She/Her. INTP. 29 @jimwackthesecond - Tumblr Blog

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐗.]

summary: "I heard you."

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 9.2k+

warnings: angsty, they're truly pining in this one ngl, Dream is still Dream (trying, but lowkey failing) ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

notes: whose ready for that reunion, huh? Ngl, I struggled with writing this chapter if only because I'm so used to writing original content. It was weird trying to adapt the show timeline without bogging down the pace or doing a beat-for-beat recount (which would have been tedious), so I hope you liked the uneasy medium I chose instead.

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART TEN: YEAR 1021 II

His realm. Ruins.

Everywhere Morpheus turns his attention, decay and ash greet him on his traipse to the castle. Time is cruel. What he has built over the years—with devotion, care, and contentment—has broken down to nothing in a hundred years he was gone.

These walls, physical and otherwise, keeping so many unassailable, have stood for thousands of years. Since the dawn of all creation, the Dreaming had been a haven.

Now, it is barely standing.

Crumbled stone and dust. Grey, drab surroundings devoid of colour, gutted of resplendence that once coursed so freely here. His Dreaming, his home, his beautiful treasure. The weight inside his chest is unbearable. Scratchy and thorned, each image bites into his mind, snagging and burrowing there. He will carry this weight until his end. This is a failure; fundamental, wretched, inescapable.

His subjects have fled. Abandoned the Dreaming—and him—in droves. Not even his siblings have sought him out.

You love them, but you don’t see them.

“You may be correct about your siblings not arriving to your aid, Lord. But someone else did. Someone searched for you. Rather ardently, I might add.”

Morpheus raises his head, pain knotting his throat, his hands clasped while he perches on a fragmented staircase.

“Who?”

Lucienne’s expression pinches, eyeing him over her glasses as if it should be obvious. But if not his family, then—

“My Lord, surely you can think of someone who cares for you enough to do so?” Hearing no response, his librarian persists, “Someone who has stood by your side no matter what. I confess it was most perplexing to hear your tale, for I had assumed your return was thanks to—”

“Lucienne. This lead is different. I can feel—”

That voice.

A figure clad in black rounds the corner, and instinct, pulsing and devastating, jerks his body upwards. Morpheus stands, but his knees hold a mortal’s frailty. Had he not surmised you lost to him? Gone forever?

Wanderer.

Hello, stardust.

So long—it had been so long. Not two centuries have passed since he’d last seen you—a mere drop to an Endless such as him, yet it feels like lifetimes have flown by. All those years, wasted. Some foolishly given away, others stolen. Just once, the passage of time is devastating. Because this time, Morpheus bears the full brunt of his loss.

I call upon Dream of the Endless. Answer my call, Dream Lord, for you are sworn.

There had been a call, a plea, a dream echoing inside his barren, shadowed prison. And he failed—he failed to answer. What is he if not Lord of unanswered dreams and hopes? What is his purpose if the one whose call he’s waited for centuries does not receive an answer?

You teeter to a sudden stop, gawking; it’s as if your body has transformed into an obelisk. Midnight flows and encloses your figure and—

It is but a coat now, his power long since faded, but it is his. Sown into being from nothing, shaped by his will, by his hand alone, tailored to fit a different form now. Repurposed for holding, touching, lingering on your skin—

A star erupts inside his chest, boiling through him, and the sheer, scalding power steals his breath.

Thousand words tangle on his tongue; a thousand stories, reasons, curses and pleas. Yet, only one word leaves Morpheus, his hand seeking, even if his tongue would not verbalise the want, the need:

“Wanderer.”

Hot, treacherous power sparks through the air, igniting from within you where that pesky curse dwells, and then you’re gone with a thunderous crack. Fragments once more. Continuously slipping through his grasp.

His breath escapes short and tight. His hand lowers back to his side. His skin itches and an invisible tremor shakes his fingers—one Lucienne would miss, but Morpheus senses with shameful intimacy.

Undone by sight alone. Broken apart into no more than sand and sea foam.

Raw instinct exhorts him to go after you, but he cannot. Unlike other mortals, you do not dream. There are no photographs for him to use for locating you, and his pebble—

Is it still in your possession? Or have you cast it aside? Forgotten your bond? He could place no blame if you had. But the need to know is blistering. He permits no shadow of irresolution to show. This is to be an exercise in patience, duty over impulse.

“Lucienne, why was Wanderer here?” he questions softly instead.

His librarian gapes for a second before composing herself, her mouth pressing into a tight line.

“Shortly after you vanished, Wanderer returned.” Lucienne’s account washes over him while his stare remains glued to the vacant spot where the residue of dark power lingers. “For decades, she searched for you. For decades she helped to hold the realm together in your absence. Scoured the waking world and all the realms in between and at a great personal cost.”

Oh.

Morpheus’ head sinks to the side, half-turning.

Lucienne strides several steps closer, resolute and wonderfully brave despite her subdued nature. “I implore you to reconsider further punishment, Lord.”

A soft sound bubbles in his throat. “Punishment?” The word is dark silk blanketing damage. His damage. “Do you believe I seek to punish? No, Lucienne.”

With a breath, his shoulders straighten, and his fingers uncurl. The steadiness with which Morpheus has stood for centuries makes a much-welcomed return. “I must recover my tools. Then, I shall seek out Wanderer once more. There is much that remains unsaid between us.”

Everything. Too much.

But first, he must convalesce. Retrieve what was once stolen from him. Just moments prior, Morpheus had been too weak to sense your entry into the Dreaming. He could once do it without conscious thought.

Lucienne bows her head. “Yes, Lord.”

Restless, he calls, “Lucienne?” A beat. Perhaps it would be kinder not to ask. “Wanderer looked…”

The librarian might not be in direct sight, but Morpheus senses how deeply his uncharacteristic falter startles her.

Lucienne’s hands clasp behind her back. “Sick, yes.” There is grim verity about her tone, her bearing. “I’m afraid such is the price for devotion, sir. Wanderer was not afraid to pay it on your behalf. Not even after the banishment.”

.

The shores of the Dreaming have transformed in his absence. It would seem nothing in his kingdom remains untouched. Lifeless, desolate, no longer comforting. Once encompassing dark has become devouring, lonely darkness.

“I do not require a minder,” he reminds stiffly. “I’m Dream of the Endless.”

Lucienne is ever loyal and present at his back, and Morpheus hears her concern. He understands the reluctance to permit solo travel after what transpired, but he is the Endless. What happened with Burgess will never be allowed to happen again.

“Yes, and Dream of the Endless always has a raven,” Lucienne insists.

Morpheus halts, hesitance locking him in place before he finds his voice, “Jessamy was the last.”

It is then, on distant shores, that a realisation strikes Morpheus. Or, rather, an absence. Something he should be able to view even from his location, unfailingly visible from the docks.

“The Wanderer Island.” The name drags from his throat with hoarse reluctance because, deep down, the answer is already evident. “What happened?”

Where once he could see the island piercing the horizon, there’s now nothing but hollow blackness. A place where so many had journeyed in their dreams—with increasing frequency over the centuries—is gone.

Lucienne’s words come out tired and heavy, and in them, Morpheus hears further proof of how terribly he’s failed them. “Much like the rest of the realm, in your absence, the island broke apart and sunk, sir. It was the last to go.”

“Did Wanderer witness it?”

His inquiry is barely audible. So much so that Morpheus figures Lucienne did not hear him at all, but when her answer does reach him, it’s worse than he expected: “Yes. Mervyn and I discovered her here one evening, crying. The island was gone. I know not why, but Wanderer would come to the pier every evening and watch the sunset alone.”

Because we used to sit side by side, she and I, and speak no words, for we had no need for them. Only her breath and mine. Because the island sunk while Wanderer waited for me to return to her.

And it is my fault.

.

“I need your help.”

Hob’s reaction is instantaneous, “Anything.”

He adjusts the strap of his leather satchel as he heads towards you, carefully noting your shaken, fidgety demeanour. The university hallways are quiet this evening, and Hob gently grasps your elbow in his, leading you with him.

“Can I stay with you?” you blurt out, hot and cold all over. Sweat soaks your clothes, but you manage to form words, wobbly as they are. “Just for a day or—”

“However long you need,” Hob interjects placidly. He guides you outside, adding a thoughtful, “Or however long the curse allows you, but yes, you can always stay. Are you alright?”

The chilly wind bites your cheeks, storm clouds brewing in the distance. No stars or moon tonight, only charged heaviness. Your mouth is so dry your tongue is little more than paper.

“He’s back.” Your words come out as a croak. Words jumble inside your head, but Hob patiently nudges you towards a lamplit street. “Dream. I… I don’t know how, but… he might come after me. I broke his law and…”

Hob tenses.

“You’re joking, right? Because ha ha ha.” His timbre bleeds with urgency and solemn disbelief all at once. When you don’t laugh, only stare at him, unblinking and trembling, Hob exhales. “Oh God, you’re serious. Well, he certainly has swell timing, doesn’t he?”

Your chuckle sounds strangled in your ears. “Consider me a Faerie right now. I can’t lie.”

“And fae are real.” A muffled huff leaves Hob. The immortal shrugs, accepting this new knowledge as quickly as he did your curse. “Because, of course, they are. Next, you’ll tell me leprechauns are real, too.”

You could hug him for what he’s doing. Gratitude twines through your heart as you lean into him, solid and warm, settling your quaking knees. “Well—”

“No,” Hob cuts off, dismayed. “Don’t. I don’t want to know.”

He asks you on the way back to his flat anyway.

.

By late evening the weather takes a turn for the worst. Rain falls in deafening, heavy sheets, drenching every available surface. Gutters overflow as you cut through bleak London streets. Despite horrid weather, people bustle around, and it’s an effort to avoid them. You lower the umbrella Hob had allowed you to borrow, stepping under a carved stone arch. The apartment complex is mainly blackened windows and no visible movement at an hour this late, but it doesn't deter you.

You’re certain Johanna is not going to mind a late-night visit. You tried calling multiple times. But at her failure to answer, you had set out to her office despite Hob’s instance that you should wait till morning. Your friend had been inaudible mutters and a deep-set frown since you trudged back to his flat above the pub. Something about annoying Endless, and no one is hurting you in my flat. He can bugger off.

Your finger digs into the door buzzer until there’s a crack on the other side, “What?”

“It’s me, Constantine.”

A pause. “Now’s not a great time. Come back tomorrow.”

Is she with someone? You buzz her again, leaning closer to the speaker.

“Let me in.” Something flutters in your peripheral, and instinctively, you turn towards it, “We need to… never mind.”

A shape steps from the shadows, mouth parted, devouring you where you stand. Dream of the Endless dons a shorter version of your coat, his raven hair as dishevelled and wild as you remember it, his skin pale and translucent, his features ethereal and powerful despite their gentleness. Nearly two centuries have done nothing to dampen his distinctive handsomeness.

“Wanderer.”

The curse consolidates inside your chest, and you jerk—

Dream’s hand snaps around your wrist, shackling you to him. At once, the curse buckles, frizzling under the presence and will of an Endless. Dream’s body brushes against yours, and you suck in a pained breath, your wide-eyed stare snapping to him. Dream pours over your features with such burning intent even his searing touch on your chilled skin is slow to register.

“How—”

His response is instant, knowing. “You always move your body left when you are about to jump.” He tilts closer, his voice so achingly familiar, the deep rumble holds you close, embraces you. Each hushed word kisses you all over. “A thousand years, do you truly believe I do not know you?”

Indignation wells in your chest. “That goes both ways, Lord Morpheus. How did you find me?”

You tug your hand back, but it takes two attempts before he relinquishes his hold. Needle stab your heart. There’s horror at what he might do for your waywardness, but cutting through the terror is…

You’ve missed him. So dearly, so fiercely—that having him this close, unchanged in his imposing presence and dour countenance, melts something inside you. You’ve spent decades searching for his face in everybody. Seeking him in crowds and alleys, in each corner of this world. You bled and suffered to get him back. It’s surreal to have him this close again.

A dream; a cruel, horrible, seductive dream.

“It would seem Fates keep drawing us together, you and I.” There is no wrath on Dream’s face, not unlike the last time you spoke, not unlike you expected. He’s drinking you in, and against your better judgement, you do the same. “I needed not to search for you. We found each other.”

What are the chances? In this fathomless cosmos, between hundreds of dimensions, to find each other here. In a rainy, sleepy city. Destiny is no doubt sitting somewhere in his realm, mutely delighting at seeing this written in his book. All things pass as they are meant to pass.

“I prefer my mind intact, so I’ll make this short,” you speak before he can say anything else, rushing over your thudding heart. “It was a mistake coming to the Dreaming in your absence. I recognise it as much. You banished me; I shouldn’t have used your absence for my gain. I won’t bother you again. You have my word.”

“I heard you.”

Your heart stutters, all thoughts and rehearsed sentences evaporating.

A breath slips past your lips with a quiet, “What?”

Your back brushes against the concrete wall, yet he seems closer and closer with each blink.

“I heard you call for me. Yet I could not answer your plea. I was imprisoned. You sounded in pain and then nothing.” Each word comes out fainter and fainter. Each sentence chosen with the same circumspect care you’ve come to associate with him. “For decades, I knew no peace, wondering what might have befallen you to call for me finally. Only to learn, upon my return, that you alone searched for me. Aided my realm when no one else would. Yet, your conclusion upon our reunion is to fear punishment? Do you honestly believe me so cruel?”

Does he need to ask?

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Dream shrinks backwards, his expression stuttering at your pained, breathy reply. “Was it not you who banished me? All because I disagreed with you? You threw away eight hundred and fifty years of us without hearing my side. Where was your trust in me?”

Dream moves back a step, turning away from you. For a moment, there’s nothing but his proud profile, inky shadows, and roaring downpour. Pain bleeds fresh, and your features crumple. You tuck your face in the collar of your black coat—his black coat, you correct yourself immediately. Even this isn’t yours. Neither is he.

“I was… wrong to do what I did.”

Your head jerks towards him. Dream Lord hesitates, visibly holding himself back, searching for words you know all too well after a thousand years, are all but unknown to him.

“I accept that now,” he continues tightly, uncomfortable and stiff. “I should have paid closer attention. Centuries ago, I assumed Desire chose Prodigal and you for their little game to spite me, but I never considered Desire picked my younger brother for a reason. Perhaps I was too blind to see how true your feelings for him were. To defend his whereabouts so fiercely, you must care for him a great deal.”

I could make you desire anything… even a kiss.

A dumbfounded grimace contorts your mouth. Your clenched fists tremble at your sides from the urge to hit him.

“Oh, Maker. I don’t believe it.” You stagger several strides to the right, breathing hard. “You think I didn't tell you because I’m in love with Destruction?”

“It would be logical—”

You pivot on your heels, nostrils flaring.

“Yes, I love Destruction. I love him a great deal.” Something flashes through Dream’s eyes at your controlled exclamation; crushed glass and ice, distant and… hurt. “But not romantically. Don’t you get it? No, you don't, do you? You look, but you still don’t see.”

Your feet carry you towards him. Dream straightens at your proximity. Bracing for more lashing words, perhaps, but you’re simply too jaded. From this existence, from him. “Over a thousand years cursed. Humiliated, maimed, haunted, stuck in Hell, Delirium’s realm, Despair’s realm. Before you, there was no hope for me. I told you what I… but what you did… what you did hurt the most.”

Briefly, you see something close to despair paint his striking features; too fleeting, then hidden.

“What you took from me…” Your words splinter, cracking around each syllable, an agony laid bare at the altar of your relationship. Your hand settles gently on his chest. Captured. For a hundred years. What did he go through? Right now, he’s real. Tangible beneath your hand. There’s an inordinate urge to grab his coat in your hands, pull him close, and breathe him in. Your hand drops away. “I just wanted to be with you. I would have stayed by your side forever if only you asked.”

Dream’s features are unreadable; all emotion wiped clean. His glassy gaze scorches into you, but you encounter no answers or comfort there. You rotate your head away from him, licking your wobbling lips once.

He edges closer, cautious. “Let me make this right.”

Ignoring the deep, low request, you bite out, “Why are you here?”

“Because my tools were stolen from me when I was captured. My helm, my ruby, and my sand. Without them, I cannot rebuild the Dreaming.”

You watch the rain while he watches you.

Shoving your hands in your pockets, you hunch your shoulders. “Fine. I’ll help you find them if I can.”

“I did not ask for aid.”

Is he trying to insult you by implying he would need to beg for help? Does he assume the Dreaming means so little to you?

“You never needed to,” you say, shifting back to face him, your jaw set. “I’m not doing this for you, Lord Morpheus, but for them. All those dreams and nightmares without a home because they feared you abandoned them.”

Dream’s gaze drops to the ground. Is it guilt? Shame? You’re not sure. It’s an unfamiliar shade on him.

Not waiting for a response, you head for the door, buzzing the button twice more.

“But not you.”

You stop dead at his assertion. Your back remains to him. Yet Dream Lord’s words hold their power; a chain around your foot, an anchor in the bed of your heart.

“You stayed,” Dream continues. “You searched even after I banished you. Why?”

Why indeed. Is he hopeful or too blind to see? You no longer care to find out which.

“If you need to ask, you don’t deserve the answer.”

You pull on the door, and this time it opens.

.

Johanna’s glower is fierce enough to make you bite back a grin. You’ve glimpsed plenty of such expressions mirrored on Edward’s face in the past. The similarities are difficult to overlook. Though they’re undoubtedly distinct, they are eerily alike in certain aspects.

“I can’t believe you were right,” she mutters peevishly.

She’s said it twice in the past ten minutes.

“Just keep searching,” you say instead.

You've got 99 problems, and all of them dreams—

This time, you’re the one left scowling, pointedly ignoring the silent Endless lingering in the corner of the room and the droning radio. Johanna turned it on accidentally while searching for a light switch, and it hasn’t stopped playing songs that prickle your neck since.

“I’ll check the other room,” Johanna declares, straightening. Her dark stare slides to you briefly. Whether it’s because she senses the suffocating tension between you and the other occupant in the room or simply because she’s more caring than she lets on, she asks, “Are you gonna be alright?”

We all are living in a dream, but life ain’t what it seems—

Grinding your teeth until your temples throb, you offer her a jerky nod. Johanna chews on her inner cheek for a moment, casting a warning glare Dream’s way before she heads for the adjoined room.

How Dream’s sand pouch came into her possession, you don’t know or care to know. All you care about is locating it.

Johanna’s departure leaves behind a silence that borders on unbearable. Rifling through papers, you consider your options. Bite the bullet and talk, or wait and see how long until Dream notices the radio acting up.

Forcing an exhale between clenched teeth, you venture, “Over a hundred years in captivity is a lot. How are you?”

“Fine.”

Lovely. You’re not sure what you envisioned. A heartfelt conversation where you share your woes? Right.

“I’m sorry about Jessamy.” This attempt is more subdued, more sorrowful. “I was trying to locate her when I heard the news.”

Johanna’s office remains quiet and dimly lit. If you couldn’t sense him in the room, you would assume you were once more alone. You haven’t realised you ceased your search until you’re left staring at your hands flat on the table.

“You don’t have to lie,” you whisper, pushing yourself away and turning to face him. “No one can be captured for so long without being affected, not even you. That’s a lot of time to think.”

Hey now, hey now, don't dream it's over—

Grimacing, you march towards the other table across the cramped room.

“I did,” comes Dream Lord’s low declaration. “Think.”

Documents and notes smear together. “Yeah? And what did great Lord Morpheus think about during his captivity?”

“You.” A beat. “Every day.”

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream—

An invisible hand wraps around your throat, strangling you. Oxygen escapes your lungs but it’s no better than knives dragging down your windpipe. Your knuckles bulge beneath your skin, your grip on the table’s edge unsteady.

“The radio is broken,” you choke out, veering towards it.

You press the off button, glaring when stations instead flip repeatedly.

Sweet dreams are made of this—

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream—

I spend these waking hours looking for the Sandman—we're waiting for the Sandman, but he never hears the call—

Anger blinds you. You reach for the capable, yanking on it. Once, twice.

We'll begin… with a spin, travelling in the world of my creation. What we'll see will defy explanation—

You tear the cable out, panting, hiding your shaking hands. The cord falls to the ground, and you gasp loudly in the now too silent office.

“Wanderer.”

You hold back a cringe at the deliberate way Dream Lord articulates your title.

“Don’t bother,” you snip back.

This time, Dream moves physically in your direction. Not through the fabric of the Worlds but physically announcing his arrival. “Those songs.”

You could lie. It’s the first and most overpowering instinct. Spin him a tale, convince him it’s chance, coincidence.

Shutting your eyes, you heave the heaviest sigh you’ve mustered up in decades.

“When you disappeared, I tried everything. I know you’re not a God.” Dream pauses before you, his black coat skimming against yours, listening intently. “Your existence doesn't depend on worship or prayer. But you’re the King of Dreams. I thought—I figured if I inspired stories and songs about you, the word would spread. Maybe you’d be able to sense that you’re not forgotten. Maybe all that inspiration would reach you somehow. Help you. I couldn’t do it myself because the curse would destroy them, but I could inspire others to do it for me.”

Dream speaks no words or shows any outwards reactions—he simply reaches forward until the back of his fingers brush over your cheek. One knuckle, two, the featherlight touch skims over your skin, burning and mangling your insides. Those cold, ancient eyes shine with some potent emotion you’ve only caught traces of in the past. Never there long enough for you to examine closer. This time, he doesn’t hide. This time it’s his fingers on your cheek.

The door rips open behind you, and Dream’s touch vanishes.

“I know where the pouch is. You two ready to go?” Johanna asks.

Neither of you replies.

.

Leaning into the cold, coarse stone wall, you survey the raging storm. Better than acknowledging the man standing opposite to you. Johanna had served as an excellent buffer between you on your journey here, snarky and unafraid to throw barbed words or sass back at the Endless.

She’s bold in a way most Constantines you’ve met tend to be. Commendable trait, but a dangerous one. You’ve learned it’s about choosing when and how to present yourself. There are beings out there who make torture into a game. Delight in it, too. It’s always wiser to err on the side of caution until limits arise.

Yet you would welcome Johanna’s presence now. While she went upstairs to visit her ex-girlfriend to make amends and hopefully retrieve Dream’s pouch, you can’t imagine a worse situation she could have left you in.

“I must recover my tools first but return to the Dreaming, Wanderer. You belong there.”

You contemplate not answering. But what would it achieve? You’re not children. How far would this silent act take you?

Instead, you choose to remind him of your stark reality: “You banished me, Lord.”

“I void the banishment.”

You blink at his rapid edict. As if those words had been sitting behind his teeth this entire time.

You cast a dubious glance Dream’s way, your arms crossing over your chest. “Just like that?”

He exhales but one word over the rushing rain, “Yes.”

That somehow makes it worse. No relief or happiness accompanies this pardon. How many times had you desperately wished for him to lift his merciless decree? Only a tiny, pained whisper remains deep in the recess of your mind, calling out a weak why did you do it in the first place?

“Whims of the Endless,” you conclude. “Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised.”

It’s not fair to say such a thing. The Endless have been the closest you’ve come to an actual family in the last millennium. Even when you’re intimately aware it’s not sentiment returned. There is a divide between you and the Endless that can never be traversed. They exist outside the bounds of mortal comprehension, and you’re still a cursed mortal.

Perhaps Dream reads this defeat in you, pulls it from the weary slant of your mouth or the despondent creases around your eyes. In the way shadows prop you up rather than you standing inside them.

It’s been a long night, a long century. It will take time to learn how to relax around him again and stop yourself from instinctively flinching whenever he reaches for you.

“I do not wish to be parted from you. Not due to my past actions.”

Utter, uncrackable steel rings through every carefully punctuated vowel. Dream peers at you, unblinking, his hands in his pockets. “Things are different now. I am different. If you allow me, I would like to prove it to you.”

Goosebumps skitter across your flesh. You’re uncertain how to react, what to say, if anything. He is different just in this single night, but…

It doesn’t erase his past actions.

Rustling wings interrupt your charged eye contact. A raven slants its head in your direction, hopping on its feet.

“Sorry to interrupt, Boss. Uh, Lady Dream.”

That jolt you. “I’m not—”

“Wanderer is—”

You both look at each other, both falling silent. Uneasy seconds slither past, and you peer down at the raven, who slides his attention from Dream to you and then back again.

“I’m not Lady of anything. I’m the Wanderer.”

The raven ruffles his feathers, bobbing his head.

“Oh.” Caw. “Well, this is awkward. I’m Matthew.”

Lowering yourself to ground level, you smile at him, inclining your head. “I greet you, Matthew. It’s an honour to meet Dream of the Endless’ raven.”

Caw. Matthew hops towards Dream. “I like her. Can we keep her?”

Dream appears as if he’s fighting back a sigh. “What is it, Matthew?”

“Listen, boss. As once human-now-turned-raven, I just figured I’d warn you. Whatever your friend is doing up there. It’s sure as hell not worrying about your pouch. You’re better off going up there and getting back your stuff personally.”

“He might have a point,” you agree. “You said the helm is in Hell. It’s probably better if I go my way for now. I’ll try to search for leads on the ruby in the meanwhile. Save time.”

“Will you return? Back to the Dreaming?” Dream prompts. Mutely, you rise back to your feet, your smile long since dwindled. “If not for me, then for them.”

Clever, brilliant man. Quite ingenious addition. You’ve refused him plenty in the past, but never them.

“Fine.”

Adjusting the collar, you step towards the awaiting night. Inside, you ball the curse, ripping it by force to obey your will. Pain rakes through your limbs, inflaming your nerves. The more you demand, the steeper the physical toll is each time. At least your pain tolerance after a thousand years of suffering is top-notch.

You’re one foot between dimensions when Dream’s voice snags you. “Wanderer?” Your head slants marginally towards him. “Whatever it is you are doing to control your curse. Cease it. It is hurting you.”

Since when do you care?

You let yourself ripple away without a response.

.

The Dreaming is rebuilding. But it’s a slow, meticulous process. Dream had returned triumphant from his mission to retrieve his tools, as you had anticipated he would. He’s Dream of the Endless. Even without his instruments, his power is far beyond your ken. Or those foolish enough to assume they can procure it for themselves.

You’ve hardly left the Dreaming since, occupied with nonstop repairs and helping returning dreams and nightmares to readjust. Great numbers began returning unannounced once the news spread about Dream’s return. The caste was the first to be repaired and one with the most noticeable reconstructions. The remainder will require a great deal more work. But Morpheus has been relentless about mending the damage his absence had evoked.

Including you two.

He’s been giving you much-needed space. Indeed more breathing room than you had anticipated, but you’ve made it clear you’re only here to help the Dreaming. With no long-term plans to stay or return the next time you depart.

I do not wish to be parted from you.

No matter how sweetly those words make you ache, you can’t be lulled into forgetting the undeniable reality. And the truth is that while you can forgive Dream, there is no denying it will take time to forget how he once stripped you of choice due to his bruised pride.

“So, you’re a bird who was once mortal.”

“So, you’re a mortal cursed to wander for eternity between realms.”

Your mouth curves into a reluctant grin. “Fair point. How did you become a raven?”

You’ve grown rather fond of Dream’s new raven in the short weeks you’ve known one another. After Jessamy, you hadn’t expected Dream to permit another raven close so soon.

Matthew rustles his feathers, expertly clinching his talons into your shoulder. Your coat is dense enough to void pain, leaving nothing more than passable pressure behind. While Dream has made no comments about your new apparel, you’ve felt his prickling stares on you multiple times in the passing weeks. You’ve debated removing it now that he’s back, but… you couldn’t quite bear to be parted from it.

“Eh, not sure, to be fair. Just kinda did. Flying is handy. The rest is… weird. But I wasn’t a very good person in my previous life, so this isn’t so bad. Protecting dreamers out there. Caw.”

Your eyebrows come together. “How can you be so certain you weren’t a good person?”

The castle corridors smear past you while your feet carry you towards the throne room.

Matthew mulls it over. “Oh, y’know, call it a hunch. How about you? Why were you cursed?”

His curiosity is innocent, but you, too, think over your answer for several paces. You’ve been a complete unknown even to yourself. There are no glimpses into your past, no before. As if it had been so thoroughly wiped, not even a shadow remains. Whatever or whoever you were before assuming your title is lost. You’ve constructed yourself from nothing. Cracked, riddled with human impulses and weakness, driven by emotion, but not all bad.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” It’s the truth. Except for that stray moment in Johanna’s office, there’s been no inkling for centuries. “But I don’t think I was a very good person, either.”

Matthew readjusts himself on your shoulder, and you hold your hand over him so he can brace himself. “Well, you’ve changed,” he says conversationally. “We all do. Second chance and all that.”

A certain Dream Lord springs to mind at the raven’s words. Are we cemented into who we’re destined to be, or is there room for permanent and meaningful change? Dream is trying. Those years locked away have altered something. You want to believe him again, but it’s not so straightforward.

Eventually, you settle on a halfhearted, “You’re right.”

You’re nearly at the throne room when Dream’s throaty words slice through you, stopping you dead in your tracks.

“—The Corinthian.”

Your heart catapults to your throat. Dream’s head slants in your direction. Lucienne follows suit. They both eye you closely, but you don’t let anything show coming to a gradual stop between them.

“Are you aware he is out there?” Dream wonders. Ice lingers in his mild tone. “Feeding on the dreamers he was meant to serve.”

You’ve never stopped being aware of the Corinthian.

“Yes. I tried to seek him out in the waking world,” you say, swallowing thickly. Searching for more words, you further admit, “To bring him back. But I didn’t have much luck tracking him down.”

Over a century. All those people. You don’t dare to admit the true extent of Corinthian’s cruelty. Dream would spare no mercy to his nightmare if he knew. And all these years—all those lonely, painful years—you’ve been stuck one step behind, unable to save those Corinthian has unjustly slaughtered. He wasn’t trying to hide. He was sending a message. One you couldn’t bare to examine closer.

You’ve failed to stop him. Somehow Corinthian keeps finding ways to stay ahead, and blood coats your hands as much as his.

Your nightmare. The initial realisation had torn you asunder. Corinthian had never been kind or gracious, had never expressed anything more than finely laced contempt for humanity but ripping eyes out? Exhibiting bodies as if he were decorating his surroundings? This wasn’t accidental or self-defence; it was deliberate cruelty. Blood savoured and shed with clear intent.

Once Corinthian had been a part of you as much as Dream, if not more so. The one who has been steadfast by your side. You and I, together. He’s the one you trusted the most and relied on the most. Who knew you, arguably, the best.

You were there to see him come into existence. Smiled at him and guiding his first steps, heard his name being spoken aloud for the first time. He was the first creation Dream ever shared with you. Corinthian would always be the first and most precious. He built a house inside you. A space no one could ever touch or destroy where you house your memories together.

And now he’s painting that house with the blood of innocents.

If you don’t uncover some way to locate the nightmare first, and soon, Dream will find him instead. There will be no mercy then, no second chances. Dream Lord has already taken everything from you once. You’re no longer scared to lose it again. Not if it’s for Corinthian.

“This is my fault. Had I been here, fulfilling my function—”

Dream’s voice rips you from your thoughts, leaving you squinting at his profile.

Lucienne frowns at once. “It was not your fault, my Lord.”

Dream closes the census, his words unusually subdued, “No? Then whose?”

“You didn’t ask to be captured.” Dream stills at your words, nudging his chin slightly in your direction. Guarded hope gazes back at you, so you continue, “Or be held captive for over a century. It wasn’t your fault.”

His shoulders droop slightly, then hoist upwards, less unburdened than moments prior.

Lucienne clears her throat.

“There is yet more news, Lord. There are rumours among the dream folk… of a vortex.”

.

You’ve heard rumours about vortexes in the past. Unprecedented phenomenon no one had an explanation for—not even Dream himself.

A mortal capable of lucid dreaming so powerful they could cross dreams of others, thin and bring down walls between Worlds and eventually destroy the Dreaming. The final part wasn’t particularly comforting to consider, especially when a vortex—the first of this age—has manifested in a young woman called Rose Walker.

While Dream is happy to allow Rose to be, for now, hoping it would attract his missing Major Arcana—Gault, Fiddler’s Green and the Corinthian—to her, you more than share in Lucienne’s concern about the current state of matters.

“Why would Gault sever Jed Walker from the Dreaming?”

Lucienne meets your question with a blunt answer, “He is no ordinary child, is he? He’s Rose Walker’s brother.”

Dream rests seated on the staircase, listening to your confab. You’ve been trying to discover Jed Walker’s whereabouts. Gault was the last nightmare to haunt Jed, after which he had all but vanished both from the waking world but, more unusually, the Dreaming as well.

Muffled footsteps sound behind you, then, “Excuse me. I’m Rose Walker. What do you know about my brother Jed?”

Your attention snaps towards a young, unfamiliar woman standing in the throne room. She leans on the shorter side with smooth, dark skin and round, pleasant features. Rainbow kisses her hair, colours loud and bold across each individual dreadlock. Delirium would love it is your first thought. Your second is that you love it just as much.

Lucienne, who stands beside you, appears utterly baffled by the newcomer's presence. Understandably so, aside from you, she’s likely never witnessed anyone simply stroll into the heart of Dreaming this way. Even you, more often than not, enter the Dreaming on the bridge or close by and enter the castle via the entrance.

Dream stretches to his feet, focusing on the young mortal woman.

“You are welcome here, Rose Walker,” he greets, his voice reverberating.

Rose, in return, looks just as confused as you all do. “Who are you?”

Lucienne straightens. “You have somehow dreamed your way into an audience with Lord Morpheus. The King of Dreams. And now you must go.”

“Lucienne,” Dream cautions.

A small, disgruntled sound leaves Lucienne. “She shouldn’t be here.”

Dream all but glides down the staircase, his curiosity about Rose’s presence piqued. “But I should like her to stay.”

Noting how mutely freaked out Rose appears, you venture closer, bridging the gap with placating slowness.

“I’m Wanderer,” you introduce yourself with a reassuring smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Rose.”

Rose relaxes slightly, but her confusion persists. “Nice to meet you, too. I think. What is this place?”

“It’s called the Dreaming,” you explain smoothly, taking another step closer. You gesture around yourself. “This is where you come when you fall asleep.”

Immediate hope ignites in her dark eyes. “Is my brother here?”

Your smile dims. “No, but we can help. I can help find Jed. In the waking world.”

Rose examines you for a tense beat, searching for something that goes beyond skin deep. They do it often, humans you offer your help to. In some vain hope they can see into your motives, perhaps. Ages have made the populace more chary and unwilling to trust strangers. After witnessing the horrors humanity is prone to unleashing on one another, you don’t blame her. Or anyone else.

“How does that work?” Rose poses. “I thought I was dreaming?”

A faint smile ghosts over your face. “I can travel between dimensions.”

Rose waits for the laugh, for the expected I’m joking, silly, but it doesn’t come. She ducks her head, processing. “Okay. Yeah. That makes sense, I guess. It totally doesn't, but…”

Dream’s deep voice is a hook from behind you, “Much still needs to be done here, Wanderer.”

You don’t look his way.

“You’re the ruler of the realm, Lord Morpheus. Nothing here can’t be done without me.”

His following silence speaks volumes, him choosing to plan with Rose on how to locate her brother, even more so.

.

Dreaming walking is a rare and powerful ability. While realms and dimensions are your domain, dreams remain closed off to you. Therefore, the situation evolves swiftly into a waiting game, anticipating how quickly Rose will be able to navigate to her brother’s dreams under Dream’s guidance.

It also becomes a race on your end. Desperation drives you. Your task is singular and relatively simple: locate Corinthian first. There are spells, Johanna had informed you, leaning over a book written entirely in Latin, Hob by your side. Spells, she insists, that can cloak you, guide you, and locate things or people.

If only you offer something in return.

For the first time in a century, you have a sorcerer on your side you can trust. Once Gault is found, Dream’s attention will inevitably shift towards Corinthian and Fiddler’s Green.

So when you catch sight of the rippling, purple-blue form of Gault in the throne room one afternoon, it stops you dead in your tracks. You’ve spent the day working with Abel and Cain, ignoring their ceaseless arguments, only coming back to the castle to check in with Lucienne on your progress.

Dream brushes past the nightmare silently, heading towards his throne.

“Gault,” you choke out, quelling your unease. “It’s good to see you.”

It’s not contempt Gault regards you with, but something closer to disappointment.

“Is it, Wanderer?” she questions in a half-hiss. “You are more blind than I feared. You have returned to a man who cares not for others. Not even you.”

“Silence.”

The castle trembles at the foundation from the utter, horrible power that rings through Dream’s low baritone. Lucienne winces mutely.

But Gault is as audacious as you recall, stubbornly fierce in her drive. “Do you have any idea what his life is like in the waking world?”

Jed Walker. Your stomach sinks.

“Humans cannot live in dreams,” Dream bites out, nothing but a cutting velvet behind you. “As long as he stayed there, the child had no life nor hope for one.”

“The boy is being abused. He’s suffering.”

Pained understanding sinks its roots into you, already morphing your objectives. Once more, you’ve been selfish, focused only on Corinthian, when Jed Walker, a boy you promised to find, is being hurt somewhere.

“You abused that suffering to build a Dreaming you could rule,” Dream accuses quietly, his words brittle.

Is this what the nightmare did? Controlled Jed’s dreams, separated him from the Dreaming to what?

“I had no wish to rule,” Gault rebukes. “I merely wish to be a Dream and not a Nightmare. To inspire, rather than to frighten.”

Gault was helping. In Jed’s dreams, he could taste happiness, brief as it may be. She could make sure no nightmares haunted the boy. Spare him more misery and dread. Lucienne draws a deep, understanding breath, mutely arriving at the same conclusion.

“That choice is not yours to make,” Dream states icily. “We do not choose to be created. Nor do we choose how we are made.”

Your stomach cramps.

The nightmare nods; muted, swirling lights dancing beneath the shapechanger’s skin. “That is true. But we can change.”

“No.” The Endless speaks, and in that lone word, time is near undone. It is you in Gault’s place, hearing Dream banish you again. “We are, each of us, born with responsibilities. Even I am not free to choose to be other than I am. Nor is anyone.”

An invisible knife slips between your ribs, twisting.

“If that were true,” Gault challenges softly, unbowed. “Why did the other dreams and nightmares choose to leave this place when you had gone away?”

Lucienne cuts in before Dream can react, “Not all of us left, and nearly all have returned. Some believed even when no one else would.”

With the wilful reminder, the nightmare’s attention goes to you. Despite being far older, you feel small under Gault’s percipient gaze. She’s strong and proud and will not plead for clemency, but you almost wished she did. If only to ease the wrath brewing at your back.

“You say you love humanity, Wanderer,” Gault begins purposefully. “You are one of them, yet you choose to be here. Serve blindly to one who has treated you like nothing. You will not be any different than his other lovers. Discarded when he is finished with you. You may have returned out of love, but not others. They came back from fear. They saw what he did to you. What would he do to them? But I am no longer afraid.”

The silence is suffocating. Even Lucienne has frozen in shock at Gault’s bold declaration.

Love. Yes, maybe you did return for love. But it goes so much further than just Dream. It always has.

Your nape tingles. Something dark and insidious brushes past your ankles, a feline weaving between your limbs. Your eyes widen at Dream’s shadow slithering across the pale marble and towards the nightmare. The atmosphere crumples, pulsing, cooling. Each crevice of darkness seems to accentuate, growing in magnitude.

“You should be afraid.” Dream’s words are blacker than deepest night, colder than bleakest winter. “A nightmare’s purpose is to reveal the dreamer’s fears so they might face them.”

Your body half turns towards him. “Morpheus.”

“Perhaps a few thousand years in the darkness will reveal your fears,” he continues, stony.

Gault’s legs disintegrate before your eyes, devoured by Dream’s shadow. The Darkness; an endless prison crafted by an Endless being. “Dream.”

He pays you no heed. There’s no mercy, no softness to be found on his face, only something ancient and cold that cannot be reasoned with. You’ve seen this look once, tasted the poisonous cruelty he can inflict so effortlessly.

“Better that than to make others afraid,” Gault affirms shakily. Her torso goes next, ripping, flaking— “Even a nightmare can dream, my Lord.”

Your vocal cords hurt. “Dream, stop.”

And then Gault is gone. The shadow vanishes immediately, and the throne room instantly lightens. Lucienne hangs her head, hiding her unhappy expression. You gape, fixating on the spot Gault once stood.

“I have disappointed you.”

Those words are directed at you, but you say nothing.

This. This is what will happen to Corinthian if Dream uncovers him first. If you can’t convince Corinthian to come back, cease doing what he’s doing.

“Wait.”

It takes several moments for awareness to sink back in, to realise you’re stalking away, your muscles rigid beneath your skin.

Dream’s gait is unwavering behind you.

“For what?” you call back, strangled.

“I did what I must,” he says.

Who is he trying to convince? You or himself?

Your footsteps beat on the marble. Even your pace betrays your emotions, the bubbling agitation streaming through your veins.

Not considering consequences, you halt abruptly, posing a biting, “You mean being obtuse?”

You spin to face him just as your words sink in, watching those distant stars spark to life at once. Dream’s features harden.

“You dare—”

“Yes, I dare.” Each word escapes from behind clenched teeth. You close the distance between you in two strides. “I respect you, Dream. I’ve always respected what you are and what you do. I respect your purpose and your duty. How hard this responsibility is. I’m saying this not because of disrespect but because of that respect. Because you need to hear it.”

Your hand flies back towards the throne room, your index finger stabbing at empty air, “That was cruel. Gault only wanted to be something more, something better—to change.”

“Gault severed a child from the Dreaming,” Dream reminds coolly. “She broke my laws.”

“She did it to give that boy hope. An escape. No matter how brief.” You suck in a shaky breath, your fingernails biting into your palms. Your following words flow quieter, fragile, “Do you know how many times I wished for sleep? For dreams? To escape my misery, if only for a moment? You don’t understand that hurt. You never understood what it’s like. Not because you can’t but because you don’t dare to try.”

For the first time since his return, Dream’s features soften, his self-righteousness draining. His arms jerk at his sides, and then he settles again. You’re not sure why you foolishly hoped he would reach for you, pull you to him, and promise you would never again experience such pain.

“You said you changed, but what I just witnessed was the exact same man who banished me without hesitation.” As you verbalise your thoughts, another certitude becomes abundantly clear. “The same man who would do it again,” you add tightly, upset.

Dream catches your elbow, each finger folding delicately around your arm, drawing you nearer. “No. Never.”

“Oh, Dream. My Dream.” Your palm settles gently on his cheek, skin warming when connected with his. Something visibly crumples in him at the touch, the fondness in your hushed call, his eyelids fluttering. “I wish I believed that.”

You let him go, pulling away from his hold. He doesn’t impede you. You wish he did. You wish he held on so tightly you could forget everything else.

“Where are you going?”

His controlled question nips at your heels as you walk away.

“To the waking world,” you reply, pivoting on your heels. “I’m going to do the thing this damn curse has ever been good for: help people. And it begins with finding and saving Jed Walker.”

“Wanderer, stop—”

Your smile is grim. “I am not your subject. I wander where I please, Dream Lord.”

And then you’re gone.

.

The Library of Dreams is silent apart from rustling parchment. He can will things into being, but Morpheus discovers there’s little desire in him for an easy solution. Instead, he searches manually, walking through each bookshelf separately. It gives him time to mull matters over and search for reasons why things keep cracking. Just when things were starting to return to normal, this.

It was going so well. Now you’re gone once more. The weight sitting on his chest is intolerable. He has to move, occupy himself with something lest he goes mad.

You may have returned out of love, but not others.

Could it be? You came back, you searched, even after all he’s done. Hope—foolish and undoubtedly mislaid—kindles in his heart.

I just wanted to be with you. I would have stayed by your side forever if only you asked.

He could hope for nothing more, but it is not so simple. Or is it? Could it be? If you both fought for this, would any outside circumstances even matter? Morpheus could search for a way to undo the curse. There must be a way to do it without resulting in your death. Without shattering your destiny. Could he not write you a new future? One by his side?

Phantom heat lingers on his cheek.

“Lord Morpheus,” Lucienne’s nonplussed acknowledgement ushers him back to the present. She stands at the sight of him. “I was not expecting you here.”

“Continue with your duties, Lucienne. I do not require you at this time.”

The cool command, their own… disagreement, suffuses the air between them.

“As you wish.”

Did he lash out? After you disappeared, he can scarcely recall what words left his mouth. All he knows is how, at that moment, everything felt terribly out of touch. Unreachable to him. Never had he felt a century pass more acutely. Things once familiar and dear to him have altered shape in the time away. And Morpheus no longer knows how to hold them or care for them. He knows not how to exist in a world that seemingly no longer needs him.

What is his purpose if they have found ways to live without him?

His kingdom is bare bones. His subjects are distrusting.

And in the torrent of questions, he spies the subject of his search. Always coming to him in a time of need.

Morpheus heads towards a shelf to his right, picking up the thickest volume on the rack. Not many can challenge this book in size and density. He foresaw no less.

“My Lord, is that—”

“Yes.”

Lucienne loosens a shallow breath. “Are you quite certain?”

He holds the tome closer to him. “More than.”

You don’t understand that hurt. You never understood what it’s like. Not because you can’t but because you don’t dare to try.

You were right to say it. He’s been avoiding your book for a thousand years. At first, Morpheus did not care to dwell deeper. Later because he started fearing what he might learn from those pages.

Lucienne steeples her fingers, eyeing him over her round glasses. “Sir, I must warn you, what you will discover between those pages will not be kind.”

“That’s precisely why I must do it,” he admits softly, avoiding her shrewd appraisal. “So I may, at long last, understand.”

Morpheus doesn’t linger, stepping from one shadow into the next, appearing directly in his throne room. He journeys up the stairs one at a time, the thick tome tucked under his arm. There is a voice deep down that mocks his hesitancy. What has he to fear from bound pages? Yet another story when he is the king of them?

But it is no ordinary tale, belonging to no ordinary individual.

Oh, Dream. My Dream. I wish I believed that.

Even seated on his throne, Morpheus lets the velvety, black leather book rest in his lap for long, hesitant minutes. On the supple cover, engraved in bold, golden letters, sits not a name but instead a title.

The Wanderer

His thumb kisses delicately over the title, then again. Again. Again. Again.

Morpheus draws a muted breath, the sound all but lost in the raging cosmos, and cracks open the only book he’s stayed away from for over a thousand years.

an: Just the home stretch to go, eh?

Thank you, everyone. For being here and reading and just being absolutely wonderful, talented, and unfailingly kind. Look forward to hearing your thoughts : )

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