hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die...

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? ⟫