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marianhellequin · 1 year

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Without You

I've brought a fanfic to you. Fandom: The Sandman Rating: something between PG and R. Description: The nightmare hates his creator and adores him; the nightmare is free without him and freedom becomes heavy chains; he can do everything and wants nothing. Rating for eating eyes. Writober 2022 by the Plague Stories, theme #3 "Without you". Soundtrack & inspiration: Eisbrecher "Ohne dich".

* * *

He had quite a fancy car in the sixties. It was a cream-colored convertible with dark red leather seats, and he loved to drive through California highways, exposing his face to the wind and sun. Sometimes, for a few seconds, it seemed to him that he was, damn it, happy. Then he'd drop everything and go back to bloody Sussex. It was as if he was being pulled there by a magnet, a short leash, dragged irresistibly. The Corinthian cautiously cruised around, only occasionally dropping in the mansion and not risking to go further than the spacious hall.

Burgess, of course, nailed it himself — he was up to the task, deftly packed Morpheus into a trap, deftly held him. Still, without the invaluable advice of the Corinthian, the hell he would have managed it for so long. The pathetic mortal, without knowing it, gave the nightmare a second chance, and, surprisingly, one even thanked him. (It wasn't worth thinking, however, that this was really a gratitude: there just were completely different laws and orders in the possessions of the celestials, and the Corinthian, being an ancient and powerful creature, tried to observe them.) (Otherwise he would have devoured Burgess's eyes long ago to see.) It was he who suggested that the guards should not sleep. By no means. Here, in Reality, deprived of his regalia and trapped, Dream is powerless, but once he clings to at least a thin thread of dreams... Oh, the Corinthian knew all too well how powerful his creator is.

So that's why one day he tracked down one of the guards, got him in a dark alley corner and cut out his eyes. To find that his own fingers are twitching nervously. To see Morpheus — motionless, marble-white, thin and majestic — was nightmarish, pleasant, frightening, attractive, wrong, right. All at once.

The Kingdom of Dreams gradually scattered, only few remained — each for their own reason. Small dreams out of stupidity, older and stronger creatures in waiting. The Corinthian just wanted to live. And Morpheus wanted to destroy him for it.

But damn it, if he didn't want to see his nightmare so real, why the hell did he create him like this, huh?.. This — able to win people's favor, handsome, devilishly charismatic. Apparently, Eve once mentioned that Morpheus created him under the inspiration of the Lord Lucifer himself. Well, being a copy of the Fallen is not so bad. Maybe that's why the Corinthian is so well able to feel?..

The nightmare just hates his creator.

And savoring the guard's second eye, he shows a filthy grin. That's it, Dream of the Endless, now you're just a cute bird in a cage, and your prodigal dream is living a fulfilling fun life for himself, today he's going to a concert, and tomorrow he'll probably return to California again. Or he'll skip across to Cuba, blessed island full of sun, rum, wild beauties and expensive cigars. And he's never, ever going back to fucking Sussex, seriously, no way.

A promise to own self is enough for a couple of months at most.

It would be nice to get drunk, but the trouble is that alcohol of mortals has a weak effect on dreams woven from the matter of visions. The Corinthian is angry at himself, at Morpheus, at everything at once, and he clamps a skinny, tall, black-haired youth in the smoky toilet of a nightclub in Leeds.

That boy would have become a great musician, made a huge impact on the barely dawning dark style, and would have died at thirty-nine, stuffed with pills and knock-off gin. The Corinthian likes the eyes of such creative people, they have a special taste, a bittersweet one. He is afraid to think about the taste of the abyss shining with distant stars.

One half of him is eager to stick the trusty blade under the ribs, turn it, looking for a non-existent heart, pull it out and stick it into the corner of the eye, cutting nerves with jeweler's precision, and deftly pull out the eyeball. If Morpheus at least has eyes in the human sense of the word. Because the other half reverently thinks that these are not eyes — that these are black holes that suck in, devouring entire universes, and touching them is like stepping into a great Nothingness, falling into the abyss.

Is that why the creator didn't give him the eyes, granting him extra mouths instead?..

The Corinthian sees much better than if he had eyes.

He is as stubborn as a thousand donkeys, and does not give up till the last, even to himself. Yet time only mercilessly erodes this self-confidence, and as a result, even a fucking century does not pass as the Corinthian bitterly realizes that the desire to fall to his knees and kiss feet slightly outweighs the desire to strangle with his bare hands. For about one grain of sand. Or one mountain.

In Sussex, he's also got a gorgeous car, it has a great radio and a superb selection of cool music. It's a pity that England isn't California, it doesn't grant sunshine too much, so it's pointless to have a convertible here. However, the Corinthian in his light linen suits seems so warmed by the southern sun, as if he radiates its heat himself. People are drawn to him, being deceived by this, and then they are stupidly and ridiculously afraid to die.

After all, everyone is afraid of Death, although damn it, the Corinthian can personally vouch — she's a damn nice and kind person, she'd set free from any prison forever — and her younger brother is not like this at all. And on the contrary, look how they are drawn to him. A third of a lifetime and all that stuff.

And Dream is much more dangerous.

The Corinthian painfully realizes that he mirrors his own creator: people are drawn to him with delight, realizing too late how much they were wrong. Even more painfully, he realizes that gradually everything that has brought him pleasure and joy for hundreds of years seems empty and meaningless. As if something is missing. As if freedom had to be exchanged for something too important, as if... Maybe this is how an angel will feel if their wings are clipped? Freedom smoothly turns into heavy rusty shackles.

And then it ends.

He's fleeing to fucking America in some kind of senseless, unnecessary panic. His gameroom. His funny fans, the collectors. Stupid, enthusiastic, devoted.

A year ago, it would have helped to distract. But now, feeling that Dream is free again, the Corinthian just stupidly, metaphorically closing his eyes goes forward, without any sense finishing his own play. He hopes that he could run from the creator forever, and dreams of seeing him, and is afraid to see him, and hates, and suffocates without him. For a hundred years he had lived for his own pleasure, and all these hundred years he felt as if he was living in vain.

But Morpheus never, ever condescended to compliments. At best, the Corinthian managed to draw attention to himself with a misdemeanor, and after all, he had served his lord faithfully for centuries, was the best of the best, an ideal nightmare. If he had a heart — and if Morpheus had a heart — they would surely beat in time. Surely the Corinthian's heart would sensitively catch the pulse of the creator, adjusting to it. The nightmare wants to devour the eyes of all mortals who had the honor to see his lord.

And when they are face to face, he is torn apart.

He wants to stab the blade into the thin neck, into the deep holes of the eyes shining with stars, wants to see how black blood flows over the marble-white skin — or is there bloody golden sand in his veins? — he wants to cut, stab, destroy, burst all the hatred. He wants to fall on his knees and beg for forgiveness, and try to prove that he has been a good nightmare all this time, and like a child, hide in the shadow of the mantle of night, shrink, feeling unworthy, and hope for the icy touch of thin bony fingers.

When he hits, he lacks strength and spirit. The Corinthian loses to himself by hitting the hand — not the heart, not the eyes — loses because he freezes after that. Loses the whole game. Dream, hateful, beautiful, powerful, unjust, rises above him as a stedfast black shadow, overpresses with superiority.

I hate you, the Corinthian wants to say, you are fainthearted, you are blind, you say that we must serve people, but you don't even understand their essence, you don't know how to feel, you are an arrogant peacock, and the Vortex will mop up the floor with you twice over, and it's a pity that I won't dance on your grave.

I adore you, the Corinthian wants to say, I worship you and admire you, my life is in your breath and my destiny is in your mercy, I was created by you and I exist for you, and all I dream about is just to feel your favor for a moment, and do you want me to kill the Vortex for you?

Mortals, stupid, useless mortals are afraid to die, although in the Sunless Lands they are most often getting some peace and soft, cozy oblivion. He's not a mortal. He won't die, but he will be disembodied, he will be nowhere — he won't exist — but some part of him will remain for an eternity to live this nightmarish moment. To feel him crumble to golden sand. To feel the blessed, weightless touch of his lord's hand. And yet, already losing the feeling of his body, the Corinthian triumphs: so much attention of the Prince of Dreams, and everything is devoted only to him now. He managed, he achieved, he... ...sadly won't see the Vortex doing the same to his lord.

* * *

"I'm not the first Corinthian, am I?" "You're the second." "What happened to the first?" "He was a disappointment. I uncreated him." "I would not wish to be a disappointment."

Moment by moment he remembers. And he's not sure if Morpheus wanted that, recreating his best nightmare again — did he want to put old memories into him, or was just distracted, under the broad gesture of creation, not noticing such a trifle?

The Corinthian feels as if he has become a thousand thousands years younger, mocking at the raven (just like he once did at poor Jessamy), and can't get enough of his creator.

He hates Morpheus for what he did to him. For bringing it to life again when someone meekly loyal and dexterous was needed. He adores Morpheus for the fact that he did not forget him, called when he needed someone to whom he could entrust a delicate and important matter.

Maybe if he is more obedient and smiling this time, he will deserve compliments? Or he can finally stick the blade under the ribs and actually find out if the Endless has a heart. Because his own, if it had been, would have missed a couple of beats when Morpheus, inattentively turning to slip away as befits a true unattainable dream, touches the new Corinthian's hand with his own.

I hate you.

I can't be without you.

#corintheus #the sandman #dream of the endless #the corinthian #creator issues #lovehate #fanfic

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marianhellequin · 2 years

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Morning Star

Fandom: The Sandman Characters: Dream x Lucifer, Death Rating: G Genre: slash/pre-slash, romance ____________________ Hell is an ever-seething cauldron of anger, rage and hatred. Heaven is the peace of balance and the happiness of existence.

And dreams are the boundary between the real and the unreal, an endless abyss of everything. Hell is indifferent to the Prince of Dreams.

But Lucifer is not Hell. * * *

Enough time has passed for the storm that swept the world after Lucifer's leave to calm down. The key to Hell no longer lay heavy in hands, the fragile balance of the world was restored. There came the silence, similar to what happens after a heavy storm.

Dream glides like a silent, majestic shadow through his kingdom, creates with the inspiration of a true artist, without looking back, without guessing the result, striving for perfection only visible to him. People have new dreams.

People have frightening and inspiring dreams, contemplative and dreary, bright and restless, angry and poisonous, they dream vices and sins, they dream revenge and creation. And only one thing unites this kaleidoscope: the radiance of the Morning Star in the darkest sky, of the bright, the only one.

Lucifer himself looks like a perfect nightmare, perfect in his impeccable precision and versatility. But no matter how many nightmares Morpheus creates – none of them made it. Well, it's silly to compare a fallen angel and visions woven from the matter of dreams and visions. Lucifer has always been one of the greatest creators. The Morning Star, in some strange, insane sense, is a guiding light, and Dream cannot find an answer to the question: when did this star become a beacon for him?

Perhaps this has been the case since the beginning of time.

Fallen angels. Absolutely different, the Endless ones cannot understand them – but, of course, one can try. It seems that restless Death was the first to try to do this when she took one of them under her wing. Everyone is mortal, even angels. It made a strange impression on her then, she appeared in the realm of Dream, chatted about it incessantly and brought somewhat figs and apples with her, telling about the forbidden fruit.

He had listened to her then, caught up in the whirlpool of rapid, light speech – like the waters of a mountain river – and he was thinking, what it would be like to have wings.

* * *

An eternity after that story of hers, Death is sitting, legs dangling from a low curved bridge, swinging her feet carelessly and crunching a juicy green apple. Dream stands like an immovable shadow nearby. People don't notice him, even though he stands out among them – a tall, thin black silhouette, like a fragment of the black mirror of the abyss lost in the universe. They don't notice because Morpheus doesn't want it; he's an illusion, a dream, visible only from the corner of the eye, you look at him point-blank and you won't see him anymore, that's how the magic of dreams works. People don't notice Death because they don't want to see her. And she is not up to them at this moment, she watches the little fox cubs playing on the shore while their ginger mother lazily basks in the sun.

Dream has no wings and never had. Even if someone dreamed him differently. His canopy of soft darkness is his mantle of night.

"Let me ask you a question, sister mine," the speech of the Dream Lord is slow, heavy, like stones on the path of a mountain river. Death raises her head, squinting at him, nods and waits. "Do tell me... what does it feel like to have wings?"

Death raises an eyebrow and looks thoughtfully at the water lilies swaying rhythmically on the water. The sun leaning towards the horizon casts warm reflections on her pale face.

"This is freedom," she finally says, "The greatest freedom. Only birds know such a thing. And not everyone is aware of it," she follows the swift darting over them with her eyes. "And at the same time, it is the heaviest chain that binds hand and foot."

Dream stares at her, trying to feel her, and wonders if the fallen ones feel it the same way. The fallen one.

"It's like you have everything but nothing."

"Have you ever wanted to be free of them?" Dream asks cautiously. The question is too direct and frank, but if there is at least someone in all worlds and universes whom he can trust, then it is her.

Slyly looking up at him, Death chuckles. Of course, the reason for such a question won't hide from her insight. Sometimes Dream thinks if she literally sees beyond his skin and bone. She stares cunningly like a fox, shrewdly like a crow, leerily as a human. Sister's touch – the tip of a raven's feather, a whiff of the north wind – easily glides over Dream's pale thin wrist.

"No, lil' brother. I think that my bondage is a worthy payment for my freedom." He nods thoughtfully, accepting her contradictory answer, looks at the sunset sky – the stars in the abyss of his gaze dimly twinkle with cold silver. The rulers of the worlds beyond the limits of human consciousness do not wear crowns, but Dream always holds himself as if it is very heavy.

Death gets to her feet easily, dusts off her palms and comes closer, puts her head on younger brother's shoulder. It's like her crown is the lightest coronet woven from nothingness and moonlight, shining with the last supernova flash.

"You're still thinking about it. How did you feel at that moment, huh? When you cut off his wings."

Dream purses his thin, bloodless lips, pondering over the answer, and then drops a short one like a heavy stone:

"A fleeting triumph."

He hesitates, it is noticeable – by the way his fingers tremble, by the restless gleam of stars in his eyes, by the shadow of doubt that barely passed over his face. If they were in the Realm of Dreams now, the sky would be covered with storm clouds or illuminated with a crazy rainbow of a thousand colours; the wind would bring the cherry petals torn off and sprinkle their snow over the hot sands. But they're in the mortal world. And only wise Death sees contradictory feelings under the porcelain mask of dispassion.

He thinks of the fallen angel, the crown of Almighty's creation. Not people, no. They amuse themselves with fairy tales that they stand on top of the world, while they are just a herd grazing in the meadows – whoever the herd thinks they are, both the shepherd and the guard dog know what it's really worth.

"He's in Los Angeles right now," Death says, yawning in a completely human way and putting her arm around brother's waist to make it easier to stand.

The Endless look at the sky in the west becoming more and more bright and scarlet, and on the other side the fox stretches, fluffs up her copper fur coat – she's like a fragment of sunset herself.

Among the Endless, Dream is not the most cautious and secretive, but probably the most arrogant. And he can let himself be mistaken.

Among the Endless, Death is not the most calculating and pragmatic, but probably the most reasonable. And she can let him take the risk.

"It was a good day, sister mine," Dream admits, squinting at her. Death smiles broadly at the starry abyss in his eyes:

"For sure! Otherwise, you would have been sitting like ruffled a crow in your hall, and wouldn't have seen anything! And you wouldn't try roasted chestnuts."

Dream looks at her and suddenly laughs. Softly, velvety and very sincere. This laughter is like a glass of champagne on an empty stomach, barely getting out of bed; like waking up under warm sunlight; like a fresh mountain breeze disturbing the lake surface.

Lucifer is no longer the ruler of Hell, but he is still a powerful Fallen One. He is still the one who created the world itself. Anyone would tell the Dream Lord that it is not worth dealing with him once again, it is not worth getting in the way of someone who has something to avenge – someone who has cursed with his kingdom by abandoning it. But not Death. Maybe because she really cares.

* * *

He is chasing a nightmare – other people's dreams crumble in the path of this chase, the sleepers wake up, not understanding what's the matter, they feel anxiety and unreasonable fear.

Dream chases the nightmare – it takes shape of a fleet-footed cheetah, but the Dream-panther is faster and more stronger; the falcon cannot overcome the raven; the multicolored asp dives into the water like an arrow – to be caught by the indifferent mouth of the anglerfish.

The trapped nightmare shrinks in a tiny black stone at the feet of the Prince of Dreams.

Lucien looks at it with hostility, coldly, waiting for the verdict.

"It is imperfect," Dream says.

"You can improve it," Lucien responds politely.

The nightmare runaway of an endless chase no longer tries to escape, because it knows that there is no hiding from the wrath of Dream. But it seems that he is indifferent to the fate of the failed creation.

"Later," he says. And he doesn't even scatter the insolent in sand – he just picks up the stone, sealing the nightmare in this guise, so that it doesn't run away again – so that it writhes in the cramped tiny cage, punishing itself – and inattentively gives it to Lucien.

"Is something wrong, my lord?" finally, the librarian asks cautiously.

"I have things to do."

Dream discarnates into golden sand, leaving his realm.

Night is his time, now, being among thousands of sleeping creatures, Morpheus feels even more power in his hands than usual. The City of Angels is full of sinners, vices and dirty darkness; The City of Angels does not sleep, but dreams – its dreams and visions are woven into a crazy kaleidoscope of evening lights and neon signs.

Dream glides like an invisible shadow between people, dark clothes barely rustle with the echo of distant dreams, he is a missed chance, a vague hope, a blurred memory. People turn around, but they don't see anything.

Dream steps on the threshold of a catchy nightclub with a very telling name, gaining materiality at half-step – the mantle of deep night is replaced by long, but quite tangible dark coat flaps, the starry abyss in his eyes is covered with a veil of clouds – they seem just black.

Lucifer, still as magnificently elegant as before, plays the piano easily, masterfully, and Dream stands at a distance, listening to his music. It is echoed by human sins and vices, whose song sounds stronger here; he remembers how the Lightbringer once told him that he also has weaknesses.

It is not he who is subject to human vices and weaknesses, Dream thinks, but the human vices and weaknesses are a pathetic parody of the chatoyancy of the desires of the Fallen. Inept takeoff of a fan on a real star. The Morning Star, the brightest of all.

A moment before the music ends, Dream leaves the noisy hall being the same quiet shadow. To him, the Endless, the material world is nothing; he takes a step on the asphalt colored with bright lights, and the next step he makes barefoot on the cool coastal sand.

"Seems like I didn't imagine, Dream of the Endless."

Lucifer's voice is a deceptively soft feline tread, warm sparks of the first flames, enveloping velvet of intoxicating poison. The night sky is strewn with stars unnaturally thick and bright, but Dream looks at the only star instead – the Morning one.

"You are an unrivaled creator, Morning Star," Dream says after a pause.

"A crazy artist tells me," Lucifer chuckles, smiling nonchalantly. They are now like light and darkness – only behind the angelic appearance of the Fallen lies an endless abyss of sin and destruction, and the profoundly black robes of Dream conceal the brightest kaleidoscope of reveries and piercing sun rays of hope.

"I didn't want to disturb you," Dream continues. "I was just curious to look at your new world."

"I doubt you've seen enough, Morpheus," Lucifer comes closer, calm, relaxed, like a well-fed wildcat – hands in his pants pockets, the night breeze ruffles his blond hair.

The last time they saw each other, the black poisonous blood of the Lightbringer was under their feet, and Dream treaded on his severed wings.

Now it seems to him that they are still behind Lucifer's back – but different. Light, thin, swift, shimmering with the cold gold of the night sky and neon signs.

Dream cannot take his eyes off their invisible outlines, and recklessly steps towards them.

"Then show me more, Lightbringer."

It's like going all-in in a complex card game. But it is better than the unknown; the Dream Lord is no stranger to pride, but he prefers defeat to uncertainty.

But contrary to expectations, Morning Star grins and holds out his hand.

Now it would be right to disintegrate in the golden sand, slip away along thin threads connecting mortals and the dream world, but instead Dream touches warm, material Lucifer's hand.

And sees through his eyes.

The city is overwhelmed by a wave of emotions, experiences, sins – life, bubbling and real. It hits the head like a strong cocktail, like a first kiss, knocks down like a drunken brawl, like a pupil-dilating drug. It seems to Dream as if he is falling into an eternity, and it seems as if wings suddenly unfold behind his own back – the thinnest, huge, immediately falling off in a mantle of weightless darkness, but this life, real, different, fleeting, brings him down into the abyss and then lifts him to heaven. To where the Morning Star burns brightest among the twinkling stars.

"Well... and how do you like my world?" the devil whispers in his ear.

"Your world... is like you. It is beautiful in its diversity and its brightness," Dream answers, and his words are unusually light, as if they are also caught up in the vortex of creation. "Your world is a real art, shining brighter than the stars. Your world is like you, it is the faded shadow of yours."

The devil is behind his shoulder, warm breath touches his temple, warm fingers wrap around his wrist.

Dream is of the Endless, they are above sins and virtues, above temptations; but they are not devoid of human passions.

After a moment or infinity, Lucifer retreats a step, and Dream involuntarily stretches after him, like a shadow at sunset – in a way people cling to a nap, trying to catch last sweet visions after the alarm clock rings, dream a little more, cling to the flaps of his mantle, and it slips out of their fingers. And now it's like he's in their place.

"I'm glad to see you here, Dream," the Lightbringer says calmly, looking at him intently, with a strange, unreadable gaze.

"After all that happened?" Dream clarifies, and the heavy quiet speech sounds different now, it sounds like the sleepy rumbling of a wild cat warmed in the sun, the rustle of a night summer rain.

Lucifer just shrugs.

"Have you thought about why you exactly?"

Dream recalls all their meetings from the beginning of time. Cautious, indifferent, then – hostile, with tangible opposition; later – with mutual respect for a worthy opponent and even more cautious. There were... There were as many of them as there were stars in the sky. Fallen angels do not sleep, but they do dream. Each dream brought Lucifer to the Realm of Dreams, each time its master followed the priceless guest like an invisible shadow.

"Tell me, Prince of Dreams, what do you dream about?" Lightbringer says.

What does the dream dream about? It's like asking what the tempter is tempting himself with. The starry abyss looks straight into the bright eyes of the tempter and sees this temptation by its reflection.

"Dreams are unreal, they are only something that cannot be reached, hidden fears and desires. I rarely get the opportunity to dream, Morning Star..." says Dream softly, his speech is the Milky Way spreading in the night sky. "But then... I see the stars that appeared before all things, and I hear the echo of the song of creation that sounded before I appeared, and I see the Arch as I have never seen it – with the brightest star. I see the creation of all things. And the stars, Lightbringer. In my dreams, I see stars."

The stars echo his words shining in the dark holes of deep eyes, and he looks at Lucifer directly, openly. When Dream speaks like this, his words seem to be woven into the matter of dreams, fragments of visions glide around. He is a great storyteller, all fantasies come to life in his domain, restless creative minds bring inspiration from his realm.

The stars in the distant abyss seem to shine a little differently. Their brilliance is no longer so distant and cold, it does not burn with the cold dawns of unknown worlds, but shimmers with sparks of fire in the hearth, the warm gold of sunset, the copper-silver skin of a snake that has slipped into the autumn foliage.

"Come back sometime, Dream," Lucifer says. "And don't run away so fast. I'd play something special for you."

Dream does not answer, but they both know that their meeting will be repeated.

* * *

There's no one but the two of them here, even the faithful Mazikeen was sent away – she does not like the Dream Lord, can not forgive him the humiliation of her master in front of hordes of demons.

Stringy and sweet like summer honey, the melody fills the space for a single listener – Dream approaches as a black shadow, stops in a step, listens without taking the stars' gaze from the Fallen One.

Lucifer is the perfect creation, the perfect creator – under his hands, music takes on an impeccable form, inaccessible to mortals, and the heart could not stand the beauty of this melody.

"You are the most skilful of musicians, Lightbringer," Dream says when the echoes of the last chord cease. "You have always been the greatest creator."

Fallen One rises to his feet and moves his shoulders almost imperceptibly – as if the scars left on his back from the severed wings are still aching.

"You're dreaming of the stars, Dream," he says, and his gaze seems to be turned inward. "Even here, you've surpassed me."

The Prince of Dreams looks at him for a long time, and then he goes to the piano himself, runs his fingers over the keys. He could take the grace of the hands movements from an Austrian youth, a future recognized genius, restlessly dozing on an airplane; take a smooth rhythm from an old Jewish woman who devoted her whole life to music, who fell asleep in a hospital bed; take a melody from a genius of cold Norway, who was not understood and will never be understood anymore, who forgot himself in a drunken, sound sleep; weave together as carefully as he creates dreams.

But even that would not be enough.

"Fallen angels do not sleep, but they do dream," Dream says. And before his words have time to painfully prick wounded pride, he adds, "So let me offer you a gift."

The finest sand shimmers in gold on his palm. The abyss in his eyes is restlessly twinkling with stars.

"Do you think this would help me?" Lucifer snorts haughtily, as if masking an old, painful longing.

"You're not losing anything, Morning Star," Morpheus' words, slow, quiet, inexorable, are like the night darkness coming from the east.

"Fine. So be it," the devil agrees and meets this darkness with his head held high in pride. Golden sand darts off from the palm of the Dream Lord, envelops, covers his eyes, carries away in this whirlwind.

Dream does not know what Lucifer is really dreaming about, but gives him what he can give. He gives a vision of pure, absolute freedom – he gives a blank canvas the size of the whole infinity which fits in the palm of the hand; he gives new wings – weightless, intangible, light and swift; he gives new stars – bright, sparkling, falling in bubbles into a glass of champagne. He gives a gust of fresh, strong wind, sweeping away all the old pain, blowing out all the painful memories; he gives a bright surf with a surge of energy and baseless fun.

He gives something with which he once defeated Lucifer's vassal in front of his legions: hope.

Morpheus is above the concepts of good and evil, he is the creator – the bizarre harmony, the elusive balance is more important for him, and he often does not make a difference between vices and virtues. But he looks into the essence of things, spreads his dreams under Morning Star's feet – and he remains fascinated himself by this brightest radiance.

When the golden sand settles like a gentle haze under the feet of the Fallen One, Dream hears a soft, velvety, triumphant laugh. And this sound is the cosmic melody of the brightest star that fell so infinitely long ago.

Its brightest light flashes with renewed vigor as a beacon in the darkness, and this is the hope that everything just begins.

#the sandman #dream of the endless #death of the endless #lucifer #lucifer morningstar #fanfic #slash #dream x lucifer #pls tell me if i have any problems with my english #available on ao3 and ficbook

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