@riftings | skyhold

[dreamaturgy]

continued from here.

⟪ someone does find her. or something, anyway, depending on technicalities.

the dream lord’s eyes, first — matthew, perched high on the top-shelf, overwhelmed by the flock of ravens he had to circumvent to get here. beasts, all of them. smart, too, though not i-was-once-a-human smart, deceased now and loyal subject instead, wings for thumbs. they do serve someone, but there was no conversation to be had; only croaks and judgment, and a few missing feathers.

not his, mind you.

the second is morpheus himself, delayed. the creation of dreams and nightmares have taken up most of his time lately, for reasons he’s hesitant to confront. now that he’s finally reconciled with his purpose — and it’s all thanks to death — his craft sparks old and new joys alike, but even with his passion rekindled, his motives might not be entirely without stifled incentive. workaholism is a thing, apparently — lucienne told him more than once to please rest, my lord, but even dream isn’t above escapism, especially if it’s stained with a faint hue of denial.

he’s avoiding her. it’s probably one of the most selfless, conscious choices he’s ever made, because he doesn’t want to. or maybe it’s not selfless at all, and he just figured he couldn’t cope with heartbreak again. but heartbreak requires feelings, and that’s a whole other level of awareness he stashes away in his creations, pretending it doesn’t exist. because it doesn’t.

which perfectly explains why each of them winds up with an itch to yearn for the impossible, and when dream spots unnamed longing in their eyes, he vows to avoid mirrors for the rest of eternity, lest he catches the same glint there.

matthew doesn’t have the same reservations.

hey boss. look, i know you don’t wanna hear it — and don’t shoot the messenger! — but the lady doesn’t look well.

it doesn’t matter whether dream glowers — his raven knows him well, maybe more than he knows himself at times, and he can’t fault him for doing his job. he is the dream lord’s eyes, and his sight is exceptional.

dream doesn’t go right away. her presence in the dreaming is a vacuum in his stomach that threatens to collapse his physical form into a dense, compact little ball — sometimes, he almost wishes it did. entropy is at a rise throughout the universes, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. it’s all her, causing the skies of the dreaming to darken and brighten at the same time, which in turn causes lucienne to withdraw from his sight, just to roll her eyes and sigh.

god fucking damn it. he doesn’t say it. he doesn’t even think it. but it’s pretty much what it feels like.

neutral ground, then. he doesn’t meet her where she probably expects him to be. where she’s not seen him in a while, perhaps looking for him. the thought coats the back of his mouth sour, but he forges on, soon materializing in the library where she hides. peace is a luxury that’s rarely ever been available to her. she finds it in the dreaming, sure, but the waking world doesn’t wait for anyone, least of all her. she looks almost fragile there, despite all her incredible strengths, fast asleep even as her muscles twitch, restless.

is it coincidence that she chose a library? the scent of old leather is reminiscent of his own, and dream walks unhurried along the shelves, motes of dust following his steps. but his eyes are locked on her, a plethora of books in his periphery, begging to be touched. she doesn’t have to. beg. standing in front of her, his scrutiny is nothing if not concerned. matthew was right; she looks exhausted, infinitely more than last he saw her, and his endless heart sinks lower than he thought it could. it’s a beast, that one. for an entity that doesn’t technically have a true corporeal form, it beats with the frenzy of a thousand men, which makes him feel entirely too human. his presence is too vast, too peculiar, perhaps, to fully look the part, but he feels it. and it’s infuriating.

it’s not vexation he feels now. there’s anger in the mix, though it’s not aimed at her, slightly overwhelmed as he drops to a crouch and observes the ravages of her wars. he made sure to appoint her favorite dreams as her companions in his prolonged absence, but here, as powerful an entity as he is, he’s more or less out of his depth.

let it be known that dream of the endless has, perhaps more than once, felt utterly inadequate. just don’t mention it anywhere near him.

slowly he reaches for her, as if giving her time to sense his intent, even as she sleeps. small shivers wrack her frame, never at ease, and dream’s fingers graze her neck, pushing blond strands away as his palm finds the valley between her shoulder blades. the muscles underneath are impressively stiff, a glum crease between dream’s brows; she’s a prisoner, much like he once was. the circumstances differ, but not unlike his, it’s not a cage she can escape, and she doesn’t possess the lifespan or the otherworldly potency necessary to endure what he did. ⟫

What will become of you, little dreamer?

⟪ the point of contact breaks, but his hand hovers tentative as he searches her face for answers he knows he won’t get. all he can do is fuel her mind with a wealth of dreams from which he hopes she can draw strength, and return to his duties.

but not yet. he’ll sit for now, in the chair adjacent to the divan, matthew perched on his shoulder and a book in his lap. think she’ll be alright?, and dream’s jaw clenches on a deep, soundless exhale.

are they ever? ⟫

Comments

[riftings]

[ Fiddler's Green has always been beautiful. Lush, verdant, rolling hills beneath bright blue skies, wildflowers dotting the landscape here and there. She's always loved it here. A small unicorn and a half-grown tiger cubling with multicolored stripes lie with her in the warm grass; the cat's purring a soothing balm to her ears. The little foal nuzzles her cheek, his golden horn catching the sunlight and glinting so beautifully. The afternoon is warm, the gentle breeze comfortably cool, and the puffy clouds chase each other across the expansive skies.

Yes, she's always loved it here.

This is the first time she's been in the Dreaming since she learned of her Dream's true name and nature. Circumstances haven't allowed her to truly rest, to sink into slumber deep enough to breach the Veil between the Waking World and the Fade. Catnaps, short stints of unrestful sleep, long nights passed in uncomfortable bedrolls; such has been necessary as of late. She soldiers on, determined, but there's no real way to hide the dark circles under her eyes, stark against her pale skin. But her will is great; she will endure, and pray Maker when it's at last done, she can stop.

She's making a necklace of flowers, humming with her young friends as she reclines in the sweet-smelling grass, but glances up when a peculiar shadow passes overhead. She sees nothing, so she goes back to her work. A moment later, she hears the distinctive call of a raven. Her brow furrows. Then comes the familiar feeling of fading; she's waking up. A sigh, a kiss for each of her companions, then Leah closes her eyes only to open them once more, this time seeing dusty rafters overhead, draped with pale cobwebs, and the stretch of endless bookshelves that touch the ceilings high above. The scent of books and age fills her nose, and she realizes with a sinking heart just where she is and what's happened.

Skyhold's lower library, and it seems her nap is over. Damn.

Three seconds later, the Inquisitor realizes that she isn't alone.

Sheer battle reflex takes over, honed from all of those endless missions in strange lands, and she surges upright, a ball of fire in her fist, but before she can hurtle it towards the intruder, it dies between her fingers as she realizes just who has found her, hidden deep within her fortress. ]

...Dre--er...Morpheus?

[ It's such a shock that she can't help but fall back against the ratty divan, completely nonplussed. But, despite her crogglement, a not-so-small part of her happily leaps with both excitement and a good dose of girlish delight to actually see him, sitting right in front of her, a book in his hands and a raven on his shoulder. And, to her utter embarrassment, Leah feels her cheeks flush, warm color flooding her face and traveling all the way down her neck and all the way to the tips of her ears.

Oh, Maker. ]

...wh-what are--I-I mean... [ Oh, just give up, girl. ] ...um...hi.