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milune-vox · 10 months ago

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The Dawn of Redeeming Grace

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Chapter 9:

It has been a hard couple of weeks. In his long life, he's faced more than his fair share of hardships. Yet, he has always found a way to savour life’s pleasures and appreciate every little thing: a nice meal, a warm fire, the first rays of the sun after a long, dreadful night.

Over time, one becomes convinced, rightfully, that they can survive anything. He could simply wait out any storm, knowing he has infinite time. He’d always outlive his sorrows.

Despite this knowledge, the rational part of his brain having taken a hiatus, he finds his heart screaming in his chest with such strength and constancy that it drowns out everything else. Truly, he can’t find a reason to carry on anymore, can he? He has experienced so much, loved so many, and yet this—this is what has driven him all this time, isn’t it? The sight of his Stranger, the sound of his voice, the delight in meeting him century after century. His one and only constant. His truest friend, the one who remains, the one his heart keeps yearning for. Among all the lovers he has taken over the years, this one shadow always lingers in the back of his mind, calling his truest name in a mellifluous voice, “Hob Gadling.”

When he finally saw an opportunity to see his dreams come true, when his friend let himself get closer, let himself feel and partake in more meetings with him… he ruined it all. He can't fix it, can't simply ring him up and ask, “Hello, old friend, love of my life, how did I offend you this time? Are you aware of my feelings for you?” He feels bitter and desperate, ever so tempted to drink himself stupid, to forget about it all and drunkenly cry and shout into the night. But he doesn’t, not yet, because he has a life carefully crafted here, a facade to maintain. If a few students, colleagues, or regulars at the New Inn notice something is off and ask about it, he easily placates them with a shrug and a “Nothing much, just a bit tired is all.”

He would have kept going. He is resilient, stubbornly so. It is his pride and the core of his identity. What else is there to derive pride from when everything is made of ache?

He would have been fine, eventually. He would have made it to the other side, like an athlete or a trapeze artist, a circus performer laughing and smiling while putting his body through absolute torture to please the crowd. He would have been okay.

But one sleepless night too many, and one rude customer, and suddenly the dam breaks.

It has been a long day. Exam week seems never-ending. He is a heartless robot, fueled by coffee instead of gasoline. Upon returning home, the New Inn has been filled to the brim with people. His staff is panicked and breaking down. Nearby, an event has been organized. They haven’t been warned. This rush is unexpected, unforgiving. Collection cars and motorbikes parade the surrounding streets. The sound of motors sputtering tries its hardest to make him jump out of his skin. Once again, he clenches his teeth, smiles, and runs around helping his staff by dispatching orders from one side of the room to the other, his gestures certain, precise, and quick.

They are almost done with the fifth wave of people when the man he has just served stops him.

“Oy mate, I’d like some fries with my salad.”

“Sure. With the fries, it’ll be—”

“Nah man, every time I come, they give them fries for free!”

“Well, the rule is the rule, mate. I’ll—”

“I know the boss! He’s a friend of mine. He gives me two servings of those whenever I come around!”

“I mean, you can try asking him, if you want.”

He waits with an eyebrow raised. He knows the man is lying—he is the boss, after all. Even if the man is referring to Jenny, well, she is a she, not a he.

The sheer nerve of it all would have amused him, were he not exhausted out of his mind and strictly functioning on caffeine and adrenaline.

The guy keeps spewing a string of lies, so he nods, bolts away, and brings him the salad.

“What about the fries?” comes the offended response.

Hob’s voice is short, and his smile is tense as he answers, “Once again, it is not free, but you can order it.”

The man fumbles in his pockets, muttering, increasingly red in the face. He takes his wallet out and grumbles, “Sure, just take my money, you dunce.”

He throws coins on the ground and shouts, “PICK IT UP THEN.”

He stops in his tracks. At first, he feels nothing but a sort of wild electricity, a confused sensation. Then, a righteous, all-encompassing anger floods his veins, setting his nerves on fire.

In an instant, he remembers all the ways he can kill a man.

There are several ways to react to bad situations. The three Fs are a fairly accurate theory, he always thought from the first time he heard of it: Fight, flight, freeze.

For now, he is frozen. He can fight. He knows how to. He just stares at the man in silence. Then, “Fuck this shit, I’m out,” he thinks, and also says, and walks away.

“We’re closing for tonight, Jen. Say there’s an electric problem or something. We’re not taking any more orders.”

She nods, relieved, and starts spreading his words to the staff.

He goes out.

He could have gone upstairs.

He should have gone upstairs. Locked himself in his bedroom and yelled into a pillow.

His hands are shaking.

He hates that man. He hates the university and its intricacies, its shortcomings, and the sheer trauma it inflicts on teachers and students. Where there should be knowledge and growth, there are only overworked individuals trying not to off themselves by going on sick leave as often as they can, and students rioting every other day.

He hates Dream.

He hates Dream so much. He hates how Dream has ripped out his heart and probably doesn’t even care. Probably doesn’t even realise. He hates how much he loves him, how much it hurts to love him, how stupid it is to feel this way for a being older than gods, and frankly, everything about this is ridiculous. He is ridiculous. Maybe he should have picked up the damn coins. Why would he get anything from Dream? He is nothing. He has everything already—immortality is enough. This should be enough. He shouldn’t yearn for things out of his grasp, but he is human. He is human and he wants, he wants, he wants so much that it hurts. And fuck Dream and his stupid beautiful face, his wits, his cluelessness in social settings, the ever-so-endearing way he—oh, shut the fuck up.

Like a worm, a thought he’s been trying to suppress crawls to the top.

What if Dream isn’t brooding? What if he is in trouble? What if he is locked up somewhere again?

He can’t do anything then, and he can’t do anything now. He is out of his depth. He is useless.

He finds himself in a park and punches a tree to try and make his thoughts stop.

There is a crack. Pain flares up along his nerves and he bites down a choking noise.

He definitely broke something in there.

Laughter bubbles in his chest.

He feels his bones pop back into place, so he kicks again, and again, and again, until he doesn’t feel it anymore. Just the pain, searing white, clarifying.

He is fine now.

He looks at the bark, covered in blood, glistening with the orange light of the streetlamps. He looks at the grass, midnight dew sparkling. The rocks under his feet, wet, cold, dirty. Cigarette butts, plastic litter. Insects crawling through the mud.

He sighs deeply, his breath escaping in wisps and rising to the opaque night sky. He breathes in and flexes his fingers. His bones click into place. He breathes out.

He rises slowly, careful not to keel over.

A figure stands in the shadows, among the trees, unmoving, watching. He doesn’t pay attention to it. He just wants to go home.

So he does. Walking back to his place, he takes his time to enjoy every single detail of the night: the way the moon plays on the shimmering flows of the Thames, the caress of the swirling wind on his damp cheeks, the constant hum and grate of the cars driving through the city. He doesn’t cross many people’s paths. They escape his gaze. He’ll never know them. As he hasn’t known many before, and won’t know many after. So many intricate threads, never touching. So many worlds, whole universes, up and out like small embers on a cold winter night. There are footsteps near him. He ends up throwing a glance behind him, curious, if a little weary—he’s had enough emotions for the day, and many after that.

The street is empty. He shrugs to himself and keeps walking at a faster pace. When he makes it home, he quickly rinses his bloody hands, then helps close up. Finally, when he gets back to his apartment, he doesn’t bother eating or showering and just collapses into bed, out like a light.

He doesn’t dream. He hasn’t for a while.

The next day, he is staring at the leaves above, cutting patterns into a perfectly blue sky. The trees on campus, much like every other in the city, are surrounded by cement, kept in place in solitary squares, straight and arranged in the most boring, geometric topiary art possible.

He tries very hard not to weep as visions of the wild forests of days past fill his mind with the smell of fresh, humid soil and decaying leaves. This is one of those days. One of those days when his impeccable balance tilts too much on the emotional side. Such is life. Waking up not fully rested, breaking two glasses, losing time looking for a hairband, burning himself on a cup of coffee, arriving late despite his best efforts, getting drenched in a cold shower of rain with no umbrella or appropriate clothing. Silly, insignificant things creep up on his mood. His mood creeps up on his memories. His memories creep up on him.

It suddenly dawns on him what he must do:

He has to leave.

He has to start over somewhere else. This life he has built, the New Inn: it is all for Dream. And Dream—he is always going to leave.

Perhaps, for once, he ought not to be the one waiting.

Perhaps, for once, he ought not to be the one seeking, reaching out.

And maybe he will come to regret this decision.

But this is like in 1889, isn’t it? Not in so many words, but.

It is still Dream leaving, and him challenging Dream.

So, yes.

He has decided now.

He is going to put his affairs in order. He is going to pick someplace on the planet where he can still see the stars, have a bit of greenery, and fresh, breathable air, with the minimum number of people.

He is going to change his name, change his ways. If Dream comes back, it will be because his friend decides to find him, not because he has erected a building and drawn arrows leading to it, spending every other afternoon waiting patiently for thirty-three years.

Yes.

He is not waiting anymore. He is moving forward—he is running from here. If Dream ever comes after him, then good. If not, well.

A group of students crosses a path nearby. Some recognize him and nod. He waves at them enthusiastically.

He will be gone soon.

Better enjoy things while they last.

Everything goes splendidly, oddly enough.

Perhaps it has been going too splendidly. Perhaps it has been a clue that something is afoot. Perhaps he should have paid more attention. Attention to the sound of footsteps at night. Attention to the car that’s been parked down the street for a while now. He has been distracted recently. Christmas has passed, then New Year’s Eve, on his own. The rest of the year steadily progresses. June arrives quickly. He has made his peace with his decision to leave—it always breaks his heart, but he keeps mementos where they matter and leaves the rest to be carried away by the winds of time.

He bids adieu to all that matters. A quiet adieu, one that he can’t make honestly, one he has to keep silent, close to his heart. The students, the colleagues, the friends. The streets, as they are, for the next time he is here, they will have changed, without a doubt. Goodbye to the trees, as they are. Goodbye to the birds, and their so fleeting lifetimes. Goodbye to the smells and the sounds and the way the light brushes against the surfaces with a glint of life ephemeral.

With a set and heavy heart, he finalises the steps. He only needs to fake his death, and then he shall be free. Free from the grasp this place has on him, from the identity he has built here, from the goddamn “temple” he has built.

Finally, he needs papers to back up his new identity.

The bloke handling it, he has found through the various contacts he has kept an eye on over the years. There is scarcely anything money can’t buy.

He is confident when he goes to conclude the transaction, meeting with his contact.

It’s a frankly inhospitable part of town, reeking of mildew and kerosene. The man he is facing looks like any mid-fifties clerk; only details betray his way of life: luxury watch, real gold necklace, real gold teeth, limited edition sneakers. He’s a bit of a stereotype in that way. It makes him smile a bit. He feels at ease. This part of his long existence is coming to an end tonight.

He doesn’t expect, once he hands over the money, for the guy to give it back with a pained wince on his face.

“No thanks, mate,” he says, and Hob knows in that precise moment something is going wrong, terribly wrong. “See, this is pocket change compared to what this other guy offered me to, well, hand you over. No hard feelings, business as usual, eh?”

His own startled question never leaves his lips. He is struck by an electric shock and immediately loses consciousness.

When his brain starts working again, his first thought, accompanied by a lingering smell of burnt flesh and hair, is that the voltage used must have been off the charts.

He doesn’t recall anything else until he wakes on a cold, metallic table in a sterile room, an indistinguishable amount of time later.

Just beyond his sight, a man is appraising him. He’s wearing gloves. He’s got a gun on his hip.

Further away still, somewhere in a shady downtown bureau, a balding man counts bills from an envelope. “Well, he doesn't need those anymore, so might as well,” he snorts self-satisfiedly.

In a dark corner of the room, two points of golden light shine brightly. Lips red as blood forms into these words: “Why, good job there darling! I shall leave you to it now.”

“No—come back!”

The man looks at his riches, emptied of any desire to spend them. Desire itself is gone, leaving him hollow. He starts walking, empty-eyed. He goes up, up.

A few hours later, a panicked passerby calls emergency services, and soon, paramedics surround the broken corpse of a man in his mid-fifties, unidentified, with golden teeth, brand new sneakers, and a bunch of cash flying around him.

“Whatever do I owe this gift to, my dear twin?” asks Despair in her realm, looking at the scene through one of her mirrors.

“Just a bit of fun getting rid of witnesses. You’ll see. You’ll feel it. He’s already close to yours now, isn’t he? Our dearest Dream. He’ll only get closer.”

Despair starts smiling, and her expression morphs into deranged, ecstatic pain as she stabs at her cheek with a hook and pulls, and pulls.

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” she says in an amorphous tone of voice.

Desire’s laugh rings and ripples across the mirrors. Their cold surface shivers. As does Hob, strapped to a freezing steel tray, skin prickling with goosebumps. “... Fuck.”

#dreamling #the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #dreamling fanfiction #the sandman fanfiction

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milune-vox · 10 months ago

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The Dawn of Redeeming Grace

previous chapter <=> next chapter Chapter 8:

(weeks after the last date)

Wisdom is often associated with old age.

Now, he is, in fact, old. Older than the vast majority of human beings around. One would assume that, in all his time on Earth, he would have accumulated a wealth of wisdom.

This assumption is incorrect.

The only bit of wisdom he’s ever retained is this: wisdom, as a state of mind, as this stoic, zen master type of attitude, is much like the art of balancing pebbles in neat little heaps at the water’s edge. No matter how much one masters the art, when a wave comes crashing down, the entire structure is ruined, finished, gone—you’ve got to rebuild it all. Start again. There’s no going against the power of nature through sheer fuckin' will, contrary to what some might believe.

When you’re struck down, you’re struck down.

When you’re drowning, you’re drowning.

You’re always where you’re at.

Right now, Hob’s in a rather miserable place. He’s so tired he wants to die.

But that’s not what he’ll do. It’s just how it feels. He knows that he will never ask for death, thank you very much.

This is another thing he’s learned in his long life. Most feelings are bullshit. Most thoughts are too. Meaning, anything he’s previously stated in the haze of his exhausted mind probably was bullshit as well. And perhaps believing it is bullshit is also bullshit in its own right.

They are but consequences of things that are far removed from his motivations and spirits.

Tired? Suddenly he curses the world and wants to bite the bullet.

Sick? Suddenly he dreams of curling up in a ball under the sheets to never come out again.

Hungry? His thoughts spiral into horrible recollections of what it felt like to starve, and despair claws at him, making him want to eat until his belly bursts.

Restless? He wants to break jaws and snap necks and bash skulls in. Those of others or his own. Not too picky in those moments, truthfully.

He has learned to recognize when his mind is bullshitting and discard its input, focusing on getting rest, treatment, or a nice, healthy, balanced meal. As for the restlessness, a bit of workout usually does the trick.

But sometimes, he is a little too tired, too sick, too hungry, too restless.

Too heartbroken.

Sometimes, he just wants to give in and stop fighting, because, what’s the point, his mind asks in a sultry, apathetic voice, what’s the point of life, of going on, of—

A neighbor knocks on a wall and shouts, “Oi!”

It’s not for him, who’s been staring in silence at the wall from his seat on the couch for the better part of an hour. It must be for the students next door, partying hard, walls pulsing with music and shouting.

Yeah, right. That’s why Hob still can’t sleep. Not just the heartbreak this time.

He rubs at his face and sighs. What a fucking day.

He wishes he was privy to more occult knowledge, if only to get ahold of some metaphysical line and ring Dream up.

“Hey there, friend,” he would say. “I know you kind of left in a hurry last time, and I feel like I must have done something wrong again, though, unfair, like, you could have told me if I’d done something to offend you, right? Anyway, not the point. If you are not too mad at me, would you please come on down from wherever your bloody realm is, and sully yourself with my o-so-beneath-you human presence, and just, I don’t know, put me to sleep for the next hundred years? Like, if you’re going to make me wait, might as well not be conscious this time around, alright? I’m tired. I’ll still wait, okay, but I’m tired. I’m tired, I’m tired, I’m tired, I’m tired—”

The more he thinks about it, the more his lips start shaping the words, silently first, then a murmur, then he speaks them out loud, and his voice breaks, and he does it again and again until he breaks down in tears.

It happens for a total of seven seconds, after which his face, contracted in sobs, goes blank, and he stares off into the distance with an unbothered look.

His rational mind catches up with him and very helpfully provides that self-pity isn’t a very productive course of action. What’s the point of moaning about his issues? It wouldn’t fix them; it would only make them worse, deepen the wound, twist the knife in.

No need to get worried over things out of one’s control.

And so he goes, putting down the first pebble on the shore.

He rises from the couch, feeling like Atlas carrying the world, his body an uncanny mix of numbness and ache, his joints feeling every bit their six hundred years of age. He does not notice the mysterious figure looming down the street below, nor the gun glinting discreetly in a gloved hand.

***

A small black dot grazes the heavy sky. The rain has let up, for now. The dot free-falls like a meteor, but before it reaches the ground, its trajectory pulls up, aiming toward the castle with the speed and precision of a guided missile.

It flies through the open doors, under the ever-watchful eyes of three terrible gargoyles, past countless rooms and corridors.

Finally, after a convoluted, impossible route, it perches at the top of an extinguished candelabrum, its claws clicking against the metal as it shifts anxiously from foot to foot.

“Matthew,” greets Lucienne, her eyes still set on the book she’s reading. She gestures with a swift, accustomed motion.

“Eh, hi boss lady. How you been?”

No matter how many times Dream scolds him, he never drops the nickname. Lucienne doesn’t comment, so he thinks he’s in the clear.

“I have been well, thank you,” she replies, then adds, looking at him over her glasses, “Busy, as you can see.” Matthew considers leaving, though he truly doesn’t want to. His questions have questions, and he can’t think of anyone else to ask in the Dreaming. “Sorry,” he mumbles half-heartedly under her stern glare.

She focuses back on her book, and after a while, comments nonchalantly, “I’ve heard the weather has been less than desirable. I believe I can see the clouds slowly lifting?” She looks pointedly at the high arched windows further down the alley.

“Yeah,” Matthew sighs, answering the unasked question. “He’s with his sister right now, I think. Cool lady.”

“He is?” She stops reading for a moment, surprised. Then her face softens, and she nods to herself. “… Good.”

They sit in silence a while longer until Matthew’s claws start clicking against the metal perch again. Eyes snapping back to him like a librarian catching a noisy visitor, she asks, “Did you want something else?”

Matthew puffs his little feathered chest, bracing himself for the question he’s been burning to ask. “Do you know why he’s been like that? I don’t mean to snoop or anything, but, err, I’m Dream’s raven. I got to, maybe, know about stuff so I can help out? Like, if he’s in danger or something, I’d like to know.”

She halts, breathes in, then sighs. “He is not in danger, and he hasn’t confided in me. If he had told me and not you, I wouldn't break his trust by sharing with you.”

“Ah, okay, well, no, that’s fair, I guess.”

He’s still shuffling on his feet, now in tune with disappointment. “I guess I’ll—” he starts, but is interrupted by Lucienne’s voice.

“However, I have an inkling as to what might have happened.”

“Oh yeah?”

She takes too long to answer, and getting restless, he flies to perch on her chair’s armrest, ready to give his best impression of a begging cat if that’s what it takes. “Come on, spill the beans. You can’t tease a big reveal and drop it like that. You sound like a Marvel post-credit scene, you’re killing me, Lush.”

She chuckles softly, shaking her head. “I believe it may have something to do with a friend of his.”

“He’s got a friend?” he croaks, perhaps too surprised, for Lucienne raises an eyebrow. He rushes to correct himself. “Not to be disrespectful or anything, but he’s not got a very, uh, friendly personality. I mean, he’s nice enough with us. Sometimes. But how did that happen? Do I know them? Are they here?”

“He is not in the Dreaming. Hob Gadling belongs to the Waking.”

“Oh, it’s the guy, isn’t it? The guy from the pub. And the flat. And, yeah, I guess it makes sense they’d be friends; they met quite a few times. I just assumed it was some kind of business, like, made sense, you know. Usually, it’s how—wait, what did you say his name was? Hob? Never heard that one.”

“An old nickname. Several hundred years old, to be more accurate.”

“Yeah, well, he must be an interesting fellow if he caught the boss’s attention—wait, when you say several hundred years, you don’t mean… it’s not just an old nickname, is it? Please don’t tell me the dude is actually that old.”

“He is. I don’t know his exact age, but considering the number of centennial meetings, I’d wager he is around 600 years old, yes.”

“Centennial what?”

“Our Lord meets with one Hob Gadling every century. Or so it was the case. We understand this schedule has recently changed.”

“Holy shit. Leave it to the boss to have the weirdest friendship in all of existence. Well, if they’ve been meeting more often, shouldn’t he be, like, in a good mood?”

“He has been. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“...Yes? I don’t know. He’s been okay, I guess. Well, before it all went to shite.”

She sighs.

“Flowers.”

“What about flowers?”

Lucienne takes out a book, revealing pressed roses inside.

“Pressing flowers, Lush? A new hobby?” Matthew asks.

“I’ve been finding them in the castle. In the library. Growing unbidden, in secret places. Barely noticeable for now, but it’s happened before. If the sun comes back, and it seems like the clouds might be dissipating, then they’ll start growing everywhere.”

“I, yeah, I mean, I guess it’s nice that we get spring here, although with all this rain they’re probably all—oh. The flowers are like the rain. They, like, mean something, don’t they? What is it?”

Lucienne raises an eyebrow at him, waiting patiently with a knowing look. Matthew suddenly caws in realization.

“The boss has a crush!”

She immediately returns to her reading, dismissing him with a swift, “I wouldn't dare comment.”

He knows that in Lucienne’s talk, it means nothing but a resounding yes.

“Damn,” he mutters, thinking. “Daaaamn.” He pauses before asking, “Do you think they had a lover’s spat?”

She seems to mull over her response, her eyes stuck on the page, her lips thinning in consideration. Then, she slowly closes her book without making a noise and places it in her lap. She turns to him, and he starts feeling nervous. Solemnly, in a soft, confidential tone, she tells him:

“Our Lord has had some… unfortunate, if not downright tragic, forays into love before. It’s not the first time we’ve had such wretched weather. He will need our support in these times—not our gossip.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. No more questions. Damn. That dude must be something special to get the attention of Dream of the Endless, though, right? I kinda want to meet him. And pluck his eyeballs out if he’s responsible for this rain.”

She chuckles softly, readjusting her glasses with practiced ease.

“I would advise against it. You know the fate of the last denizen of the Dreaming who felt inclined to prey on dreamers’ eyes.”

“Ouch, yes, true. But if he hurt the boss? I’ll give it a shot.”

She smiles a patient, knowing smile at him, and he ruffles his feathers, all bravado and no thought. She shakes her head softly and resumes her reading. Matthew remains, climbing atop the back of the chair to sneak a read from behind her shoulder. As rays of the sun break through the clouds, they traverse the arched windows to fall on them. It is peaceful for a while.

And it remains so until the Dream Lord himself arrives in the library and announces:

“Lucienne, I will be leaving shortly.”

She raises her eyes in consideration, taking in his solemn demeanor, and suggests innocently:

“To the Waking, my Lord?”

He looks wistful, and both she and Matthew wait with bated breath for his answer.

“To Hell.”

“Again?!” Matthew caws indignantly.

And so the events continue to unfurl, as they did, until, finally, the time comes to visit the Waking. Their Lord has accomplished much in these last months. The Dreaming is now bursting at the seams with flowers, set in eternal spring.

“Lucienne,” he starts, and she nods, reading his intention in the slight awkwardness of his posture, the tentative happiness that struggles to rise from his stony expression.

“You’re going to the Waking,” she says, not asking.

A small smile graces his lips at last.

“Indeed. I count on you to watch over things in my absence. I should return in a day.”

“Of course, my Lord.” As he takes hold of his sand and prepares to leave, she adds, “Please do greet Hob Gadling from me.”

He stops, then slowly nods in her direction. They exchange a commiserative gaze, and then Dream disappears in a swirl of sand.

Lucienne goes back to her duties. She starts planning out the day. Some nightmares have been unruly, quite unsettled by the charming weather and the beautiful flowers, which they claim are detrimental to their “whole vibe.” The most recent nightmares had such interesting expressions, anchored in the Waking’s changing times. If only for this, it was good to see her Lord more connected to the Waking. In the past, she had feared for him whenever he left the realm—and if she still did, to some extent, worry—she considered it part of her job, for few beings knew him quite like she did. Now, she knew perhaps this wasn’t true anymore, and she felt warmth and relief at the knowledge. She had, of course, investigated the man, and, though some parts of his long life inspired disdain, he had most definitely changed over the years. His dedication to her Lord was evident through his actions and his dreams. She tried to avoid reading too much into them—it felt quite inappropriate.

Lucienne is about to leave the library and go about her duties for the day when, unexpectedly, sand rises back to where Dream had disappeared not long before. She frowns. It is abnormal for her Lord to return so soon after leaving. She braces herself for a storm. Something must have gone wrong.

She is proven correct when faced with a wide-eyed, terrible-looking Lord Morpheus: his appearance is disrupted, the pretense of humanity but an empty shell from which dark power oozes. His eyes have regained their natural state, galaxies swirling wildly in them.

“My Lord?”

“Lucienne. I need to look at Hob Gadling’s books.”

She’s usually quick on her feet, but the surprise halts her step, and Dream's voice thunders imperiously:

“Ñ̶̩̲͉̠͓̰̹̞̥̽͂͋́̄̅̍̊̈́̂͆̑̊̑ͅͅo̵͍̼̠̖̪̦̤̟̪͇̠͂̃̽͜͜ͅͅẇ̷̺̫̻̥̦͛̑̀̑̅̂́̈̇́̍̕̚.̷̩̰̜͍̯̯͉̗̀͑̄́̕.”

#Dreamling #hob x dream #hob x morpheus #dream of the endless #the sandman #morpheus #the sandman fanart #dreamling fanart

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