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To Learn to Breathe Again
When Dream finally returned to his realm, after a century of longing and desperately holding onto hope, all he could feel was exhaustion.
His body ached, and his mind was in shambles. Upon seeing Lucienne again, on the shore of the Dreaming, he’d felt the weight of the world lift off his shoulders. But now that he was back in what was once his beautiful throne room, his home, all he could think about was trying to stay upright as everything around him spun in dizzying circles.
“My lord,” his trusty librarian murmured. Dream knew that there was no fooling her; she could always see right through him. “You’ve been through so much in the last hundred years. Perhaps you should take a moment to rest.”
Bowing his head and closing his eyes, Dream let out a shaky sigh. “I can’t, Lucienne,” he said quietly. “The Dreaming—”
“—will still be here when you return,” Lucienne replied. “We’ve already waited this long. What’s a couple of more hours?” At Dream’s visible flinch, she frowned apologetically and reached out to place a gentle hand on her King’s arm. It took all of his self control not to jerk away from her kind touch. “My apologies,” she said. “That was wrong of me.”
“No,” Dream whispered. “No, you’re quite right, Lucienne. It would be in my best interest to rest.” He paused to meet her gaze. There was so much concern in her eyes that he knew he didn’t deserve. “Wake me in an hour, if I’m not back by then.”
Dream could see that Lucienne wanted to argue, tell him that an hour wasn’t nearly enough — and it wasn’t — but she thankfully held her tongue. “Yes, sire.”
He walked to his quarters in a kind of daze. The halls, though cracked and crumbling, were familiar in a heart wrenching way. During his captivity, Dream often imagined the walls of his palace, the beautiful arching doorways, and the paintings he’d collected over the thousands of years. He’d pictured said paintings in his mind on many occasions in an attempt to escape the stifling silence, the cruel laughter, and the burning pain that the mortals bestowed upon him. To see all of it again in person was stirring up emotions Lord Morpheus never thought himself capable of feeling. And to think that he took most of it for granted.
The minute he stepped inside the bedroom and closed the door behind him, Dream slid against it until he was on the ground, pressing his knees to his chest. Stubborn tears burned his eyes, tears stemming from all the shame and loss and grief that closed around his neck like a vice. A vice so tight, he found himself barely able to breathe.
Memories, mainly of Roderick Burgess demanding things that he had no right to ask, casting spell after spell on a defenseless being he never even intended on catching, danced before him, almost taunting him. The merciless death of Jessamy, his loyal raven, still felt like a fresh wound, more painful than any of the other torture his captors put him through. All the while Alex’s eyes kept watching him, the man they belonged to having been perfectly capable of setting him free, and at the same time perfectly content to watch him suffer rather than face his father’s wrath.
He would never forget those eyes.
Dream didn’t know how much time had passed, but he suddenly found himself standing up and moving towards the large mirror that hung over his vanity. Hesitantly, and with trembling hands, he took off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor as he stared at his pale, gaunt face. He could hardly recognize who he was looking at. Before his imprisonment, he’d always been fair skinned. His siblings often teased him about it, much to his annoyance. But now, he looked practically transparent, and the circles under his eyes were never this prominent. Dream couldn’t help but compare himself to the demons of Hell, ugly creatures that they were.
And then, ever so slowly, Dream let his hands travel down to his torso. Through the mirror, he watched as his fingers fell over the myriad of bruises and burns that littered his skin, breathing past the panic that came with the awful sensations. The majority of them were scarred over now, there to remind him of the horrors mankind was capable of. Still, he knew where each wound came from, what spell was used and by whom it was cast. Most times, Roderick was the one reading out of his book, chanting and chanting until Dream was seizing from the electricity pulsing through his veins, or gasping for air as invisible hands choked him.
Alex was the one that took over after Roderick’s gruesome — well deserved — death. He, too, had grown cold over the years, just like his father, despite his promises that assured otherwise. He begged for Dream to do what he wanted, knowing full well that if Roderick never got anywhere, neither would he. The resulting rage often left Dream shaking on the cold, hard floor of his spherical prison, trying so hard to just catch his breath while Alex stared at the immortal furiously and told him that it was his own fault this was happening to him. Making himself out as the victim. After a while, Dream wasn’t able to tell the difference between father and son anymore.
And now, despite the agony of remembrance, Morpheus couldn’t seem to look away from the proof of his suffering, couldn’t stop tracing the worst of the damage left behind on his body. To the humans, he had been nothing more than a canvas, a plaything. And now that he was truly free, all Dream could think about was the fact that maybe, just maybe, they had been right all along.
A soft knock at the door had Dream turning around in fear.
“Sire, it has been an hour,” Lucienne’s calm voice called.
Dream’s shoulders slumped in relief. He opened his mouth to speak, about to tell her that he’d be right out, yet no sound came out. He found himself unable to say anything.
“My lord?” Lucienne said, worry seeping into her tone. When she still received no answer, she tried once more, “My lord, is everything alright?”
Still, nothing.
Oh, how Dream wanted to tell her to leave, to let him struggle in peace, but he simply couldn’t. His own throat wouldn’t let him.
Finally, the librarian made up her mind. “I’m coming in, sire.”
The door opened, and Dream was suddenly staring right at Lucienne, who in turn was staring at his chest with wide eyes. He felt like he was on display all over again, naked and vulnerable with nowhere to go, forced to ignore the burning stares and ill-concealed whispers.
Now that Lucienne saw him like this, half-naked and just as, if not more, vulnerable, what would she have to say?
Instead of speaking, however, the librarian simply took a few steps towards him instead. “Oh, my dear Morpheus,” she breathed out. Her fingers hovered over a particularly awful-looking burn, unable to bring herself to touch it. “Who did this? Your captors?”
Dream could only hang his head in shame, letting his dark locks fall over and hide his tired eyes. “I’ve always been wary of humans,” he said by way of explanation. “I never trusted them, never wanted to get close to them like Death does … But I—” He took a deep, wavering breath. “I never knew they were capable of this.”
Lucienne nodded in understanding. There was an unexplainable sadness written across her face as she touched the faint bruises mottling Dream’s neck. “I am sorry,” she said gently. “I am so sorry, my lord.”
A lifeless laugh pushed past Dream’s lips — a broken, pitiful sound. The next thing he knew, his legs were giving out on him and he was falling.
Lucienne thankfully caught him with a surprising amount of ease. “I’ve got you, sire,” she whispered in his ear, and the amount of benevolence in her tone brought Dream to tears once more. “Look at you, you’re trembling.”
“It was so … so cold there,” the immortal said as warm, safe arms wrapped around his small form. He hadn’t felt the comfort of another being’s touch in so long, he felt like he could just shatter any minute. What if this was nothing but a dream? How ironic would that be? “I rarely slept,” he continued through gritted teeth. “And when the air ran out, it was almost suffocating. I—” Dream broke off with a hitching gasp and buried his head in the crook of Lucienne’s neck, hiding. “I’m tired, Lucienne. I’m so tired.”
The librarian didn’t reply this time. Morpheus felt the familiar sting of embarrassment stain his cheeks; he should have never let her see him this way. What would she think of him now? After all, he’d abandoned her for a hundred years, and now that he was back, he was nothing but a shadow of his former self. Pathetic.
And yet, she didn’t leave him.
Together, they sat there for what felt like hours. Lucienne had her hand running through her King’s hair, slow and soothing, a balm to his bleeding soul. Long after the tears had finally dried, Dream could still feel himself shaking violently. He was holding onto Lucienne’s robes like a lifeline, desperate to feel something — anything — other than the agonizing memory of torture.
And then his advisor was pulling him back to his feet and towards his bed. “It’s time for you to sleep, sire,” Lucienne said. “You’ve earned it.”
Carefully, oh so carefully, she helped him lay down. Dream almost moaned as the softness of the mattress enveloped him, a feeling he’d missed so much without ever realizing it. While Lucienne worked to cover him with a mountain of blankets, he let himself curl up in a tight ball, similarly to how he had in his prison, letting his eyes slip closed.
Briefly, he felt familiar fingers brush some stray locks behind his ear. As Lucienne moved to pull away, Dream grabbed for her wrist before he could think twice about it. “Stay,” he whispered hoarsely, searching her gaze for understanding.
Much to his relief, Lucienne nodded, and Dream let his head fall back on his pillow while the librarian found a chair to sit in. He could feel her hand on his arm as sleep gradually called to him, could feel her gaze as she watched over him like a guardian, stroking his hair gently.
It didn’t take long for darkness to take over.