Chapter Text
You’re not my homeland anymore
So what am I defending now?
T.S. Eliot once wrote, This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper.
Morpheus does not share the sentiment. The damage to which the Kindly Ones have laid are near irreparable. One might think that that would stand for hopelessness, him having said that. Him, the Dream of Endless, who have been there since there were ever need for dreams, and who were meant to be there, until the last of the dreamers are escorted to the Sunless Lands. Him, who have created and unmade and re-created all shapes and manners of The Dreaming and it's inhabitants.
But this is simply how this story ends. There is no other version to this.
After all, Morpheus has laid down the foundation. Daniel Hall will do well as his successor, if all goes well.
Although, Dream must admit, T. S. Eliot may not be too far off. The empty lot — a drying, empty space — that was once the Tavern of the White Horse produces as much noise as a rat, two floors down, scurrying for a chance of a feast. Which was to say, not much of a sound at all. Aside from that, Morpheus can hear one of the pipe leaks, the drip of the water soft, and steady. It is not supposed to. Nothing has been operating here for years. It has taken Morpheus a while to understand why. Apparently his dearest, and perhaps only, friend's one petty attempt at saving it, when all else fail, was to put the entire condominium project, as he's said, 'under development hell'.
"Given the smug bastards so many lawsuits t' go over, it'll take them the next seventy years — at least — to even think about startin' a floor plan, my friend." Hob had laughed, not too long ago, not before they had to be sadly departed, and Dream had left with him that expensive wine which they've shared over his precious, but odd, toast. But this is not that memory. No, in this one, they were both in Hob Gadling's apartment.
It is a small space, cramped. Full of knick-knacks. The smell of ink and fresh-made coffee is potent. In this lifetime, Hob Gadling is a beloved professor who has made his fair share of travels to gather friends and acquaintances and students who would gift him with many trinkets. It fills the entirety of his home.
The couch is worn-down. Hob has slept in that many times grading, he said. Dream (was what he was known then) believed him immediately.
In this memory, they are sat together on it. They have met each other three times since their reunion now, a new arrangement that they were both adjusting to. Hob had a glass of beer balancing on his stomach, one hand cradling the glass with an awfully clumsy — but expert — manner, his brown eyes lingering to see if his careless mannerism will push the drink to spill. Though the gaze did not stay long there. It travelled back to Dream, and Hob Gadling was grinning; the corner of his eyes crinkled handsomely as he did.
Dream remembered feeling warm all to his toes. It made him sunk easier against the couch; Hob's comfort, an infectious trait.
"I'm nothing if I'm not stubborn, ay?" Hob had joked some more, and—
The memory stops there. Morpheus jaw sets.
It isn't as if it could not continue. Morpheus remembers exactly what happens afterwards. The soft teasing he's given Hob right back, the slow night as they discuss music, and literature, and new gossip mill around town, and Hob indulges him with all the minuscule details he would otherwise never find so fascinating. The shower head that's broken, the laundry that needs to be done, and oh, by the way, did you know apparently scientists could breed sheep outside of a womb?
He had not stayed long that night, but even in the hour that he did, Morpheus remembered the light-heartedness that had came from the visit which stayed with him for days after.
He does not think about the fact he has yet to meet Hob Gadling before he must go.
He could, if he wants to. If Morpheus tries, if he calls for Matthew, he could reach to Hob. Know where he is currently, and meet him there. Could have another memory besides from the toast they've shared that one last time. He wonders what Hob will tell him about his class, his students, about something as mundane as the changing weather. Hob has many opinions about weather and article of clothing that comes with them. Perhaps he will regale Morpheus of such simple, blink-and-you'll-miss facts, and that will be a gentle way to go.
Not with a bang at all. A good, steady, friendly voice to ease him into eternal slumber.
Yet no voice comes out from him.
He will not call on Matthew — not give the raven a reason to argue or negotiate or question — and he will not walk further than this rooftop where he sits.
No one shall see him in his last moments. He can have at least this, can he not?
His sister comes, the fluttering of her wings are unmistakeable. Morpheus closes his eyes, and in an instant, he remembers so many things. His mother embracing him so coolly, once upon a time ago; Desire and him as young fledglings walking hand-in-hand, still discovering what they are, what they could do; his first set of Dreams, his first set of Nightmares, and how they were brimming with life; the touch of many lovers, all so well-remembered even till this very second; the sweet voice of Orpheus calling for him, laughing in his arms, singing the happiest of songs.
He tells his sister eventually, "I have made all the preparations necessary."
He will die, but Dream does not — as Matthew has once crudely, though accurately, put it — fucking die, so it will not end. There will be a Dream, and Morpheus prays — begs — that they will be infinitely better. Far more susceptible to change. He cannot, he fears; his path is bleak, and Morpheus is... tired. What more will this world ask of him that he has not given?
Death does not seem happy. He could not imagine she would be.
"Hmph," she hums with this sort of disappointed sound. Morpheus feels his shoulders sag with it, suddenly heavy. In the distant, in him, with him, The Dreaming howls and cries. The Kindly Ones are formidable. With enough strength, with enough help, perhaps there is a chance to stop it, to stop them; but he does not see any other way. There is no other version of this story, after all. He knows it all too well. Death continues, "You’ve been making them for ages. You just didn’t let yourself know that was what you were doing."
Morpheus is so tired. He only says, "If you say so."
The roofs of this side of London is dull, repetitive. All red-brown brick and old chimneys. His eyes still slide to the horizon. Even in the end, he cannot help from hearing his friend's bold voice. Are you kidding me? Death's a mug game. I've got so much to live for. So much like the humans he had once scorned and judged and distant away from — at the end of the rope, there is a child-like eagerness to find hope somewhere etched in sky. Some silver lining. Some reason to stay.
Death sits next to him, and asks quietly. "Will you truly take my hand?"
Finally, Dream — as he is still Dream, the Dreaming is still him — turns his head. He meets his sister's gaze. "I see no other choice."
"You don't, huh." The corner of her mouth turns, just minutely, into a small smile. It is a sad one. It is heartbreaking to witness.
He shakes his head, slow. No, he does not. This is how it will end; this is how, he supposes, it was always supposed to end. "Do not mourn for me," he whispers to her. There is grief there in his voice. "Dream does not truly die. There will always be an Endless."
"But you will," she says, anguished.
"But I will." He confirms, and it seems to have done her in. She pulls him straight into her, and Morpheus, despite his usual aversion to touch, falls right into her embrace. He thinks, faintly, about the memory of being cradled by Mother. Perhaps that had been his imagination, his secret want, all along. He never quite remembered Mother ever lovingly held him, but Death was kind. Delirium was excitable. Even Despair would hold his hand from time to time, when she seeks guidance, or in some rare moments, offers her lonely companion. Perhaps he had thought of his sister, any of them, and the ache of some love misplaced is too much. Morpheus is floored by it. He is in pain.
"Don't go," she pleads into his ear. "This does not have to be it."
It has to. How else shall this end? How else can he... escape?
As if hearing the thought straight from in him, Death cups his face as they part. Her touch is cool, but soothing. Both of their eyes are a twin-set of red-rimmed things, a human reflection of two individuals pushed to tears. Morpheus realises he is trembling. Her sister's gift is necessary, but he now understands the finality of this end. Why many fear, and tries to bargain for a bit more time. He will not be with The Dreaming anymore, he will not see Lucienne again. It tears him inside out, to think that. What else shall he miss? That he cannot touch, and see, and hear, and smell, and speak with?
"There is no other version to this," He insists. He thickens his voice so no argument could be presented.
But his sister is not his subject. She does not cower under his sharp attention. In fact, her hands over his jaw tightens. Her eyes twinkle like his own, a glimpse of all universes combined, and they are overwhelming, if you are not an Endless, to stare at them. "Accept my boon," she declares, "Leave The Dreaming, but live. I will not take your hand."
"That cannot be," He argues. "The Kindly Ones seek to destroy me. To have me unmade."
"And unmade you shall become," His sister's voice is now the voices of many. A thousand men, a thousand women, a thousand children: in all their happy, tumultuous life. All in their agony, accepting, silent end. The true power of Death devastates; even Morpheus could not help from bowing, just a little. "Live. Not as Dream, not as an Endless. But do not choose Death, my brother. Do not choose me."
At this, her voice turns softer; the light in her eyes dim to give away to the normal amount of chocolate and galaxy she is used to presenting her corporeal being with. She shakes her head, "Not like this."
Not like this? Not like what — like his last choice? Like how it was agony and misery and helplessness that's pushed him to it?
Dream feels his face crumples from such exposure, from this fact that he is so incredibly seen. He is so tired. He cannot do this anymore.
"I will take you, my kin, if that is your wish. But I ask you to reconsider. To try, one last time." His sister coos, carding through his hair, pulling him in her embrace once again. She speaks, while Dream shakes. "I cannot see to it to see you go with such... emptiness, Dream."
With such ruin, she doesn't say, but he feels it. He is ruined. Scorched, and laid to waste. The next Dream will be better. He will be.
But him? Let him rest.
"Say yes," His sister asks.
Morpheus is quiet.
"Say yes," she asks again.
He hiccups.
And then, slowly, Dream lifts his head from his sister's shoulder. His eyes are wet, stars running down the curves of his pale cheeks in rivulets.
His sister waits.
A croak, but he manages, "Yes." What else does he have to lose?
"Close your eyes then, dear brother." He does what she asks, and he leans until he feels the kiss of her against his forehead. "I'll take care of the rest."
That night, Hob opens his eyes with a gasp. He is sure that it is a dream — or was it a nightmare? or worse, a real-life intruder — that has yanked him from what he thought was otherwise a much-needed sleep. Listen. It's the end of the semester, and Hob has been pre-occupied lately, okay? Exams to grade, research papers to go through, and faculty drinks to attend to as all professors huddled together to clink their glasses for a round of three-months well done. Hob isn't complaining, but my God, if the last few weeks hadn't drained him as much as he's sure it's drained the ninety-nine percent of the student body with their late-night cramming.
Hob's certain his blood is mostly made out of sugar, coffee, and the occasional sandwiches at this point.
Regardless, he yawns now. Open-mouthed, and big, and loud. Hob stretches his back, an instinctive habit he does once consciousness is gently sweeping him away from sleep, and decides that he hates the dryness of his throat. Scratching his head, he paddles to his kitchen, careful not to trip over the boxes on his way there, for a drink. It's when the cool glass meets his lips that the knocking comes.
Purposeful. A rap of three times. Knock-know-knock.
Hob turns to the door, expecting a voice. If it's someone he knows, they'd call for him any second now.
But no voice. Instead, knock-knock-knock, again.
Hob frowns. He sets his glass aside, and heads to the table. Is it an ambush? He knows it's silly to assume so, but it's — fuck — it must be, what, two o'clock in the morning. Why else would anyone knock on anyone's door if it'd not been an emergency? Which, in such a case, they'd knocked frantically; they would already cry for help or call for a name as it were. Still - nothing.
Hob isn't afraid of an ambush. Even only in his day's old shirt and boxers, he could take a few good chaps if they tried.
One tends not to forget their ways once they spent half of their lives brutally fighting for it, you know.
He just didn't want to. It's 2AM, for God's sake!
"Who's there?" He asks, voice rough from sleep, but he's far more awake now than he'd like to be. Through the peephole, there isn't anyone. And, expectedly, no answer comes to him.
Yet, for some reason, a feeling deep inside his chest, Hob finds himself opening the door. Not so wide, though; just enough that he hopes he could catch any figure that he might've missed. Maybe it's a child that's somehow escaped his mum, and found themselves in front of Hob's door. Hob doubts it. Though he knows it wouldn't hurt to cover his bases, just in case.
It isn't a child.
It's his friend — his dearest Stranger, Dream (because he's got a name now, finally, after years, and he's repeated it so much since he's learned it that sometimes it still hasn't fully felt real)— wrapped in a thick, black blanket, lying on the floor of his doorstep. He is unmoving, unconscious.
Well. Now, Hob's fully awake.
Shit.