#I gazed upon this dream gif and I lost my mind over his characterisation all over again

[hotcocoabuns]

I think this was the first shot that subverted the idea I was getting of Dream’s character in the show. He’d seemed so still, like a statue. Beautiful, never meant to be touched. It felt as if simply laying your eyes upon him would be sacrilegious.

Presenting a little meta and character analysis of Morpheus in this scene from the first episode of The Sandman in the shape of a drabble. Feat. Dream’s Tears, Jessamy-oops-she’s-dead-now, and Roderick and Alex Burgess’ horrible decisions.

By me.

He looked like coiled rage, cold disdain, barely suppressed power. Unfathomable and of incomprehensible nature. Everything that was being done to him—the kidnapping, the disposal of his clothing, the theft of his tools, the humiliation—, gave me the sensation that what they were doing was foolish. Crazy. That they couldn’t even begin to comprehend the severity of their actions. Measly little humans trying to cover the sun with the tip of a finger. Trapping that which is more eternal than holy.

An attempt to contain the uncontainable, control the uncontrollable, inhibit that which cannot (should not) be inhibited. They were being stupid. Maybe their ignorance would spare them from the worst of the Dreamlord’s fury, but with each passing day their sins only bred.

It striked me as nothing but a matter of time. Not an if, but a when. And I’m sure it felt that way for Morpheus too. He’d break out of this greed-made, crystalline prison, bring vengeance upon his captors, recover his scattered tools, and carry on with his duties.

Like nothing happened. Here, Morpheus’ patience is deadly, maddeningly so. He is in no rush in front of them. He outright refuses to be. He betrays nothing. Gives nothing. Not a hitch in his breathing, nor a twitch of his eye, nor a parting of his mouth.

Immutable. Although he’s caged like the sweetest songbird that’s been captured only for its (jailer) master. Although the dreamers and the dreams and the nightmares call out to him. Even if they believe he has abandoned them, left them to fend for themselves.

He remains. Until Jessamy (loyal, good-natured Jessamy) decides she’s taking her chances. And what chances they are. She’s done waiting around for these greedy humans to slip. To mess up the well-oiled machine they’ve become to maintain the Lord of the Dreaming ensnared.

Even for Morpheus to conjure the help of his siblings, as inconceivable as that is. Eons could’ve passed them by. Earth could’ve collapsed in on itself, before he’d do anything of the sort. But hope is a mighty thing, and hope gets you to dream.

(Even of the impossible. Of the absurd.)

So, she glided.

She glided through the Burgess Estate, caused a distraction, reached her Lord. And THAT’S where everything changes. There, in those few moments, an emotion betrays the impassive face concealed behind hefty metal bars, holding his prison together.

Hope is contagious, and so are the emotions that accompany it. Morpheus stirs—not only stirs; stands. On his own two feet, after decades of waiting, waiting, waiting, ever vigilant—, and is moved. He looks up at Jessamy, his friend, his companion. She wouldn’t leave him.

Wouldn’t cast him aside. He smiles. There she is; she’s pecking on layer upon layer, impenetrable. They both know she can’t get through them. He knows well when efforts are gone to waste, and this is one of those occasions. Yet, there is comfort in her presence.

(In knowing he’s the one that hasn’t been abandoned.

Forgotten.)

Then, there’s a blast. Blinding, cruel. It’s so sudden, so loud, it makes him flinch. Blood, there is blood and innards and shards of bone splattered against his glass contraption. Outside, out of reach.

For a moment, it appears that Morpheus does not comprehend what’s happened. His eyes dart around, confused, disbelieving. That was a shot, a shot fired.

Then, oh.

Oh.

It’s Jessamy crumpled on the floor. It’s her organs sprayed on the glass, on the floor. Jessamy’s been shot.

Everything changes, in a second. Morpheus, unmoving, severe, statuesque-

cries.

His tears cling to his eyelashes, they wet his eyes, slide down the length of his nose, gather and slip off his Cupid’s bow.

He looks down, the crumpled shape of Jessamy being taken away, and he fixes the Burgess fledgling with a stare more frigid than the Antarctic itself. Everything’s changed now. Alex has sealed his fate. Morpheus rarely forgives. He does not forget.

This is personal now.

There shall be no rest for the wicked, and he’s going to make sure of it.