put into words. Your breaths mingled with one another as both of your hands grabbed and pulled, desperate to become one in every way imaginable. His breath fanned across your face as he pulled away to look down at you with dark eyes. “Satisfied?”

“No,” you whined. “I want more of you.”

“You have all of me,” he answered, eyes trailing down your body with an appreciative gaze. “Am I forgiven?”

You took hold of his chin, forcing his eyes back to yours. “I believe I was promised kneeling.”

In a second, he was bare before you, the chiseled planes of his body practically glowing like some ethereal being of light. His hands trailed down your spine, gently running along the tips of your wings and then back down to grip your hips. He squeezed them in his hands for a moment before slowly dipping his head into the crook of your neck, kissing his way down your body until he knelt before you. Then, slowly lifting your leg up, his eyes flashed to yours. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes,” you whispered, anticipation settling across your skin in goosebumps. “You are what I want, Morpheus.”

A true smile spread across his lips as he kissed your stomach. “I’ve waited so long to feel you. I shall cherish every second of this.” He lifted your leg over his shoulder, biting into the flesh of it for a minute before turning his head and licking a slow and deliberate strip up your slit, teasing the little pearl at the apex of your thighs for a moment before he pulled away a drew in a deep breath. “You taste divine.”

Breathlessly your ass hit his bed as he threw your other leg over his shoulder and dove back between your thighs, teeth, and tongue, exploring every inch of you. The sensation was far greater than anything you’d ever felt. The memories of past lovers’ touches faded beneath his. Morpheus exceeded them in every way… you’d not be able to live without his touch now, not for one moment.

His tongue twirled around your clit as his fingers pumped deep inside you, forcing lewd noise after lewd noise from your throat. You gasped and clawed at his messy black hair, pulling the roots to ground yourself amidst the continuous wave of pleasure he brought you with his mouth. You’d thought of what this would be like for so long… longer than you’d even been, and now that you were here, holding him by the hair while he pleasured you with his mouth, you could hardly breathe.

You came too many times to count before Morpheus released you from his iron-clad hold and kissed his way up your body, lavishing each of your breasts before he brushed your hair away from your face and beheld you with a gaze you could only describe as awe. Finally, you stroked his cheek and offered him a breathless smile. “I forgive you now.”

“So soon?” He questioned with a smirk. “I’ve only just begun.”

Both of you knew it had been hours already, but Dream of the Endless was nothing if not a thorough lover. He rose to his feet, bringing his hard, weeping member right into your waiting hands. You stroked him gently, watching his face twist into poorly concealed ecstasy. Then, leaning over, you licked along his slit before circling the head of his cock with a warm wet tongue.

His hands gripped your hair similarly to how you had gripped his, but he carefully pulled you back, looking down at you with dark eyes. “I am the one in search of atonement, my lady. I am the one that will worship you.”

“Very well,” you said, carefully running your hands up his abdomen. “Show me what the worship of an Endless is then, my Dream.”

He carefully lowered you onto your back with one last stroke down the silken white feathers. The wings evaporated, filling the air around you and Dream with feathers. This did little to slow him as he hovered over you, reconnecting your mouth to his in a needy and sinful battle between your tongues. You could taste yourself on him like a sweet honey.

His hands cradled your hips as he settled between your thighs, rubbing his aching member through your slick folds. Dark eyes watched you, the stars within them exploding as he set his forehead to yours. Then, pulling him back down by his dark locks, you devoured his lips, tugging one between your teeth until he groaned into your mouth. His grip on you would bruise, and you would let it, cherishing every mark he left.

One swift thrust of his hips was all it took for him to enter you. The stretch of him burned in a way that felt right. Your head fell back against his soft sheets as his settled onto your chest, his cold, ragged breaths bringing goosebumps to your skin. His hips settled flush against yours, and he lifted his head, holding himself up on one arm to stroke your face with his free hand.

Why had the two of you wasted so much time fighting when you could have been doing this? Why had you resisted so intently all the times before now where the urge to kiss him - to claim him - had been so strong? You were a fool. And so was he.

“I love you,” the words left your lips as a humble… A sincere admission that you couldn’t have stopped now even if you’d wanted to.

Morpheus smiled down at you, running his fingers over your cheek. “I’ve held onto these words for so long… I do not know if they will be enough now.”

You pressed your fingers to his lips, tears welling in your eyes. “Then do not say it… Show me.”

His head settled against yours as he began to move his hips. The friction was more than enough to bring the burning hot pleasure building in your gut, but then Morpheus guided your hands to the top of his head… To the memories that swirled there like a galaxy forming as he focused on them.

You saw yourself through his eyes. Your smile and the way your eyes lit up. You saw every moment he admired your beauty or kindness, everything he loved about you. As tears rolled down your cheeks as the emotions long denied and buried mingled with the pleasure of him inside you, moving his hips against yours as he held onto you like you were his lifeline.

His own tears filled his eyes as you lifted your head to press a kiss to his, sharing the moments you viewed him in a similar light with him. You showed him how ethereal and cunning, caring, and utterly self-important he was. You showed him your love as he showed you his.

The pressure building inside you peaked as his lips pressed to yours, the words he’d not spoken more than evident. I always have and will always love you. You came with a desperate and strangled cry that was swallowed by his greedy mouth. The way your body hummed… Sang beneath him as he continued to pleasure you through your orgasm sounded far greater than any song composed. Greater still was the sound that slid from his lips as his hips stilled against yours, and he came inside you.

He brought you into his chest, congratulation to consume you in every way. Both of your labored breaths filled the space between you as you stared at one another. His soft fingers ran through your hair as the tears finally spilled from his eyes. “I love you, Munin.”

You breathed out a laugh, relief… Acceptance… The love you'd so desperately longed for was finally yours. “As I love you, Morpheus.”

Memory and dreams collided like an eclipse, and all that dreamt that night, dreamt of the being of cosmic creation and goddess of memory. That night they dreamt of love.

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writing-for-life · 6 months

Note

Let's go choose violence:

3, 8, 9, 25 for The Sandman :3c

Rubs hands gleefully…

3. screenshot or description of the worst take you've seen on tumblr

Of course not screenshotting as everyone’s entitled to their opinion, so this is just a thing *I* find hard to understand/get my head around:

“Neil Gaiman ran out of ideas, and that’s why he killed off Morpheus.”

I mean, you could say he wanted to conclude his arc, and with that I agree. And thank fuck he did, because if Murphy were still alive, we would need to suffer the horrible takes that DC has foisted upon us ever since. But it is so completely incomprehensible to me when I read that there was no sign that Morpheus would off himself before World’s End or TKO. That it came out of nowhere, that it made the whole thing completely depressing and insufferable and sends a "bad" message.

It all was right there, from the start. You can’t read "The Sound of her Wings" and not see that he’s absolutely haunted by the narrative, and how much comfort he finds in her. And you don’t need to read the whole thing and then just see it in hindsight (it's something I hear/read quite often). It’s clear as day if you are willing to go down the line of thinking that the Endless aren’t people but concepts. I personally think that’s where people can trip up. And I even get it--of course we want to humanise them because we are human. But they are not. They are mirrors and foils that are supposed to make us think about our own humanity (and we recognise it in them, but that still doesn’t make them human--they just show us human traits and what this mortal coil is about. Carry it and abandon it in equal measures).

8. common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

Everyone apart from me of course 😂

"Hob Gadling is any shape or form the personification of hope, and his sole purpose is to (squee! UwU) save Murphy from his bleak existence".

No he ain’t. Hope is Hope, and she is a little girl (blows a raspberry right in your face). If Hob''s anything, he is humanity in a nutshell: ugly, self-serving, opportunist, but also feeling, caring and redeemable. But especially the first part is harder to woobify.

Did I also mention I have this take that making Dream's relationship to Hob all about romance and sex forgets about the importance of friendship, and why it's actually so important for the plot? Plus, that we have a tendency to erase male friendship and hence lean into toxic masculinity if we make every glance and every touch and every close emotional bond about: "Oh, they want to fuck?", and that's decidedly *not* progressive? Yeah, about that... (ship them, it's fine, no problem whatsoever, just be aware it's not the *only* take, and I will stick my neck out now and say: it won't be canon).

9. worst part of canon

That’s a tricky one because I can make sense of pretty much everything to be fair, but if I had to choose, it’s that Morpheus’ failed relationship to Nada created ripples that basically doomed every black woman connected to his arc (not *all* black women, I think that’s actually a misinterpretation, as is that Morpheus is racist, which he conceptually can't be). And as soon as he’s dead, we get token Gwen who isn’t doomed by the narrative anymore. And said Gwen *really* is a token black woman with no true agency of her own—her entire purpose is to serve the redemption of the slave trader. And that Neil actually confirmed this was *intentional* in The Sandman Companion. I get why he made that narrative choice, but to me, it still looks bad. I have hopes though he moved on from that take and we don’t get to see it in the show (the signs are there, so fingers crossed).

25. common fandom complaint that you're sick of hearing

Ties in with 3: That The Sandman should have a different, “more hopeful” ending.

But quite a few others:

You *should* write fanfics about XYZ because there’s not enough of it.

You *should* elevate supporting characters to main characters because they are ABC.

You *shouldn’t* focus so much on the main character because he’s a guy/male-presenting (I mean, he’s the protagonist, so there’s that).

You *should* ship m/m because it makes problematic dynamics less problematic.

You *shouldn’t* ship m/f because it’s heteronormative. My favourite: Johanna Constantine is bi, you *shouldn’t* ship her with a guy, because again: Heteronormative. Erm, I hate to break it to people (and speaking from experience): That’s how being bi works, and we like m, f and nb equally? And we happen to want sex with m, f and nb? And we pretty much have blinkers on when it comes to falling in love with a *person*, or what we find hot/sexually arousing? And I swear if I read shit like that once more, I’ll get heteronormative out of sheer spite and will smite people.

You *should* or *shouldn't* ship. Both fine. And/but there's certainly more to The Sandman than blorbofication and allosexualisation of everything.

So yeah, pretty much anything that involves a *should*. You can do whatever the fuck you like as long as you don’t lose your ability to critically engage with it. Plus, the space has to be welcoming for everyone, and that’s sometimes hard for creators and people who don’s serve/like the main flavour. And therein lies the problem, because critical engagement doesn’t always happen, and a lot of good stuff disappears in amongst the noise…

#asks answered #asks #today I choose violence #will it tag this? of course I will >>>#the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #hob gadling #hope beautiful lost nebula #nada sandman

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pintobordeaux · 1 year

Text

E1 - Knotting for @dreamlingbingo Title: The Show Rating: Explicit (E) Word Count: 881 Ship(s): Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling Warnings/Additional Tags: No major archive warnings apply, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Inhuman anatomy, Knotting (not omegaverse), masturbation AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46222843

Summary:

The thing was—the thing was that Hob really didn’t mean to get here on purpose. He hadn’t intended to show up uninvited and find his centennial stranger in the most intimate position he hadn’t even dared to daydream about.

Hob Gadling was lost. He didn’t quite know how one even gets lost in a dream except for the knowledge that you are. And Hob? He was definitely lost. Instead of the usual mis-mash of memories from across the centuries and dream nonsense he would shrug off with morning sleepy dust he had found himself inside a castle. Its walls impossibly high and lined with weather-rounded stones from floor to ceiling. He ran his fingers along the ridges between mortar and stone as he wandered along the winding hallways. It should have been cold here. Weren’t castles supposed to be cold? It felt like nostalgia and home and hearth. A fuzzy memory of a warm day from his youth far before he became immortal.

Hob meandered through hallways and passages. His destination was unknown but he supposed he would eventually either land somewhere interesting or wake up. He got his wish sooner rather than later. At the end of what he had first assumed was an endless hallway a small set of stairs led to a red wooden door barely propped ajar. He felt pulled to it. Excitement undulating through him in waves. He didn’t know what was behind that door but it gave him the impression it was exciting and dangerous. And Hob was just a man—one who lived for novelty and thrill. How could he resist?

Playing it safe he walked lightly up to the edge of the stairs, to properly survey the situation. He gently bit his tongue to hold in any noise. A habit he picked up from his banditry days. One that had saved his life countless times. He fell back on the habit now, shallowly breathing out of his nose when he felt safe enough to breathe at all.

Fuck.

Looking through the crack in the door Hob could clearly see his stranger. He was sprawled out on a large bed nude as a fresh born babe. His pale skin practically shimmering in the moonbeams coming in through windows Hob surmised were beyond his vantage point. Hob had fantasized many times about his stranger. He was a near-blank canvas in Hob’s mind. His careful coverings and layered fashions kept everything but his hands and the top bloom of his neck hidden. Practically a neon sign screaming that he did not want his flesh perceived. Yet here all of that was stripped away—only what was facing away from the door left to Hob’s imagination.

He knew he should leave. He should turn around and carefully back out the way he came. He shouldn’t infringe on someone he held such respect and admiration for—even in his dreams. But those thoughts dissipated the longer he watched. His stranger wasn’t just nude. No, he was indulging in himself. Hob’s throat went dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. His cock straining against the fabric of his pants, aching to be touched.

Hob watched a lithe arm move in repetition. He watched the muscles on the strangers back flex and extend with each choked breath. The man was relatively quiet about the act all things considered. Until he watched his other hand reach around behind himself. Spindly fingers dipping in and out of his hole. A breathy sigh escaping at the slow penetration. Hob had long since made up his mind about leaving. Instead, moving on to battle the next level of demon on his conscience. If he should touch himself. If he could do it without getting caught. He bit his lip harder, held his breath, and let his hand graze over the outside of his pants. Ghosting light pressure along the tip through the fabric. He gave himself small squeezes in time with each of his strangers' thrusts.

The man was on his knees now. His neck tilted up to the vaulted ceiling. Stray strands of midnight black hair sprawled across his shoulders. One hand away from Hob pumping at a rhythmic pace and the other one buried deep inside. That’s when he noticed it—the fingers that had been thrusting had started to morph. The stranger's hand transformed, lengthening and gnarling into something inhuman. Each finger bulging and pulsing like its own cock. His hole stretching and conforming to the unique shapes. Hob watched as several of the branch-like fingers twisted together. A large knot at the base inflating.

The stranger’s fingers pulsed harmonically in time with the palm wrapped around his hand. His ivory neck extended in pleasure as he rode his own ministrations. It was like all of Hob’s wet dreams and fantasies had converged on a single event horizon. All individually stretched out like unraveled threads of a rug expanding infinitely in space. Everything possible beyond collapsing in on the man beyond the door.

Hob could do nothing more except come in his pants. The only signifier was a huff of air escaping his carefully held demeanor. He watched his stranger’s thighs shake as he gave a final cry of orgasm. The haze of arousal slowly dissipated around his mind. Just as he was contemplating how to get out of there before he could be noticed, the stranger turned his head to look directly at Hob, his whole hand still buried inside himself.

“Did you enjoy the show?”

#Dreamling #dream x hob #dream/hob gadling #Dream of the endless/Hob Gadling #PintoWrites #fanfiction #dreamling bingo

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serenailith · 1 year

Text

how to save a life (now is ours)

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: c4, rescue Word Count: 14214 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: graphic depictions of violence Additional Tags: graphic violence, seriously—people die, angst, angst with a happy ending, brief mention of miscarriage, bamf!hob, jessamy lives because the author says so, and because the author isn’t a coward who has to kill her off, jessamy is the best bird ever, hob gadling is a magic-user Summary:

Magic is nothing like the films. It isn’t the wiggle of a nose or a wave of a magic wand. It’s specific words, ritual, intent.

Magic is the reason Roderick Burgess managed to lock the Devil in his basement. It’s also how that very Devil gets released.

Link: on ao3 masterlist

Magic is nothing like the films. It isn’t the wiggle of a nose or a wave of a magic wand. It’s specific words, ritual, intent.

It’s also a secret that Hob Gadling has kept close for all of five hundred years. He isn’t an idiot, despite his ignorance through the years. And despite the many friends and lovers who would argue to the contrary. What do they know anyway? Most of them are dead now.

He’d learnt all about the occult in the late 1400s; the exact year has been lost to the annals of time. All he knows is he became curious by the hushed whispers of magic and witchcraft, the impropriety of it all. The clandestine nature. The notion had enthralled him—imagine being able to get whatever you wanted, no matter how impossible!

Bill Caxton had nearly turned Hob away for his questions, but the man had a bleeding heart. He knew Hob had nowhere to go, not really, so Caxton allowed him to resume working. If it afforded Hob the opportunity to speak to people as he made deliveries, people of the unsavoury type, Bill pretended not to notice. As long as Hob’s fascination with magic never interfered with his work, who was he to say a word?

(That belief would have changed had Hob actually started practicing. Or, rather, had Bill ever found out.)

Hob studied all he could. He learned to read and write, and once he left Caxton and the printing press behind, Hob travelled all over the world to learn anything anyone would teach him. It took some charming—and an enormous amount of humility—before any would take him seriously. After all, sorcery was looked down upon. The witch trials made his thirst for knowledge that much more difficult to satisfy.

But learn he did. From Margaret Sanger in the darkest recesses of London’s woodlands and Bakari of Kenya, Russian Andrei and Henriette in Australia, Hiroshi in Tokyo and George of Atlanta, Georgia, and dozens between, in all corners of the planet. None let him pen notes over the lessons—“Too dangerous,” they’d said, and how could he have argued with that? He knew man’s proclivity for cruelty towards the unknown just as well as they did. So Hob did as best as he could to memorise everything.

Moving on and saying goodbye was always permanent. He knew, as he was thanking these people for their efforts and time, that he could never come back to them. He’d grown to love each and every one of them, but never would he see them again. Their descendants, perhaps, but never the people who taught him all he knows about magic.

He never told his Stranger during their meeting in 1589. How could he ensure there would be no judgement? Or would his Stranger feel slighted, as if it’s a personal affront that Hob had yet to entrust him with such a secret? Surely the Stranger would take away the gift of immortality if he knew of Hob’s fascination with the occult—or his partaking in it. Hob doesn’t know how he would fare if he knew he was going to die.

Maybe he would have found his own path to immortality were he forced to look in alternative places.

Lady Johanna Constantine. A name—a woman—Hob will loathe for the rest of time. He knows now he had been close to getting a name for the first time in four centuries. Knowing a name for such a powerful, important creature could only benefit Hob, after all. His Stranger’s lips had parted, eyes full of ease, something Hob had never seen on his face before. The word was right there on the tip of his Stranger’s tongue; Hob knows it.

But then that damned voice cut in: “I might ask both of you that same question, gentlemen.” He can still see the smugness on her, admittedly beautiful, face. She thought she caught them out. She thought she knew what she was finding in the White Horse that seventh of June in the year of the Lord 1789. She’d been proven wrong when Hob came to his Stranger’s defence. It had been unnecessary, but Hob would gladly do it again.

Even though he never quite got an answer about the sand.

Hob lights another cigarette and hides off to the side, shielding himself with the awning of a cleaner’s. He’s meant to be “dead” now, having given Ms Simms his final payment last week and sending a messenger to the home to tell her the news. Hob had no one else, hasn’t in a long time, and Ms Simms knows it. So of course she would be the one to tell of his tragic demise.

But this is something he doesn’t want to miss. People celebrate around him; it’s a momentous occasion, and nobody wants to be left out. Hob hardly cares about some royal lady taking the throne and being crowned queen, but it is going to be history. He loves history—learning from it has become his main goal. Can’t make the same mistakes if you know better.

The city cheers on the official beginning of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, and Hob slips off to the waiting car. It’ll take him to the train that will carry him out of London to a home he purchased three decades ago and handed down to his “son”. From there, well, he’ll figure it out. France is beautiful this time of year, and the train ride should be pleasant enough.

Once he’s settled into his Parisian home four hours later, he pulls out his journal and flips through the pages until he reaches a clean sheet. He writes of the coronation. How, today, no one cares about the million people still sleeping with no sign of waking, or those who cannot sleep at all. How he wonders if his Stranger will show up in twenty-six years—We’d left it poorly, after all. I cannot imagine he is still angry with me. I hope not.

And he doesn’t. He had begun looking forward to the meetings—to the talks, despite his Stranger never speaking of his own life, and to excellent drinks. Hob honestly hopes his Stranger shows up in 1989 so he can entice him with the wonders of whisky instead of watery ale (as if the Stranger ever drank anything at all).

Hob writes of the rumours he’d heard before escaping London to start his new life. How some posh tosser who calls himself ‘Magus’ has captured the Devil. How it isn’t quite a devil but one of the Endless gone missing. Hob isn’t sure what exactly the Endless are—it’s not a term he’s heard before—but whatever it is, it is most likely the cause of the Sleeping Sickness gripping the world over. Very few seem to know exactly which Endless, or what the function of the Endless are, and Hob has had his ear to the ground for any further information. He doesn’t ask questions. Oh, no. That would catch the attention of the wrong people. But he listens.

It takes a year, but eventually, Hob finds the right group. Ostensibly, they are bird-watchers, innocuous yet guarded. They test him on what he knows already; he keeps it a secret how long he has been accruing knowledge. He passes their myriad of tests, and Véronique, head of the group despite her gender being seen as lesser still, welcomes him in with open arms. The months pass with more rumours abounding and falling into bed with the note-taker, Clara Laurent, for half a year.

She falls pregnant but loses the baby two months in. She leaves Paris for the States where her brother resides, the pain of the loss too much to bear. Hob is left to grieve alone.

Véronique invites him to an auction—not any old auction, but one full of magical items. The attendees wear masks and are not allowed to speak aloud. She keeps a hand on his arm as they walk around the gallery. Her voice pitched low, she informs him of the latest bit of gossip: The Endless that old Burgess captured is none other than Dream. Lord Morpheus. The Sandman himself.

“And that right there is his helm,” she whispers with a gesture of her chin.

It’s an ugly thing–metal oval with bug eyes and what looks to be an actual spine hanging from the front. Someone shoots them a sharp look, and Véronique ducks her head in silent apology. Hob ignores both of them; something about the helm draws him in. It isn’t merely the power emanating from the item. He can’t explain it, but he’s flooded with the need to own such a thing.

He glances at Véronique and knows she understands what he’s not saying. She nods back, squeezing his arm, and they amble through the room as they wait for the auction to begin. Best to not appear too interested. That only drives others’ interest up. Hob may have money–loads of it, obtained through the centuries–but it would not do to spend it all here. He has to live, after all, and a repeat of the 1600s is less than ideal.

Thankfully, only one other desires the helm as much as Hob, though they bow out gracefully when he outbids them. Véronique’s fingers tighten around his bicep. He follows her gaze to the person with golden eyes staring at him. Their red-painted lips spread into a smile, then they turn and slip out through the door. He frowns at the heaviness taking residence in his chest. Nothing good can come from a look like that.

The organiser of the auction promises quick, discreet shipment of the helm to Hob’s home. He dips his chin, thanking her without a word, and follows Véronique from the building. They wait until they are in the car, three streets away, before removing their masks. Hob can breathe again; he’s changed his identity hundreds of times since he became immortal, but disguising himself is something he’s never done. It leaves a sticky, buzzing sensation in his veins, one he can’t quite explain even to himself.

Véronique doesn’t ask questions as she leaves him in front of his house. She only wishes him a good night and warns him to never speak of the helm: “There are many out there who would slit your throat for a chance of owning that thing.”

“I’ll be careful, V. Always am.”

“You better, Bobby. I actually kind of love you.”

In any other life, she might be the type of woman he’d pursue. Beautiful and strong and intelligent, there is everything to love about the woman. But there’s too much pain still. He wonders if he’ll tell his Stranger of the lost babe at their next meeting. Of the love he and Clara had shared before she left him.

Shaking away the thoughts, he leans over to kiss Véronique’s cheek. “Goodnight.”

She waits until he’s shut the door before she pulls out of the driveway. Hob crosses the living room to the chest and digs the key out from under the floorboard. The helm rests heavy in his hands, and he stares down at the large, glass-covered eyeholes. His hands tremble as, without conscious thinking but no small amount of trepidation, he places the helm over his head.

Everything goes blurry, distorted. He can no longer see the wallpaper or the floorboards beneath his feet, the curtains over the windows. All he sees is a pulsing golden light at the very edges of his vision. He knows not what it is, but there’s a voice inside of him begging him to find out. Demanding he follow the beacon. It’s something important, the voice seems to say.

And who is Hob to argue with that? After all, that instinct has kept him alive for five and a half centuries.

Something about the helm, though… It feels familiar, though he knows he has never once seen it before.

He removes the helm and places it inside the chest, locking it up tight. The runes on the lock will do enough to deter amateurs and thieves who would be too overzealous to think straight. Unfortunately, Hob is well aware that there are those who would never let their excitement overrule their logical brains. For that, he’s become a light sleeper. He will defend what is his until his dying breath—which is to say for eternity.

He barely sleeps. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees that pulsating light, the gold beacon screaming his name. Dawn is barely breaking by the time he drags himself from bed, bleary-eyed but determined. He gathers up the appropriate supplies hidden around the house and gets to work.

Hob has had no use for this particular ritual in too long. As he lights the candle, he thinks of what he saw within the helm, the golden star guiding him to—home. London. Of course he’d have to go back so soon. He knows it is an enormous risk, one that might bring about his latest “death” and subsequent escape to a different country far from here. Perhaps Japan. He’d always loved it there.

Instead, he phones Claude, a kindly old man who asks nothing and speaks even less. Hob had met the man through the group. Claude agrees to give Hob a lift to the train station and, in an uncharacteristic show of talkative behaviour, warns Hob that perhaps he should tell Véronique he is departing France. After all, it was devastating when Clara left; it will be worse for Véronique to lose a man she’s grown to love.

Hob swallows against the acrid guilt. He never wanted this. It was difficult enough in the beginning with Clara, when it was merely a way to pass time and satisfy needs polite society avoided speaking of. After a few weeks, however, Hob had fallen for the beautiful, wonderful woman. She reminded him so much of Eleanor, and it was only a matter of time before his love grew to levels he could no longer ignore.

He only hopes Véronique means it as a platonic sort of love. He doesn’t think he can deal with breaking another woman’s heart. Not so soon after Clara.

Thankfully, Véronique takes it well. She wishes him the best and makes him promise to phone as soon as he’s safe in London. They both know this is a dangerous task with such an important object in his possession. She has no idea just how dangerous it truly is.

Hob hurriedly packs away the things he cannot leave behind, wrapping the helm in layers of shirts until it is disguised in the suitcase. His spellwork items go inside the bag he saved from his time in the military—the latest war, only one of too damned many. This one was particularly awful. He remembers too much.

The ride to the station is quiet, much as Hob expected. Claude helps unload Hob’s luggage, shakes his hand, then leaves him outside the doors. Hob hefts his bag onto his shoulder and tightens his grip on his suitcase handle. He can’t lose this familiar but unknown thing.

Arriving in London brings trepidation, a crawling sensation in his skin, and he keeps his head down as he strides through the streets to a hotel close to the location given by the tracking spell.

Once he’s locked the door behind him, he spreads out his supplies and does the ritual again, if only to be certain of his destination. His brows draw together when this one gives two locations: the initial one that leads to the golden light and another. The spell, of course, gives no indication as to what the second one is. Hob resigns himself to figuring it out on his own.

Hob sets out early the next morning, having locked the helm away in the back of the wardrobe provided by the hotel. He added his own rune-inscribed lock for extra protection. He is certain the honey-eyed person who wanted the helm isn’t following him, but perhaps they have henchmen like a mafia boss. Hob chuckles to himself and banishes the thoughts, the product of his overactive imagination.

There was no address given during the rituals, but after centuries of living, hundreds of years exploring the magic community, he’s learnt to read the signs. A magic-user would never be ostentatious about their goings-on. They’d be surreptitious, appear normal to the non-magic population, and the building before Hob is perhaps the most mundane building he has ever seen.

The woman behind the desk gestures absentmindedly toward an open door, telling him “Mister Constantine isn’t busy, so go ahead.”

Mister Constantine turns out to be a blonde man with a cigarette between his lips as he pores over a file on the desk in front of him. He glances up when Hob knocks on the doorframe, grunting in greeting before flicking ashes into a tray beside his papers.

“I can’t imagine you’d be in the business of needing a detective,” he says then takes a drag off his cigarette.

Hob sits in the wooden chair across from Constantine. “In any other case, you’d be right, Mister Constantine.”

“John.”

“Right. John. But I do have a need for your services.”

“Everyone does, I suppose.” John stubs out the cigarette and reaches for a drawer. He comes up with a cigarette box, offering one to Hob who takes it. It wouldn’t do to be impolite, and it’s been a long while since he actually smoked. Clara never liked it. “So what do you need, Mister…?”

“Williams,” Hob supplies, pointedly not looking out the window at the Williams Hardware sign next door. “I’m looking for something though I know not what it is.”

“That’ll make my job harder.”

Hob decides to bite the bullet, or he’d get nowhere with this man. How dreadful it is already to deal with this Constantine. Hob puts this man in the same category of ‘frustrating’ as his ancestress, Lady Johanna. Both are unlikable.

“How much do you know of the occult?”

John stares at him for a second, cigarette left neglected between two fingers. Finally, he barks, “Mary, close the door.”

There’s the scrape of a chair, and Mary does as ordered almost instantly. John waits until they can hear her taking her seat at her desk once more, then he pins Hob with an appraising look as he brings the cigarette to his lips. The tip glows red for a second before smoke obscures John’s face.

“What do you know of the occult, Mister Williams?”

“I know enough.”

“So do I.”

Hob stifles a groan. Yes, John Constantine is just as frustrating as Lady Johanna was so long ago. However, it must be annoying to John for Hob to not be able to explain what he’s looking for. He sighs and puts out his cigarette in the tray; John offers another one. Hob takes it, though he doesn’t light it immediately.

“Look, I’ll be honest. I’ve only heard rumours of something magical in the area. I have no idea what exactly it is. I’m… a collector, you could say, of occult items.”

“There might be something around here. For a price.”

“And what would that price be?”

John snorts and shakes his head. “Far more than you could afford, Mister Williams.”

“I’ve more money than it appears, John.”

John narrows his eyes, taps his fingers on the desk-top. Hob quells the urge to squirm under the scrutiny; he has far more practice being still, calm and collected, in the face of adversity than this. He’d pretended for several hours to be dead in the middle of a battlefield more than once, after all. He releases some of the nervous energy by lighting the cigarette.

“One hundred thousand.”

Hob coughs slightly on the smoke in his lungs. He hadn’t expected such a large number, but he probably should have. Clearing his throat, he shifts in his seat.

“First, what exactly is this item?”

“It’s an odd thing, Mister Williams. We’ve not been able to open it.”

“And you expect me to pay one hundred thousand for something you have no knowledge of the contents?”

“Fair point.” John grins suddenly as if pleased with Hob’s protest. “Seventy-five.”

Though Hob thinks it’s still an exorbitant price, he knows better than to push his luck too far. So he agrees, shaking John’s hand over the desk, and leaving the building. He still doesn’t know what John’s vocation is, though he doesn’t really care. John has what Hob has come for, and it’s vital that it finds itself in Hob’s possession.

John gets a contract for his money, and Hob gets a pouch.

A pouch that looks eerily familiar in a way the helm doesn’t.

He can’t place why, but he feels like he knows this.

He places the pouch and helm in his suitcase and locks it. Then he promptly removes the helm and places it on his head once more. This time, the pulsating light is red and dim, barely discernible through the darkness. He yanks the helm off and hurries to perform the tracking ritual once more.

The United States of America.

More specifically, a place called Mayhew, wherever the Hell that is.

He blows out a breath and sits back on his heels. Right. He needs a plane ticket. Sighing, he scrubs a hand over his face. This is not going to be fun. There’s something horrifying about being so far off the ground. But he can’t exactly go by ship. Not only does it remind him of his past mistakes, it also would take too long. Something tells him time is of the essence.

America is, in one word, bustling. He holds his suitcase tight to his side and follows the behaviour of those around him. No one gives him a second look as he pushes through the throngs of people. It almost reminds him of London in that regard.

Somehow, he manages to find a small hotel that asks no questions about his accent or why he clutches his suitcase just so. Or the cash he passes over, having exchanged it from British currency to American. The woman behind the desk merely plucks up a key from a cubby behind her, passing it over with a warm smile and a “Enjoy your stay, sir.” Hob nods and hurries to the room he’s been assigned.

With a heavy sigh, he drops to sit on the bed and rubs his fingers against his temple. The flight had been better than expected. The stewardesses were quite lovely and friendly, which helped to ease some of Hob’s discomfort with flying for the second time in his life. The passenger beside him had offered conversation and didn’t seem to mind when Hob didn’t answer back. It seemed as if the man was speaking for the sake of alleviating his own nerves. Hob found it comforting to know he wasn’t alone.

But now he is. He’s by himself in a strange city with no idea of where to go. Being in Mayhew, he’d hoped, would bring more answers, but all he has are more questions. Tomorrow. He’ll begin his search tomorrow.

He checks the lock on the suitcase then locks the door to the room. Checking the latches on the window, Hob is satisfied that he’s relatively safe in this hotel. He keeps his fingers wrapped around the handle of his suitcase even as he falls asleep.

Nothing has been disturbed by the time he wakes. Hob dresses quickly, dons the helm, and exhales sharply in relief when the red is no longer dim. It pulsates—almost as if pleased that Hob is so near. As if it’s a living thing desperate to be rejoined with… what? The helm? The pouch? He tucks the helm away and retrieves the pendulum. He hates using it; it’s very rarely spot-on, but it’s better than nothing. He’d rather take his chances with the crystal than go into the situation blind.

The pendulum guides him to a rundown building then falls flat on its chain. Hob rolls his eyes—of course it won’t show him exactly which flat to go to, because that’s all this building could be: A block of flats for, clearly, people with lower income. He blows out a breath and stares up at the grimy windows. One has a crack down the centre, another has a blanket over it. A third, the last on the left, holds a deep red tint.

Red.

Hob desperately hopes this works out the way he wants it to, even as he steps through the front door. The floor is a mismatched quilt of tile and wood, as if no one wanted to replace the missing hardwood with anything more expensive. His nose wrinkles at the stench of rot and tobacco. He may partake in cigarettes himself, but never has he experienced such a cloud of stagnant smoke. He tucks the pendulum in his pocket and heads up the rickety stairs.

The owner of the flat never bothered with locking the door. Hob makes sure he’s completely alone before slipping inside. Clutter lies everywhere. Envelopes are scattered across the table in front of the couch, and a haphazard stack of plates cover the countertops in the kitchen. He kicks at a pile of laundry on the floor before looking around.

The glow comes from down a short hallway. He follows the light until he reaches a bedroom even messier than the room he just left behind. With a slow exhale, he resigns himself to rifling through this poor bloke’s belongings until he finds what he came for. Whatever that is.

He almost wishes he had the helm as he rummages among a stack of boxes in the back of a closet. Maybe the helm could help find its mate. It would certainly be a Hell of a lot easier than these fumbling attempts. One of the boxes falls from its place, spilling its contents across the floor, and Hob curses under his breath and scrambles to clean up the mess.

His fingers touch a small wooden box that had been buried deep within the larger one, and something pulses against his skin. He yanks his hand back and stares with wide eyes. It felt almost… alive, whatever is in there. He pokes at the wood once more; the lid slips off, and a brilliant red light emanates from inside.

Hob reaches toward the glow, wraps his fingers around something hard and warm and pulsating. He brings it closer to his face and peers at it closely. His jaw drops open immediately at the sight of a gorgeous ruby. A ruby he’s only ever seen around the throat of his Stranger. A ruby he’d plotted to steal at the first chance, if only to say he’d taken something valuable from such a haughty lord.

A ruby that very much does not belong to whoever owns this flat.

A ruby that, upon his touch, thrums. Hob frowns at the sensation. It’s unreal, he thinks. The ruby vibrates once more before he is blown backwards by a tremendous force, his vision glowing red.. His head smacks into the side of a bureau, and he shouts on impact.

Nothing else happens in the moments following, just the swirl of nausea threatening to choke him.

He lies, sprawled against the bureau, struggling to catch his breath. When he can breathe again, he carefully sits up and prods at the back of his head with his free hand. There’s no blood smeared on his fingertips, so he turns his focus to his right hand.

The red fragments in his palm send a frisson of fear through him. Oh. Fuck.

“This can’t be good,” he mutters as he stares at the shattered ruby.

His head snaps up at the squeak of hinges. Again, he curses silently to himself before clambering to his feet. Thankfully, the footsteps that sound through the flat seem to be heading in the direction opposite the bedroom. Hob isn’t taking any chances, however: He hurries to the window and shoves it open.

The fire escape screeches beneath his weight, but it holds firmly enough as he takes the steps two at a time. He knows the owner will notice the mess, the theft, soon enough, and he plans on being far away from here when that happens. There comes no sound of a pursuer behind him, but he doesn’t slow until he’s four streets away.

The shards dig painfully into his palm, and Hob surreptitiously shoves them into his pocket. It wouldn’t do to have his hand dripping blood everywhere. That’s a sure way of inviting questions, ones he certainly doesn’t want to—and can’t, really—answer.

It isn’t until he’s back in his hotel room that he realises…

There’s something strange. His ears ring with more than the concussion he’s sure he’s sustained; he hears indescribable things. Disjointed voices and wisps of something he can only describe as fantastical. At the corners of his vision linger things that aren’t there when he looks more closely. He swallows and rubs the back of his head, wincing at the lightning bolt that ignites sparks behind his eyes.

He’s tired. That’s all. Tired and in pain, probably in shock from how hard he’d hit the bureau.

Hob reaches for his suitcase and is asleep almost instantly.

The landscape he dreams of is like none he’s ever seen before. Desolation as far as his eyes can see, cracked ground below and thunderclouds above. Wind whips across the lands, bringing with it a chill that sends his flesh prickling. He breathes in the sickly odour of decay and gags as it ensnares his lungs. It’s alive, the way it bleeds through his body, a snarling beast that threatens certain death if he doesn’t fight it.

Fighting does no good.

Hob chokes and chokes and chokes until he falls to his knees. He cannot die—too much has tried and failed to take his life—this will just be another failure. But goddamn it, it hurts in a way nothing else has, not even the arrow he took to the heart back in the 1500s. His head lowers until his forehead hits the dry soil, and he clutches at his chest and struggles to breathe.

As soon as it begins, it ends.

Hob finds himself staring up at the ceiling of his hotel room, panting heavily as if he’s just run a marathon. No, all he’d done was sleep. The clock on the bedside table says it’s half-five in the morning. He pushes himself upright and rubs at his chest. It aches as badly as it would had he truly been choking.

A shadow shifts in the corner, and Hob whips around to see it.

There’s nothing there.

He presses his palms to his eyes and draws in a deep breath. I’m going mad. It’s the only explanation. The knock to his head has him losing the plot. Hob truly can’t find another reason as to why nothing seems right anymore.

He stands slowly, his head pounding, and sways when his vision goes blurry. A sort of rippling occurs just beneath his skin, in the deepest recesses of his being, and he shudders as he feels something clawing its way free. From his fingertips comes a sprinkling of sand, drifting lazily to the floor.

Sand.

The pouch.

Hob lunges for his suitcase, hands shaking violently as he unlocks and opens it. The pouch sits beside the cloth-wrapped helm, and he reaches for the drawstrings. Unlike for John Constantine, they fall open for Hob. Inside is golden sand, much like what the Stranger blew in Lady Johanna’s face centuries ago.

Hob knew he recognised the pouch when he first purchased it from John.

This means his Stranger lost his belongings, but how? Someone—something—as powerful as the Stranger couldn’t possibly have misplaced these items or had them stolen from him. He certainly wouldn’t have just willingly given them away, either. So the question remains: What caused the helm, sand, and ruby to be put up for auction, found by an occult dabbler, and locked away in some dingy flat?

“They say he’s got a Devil locked in his basement,” Agnes nutters to Hob as he presses the latest books into her hand.

Matthias hisses, “It’s an Endless!” as Hob passes by the trio; when they see him looking, they scurry away. He hears one of them mention something about dreams.

“The Sandman has been taken captive,” sings Mad Hattie on her nightly amble down the street. “Mister Sandman is no longer.”

This time, it isn’t just one curse Hob lets out. It’s an entire string of them that impresses even himself. This entire time, from the second the Sleeping Sickness began to now, his Stranger has been, what, locked up in some tosser’s basement? What was the man’s name? Hob can barely remember. He hadn’t cared too much about the self-proclaimed Magus.

Burgess.

The helm hums when Hob lays hands on it. He swallows thickly and dons it once more. Hopefully for the last time. He dredges up the memory of his Stranger. The pale skin, star-dappled blue eyes, raven hair always impeccably kept. Hob squeezes his eyes closed at the pain in his chest—how could he have let his Stranger walk away in 1889? He should have chased after him and made him listen. Apologised for the crime of wanting friendship with the Stranger.

He has to make this right. He can start by finding the Endless being that Burgess captured. The Sandman himself, evidently. Hob opens his eyes.

The light this time is blinding. He blinks but cannot clear his vision until he removes the helm. He tucks it away with great care and rushes through shoving his clothes in. He doesn’t bother changing from the outfit he’d put on this morning; he just makes sure he has everything gathered up and slips out of the hotel.

There is no need for a tracking ritual now. He need only get back to London and ask after the Magus. If he’s truly infamous enough for having the Devil in his basement, surely someone will know how to get there.

Hob is on the verge of being sick by the time the aeroplane lands in London. He hails a car to take him to an old friend’s house. Hoping Reginald still lives in the same place, Hob stares out the window and taps his fingers along the edge of his suitcase.

He blinks, and the car idles outside of Reginald’s home. Everything melts at the edges, fuzzy and ill-defined. Hob takes a step forward only to find himself in the middle of a great hall. Three rows of tables segment the room, each laden down with dishes. The room smells of a feast—meats and gravies, vegetables and fruits, and wines of all varieties. Dozens of finely-dressed men and women chat and laugh and dine. It’s a scene of veritable luxury.

Reginald looks away from the beautiful maiden—for what else could she be called?—and gapes. “Robyn Gadlen, why ever would I be dreaming of you?”

“This—this is a dream?”

“Of course. At least, I think it is. Though with you here, I’m no longer certain.”

A dream. What the Hell is Hob doing inside a dream?

How…?

He doesn’t ask about the dreamscape, if that’s truly where he is. Instead, he asks after the man who calls himself ‘Magus’. Reginald lets out a hearty guffaw but doesn’t look away from the maiden.

“Burgess? He’s long dead, Gadlen. Died a few years back, he did. At his son’s hands, from what I hear.”

Hob scowls at the news. Does this mean—? Of course it doesn’t. If his Stranger were freed after Burgess’s death, the Sleeping Sickness wouldn’t still be running rampant through the world. “Where can I find the Burgess son?”

“Last I knew? A place called Fawney Rig. Now go, you’re ruining my chances here.”

Hob doesn’t bother mentioning that it’s Reginald’s dream—if he can’t find a maiden to want to sleep with him, then his dreams truly are sad. Instead, Hob turns away. Fawney Rig. He isn’t sure where that is; he’s never even heard of the place. He’s sure Reginald has no idea the address, either, so it would do no good to ask.

Hob sighs and exits the room. The world grows dark for a split second, then he steps into a cavernous foyer, opulent decorations everywhere he looks. A stuffed bear stands to the side, front paws up as if prepared to attack. Hob spins slowly to take in his surroundings before turning back toward the grand staircase. Something flutters overhead, and his head snaps up.

A black raven sits on the banister; its white breast is a beacon in the otherwise dimly-lit foyer. It cocks its head, one beady eye staring at Hob. He swallows harshly. If it decides to attack him, there is little he can do.

“You are not my Lord,” a voice comes quietly, “yet you carry his power.”

“I’m—I’m not sure what you mean. Where are you?” Hob glances around, but there is no one else here. No one but the bird, but that’s impossible. Birds don’t talk. “Come out here.”

The raven lets out what sounds like a throaty laugh before gliding down to land on a sconce. “I’m right here, sir.”

“You… You talk.”

“Of course. All from the Dreaming speaks.” Tilting her head—because the voice is distinctly feminine—the bird raises a wing. “How have you come to obtain my Lord’s power?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, bird.”

“Jessamy, if it pleases you, sir. ‘Bird’ seems so reductive, and I believe I deserve recognition of my name. And you hold within you Lord Morpheus’s power. How?”

“I have no power,” Hob protests too loudly. No one comes bursting into the foyer, and he frowns. “Are we alone?”

“We are not, though the inhabitants of the manor are asleep, save for the guards.”

“Guards?”

She ruffles her wings in agitation. “They have my Lord captive, sir, and there is little I can do to save him. Two watch him all hours of every day. Their boss demands they take tablets to keep them awake. It’s all the Corinthian’s fault. If he’d never told the Magus,” she spits, and Hob recoils at the venom in her voice, “my Lord would be free, and you would not have stolen his power.”

Hob raises his hands in defence. “I stole nothing. Okay, look. I bought the helm at an auction. I found a pouch of what turned out to be sand, and the ruby… It shattered, and now you’re saying I have Lord Morpheus’s power.”

“The ruby is no more? Oh, no. Oh, dear. He will be severely disappointed. The Dreamstone is one of his tools, a very important one. How could you have let it shatter?”

“I did nothing but hold it!” He blows out a breath and forces himself to relax. “Okay, this is getting us nowhere. Just trust that I have nothing to do with your Lord’s capture, and I stole nothing of his.”

“And why should I trust you, when you’ve admitted to—?”

“Admitted to obtaining his tools through legitimate, if unsavoury, means. And you should trust me because I care for him.”

Jessamy pauses, blinks, then leans forward. “You know my Lord?”

“I do. I have met with him once a century for the last five hundred years.”

“You are Hob Gadling? Oh, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. We have heard very little of you, but Lucienne is quite intelligent. She knows how to get information about anything and anyone. And you, sir? You are a topic of many a conversation.”

Hob isn’t sure how he feels about this information. He stays silent about it, deciding to ignore the discomfort it causes. His gaze roams around the foyer in search of any path to the basement. Jessamy croaks and shakes her head.

“You must leave, Hob Gadling. The Burgess boy, though a man now, is waking. I will find you wherever you are. Go.”

Hob still has no clue how this works, how he manages to use the power he didn’t know he has, so he decides to take the human way out of the house: He goes through the front door. Thankfully, there is no security system. It seems Burgess has all the security he wants in the basement. Hob sprints away from the manor anyway. Better not chance anything.

True to her word, Jessamy finds him later that afternoon in a flat he signed a contract for only hours earlier. He hurriedly opens the window so she can enter. She squawks quietly at the sight of the helm and pouch, and Hob relaxes at her obvious pleasure. Not knowing why he cares whether a bird approves of him in any capacity, he pushes a handful of nuts and seeds toward her.

“How long have you been there?” he asks, and she stops eating long enough to sigh.

“Too long, sir. My Lord was taken in the year 1916, and I have been waiting for his escape ever since.”

“And you never left? Not even to eat?”

“No, never. I am of the Dreaming, so food is unnecessary. Though I do enjoy it every once in a while. Thank you,” she adds as if an afterthought before going back to scooping up seeds in her beak.

1916. When the Sleeping Sickness began. That was nearly forty years ago, and Jessamy had remained in the manor for so long. She’s risked her life, for Hob knows that had she been spotted, she would be stuffed and mounted just like that bear. This is, evidently, her first trip out of the manor, and it’s to visit Hob.

“So what’s the plan, sir?”

“Plan?”

“You are going to rescue Lord Morpheus, are you not?”

“Of course! I just… I don’t know how.”

“From what Lucienne has told us, you were a soldier in many a war. I’m sure you can come up with something.”

Hob hates the thought of relying on his past of soldiering, of banditry, of being a mercenary who killed simply because he was hired to. But on the other hand, he really, really, really loathes the idea of his Stranger being held captive by some bastard for whatever reason. Honestly, there is no reason whatsoever that Hob would accept to explain—to justify—what Burgess has done.

Beyond being a prick who’s locked someone up in the basement, he’s plunged the world into chaos. Hob doesn’t understand how, or what the Dreaming even is, but Jessamy, and reality, tell him it’s Bad. And if a talking bird is telling Hob how horrible it is, Hob is going to listen.

“Tomorrow,” he says suddenly, and Jessamy does a little hop at the sound of his voice. “We act tomorrow night.”

“What are you planning, Hob Gadling?”

“Just Hob is fine, Jessamy. And I’m not sure. Not yet. I’ll figure something out, though.”

If a bird could smile, Hob is certain Jessamy would be. She dips her head, hops onto his shoulder, and preens at his hair before taking off. Hob sits on the floor, not having bothered with purchasing furniture. With any luck, he, Jessamy, and his Stranger will be long gone from London by the next day’s nightfall. Midnight, at the latest. He already wants to leave all of this behind. He can only imagine how desperately Lord Morpheus wants to do the same.

Jessamy meets him in the early afternoon, wings fluttering as she hops around. Hob eventually reaches out, running a finger along the top of her head. She calms, just slightly, but it’s enough to get more information from her.

“The Burgess son… He is speaking of selling my Lord to get him out of the house, to rid himself of evidence of his sins.”

Hob growls under his breath and slams the suitcase shut more forcefully than he’d meant to. Selling Lord Morpheus? Abso-fucking-lutely not! Hob will murder without remorse before he lets that happen. Jessamy’s look is dripping with sympathy and camaraderie that only comes from a mutual mission.

“They’ll sell him over my dead body, and I don’t die,” he snaps as he pulls on the helm; the light still glows there.

He lifts his bag and suitcase and heads toward the door. Jessamy follows him out to the car Reginald gracefully allowed him to borrow on the condition Hob bring it back in one piece: “I’ve seen you drive, Gadlen.”

Hob doesn’t have the heart to tell his friend that he’ll not be getting his car back.

The drive to Fawney Rig seems to take forever. He’d spent the night after Jessamy left in the nearest pub, ferreting information from the patrons. Some spoke in hushed voices about the Magus and how awful it was that his son murdered him and got away with it. Others said Burgess got what he deserved—he was a cruel, capricious man obsessed with bringing his dead son back to life.

“He resorted to some awful things,” a man slurs over his whisky. “Wicked things. There’s some as say he beat his younger boy. He performed rituals that he’d no business performing.”

Hob knows this man was once part of the magical community; the information is far too specific with regards to Burgess’s participation in the occult. He’d pressed for more, asked for the address. He’d been there once, but he remembered nothing of where it is. After all, he was running for his life, despite no one chasing him. The man gave vague directions then turned to his drinking mate. The woman knew the address and better directions.

“Can’t miss it, can you, sir?”

Hob slows when the manor comes into sight. Jessamy’s talons tap on the dashboard as she skitters anxiously across the surface. He comes to a stop just out of sight of the gates and pushes open his door. She cocks her head.

“Go make sure he’s still there.”

“What will you do?”

“Give me ten minutes, then cause a distraction. Be careful, Jessamy.”

“Hob Gadling, what is your plan?”

“I’m going to do something stupid, but I can’t do it without your help.”

She ducks her head to press against his cheek before taking flight. She disappears into the darkness, and Hob breathes a sigh of relief when he can no longer see her. Night is the perfect cover for her.

‘Something stupid’ turns out to be the dumbest, most reckless thing he’s done in too many years to count. He exits the car and pulls his suitcase from the boot. The helm, he leaves in the suitcase, but the sand and shards of ruby he takes with him. He tucks the shattered jewel into his trouser pocket and the pouch into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Once that’s done, he turns toward the manor. He cannot see Jessamy anywhere; he hopes she made it inside alright. He’d never forgive himself if something happens to her. But there’s nothing for it now. They’re both involved in this, for better or for worse, and God, does Hob hope it’s for the better.

Unfortunately, things go pear-shaped almost immediately. Three guards dawdle in the foyer when Hob slips inside. A moment spent frozen, staring at each other, before Hob moves first. He hasn’t lost his touch, thankfully. He ends up with a fist to the jaw and another to his ribs, but little more.

Less ‘thankfully’ is the blood that pools into the rug on the floor and three tallies added to his list of lives taken. They were going to kill you. He reminds himself of the way they’d both reached for their guns in the second before he reached them.

No guilt. Right. No guilt. No hesitation. Only getting his Stranger out of here.

Hob tucks his knife away and continues. The path to the basement is empty; even Jessamy is nowhere to be found. He lets out a low whistle and strains to hear the fluttering of wings. Nothing comes. His heart in his throat, Hob creeps forward.

The stairwell leading down is dark, and his footfalls echo quietly despite his light steps. He curses silently even as he presses on. He can’t stop now. His destination is so close. He can feel the chill of the air, feel the power emanating from somewhere below him.

Hob stops at the iron gates and counts the guards here. Only one. Jessamy had said there are always two watching over his Stranger. There is no chance in Hell Burgess suddenly decided one was enough. Hob looks back over his shoulder, but the shadows remain empty.

His fingers find the pouch, and he pulls out a pinch of the sand. He has no idea how it works, or if it even will. He has to try anyway. He tiptoes forward and drops the sand on the guard’s head, muttering a quick spell under his breath. The guard jerks but then falls off his chair; his breathing is quick, erratic, but he still lives.

“Hob Gadling!”

Hob sags where he stands, exhales slowly. “Jessamy, you’re okay.”

“Yes, sir, I am. I was unable to cause a distraction as you asked of me, but I do know how to get us out of here once you free my Lord.”

“Keep that plan, we’ll need it.”

“Hob!”

He needn’t be warned: The hair on the back of his neck rises, skin prickling, and he whirls around. Another guard, this one much larger than his partner, stands there. In his hands is a gun, and Hob is getting really tired of being held at gunpoint by these people.

He moves to reach for more sand, but the guard takes a step closer, then another. The muzzle presses against Hob’s chest, and he knows if the guard squeezes the trigger, it won’t kill him but it will hurt like a son of a bitch. It’s an agony he’d rather avoid, especially with the task he still needs to complete.

“Where’s your wand, little magic-user?” the guard taunts. He doesn’t know he’s much too close.

Hob doesn’t hesitate—his fist lands solidly against the man’s nose. He hears the very distinctive sound of a break and smiles grimly to himself. “Right here, you bastard.”

The guard collapses to the floor; his gun skitters across the stone, and he clutches at his face, groaning and shouting. Hob spares a single second to land a kick to the guard’s temple. The shouting abruptly stops with the thud of an enormous body hitting the floor.

Jessamy flies into view, flapping her wings to remain aloft, before calling for him to follow her. Hob does as ordered; he only stops at the sight before him. He wants to vomit and commit murder, though he has an idea of which he’d rather do first.

Inside a glass sphere sits his Stranger. Completely naked and under intense lighting, his pale skin all but glows. Iron bands surround the glass, sectioning it into eight segments. His body holds taut, and Hob can count each rib, every curve of muscle carved from marble. Lord Morpheus stares down at the base of his prison with no expression on his gaunt face.

Jessamy cries his name and soars forward to peck at the glass. To throw herself forward again and again in an attempt to free her lord. He looks up; his eyes widen, and a small smile slowly stretches his lips. She lets out what can only be a corvid version of a sob even as she continues slamming against the glass.

“Jessamy, stop!” Hob shouts, rushing forward. She’s focused on her task enough that he can grab her mid-fling and tuck her against his chest. “You’ll hurt yourself, Jess. Let me.”

“Free him, Hob Gadling.”

“I will, I swear it.”

He releases her and watches her fly to the nearest place to perch. Once he’s satisfied she’ll stay put, he turns back to the sphere and comes face-to-face with his Stranger. There is hardly any room inside, so Lord Morpheus stands stooped. But there is no mistaking the power he still holds within his body.

His gaze drops to the floor. Hob looks down and swears. He’s been doing that a lot lately, ever since he took it upon himself to save the Endless being. The runes before his feet glow golden despite the lack of light on them. He glances back up at his Stranger.

“Can you hear me?” he calls, and Lord Morpheus tilts his head. “I’m going to get you out of there, I promise you. Just… Give me a moment, yeah?”

He raps his knuckles against the barrier separating the two. Lord Morpheus flinches, and Hob mouths an apology even as he does it again. Pure glass, nothing more. Easy enough to break—should he find something sturdy enough to go through without breaking itself.

He turns back to the guards and sees something that will work. Hob sprints to the gun lying on the stone floor, scooping it up and running back. He shouts for his Stranger to move out of the way as much as he can. Morpheus seems to understand; he shifts as far over to the left as the prison will allow, and Hob aims dead-on in the centre of the section.

The glass shatters, falling to the floor in a rain of shards. Lord Morpheus steps carefully toward the open segment, though he does not try to leave the prison. Hob steps back and stares down at the runes.

“The Magus always demanded none touch the binding circle,” Jessamy supplies as she lands on his shoulder. “I overheard the guards saying the circle was all that was keeping Lord Morpheus inside.”

“So I need to destroy the circle.”

Simply done. Hob crouches down and licks his fingertips. The paint smears far more easily than he expected. The instant the rune is disfigured, a milk-white foot lands on the floor beside him. Hob swallows then lets his gaze travel up, up, up until he’s meeting his Stranger’s eye. Lord Morpheus stares back, seemingly uncaring of the glass he stands upon.

“Are you okay?” Hob asks, slumping when Morpheus slowly nods. “Then let’s get the Hell out of here.”

Morpheus hesitates, and Jessamy moves from Hob’s shoulder to her lord’s. “It’s okay, my Lord. Hob Gadling has your tools. They are safe. We can go now.”

“Jessamy? You still remember your plan?”

“Of course, Hob. I must say, before we continue, I am very thankful you cannot die.”

She takes flight before he can question her. He shakes his head as he stands; his spine lets out a series of cracks that remind him of his true age. He gestures toward the stairs, and Morpheus strides forward. Hob stays close by in case—it can’t have been easy being locked away for almost forty years with no room to move around in.

But his Stranger hardly seems to need it. He climbs the stone stairs easily, and Hob follows dutifully behind. Jessamy sits on the banister by the time the two emerge into the foyer. Hob sniffs the air, frowning at the smell of bourbon that permeates through the room. There’s a glitter of something on the floor mere feet away.

Before any of the three can do more than look around, the sound of rushing footsteps floods their senses. Hob pivots quickly to see incoming guards. This time, there are too many for himself alone. He reaches for the knife he’d tucked away and readies himself for a fight, unfair advantage though they may have. He won’t go down without swinging.

His blade sinks into the abdomen of the first guard to rush him. The man doesn’t go down immediately; he doesn’t even seem to notice he should be dead, until Hob yanks the knife upward before tugging it free. Within seconds, the man falls to the ground in a heap. Hob spins toward the next guard. A loud crack rents the air, and he jerks backward with the force of the gunshot to his hip. He bites down on his lower lip to stifle the scream.

It’s been a decade, after all, since he was last shot, and it isn’t a pain one gets accustomed to, even after centuries of living.

“Hob Gadling, the sand!”

Jessamy’s throaty voice punctures his focus, and he doesn’t manage to dodge the blade that pierces his shoulder. Shouting aloud, he swings his arm and hopes his aim is true. Of course it is: This guard never stood a chance, and he hits the ground with a sickening thud and slit throat. Hob grimaces as he reaches for the pouch in his pocket and tosses it toward his Stranger.

Lord Morpheus smiles, and Hob can’t stop the shiver that runs down his spine at the cold, calculating stretch of lips. He exchanges a look with Morpheus then turns back to the fight. Another guard is felled before Morpheus’s voice rings through the fray:

“Move.”

Hob knows it’s for him; he stabs the fourth guard before scurrying off to the side. Sand swirls through the air, golden in the overhead lighting, and Hob watches as, one by one, the final three guards drop. Hob sags against the wall, a hand pressed to his hip and the other to his shoulder. Lord Morpheus turns toward him and frowns at the sight of blood slipping over and between Hob’s fingers.

“We must go,” Jessamy caws. “Someone is coming.”

Morpheus nods and strides to Hob’s side. Without a word, his arm snakes around Hob’s back, and he half-carries Hob toward the front door. A soft rasping sound comes from behind them, followed by a loud whoosh. Heat flares against Hob’s back; he glances back in time to see Jessamy flying toward them, away from the sudden wall of flames. He locks the door on their way out.

He knows the Burgess son is still inside. That he and all his staff will burn alive. Hob just doesn’t give a damn.

“You came to my defense again,” Morpheus murmurs once they reach the car once more. Hob nods shakily and allows himself to be leaned against the cool metal. “I am grateful for it.”

“No—no problem, really,” Hob pants, letting his head fall back, before a groan escapes.

“You are injured.”

“Yeah, that happens when you’re shot and stabbed.” Sighing, he apologises then shrugs out of his jacket. “Here, take this. There’s a pair of trousers in my suitcase for you, too.”

He stares up at the star-dotted sky while his Stranger dresses. He hadn’t been planning on seeing Lord Morpheus nude, but apparently, Burgess and his son felt it was best to humiliate the Endless like the monstrous pricks they are. Were.

There’s no disgust for his actions tonight.

“So, Lord Morpheus, can I give you a lift anywhere?” he asks, looking back at his Stranger when there is only silence. He ignores the blood flowing from his wounds, soaking his clothing.

Morpheus stares at him with narrowed eyes, lips pressed thin and brows drawn together. Finally, he opens his mouth: “After what you have done for me tonight, I believe you have more than earned the right to know my true name.”

“Yeah?” he rasps, swallowing harshly when the world goes fuzzy at the edges. The adrenaline is wearing off, he knows that. The pain is coming back in full force. “What’s that?”

“Dream.”

“I like it,” Hob sighs before his knees give out and he hits the ground.

When he wakes again, he’s lying on a bed. There are no bright lights, no stench that comes with hospitals, so he opens his eyes to stare at a water-stained ceiling. His water-stained ceiling. Hob blinks the sleep from his eyes then yelps at the sudden appearance of a bird’s head before his eyes.

“You’re awake!” Jessamy croaks as she ducks down to tug gently at his hair with her beak. “Oh, Lord Morpheus and I have been so worried!”

Hob moves to sit up only to find a solid weight on his chest. He blinks at Jessamy who blinks right back.

“Will you move?”

“No. I am under strict orders to make sure you lie still and rest.”

“Orders from whom?”

“From me,” a voice comes from the left, and Hob turns his head to see Dream emerging from a swirl of sand. “There are many questions I must ask of you, Hob Gadling, but they can wait until you have recovered if you would like.”

“Well, it’s not like your bird is going to let me up, so ask away.” He still tries to sit up, but his brain goes fuzzy, and his entire body protests the movement. His shoulder and hip burn with being jostled. Jessamy pecks his forehead. “Ow!”

“How did you come about my tools of office?” Dream asks as he takes a seat in a chair Hob knows he doesn’t own.

Fair question, Hob thinks. He’d want to know just how someone from his past had gotten a hold of his belongings, too. So he inhales slowly then tells Dream everything: From their last disastrous meeting in 1889 to when he’d stormed Fawney Rig. Dream’s eyes tighten in the corners when Hob admits the ruby is destroyed, though he doesn’t speak until Hob has finished. When he does, Dream leans forward slightly.

“And where are the pieces of my Dreamstone now?”

“In the pocket of my trousers, last I knew.”

Dream stands abruptly, crossing the room in four long strides, and crouches down. When he straightens once more, he holds glittering shards in his palm. Hob expected anger at his having been the cause of the destruction, but instead, he sees relief on Dream’s face.

“You’re not mad.”

“I am… disappointed, for this jewel has been my tool for more years than you’ll ever know. But I am just thankful you managed to retain all the pieces. It wouldn’t do for anyone to get their hands on a shard.”

“There’s something else,” Hob says after a moment. “Jessamy… She said I hold your power within me.”

Dream levels him with an even look, steadfast and scrutinising. “You do. It is unwise for you to carry it much longer, for it will destroy you. Two nights ago, it assisted you in freeing me. It yearns to be with its rightful master, and you are merely the vessel through which it travels. You feel the pull of it even now, do you not?”

Now that Dream mentions it, yes. Hob feels a tugging sensation somewhere deeper than his soul. The shadows at the edges of the room undulate, and he swears he sees faces within the dark. In the recesses of his mind, he can hear too many voices, whispers and screams and laughter. He finally looks back at Dream.

“Please take it. It’s driving me mad.”

Dream smiles, a kind, knowing thing. He sits once more and reaches out to touch the back of Hob’s hand. “I shall do so as soon as I know it is safe.”

“Safe?”

“It is not a mere act of handing it over, as if it is a tangible good in a transaction.” Dream’s lips pull down in the corners, and he sighs. “It is… dangerous if not done properly. It is painful, even when done properly. I wish you no harm, and to transfer the power back to me at this moment, when you are already weakened by your injuries, would do grievous harm to you.”

“So… Tomorrow then.”

Dream’s laugh is nothing like Hob expects. With a nod, he agrees, though they both know it’s a lie.

It turns out another week is pretty much all Hob can take of Dream’s power residing in him. The symptoms get worse as time goes on. He sees what Dream calls Nightmares lingering in every shadowy space. When he sits by the window for fresh air, he sees Dreams bounding around the people walking along the street. Daydreams, Dream assures him, that are absolutely harmless.

The worst, however, is the barren landscape he sees when he sleeps at night. There are areas where grass struggles to grow once more, feeble and pale green shoots that hardly break ground. A palace in the distance stands in disrepair, but Hob knows it’s not for a lack of trying to fix itself. A bridge joins two halves of land together, though it sways in the breeze and planks fall to shatter in the depths between the masses.

He wakes in tears every morning and refuses to tell Dream or Jessamy what he sees.

Thankfully, as is custom ever since he obtained his immortality, he heals more quickly than the average human. He’s healed enough from being shot and stabbed that Dream no longer worries he’ll beg for death if they do the transfer. Hob thinks that dying would probably be preferable than holding the power fighting to break free. He sits on the bed and watches Dream pace the room.

“Stop fretting.”

“I am disturbed by your lack of concern, Hob Gadling.”

Dream cares, a voice whispers in Hob’s head.

Jessamy hops up into the air and glides to Hob’s shoulder. “We just don’t want you to be hurt.”

“A bit late for that, isn’t it?” Hob says before grimacing at Dream’s blanch. “I’m sorry. I just… I want this gone.”

Dream approaches slowly, coming to a stop before Hob. “Tell me if it becomes too much.”

Hob barely gets his promise out before one of Dream’s hands is on his shoulder and the other is pressing to his chest. No, not to his chest, but into. The meat of him is tearing from his bones, lungs collapsing and heart stuttering, and he can’t breathe. His vision goes white then black, and he thinks he’s screaming but he can hear nothing but the awful ripping sound filling his ears. Someone has set him on fire—there’s nothing but heat melting his bones to ash. Long brands curl, scrape against his insides, and something wet coats his face. Liquid copper floods his mouth.

There’s a sharp tug, another tear in his skin, then it all recedes.

He’s still in one piece, and his cheeks are covered in tears. Dream’s pale face is ashen as he stares with wide eyes at Hob. Jessamy has flown away at some point to perch on the back of the chair, and there is a very human concern in her beady eyes. Hob slumps forward, elbows resting on his knees, and drags in unsteady breaths until the agony is gone.

When he looks up, it’s to see a black mass pulsing in Dream’s palm. Stars and galaxies fill the void, and Hob grows dizzier the longer he stares at it. Dream seems to realise it, for he turns away. Hob hears the slightest suction sound, a soft grunt. The mass is no longer in Dream’s hand when he turns around again.

“Are you well, Hob?” he asks softly, and Hob gives a shaky nod. He’ll never forget what just transpired for as long as he lives, but at least it’s over. Dream reaches out and allows Jessamy to perch on his arm. “I am afraid I must leave you now.”

“Wait, you’re going? Just like that?”

There’s the slightest upturn of Dream’s lips, and he nods. “I will be back. After all, I owe you my freedom.”

“Well, I–I don’t want you to feel obligated,” Hob protests weakly.

How can he be so selfish? There is probably an enormous list of things Dream needs to do now that he’s no longer being held captive. Spending more time with one human is most likely nowhere on that list. Jessamy looks up at her lord then at Hob.

“I’ll stay with you if you’d like?”

Hob can’t help but smile. “It’s okay, Jess. I’ll be fine. I’m sure Lord Morpheus here needs your help. You are, after all, an invaluable asset anyone would be lucky to have. And a terrific friend.”

“You flatter me, Hob Gadling.” She flutters her wings in obvious delight. “I am most pleased to have met you.”

Hob bites back a sigh and forces an easy grin. “Hey, Jessamy? Take care of him, yeah?”

“Of course. I always will.”

Dream and Jessamy disappear in a shower of golden sand, and Hob stares at where they were mere seconds ago. He feels bereft without their presence, though there is no reason to. It isn’t as if he is actually friends with Dream, and Jessamy only stayed around in order to help free Dream. Hob is certain he will never see the two of them again, but he doesn’t regret doing what he’s done. Taking a bullet—and a blade—for Dream had been the right thing to do.

It kept his Stranger alive.

He hobbles to the bed and sprawls across the mattress. The wound in his shoulder has already begun to heal beneath the meticulous line of stitches. They are tidier than any he’s ever seen, even from a surgeon, but Jessamy insists that Hob was nowhere near a hospital during the two days he slept. That means Dream had given him the stitches, and something about the thought still tickles Hob pink. He can’t imagine the Endless doing something so mundane for a human, even if said human saved him from what was surely going to be an existence of captivity.

The silence in the room is overwhelming, and he wonders why it feels so heavy. Even after Eleanor and then Robyn, it hadn’t seemed so isolating to be alone. Now, though, now he aches for some company.

He closes his eyes against the burning, carefully rolls onto his side, and forces himself to relax enough for sleep.

The landscape has changed. While the ground is still cracked and dry, more and more grass has shot through the soil. The palace in the distance has returned to what Hob can only assume is its former glory. No longer is the bridge a decrepit danger to anyone crossing. Instead, it’s now a massive stone thing, vast and majestic. He slowly spins to see all that has changed.

Something flies by overhead, sparkling and shimmering in the brilliant sunlight. There are no shadows here. Hob follows after the Dream, because that’s what it is, something harmless and happy. It floats lazily over the chasm between the landmasses, and he ambles across the bridge. The stones beneath his bare feet are warm. He smiles when the Dream comes to a stop, hovers in the air before him.

“You should not be here.”

“Am I in danger?”

The Dream hesitates then shakes its head. “I can’t imagine so. Lord Morpheus has rules, and we would do well to follow them.”

“Then why can’t I be here?”

“You are human,” the Dream says as if it’s such a simple answer.

But Hob doesn’t understand what his humanity has to do with dreaming. Everyone dreams, after all, even if they don’t remember doing so. He may not recognise this place, but there’s no reason he shouldn’t be allowed to explore his own dreams. The Dream drifts closer.

“You are not—Oh, my. You’ve no idea, do you?”

“What?”

“Oh. Oh, my. Oh, no. I guess… There’s really no other way… No, no other choice… Oh, my. Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” he calls after the Dream, but it breezes toward the palace ahead.

Despite his better judgement, he follows. Other Dreams, and even some creatures Hob instinctively knows are Nightmares, make to stop the first Dream but fall back when it says “Human!” He flushes under the scrutiny. It’s much different here, he thinks, when it’s his own subconscious putting him in the spotlight. He’s spent centuries trying to remain inconspicuous. Everything about him knows he hates attention.

So why would his subconscious be doing this to him?

“Endri. You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

“Forgive me, Lucienne, but there seems to be a problem.”

The woman with gold wire-rimmed glasses frowns, then her gaze slides from the Dream to Hob. The ledger in her arms falls to the floor, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she gapes for a moment. Hob gives an awkward wave. He’s really lost the plot, he thinks, if he’s dreaming up a dark-skinned woman with pointed ears who’s dressed like a mix of businesswoman and librarian.

“How did you get in here?”

Hob stifles a groan but snaps, “It’s my dream, why shouldn’t I be here?”

“He doesn’t know, Lucienne,” the Dream—Endri, evidently—supplies.

“He doesn’t—?” Lucienne sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Go on, Endri. I will handle this.”

Endri floats away, and Lucienne crouches to pick up her ledger. Hob tugs uncomfortably at his earlobe as she examines him over the edge of her glasses. Finally, she blows out a breath and straightens.

“I suppose there’s nothing else to do,” she mutters to herself before giving him a smile that is most definitely forced. “If you’ll come with me.”

“Why is no one telling me what’s going on? Why is my brain conjuring up all this—this weirdness?”

“All will be explained in due time, sir. Do keep up.”

Through the corridors, he follows Lucienne. He can’t stop questioning his sanity. If this is his dream, why does he recognise none of the characters that have shown up? Why do they insist that there’s something wrong with him being here? He rubs his eyes even as he puts one foot in front of the other.

“Hob Gadling?”

Jessamy. Now there is a reason he’d dream of the raven. She’d quickly become his favourite, especially after she set fire to Fawney Rig. Now she soars down from a rafter to land on his shoulder. Her beak taps gently at his scalp, and he feels the slight tug as she preens him.

“What are you doing here?”

“This. Is. My. Dream.”

Jessamy pauses with a lock of his hair in her beak. She releases him after a moment then gives a whole-body shake. “No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.” Hob reaches up to offer his hand for her to perch on. She does, and he brings them face-to-face. “It is. I fell asleep. Therefore, I’m dreaming.”

“Oh, Hob.”

“Jessamy, perhaps it is best he learns the truth from someone other than ourselves.”

Jessamy squawks, wings aflutter, and Hob thinks she would be grinning madly if she could. “Yes, yes! Oh, I’ll take him, Lucienne.”

“And you promise not to tell him anything?”

“I promise.”

“My brain really, really hates me,” Hob mumbles as Lucienne strides back the way they came.

“It doesn’t hate you, Hob. After all, you’re here, aren’t you? Now come on. There’s someone you have to see.”

Hob can’t even come up with an appropriate reaction when he steps through a pair of massive, ornate doors and sees a tall, winding set of stairs. Jessamy squeezes his wrist with her talons, whispering for him to go on, it’s okay. Hob, to his utter surprise, trusts her implicitly. So he puts a foot on the bottom step and waits. When nothing happens, he continues.

“Who dares disturb me?”

“Dream?”

Dream looks up from the book resting on his thighs. His expression shifts from slightly dazed to focused to purely confused. “Hob Gadling? How—?”

“He thinks it’s a dream, my Lord, and he’s really tired of people asking that question.”

Hob sighs and lowers himself to sit on the top step. He crosses his arms on his knees, letting his head drop until his forehead rests atop his forearm, and breathes in as steadily as possible. If one more person implies that this isn’t his dream, he might well scream. It’s a fucking dream, and he’ll be damned if anyone tells him—

“This isn’t a dream, Hob.”

“Of course it is,” he protests into the hollow cage made by his arms.

“You are in the Dreaming.” Footsteps approach, bare skin against marble, then Dream sits beside him. “How you managed to arrive here, I know not, but it is no ordinary dream. Have you not wondered why you recognise none but Jessamy and myself?”

“Okay, so. If that’s true… What the Hell is the Dreaming?”

Dream huffs out what could be a laugh before explaining that the Dreaming is his realm. “It is where all dreamers come when they sleep. Or when they daydream.”

Hob finally turns his head to look at the lord. “So you’re the cause of the bad dreams people have?”

“In a sense, yes.” Dream stares out over the dais and frowns. “I create the Dreams and Nightmares. They do as they were designed to do. If it were not for me, there would be no bad dreams.”

“There would be no good ones, either,” Hob says softly.

“Very true.”

“So you’re, what, the king?”

“I am monarch of this realm. I have many names, though Dream is my truest. You have heard me called Lord Morpheus. I am also called Oneiros, Prince of Stories, the Sandman.”

“I take it you’re not much of a fan of that one,” Hob laughs when Dream’s face screws up.

“I am not, no. Not particularly. It’s… accurate enough, I suppose, though I am no man.”

“Do you watch dreams?”

The question slips out before Hob can stop it. As it does, though, all he can worry about is what Dream might have seen over the centuries. Hob has had many nightmares—memories of his past mistakes and grievous decisions, the devastation of losing Eleanor, the blinding grief of Robyn’s demise. He’s had happier dreams. He’s even had dreams of the more intimate variety.

If Dream has seen any of that last kind… Hob would never recover.

Dream seems to understand, for he only gives a small smile. “I have never ventured into your dreams, Hob. While I do occasionally ‘check in’ on my Dreams and Nightmares, I give my friends the utmost privacy.”

Friends.

Dream has called them ‘friends’. Hob swallows against the sudden lump in his throat, the tears that burn in his eyes. He had hoped but never dared to dream it would be true. Resting his forehead on his arms once more, he allows the emotional weight to crash over him. A hand rests on his shoulder.

“Did I speak untrue? Are we not friends?”

“We are,” Hob is quick to reassure Dream. “We absolutely are. I just…”

“Hob Gadling, you saved me from what was surely to be an unending torture of captivity at the hands of another. I would consider you the closest of friends, were you to accept my offer.”

“I accept.” God, do I accept.

Dream’s smile grows, his hand squeezing Hob’s shoulder gently. “Then, as we are friends, rest assured that your dreams will never be intruded upon by me.”

“Good. That’s—that’s good.”

The intimate dreams would be awful enough to know Dream has seen. It would be infinitely worse for Dream to ever witness the ones in which he starred. Hob would like to keep that to himself for the rest of time.

“You must go,” Dream says after a few minutes of silence. “Morning comes.”

“I can’t stay in London any longer,” Hob says even as he climbs to his feet. “People will start to question things.”

“Wherever you go, trust that I can find you.”

“That’s ominous.”

But he laughs as he turns to descend the stairs. A weight settles on his shoulder, and he reaches up to run his fingers over Jessamy’s feathers. She nudges his head with her beak before she flies back to her lord. Hob can’t help but smile. He hasn’t met very many birds, none of the talking variety, but Jessamy is his favourite.

Hob wakes to a still-sleeping city with the sun slowly easing into the sky. He wasn’t lying to Dream—London must be in his past for a while, or else there will be answers demanded of him. Answers he can’t give. He doesn’t know where he’ll go. He didn’t quite like America, though to be fair, he hadn’t given it a good go of things. He’d been on a mission, and now that mission is over. Maybe America will be better when he isn’t searching for his Stranger’s ruby.

Dream is no longer a Stranger, and Hob… Hob loves that. He has wanted to know Dream’s name since 1389. Five and a half centuries have gone by since then, and even when Lady Johanna knew his name, Dream never once gave it to Hob. But now he has. He’s called them friends. What a wonderful turn of events.

Hob only hopes it isn’t actually a dream. He’s certain his brain is hardly that imaginative, but it wouldn’t be so strange for things to change. After all, there’s nothing stranger than immortality. And talking birds.

Groaning as he pushes himself to sit up, Hob stares around the room. There isn’t much here, only his suitcase and military bag. Neither of them contain any evidence of Dream’s existence. Hob can’t deny a certain level of gratefulness about that. It had been nerve-wracking to carry around the items. If anyone in the magical community had ever found out what he had, he would likely never have been able to sleep again for fear of being found.

Perhaps that’s why the owner of the flat in Mayhew had hidden the ruby like they did—fear of being caught with something so powerful.

Hob only wonders why the ruby had exploded upon his touch. Had the person been in such danger, as well, and that was why they hid it away? So they weren’t tempted to touch it?

But then, how were they able to tuck it into the box if they didn’t touch it?

Too many questions linger in his mind. With a sigh, he gingerly climbs out of bed and limps to his suitcase. He needs to wash up and leave the city. There’s nothing here for him anymore.

Thankfully, Reginald’s car sits out front. Hob tosses his luggage into the boot before sliding into the driver’s seat. Driving out of London feels more permanent than any time before, which makes no sense. He’ll be back. London will always be home, no matter how far he goes. Besides, he has an appointment to keep in thirty-five years.

∞

Hob sighs and marks another question wrong. How can David Petrie be so absolutely misguided on history when Hob has explained it over and over? There is only so much a professor can handle before it starts to feel like he’s talking to a brick wall, and Petrie is proving himself to be that brick wall. A fourth X on the sixth question, and Hob throws his pen to the tabletop.

As he presses his palms to his eyes, he lets his mind wander over the last seventy years. It has been… something. He spent a decade in America—upstate New York, really. It was beautiful, especially in the wintertime with the glorious snowfalls followed by green springtime fields. After that, he went to Egypt for eight years. He’d nearly been found out, so he’d made a quick escape in the middle of the night. Italy, Greece, France…

It was great to see the world again, especially on his own terms, but it’s still nice to be back in London.

Through it all, there has been one constant: his Stranger. His Friend. Dream. Hob falls asleep every night and knows, no matter where he is, he will see Dream. He wakes and knows all he needs to do is call his name, and Dream will appear. It was only a matter of time before Hob fell in love with Dream; it was more of a surprise when Dream eventually admitted he reciprocated those feelings.

Of course, there’s Jessamy, still Hob’s favourite bird. Now there are also Lucienne and Matthew and even Merv, Dreams and Nightmares Hob could never have dreamed of on his own. It’s more than Hob ever hoped when he prayed for his Stranger’s name all those centuries ago. It’s a strange sort of family, but a family nonetheless.

A hush falls over the New Inn for a moment, then conversations burst into life once more. He lowers his hands to see a shadow has fallen over the table. His gaze drags upward until he sees the familiar smiling face.

“You’re late,” Hob says with a smile of his own.

Dream huffs out a laugh. “It seems I owe you an apology. I’ve always heard it impolite to keep one’s friends waiting.”

“It’s even worse when it’s a partner,” Hob grumbles without heat as Dream takes a seat across from him. “How does spaghetti carbonara sound for dinner tonight?”

#the sandman #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dream of the endless x hob gadling #dream x hob #dreamling #my writing #dreamling bingo

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thenightling · 4 years

Text

Rebirth (A short Sandman fan fiction

Note: This fan fiction was inspired by this fan art by @artwinsdraws

Rebirth

Disclaimer: This is a fan fiction based on Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman. The Sandman is owned by Neil Gaiman and DC Comics.

Sometimes dreams recur.

There is a phenomena in humanity where one might dream of the same people or events again and again and again, each time playing out quite the same. Well, almost quite the same. We call this phenomena Recurring Dreams. Often it will appear to be the exact same dream and it is the same dream but in reality the dream returns with slight changes to its substance. It is the same dream that has come around again but the changes, however slight, are present. Sometimes it can be as simple as a change of lighting or perspective or mood…

The best comparison for describing Dream of The Endless is something like a great crystal. Each aspect- each incarnation- each personification is a shard of that crystal, or more precisely each aspect is like a facet from a great jewel. A facet can shimmer and shine like a jewel unto itself but it’s really just a tiny part of a great whole.

If a piece of a crystal is chipped, a chip can be carefully mended.

When the aspect of Dream of the Endless known as Morpheus was struck down, a new aspect of Dream manifested itself to take his place. This new aspect was known as Daniel. Once the soul of a mostly-humanish child, Daniel had never entirely been what he appeared to be.

Conceived in a dream dimension, the boy was the child of a mortal woman (once descended from the Greek Gods) and the ghost of some poor, deluded man, tricked into thinking he was The Sandman…

There was an irony in Daniel becoming the true Sandman (Dream of The Endless) when his Father had been a false version. Two years he had gestated in a womb of a dreamer, conceived within the dream, and then born into the mortal waking world.

If Daniel thought about it he could remember all of it. Yes, all of it. He remembered Lyta, his mother, smiling down at him in that soft, padded crib. He remembered Morpheus. Morpheus, who was so much like himself, that he could feel him- his mind- his soul. He could feel him the way a twin senses his brother, only more profound. He was him. He could stare into those black eyes and see into the star and what lay beyond it. The secrets that no mortal could observe. They knew each other’s true name. They knew each other’s feelings and memories. And he knew when it was time to become what he was always meant to be…

Daniel remembered those black eyes staring down into his own soft, and seemingly human, blue eyes. Daniel could see into the star pupils, into the essence of what they truly were. And he knew what must be done, what must happen, and how it was meant to be.

Sometimes Daniel had wondered what it would be like to be mortal. Truly mortal. Not just the pseudo-mortal his toddlerhood had entailed. What would it have been like to experience something like an actual childhood? To experience the pleasures and pains of a human life. Things he had never truly known except in the observation of the dreams of others such as playing in a schoolyard with children. Sitting in a classroom and raising his hand to answer a question. Shyly asking someone to dance with him. He wanted to know how it felt to grow in a mortal body, to experience the chaos of the unsteady emotions of puberty.

He knew his predecessor had never had those things either. But his predecessor had never had experienced that taste of being loved as a human baby. He could pity Morpheus for that. Morpheus had never known a mother’s love, not really…

Dream of The Endless is a child of Night and Time but Morpheus had never know a parent’s love. Daniel had been loved by Lyta Hall. He could remember Rose Walker, his babysitter, whose essence had a hint of Endless to it. Rose’s grandparent had been Desire of The Endless. Great-niece as Dream of The Endless, babysitter as Daniel Hall.

Daniel believed that Morpheus had never known or wanted a human life. But Daniel… Daniel longed for the thing he had only had in passing illusion.

Daniel walked across the dreaming sands under the pale moon: through the dreams of countries and cities, past dreams of places long gone and times beyond recall.

The wind whipped Daniel’s white hair and caused his cream colored robes to billow around him. The only color about him was the brown, leather pouch of dream sand, and the emerald amulet that hung at his throat. His eyes were solid black, save for the tiny star-like pupils. And his own skin was as white as bone.

He was determined. He had a purpose. It was time. A thousand souls and a thousand dreams helped solidify his plan this night. It was time. He felt a pulling in his very soul. The dreams had be heeded. It was time. Time for a new aspect to take over- or rather an old one to return to his place…

Such a thing had never happened before. A long time ago a new aspect had taken the place of the original Despair. And a new aspect had taken the place of the original Dream. Daniel had taken the place of the previous aspect of Dream of The Endless. But now something new and different would happen. Something that had never been done before…

In the dream of one Robert (Hob) Gadling, the dead Dream walked peacefully along the coastline, in the fading sunset of an eternal eventide. Morpheus liked the fading orange against the deepening blue. The smearing of sunset clouds like vibrant paints upon a canvas. He liked the long shadows that stretched against the soft, light, grains of sand that were between his toes. He even liked the mystery of the ominous forest just past the beach.

His deliberately tattered black robes whipped around him as he walked. A scar marred his right cheek. He had chosen to have that scar and out of respect it remained when Daniel had re-created him. He was at peace here. He was free. He was no longer one of The Endless. And he was quite content with that divide. And every night Hob would dream of him and they walked together along the shore. Hob would tell him of his day to day life or his feelings about this or that new element of pop culture.

Last night Hob had told him about some new fantasy called The Witcher. Morpheus recognized this as a polish book series that began after his captivity and before his ultimate defeat but as with all mythologies it had changed, evolved, taken on some new form.

Hob had spoken of an actor named Henry and how familiar the character of Geralt’s relationship with the bard felt but he couldn’t quite determine why…

Morpheus enjoyed those conversations and he was content to be relieved of burden and spending six to eight hours a night just having those conversations and then spending his days here in this dream, feeding the birds, and walking along the shore, hearing the lapping of the waves. He rather liked it here with time to reflect on those conversations and finally be at peace with himself and his past…

He breathed the salty air and felt the spray of the ocean. Daniel had done an excellent job in creating this eternal eventide for him. He heard the call of the hungry seagulls that swooped down to eat the grain he had left in his wake. He was happy here…

Abruptly he felt a sensation within himself. He looked down at his own hand. The bone-white flesh had taken on a translucent quality. He frowned. He understood what was happening. The knowledge flooded his mind as his own form began to fade. He felt himself being pulled away like a mortal dreamer waking up.

What was Dream doing? His story was done. His story was told. It was done. It was over. Everything he needed to be happy was there within that dream. He was afraid. Nothing like this had ever been done before by any of their kind and he was afraid. Did he know what he was risking? This could be an incredible mistake.

He felt himself being pulled through the darkened forest and into the unknown, some unexplored part of what it is to be or to have been Dream of The Endless. A thousand voices were talking and whispering and jabbering and they all called his name. A thousand dreamers calling him back… They were dreaming of him, a thousand souls dreaming of him all at once. And he understood what that meant…

The din became overwhelming. And in the chaos of the deluge of sound he felt such a strange and profound sense of something that he had only yearned for in his long life. Something that was as profound and deep as the friendship he had with Hob Gadling. Love.

And he knew what they wanted. And he knew what Daniel was doing. And instantly he forgave the rude transgression. A part of him longed for this despite his initial reluctance. Perhaps deep down he knew this was not where he truly needed to be. And he could always return to Hob’s dream. It was just no longer his eternal home. Eternity was a lot shorter than he expected…

The magick pulling him was potent and ancient. And fear gave way to wonder.

All dreams eventually end. Many dreams change. Some are replaced. But there is also such a thing as a recurring dream...

The pain of being born is something both now understood on some fundamental level. He could hear before he could see. And he could feel before he could think.

Morpheus lay naked, curled in a fetal position in moon drenched sands. His black hair fell into his eyes. This was a different shore of The Dreaming, far from Hob’s eventide.

He was trembling. Everything was familiar yet new. He could sense Daniel near, the one who knew him better than anyone as they were technically one and the same. They were both Dream of The Endless and so they had always known each other. But something was different now…

He shakily stood up on uneasy legs. He felt the cool sand between his toes, not the sand warmed by an eternal sunset.

Morpheus had always been a fortress until himself holding his feelings and secret wishes deep inside. Daniel had secret wishes too but those desires need not be hidden any longer.

Morpheus trembled and yet he was not cold, not really, but he was in need of raiment. He thought of the feel of the fabric of his robes, dark and full. He thought of how they should look and they easily took form. He walked in the sand along the lapping shore until he came to the discarded leather pouch of dreamsand. He picked this up carefully.

He carried the pouch of dreamsand clutched in one hand as he continued onward…

He secured the pouch at his hip, feeling the familiar weight of its presence there.

He walked until he came to the necklace in the sand. It was not the ruby. It was not the emerald. The topaz dreamstone, perhaps? No. The moonlight was reflecting off of bright flecks against a pale aqua-green fire opal.

Morpheus knelt down and picked this up. He looked it over. Sometimes dreams change. Sometimes they return a little different. Dreams can recur. He placed the amulet around his neck and he felt the power within it. He understood his purpose now. He was ready. This was the reason he was reborn.

Dream had always been something different. Perhaps that’s why this had happened. Maybe that was why schemes had been thwarted. The usual rules for such matters did not apply now. The Dreams of a thousand souls can rewrite the rules.

He was not sad. He was no longer trembling. And he had come so far. There was no dread of this new life. He could start fresh. Reborn. The orchard of his past sins had burned down in his death. He had died and he had changed. And now he was new. New yet ancient. He walked to the light sounds and movement ahead of him. The faint and gentle (and likely deliberate) cooing…

The bundle of white material in the distance held a small child. This was a human toddler with blond hair, in the loose wrappings of a white blanket (or were they robes?), and all around him were the tiny, sparkling fragments of a recently shattered emerald dreamstone.

The sparkling fragments were dissolving now, the power spent in restoring him (Morpheus) to the state he was in now.

Morpheus’ black eyes stared down into the soft, and human, blue eyes. The toddler stared up into the star pupils. And Morpheus knew what must be done, what must happen, and how it was meant to be.

He reached down for the boy who gently reached up for him to be taken into his arms.

“Is this truly what you want?” Morpheus asked the boy with a solemnness. The boy responded in a way that could only pass between the two of them that no mortal or spying dream entity might hear. Morpheus nodded. “Very well.”

He carried the boy, wrapped in a soft, white blanket. He walked slowly and held him carefully and gently as if little Daniel was the most precious thing in the world and so he was.

Rose walker answered the door. She recognized Morpheus. How could she forget? Still, it was always a jolt to realize it was all true. The incident at the hotel where she had called out to Morpheus by his true name. Her discovering she was a dream vortex, and finally being saved by her grandmother, and everything else… She could not suppress a gasp.

It was surreal to see him at the door like some strange, late night, UPS delivery.

“His parents are in The Dreaming. Their human lives are done. He wants this world. And he wants you, Rose Walker. Will you take him?” And as if in after thought, “…Please?”

She knew who the baby was but the how and why of the situation was baffling to her. She recognized him. But this was impossible. It had been thirty-years and yet like herself, little Daniel Hall was …little Daniel Hall. Here he was, somehow unchanged by time.

Morpheus seemed to be reading her thoughts. “He is not unchanged. He is very much changed. We have all… changed.”

Rose took Daniel into her arms and held him close to herself. She understood what Morpheus had said. Somehow she understood that.

“Take care of him, Rose Walker. This is the life he wants. I felt I should return the favor… For the life he has given me…”

He had once said that Daniel belonged to him but that was only because they were both Dream of The Endless, or rather that he knew Daniel would be Dream of The Endless. He had also once said that you can only truly belong to yourself. And Daniel had chosen to be human after all.

She was going to say something else but his form had already faded away and she was left with little Daniel in her arms.

In The Dreaming Morpheus walked across the dreaming sands under the pale moon: through the dreams of countries and cities, past dreams of places long gone and times beyond recall.

The black robes were familiar. Everything was familiar. At his neck hung the blue-green and flecked fire opal on a black cord. That was new. There was something else too. There was a secret gift Daniel had left him. It was one that had come with the shattering of the emerald. His short post-life free of being Dream of The Endless and being an entity of dream, living inside Hob’s dreams, had changed him.

He felt the guilt of the past wash away. He felt forgiven… He felt hope.

He felt Hope…

He was not brooding on the past any longer. Instead he was moving forward and looking toward the future. A future with friends such as Hob and Matthew. A future without the burden of so many mistakes. He felt absolved of those things now.

He briefly thought of his son, Orpheus. Not the ruined creature who had longed to die, but the young man whole and happy and now with his wife in Elysium and the peace Orpheus had there, a peace which mustn’t ever be disturbed.

Morpheus had seen him there on the docks with the lyre during his own Wake.

He reached for the pouch at his hip and drew out a fistful of sand. He was careful in his working. The effort and skill needed took several hours. His cunning fingers worked to create something new or something long lost.

The form of a little girl too shape. Her skin was as blue as night sky. Her hair was black and her eyes were full of wonder and kindness. He wasn’t sure where or when he had seen this little girl before but he felt the need to create her now.

He touched the fire opal. This work required some concentration as the dreamstone began to glow a beautiful aquatic green. He was drawing down a soul through time and space- a soul that some subconscious part of himself knew was out there and though he had never known it before, some lost memory that was not a memory guided him.

He called to her silently, pleaded to her- needed her. Needed her the way Daniel needed Rose. As one longed to be a child, the other longed to be a parent. As Daniel yearned to have real memories, Morpheus learned for a second chance…

And they both would have what they wanted in some fashion…

He found her. She was willing to live again. She felt his need and his love.

He drew this lost soul down into the body he had created for her.

The child he created from dreamsand and a lost soul came to life as surely as any dream he had created.

She blinked and looked up at him. “Hello.”

“Hello.” Morpheus replied.

“I am Hope Beautiful Lost Nebula.” The little girl said.

“That is a lovely name, Hope.”

“I am Dream. And I think I want to be a father now. I think perhaps I may make mistakes. …Possibly many of them. And I am sorry for those eventualities but I will try to be a good parent just the same. I have failed in this endeavor before but much has changed. I have changed. I have become something new yet very old. And I want to see if I can do this right. Is that acceptable?” He was asking permission to be her parent though he felt he was explaining himself poorly.

She seemed to understand both the request and the intention behind it despite his awkward wording. She was looking into his eyes with some profound and improbable understanding. She reached out and took his pale hand into her own. “Are you lonely? You seem very lonely.”

“I am never lonely.”

“You are such a liar.” She said as if she had just figured out a puzzle and she smirked up at him. She knew he needed her. He needed to be a father and she was okay with that.

He did not reply. He just allowed himself to enjoy her company. And so, now free of the burdens of his past, Morpheus walked hand in hand with Hope.

He was happy. He was free. And there was something else. In having his child, his Hope, he also gained a knowledge, a very important knowledge he had lacked in his previous life. He knew now that he was not alone. He had Hope.

The End

#Neil Gaiman's The Sandman #The Sandman #Morpheus #Dream of The Endless #The Dreaming #Daniel Hall

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