Chapter Text
We dream—it is good we are dreaming—
It would hurt us—were we awake—
But since it is playing—kill us,
And we are playing—shriek—
What harm? Men die—externally—
It is a truth—of Blood—
But we—are dying in Drama—
And Drama—is never dead—
Cautious—We jar each other—
And either—open the eyes—
Lest the Phantasm—prove the Mistake—
And the livid Surprise
Cool us to Shafts of Granite—
With just an Age—and Name—
And perhaps a phrase in Egyptian—
It’s prudenter—to dream—
Emily Dickinson
...
There had been no gradual shift between unconsciousness and waking, yet there hardly ever was for him. He could not remember ever experiencing unconsciousness. Maybe before he had been aware. Before he had been Endless. His eyes lifted open, as though he had been awake the entire time and there he was. In a cage, surrounded by glass and metal.
The human – Roderick Burgess – as he learned, spoke to him often, asking for things that were not his to give, nor for the human to hold.
He demanded and yelled and bargained and pleaded, yet Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, sat still and silent.
For he had nothing to say.
Nothing to offer.
Nothing that was his to give.
A child – his son, was what Burgess demanded the most. Dream knew that even had Burgess been successful in his summon of Death, his son would have not been returned to him.
Death was not like Dreaming.
Dreams could come to an End.
And so he sat and waited. Still and silent. Jessamy remained the one constant in his prison. Sending him glimpses of the outside, views of the sky, of freedom, feeding the flames of hope that kept him still and silent.
...
“I would – let you out, you know. I-If I could.” The boy said, his voice soft and sincere. For just a moment Dream let himself believe, let himself believe in goodness and innocents. In childlike dreaming and kindness.
The voice of Roderick Burgess interrupting was a rude awakening.
Of the many days, years really, Dream had spent in his prison this was the day that had carved itself into his memory.
The promise of freedom, the sincerity and truth followed by a betrayal so swift and brutal it ripped the air out of his lungs, left his black eyes gleaming with tears unshed.
Jessamy’s remains would not be cleaned up until days later, after the humans had ensured the binding circle and his prison had not been damaged and his fury and vengeance would not be able to reach them from within his confinement.
To block out the pain he drew into himself more deeply, closing himself off from the ongoings outside of his prison. And when he drew far into himself he could see where his power once had been, a chaffing wound, no longer quite fresh and until this day, completely empty. Now though, where there had been nothing, a small flame, hardly enough to fit into his palm, flickered.
“Jessamy.” He breathed and the flame in his hand danced. All beings of the Dreaming were his, made from him and by him and belonging to no one but him.
He drew the flame closer, letting it lick at his fingers, afraid the flames would fan out. And so Dream of the Endless began to plan.
...
Hob Gadling was a simple man.
Had always been and would always be. He liked booze, a good fuck, a game of cards. He liked being alive.
And most recently, he liked his dreams.
Always, he stood in a place that seemed impossible to exist, the floor and ceiling made of glittering stars and universes, stretching endlessly into every direction. Sometimes he would wander around the plane, staring at the display before him, other times he would sit on the smooth surface (earth?) beneath him and watch the thousands of swirling stars above and below. But by far his favorite part of his dreams was the feeling they gave him.
Familiarity and warmth, even though he was completely on his own.
It was a feeling he was used to, something that he knew but whenever he tried to place it, it seemed to slip away from him. Sometimes there were whispers, never loud enough for him to make out actual words, yet the tone seemed familiar too. And in time, his dreams shifted from stars and universes to the very Inn he met his friend throughout the years. It seemed as though every time he closed his eyes he landed in the same Inn, in yet another century, but the chair across from him remained empty.
Had he been a different man, maybe he would have spent more time chasing the feeling, the voice, trying to figure out where he had heard it before. But Hob Gadling was a simple man.
And so he remained in his reappearing dream, enjoying the feeling of familiarity, the soothing whispers and the nostalgia surrounding him – until the year 1989.