Chapter Text
It started with refusal after refusal. In his ears, in his mind, in his very soul, he could feel his realm crumbling and his creations screaming as they died. The invaders had torn their way into the Dreaming, something that was a part of him, an extension of himself, and laid waste. Destroying, razing him to the ground and leaving him to ruin.
It was invasive, it was agony. A violation onto his very being, and no help would come.
His siblings, refusing and turning their back on him, was the first thing that cracked in him. He begged for help from his older siblings, from Destiny and Death. He pleaded with Destruction, with Despair, with Desire. But nothing. Desire came close to helping, offering him a lover, but he refused. A lover was not what he needed. It was help, not love. He had nothing to give to a lover, not with the total destruction of his realm. And Desire had huffed, insulted, and disappeared after his refusal, retracting the offered help.
And Delight, oh poor Delight had her own problems that she could not help. She was changing. And, Dream realised with resignation, that his own shape too was twisting into something jagged and sharp, He was changing as well.
He was Dream, and he held hope within his realm. But for that moment, hope died in him as he knew that no help was coming from his family. He knew not to bother with his parents, with Time and Night. They had no care for their children, no care for him and the agony he was in.
He lost hope, and Dream became something different, something more and less than what he was before.
He became Nightmare to save his realm – what was left of it at the time – but he knew that he would not stay as Nightmare for long.
Darkness sank it's claws into his realm, any surviving creatures were soothed into the blanket of the void, knowing only peace as they were uncreated, their master weeping as he consumed them. To fight against these invaders, he needed all the power he could get.
When his sight locked onto the two enemies, Nightmare rumbled like a thousand thunder storms, crackling with lightning, and maelstrom of wrath and sorrow, “SO YOU WISH TO RULE THE DREAMING.”
They tried to stab, to hack at him, but there was nothing left of his corporeal form. All he was, was what dreams and nightmares were made of: thoughts and emotions. And his total rage and misery hit them as a maelstrom, thick, suffocating black consuming. They fought, struggled to be free of him, but they had invaded the Dreaming, an extension of himself, and they were trapped. Sealing their doom the second they stepped foot into his realm.
“WHY DO YOU FIGHT? ISN'T THIS WHAT YOU WANTED? FEEL THE DREAMERS SCREAM IN PAIN AS YOU TEAR AT THEIR MINDS. LISTEN TO THEIR WEEPING, THEY ARE IN AGONY. THIS IS WHAT I FEEL, WHAT I AM. THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED.”
The invaders' minds crumbled from Nightmare induced insanity before their bodies succumbed to the pain he inflicted upon them, sand and stardust tearing into their forms, ripping them to pieces.
And then it was silent.
Nightmare, no Dream- no...he- he wasn't anything but the dark. His mother but far more miserable as he floated in his realm of nothingness. The Dreaming was gone, and his mind was slipping from him. With only one last pull at his near exhausted power, he placed all those dreaming into a sleep of peaceful darkness, before he too, fell into that black unconscious state.
The family meeting that followed his defeat of the two interlopers, that followed Delight becoming Delirium, was one that all would remember vividly, no matter how far into the future they were.
Delirium-who-was-once-Delight, was a mess. A calamity held in a slight frame that shifted in colours and emotions, erratic and worrying to watch. One glance and she was long haired and bursting with butterflies, then in the next glance she was twisting into herself, weeping and her words full of nonsense.
Dream sat next to her, the last to arrive. That was the first peculiarity. Typically, Dream was first to answer and would sit next to Death or Destiny. But he sat with the youngest and held her hand when she reached it out to him. On her other side, Destruction was doing the same, but for once, her favourite sibling could not hold her attention. It was fixed on Dream.
The third eldest appeared the same as always at first glance, but the longer they stared, the closer inspection unveiled that he was not as he was before. His eyes, swirling with turbulent and unsettled galaxies instead of pinprick stars, stared listlessly into the ceiling of the room Destiny arranged for their gathering. Black ichor seeped from his eyes, glinting like dying stars. It was as if he was crying, but a silent scream of help, one that no one could hear. A thumb brushing back and forth over Delirium's hand was the only sign of movement. Of that he was alive, because he did not even create false breathing.
Beyond this, the way he was dressed was unlike him as well, usually impeccable and presented well. Now he wore nothing but a cloak of darkness, an empty universe that sucked in any light that shone onto the fabric. It dipped off of one shoulder, presenting pronounced collarbones and upper ribs. Underfed and deteriorating, was what he looked like.
A hollowness filled to the brim with nonsense and nothing. It was not a suitable replacement for what was once the place of hope within him.
“Dream?” Death asked softly, watching with concern at the lack of response that followed. Helpless, the eldest sister glanced towards Destiny, who had looked up from the book, blind eyes directed to where Dream was sat. The eldest of the Endless held a cloud of resignation around him, as he must know exactly what had become of their brother. However, as usual, he did not address it, always the observer.
Desire spoke next, a nervous edge to their teasing words, “Giving us the silent treatment because we couldn't help you with some petty problem?”
That gained a reaction from Dream, but not the expected one. His eyes dragged from upwards to land on them, and blinked once. “I do not wish to talk to you any more, sibling.”
They reared back in their seat, hurt flashing across their features before something arrogant covered up the moment of weakness. “And why would I want anything less than that, hm?”
But Dream did not reply instead, he turned to Delirium, head lolling against the back of the chair. “I think I want to leave. It hurts, sister.” He sounded so small, voice nothing like the low rumble that could lull even Destiny to sleep if Dream put his full power into it.
In a moment of lucidity, Delirium's eyes became blue as she brushed the back of her hand across Dream's cheek. “There is still much to fix, brother. You're not ready for this yet.”
He nodded exhaustively, before taking a stand from his seat. “Much to fix. Not ready.” He mumbled to himself, before his shadow consumed him, and he disappeared from Destiny's realm.
“What has happened to him?” Destruction demanded, looking at anyone for explanation, but none expected Delirium to speak up, still having a firm grip on the sanity that was seeping like sand through her fingers by the second.
“None of you helped him.” She informed them softly, facial expression pained from lacking lunacy and fighting the new change. “The Dreaming was being attacked, torn apart. But he is the Dreaming, siblings. He changed as I have. He is a Dream without any hope, just as I am Delight with no sanity.”
In the darkness, bare feet stopped in front of his curled form.
“Brother.” A tiny voice called.
The form shifted, limbs jerking and stilted, stiff and painful. “Sister?” The voice was hoarse, a throat raw from endless screaming and crying.
When she crouched down, she was not as he had last seen her. Her bright colours were no longer orderly, a disruption. One look and he felt close to hysterics. She sighed, miserable, and collapsed onto what was a floor-but-not next to him. Together, they stared at the new forms of their sibling, no longer that once splendour. The loss of a large part of them, forever unable to attain once more.
A fall of starlight fell from his eyes as he shakily reached out, grasping her hand.
“Who are you?” He whispered roughly.
“Delirium. And you?”
“Not Dream. But not Nightmare any more.”
“Perhaps just Sleep.”
He considered her quiet suggestion. “Perhaps.” Then, he breathed in a galaxy, and released a nebula. “I can't feel them. The dreamers. They're so...distant. But safe.” That was the one comfort that allowed him to lay there, to sit in his hurt and struggle to not fall completely into his mother's realm. He did not wish to see her, to hear her harsh and unforgiving words. She never said she was proud of him before, to see him in such a state would not draw that dream to reality.
“That's good.” She softly breathed, eyelids shutting over mismatched iris'. “I'm tired.”
He closed his eyes too, exhaustion pulling him into darkness once more. “Me too.”
They rested in the darkness, a false lull of comfort similar to their mother's arms.
They rebuilt the Dreaming together, Delirium's realm on the outskirts, barring all from entry but a few who could reach her new and changed palace. The Dreaming, once full of brilliance and whimsicality, was always a chaotic place masking as orderly.
Now, the chaos showed in abundance. The pavement changing colours and size as you walked, running but getting no where, looking around and unable to see a thing like your eyes were closed despite thinking they were open. The Dreaming could no longer be fully comprehend in it's splendour unless lucid dreaming or one was granted the presence of Sleep to help them fully understand their dream.
Sleep-who-was-once-Dream, could still feel who he was deep within the shattered pieces of his essence, of his concept. But he wasn't that any more. Thoughts and ideas were nonsensical to him, his mind running on tangents or turning blank with nothingness, unable to focus on one thing for very long.
The hope within him gone, leaving him hollow and filled by mania. It was of no fault on Delirium's part, as she only wished to help. And Sleep would accept any help at that time. In doing so, she fed bits of madness to him, as he helped her drink up some of his order. They were unstable, but when together, there was some lucidity and peace.
Together, they made dreams and nightmares of such strange and maddening degree, that most dreamers when they woke up were relieved at escaping his realm, but forever entered it again the next night, ready for the newest lunacy that their mind could conjure up using the tools the Dreaming gave them. The tools Sleep and Delirium made together.
They enjoyed creating fever dreams and drug induced hallucinations together.
It was some centuries after he was destroyed and rebuilt, that Sleep wandered into the Threshold to seek out Desire.
Sleep had done as he said, and hadn't spoken to them once since the last family gathering. And for the first time Desire held back on messing with their brother, knowing that the fragility of Dream was not one to be touched.
When they caught sight of Dream, wandering through into the heart of their Realm, they sat up straight, stunned. “Brother. Why did you not call from your gallery?”
Eyes still just as filled with a calamity of stars, just as distant too, Dream murmured, “I could not find it. I think it's misplaced itself again. It's easier, to walk until I find one of you. Most of you are all connected to my realm one way or another.”
“Finally accepting that desire has hold over dreams?” They asked, smugly, out of habit. But the wariness flared when Dream stopped to crouch down in front of their chair.
“You always have hold over dreams.” Dream softly, earnestly replied, reaching out to hook a singular finger round the fabric of their dress. “It is why I am here. I wish to make dreams with you.”
Desire was silent with shock. “Dream...”
“Sleep.” Their brother corrected blankly. “I am not Dream, or perhaps, I could be one day. But for now, I am just Sleep. It's the best name we could come up with, as I'm missing too much to be what I was before.”
Reaching out, Desire curled a hand across their brother's jaw, truly feeling sad at what had become of their once exuberant – though he hid that well – sibling. “What has become of you?”
It was rhetoric, but when Sleep cast their gaze fully onto them, Desire saw stars exploding in his eyes. “You all forsake me to my ruin. With no help, I lost myself.”
Then, an expression like childish displeasure then crossed his pale face. “I am not enjoying this conversation. Maybe we can create some dreams another time.” And with that, they left in a swirl of dark sand, leaving Desire's hand suspended in the air.
A flicker of guilt started in their chest, and Desire dropped their hand from the empty space in front of them.
They had finally gotten what they wanted, a Dream without arrogance and recognised Desire in their importance. But now, there was no Dream to revel over. It was a hollow success.
Being imprisoned was painful. Not only was he so far cut off from his realm, but because of the boredom. He had spent the last dozens upon dozens of centuries getting used to his frantic thoughts and ideas, creating absurdity and wonders at whim, that to be contained and left with nothing to do had him going far more insane than he went when he became Sleep.
He had only just started to gather those eons lost pieces of himself these last few centuries thanks to the mortal Hob Gadling. And now, it was slipping through his fingers again with every day that dragged by.
Sleep sat up in his prison, a need to stretch his limbs in what limited space he had, and glanced over at the small window. It was night time. He missed his family. He was terrified of asking for help though. He could not bear it if his call for help was refused once more. Sleep had also thought that maybe he could find his own way out of this cage, but it was starting to be doubtful.
He did not have hope to lose. Not any more.
Or maybe he did. What little of it was restored with his time around Hob. The human had an unfailing way of igniting a love for life with just a smile and a conversation. If he had no hope, he had Hob at least.
However, as decades crawled by, hearing muffled mentions of dates through the glass, Sleep learnt that he had missed his date with Hob. That over seven decades had passed, and not a single person helped him. Roderick Burgess long dead, and Alex Burgess having killed his Jessamy, Sleep could not stand to take his offer of freedom. It was not a matter of pride, but the respect he had for her sacrifice. He would not accept the hand of the man who killed her. No. That would be an insult to his loyal companion.
There was no air for him to speak with, so he could not answer the human that trapped him even if he wanted to, nor ask for help. He had tried to wait it out for as long as he could, letting numbness take over, instead of falling deep into the acknowledgment that no one would save him. He would have to hope, with what little amount he had, that he would find freedom once again.
But it was dying a slow death, and when Sleep turned to stare at his reflection as he was wont to do, he caught sight of Despair. It appeared he had finally entered her realm, but oh how he had missed the face of his siblings. It was a wonder to see one of them again after so long without.
She watched him with heavy, unwavering eyes, dark and filled with pity. Reaching up, Sleep brushed her reflection with a shaking hand. Then, bowing his head to look away, ashamed, Sleep felt a tear slip down his cheek. They had seen him fall and fall and fall, changing into this distorted once glorious concept.
He had been hollowed out and filled with only temporary thoughts from dreamers. He had not much of his own left any more, lacked full substantial ideas of his own. And now, as he was, it felt like a far worse fate than what had changed him in the past. There, he was able to escape and fight back. But not here, so tightly bound and helpless.
At least, a state of helplessness was fairly familiar to him, though it had been a long time since he felt it. There was a dark comfort in that acknowledgment.
Closing his eyes, Sleep slipped into his mind, into that delirious state he would succumb to if left alone and without anything to do. Without any thing to focus on. Maybe, he could summon his sister this way, by brushing against her realm, as he could not enter it with the binding circle.
Something was wrong.
Hob sat in the White Horse Inn, and knew something was wrong the longer the seat across from his stayed empty. He had felt that something was wrong as this century went by without a single appearance of his friend. At first, Hob figured that he was busy with his realm and the Dreaming. Then, when Jessamy had not sent him any word of why he was delayed, nor could he find Sleep in his own dreams, and a pit opened up in his stomach.
Even if he missed seeing Hob between one century and the next, they always met on June 7th '89.
Always.
Recalling their last meeting, it was just the turn of the century, 1901. It was spring time and they had taken a walk through Covent Garden, Hob happily buying anything Sleep directed his interest on. Particularly food, the being enjoying the way humans changed and adjusted food just as much as Hob did. It was those moments of honest delight that Sleep was more lucid, more present and beside Hob.
It had taken time, to figure out just what was so...odd about his friend.
After their first meeting back in 1389, Hob saw Sleep only once before their next appointed meeting. Hob had just managed to find a place to rest in a field after a day of travelling, piles of hay being his only option to bed down on. He could do without the spiders and bugs that crept about in the piles, but it kept him warm, and was better than the hard ground.
Hob had hugged his sword to his chest and stared up at the starry sky.
And then, the space beside him was no longer empty. Hob had at first jerked back in shock, but settled once realising who it was. The Devil he no doubt sold his soul to.
Said Devil stared sightlessly up at the stars, murmuring, “They're alive, the stars.”
Blinking, lost, Hob replied dumbly, “How can they be?”
Humans didn't know much about stars, more focused on the current plague and warring then the night sky. Turning to face him, The Devil's eyes were just as dark and consuming as their first meeting. They reminded him of a smouldering fire place, coal glowing but barely lit any more. A dying flame.
Fixing him with those impossible eyes, the being answered, “Because they dream. And I am dreams, though I do not feel like that much any more. Haven't for a long time.”
“You are dreams?” Hob blurted, “How is that possible? They're just thoughts, ideas.” And he started sitting up to look down at the being's reclined and dark form. He was dressed in shadows just as before.
A faint smile curled on the being's lips as he answered, “And do dreams not live within one's mind? Do they not shape the foundation of human decisions? Dreams are alive, and so are the stars.”
“And you...” Hob could not fully grasp what this being was trying to tell him, but a part of him was relieved he hadn't made some unknown deal with the Devil.
Rolling over to curl on his side, facing Hob, the being closed his eyes. “I was once Dream of the Endless, but I've lost myself. I am Sleep now, a rest without wonder. Without inspiration. Without hope.”
Hesitating, Hob laid back down, staring at the now named Sleep – once Dream? - and asked hesitantly, “How did you lose yourself?” Hob wondered if this was like with soldiers, the horror of war twisting the mind, seeing shadows and enemies everywhere, not being able to get any peace of mind even once the battle had been won.
Opening his star light eyes, Sleep had a deep, deep sadness within them, empty void of nothingness. “If you were both a field and a human, and could feel what the field felt. Every foot step across your skin, every worm and insect burrowed deep within your bones, had both hair and grass growing from your surfaces, and that was peace for you. You held life and nature and basked in sunlight every day. That was your life, as a field and a person. And then one day, someone comes to tear apart the land, uprooting every tree, overturning the grass, setting fire to the animals that grazed upon your land, and digging graves to fill with the organs they pulled from your weeping body. And some how, you managed to have the strength to destroy them, to be rid of them. But you were still left in ruin. A burning, razed ground, where no life could live nor wish to. You defeated them, but in the end, you are missing what you once was.”
The words rang heavily in the air, and once finished, Sleep curled into himself, eyes distant and lost. They were rimmed red, tears close to shedding with the memories.
“That happened to you.” Hob stated pointlessly, breathlessly and he stayed staring wide eyed at Sleep from the story he spun. There was an ache in his voice, a pain still so raw despite Hob concluding this must have happened a long time ago, that it made his chest hurt.
Puffing out a breath, Sleep reached out a thin, pale hand, skin almost glowing in the moonlight, and covered Hob's eyes as he spoke again.
“When you close your eyes and fall into darkness, you enter my realm. The Dreaming. I am the Dreaming. I know your dreams and nightmares. I know all that can sleep and dream.”
Sleep then withdrew his hand, letting it rest on the hay between them, a frown of frustration marring his inhuman beauty as he elaborated, “Imagine, what would happen if you took that away. There would be nothing. No dreams, no hope. Nothing. Humans would be blank and not come up marvels and horrors of their own. Dreams are needed to push humans along. My function is so necessary, that there was a time when it almost died because of those that tried to tear me apart. And when I won, there was still a very long period of time, where no one could dream, because I was weakened. Almost destroyed.” Sighing sadly, Sleep whispered, “Dreams are no longer what they once was, when I was whole. I am...lacking, now.”
“But nature can recover.” Hob stated suddenly, desperately wanting to comfort this exhausted and broken creature. Slowly, Sleep focused back onto Hob, who swallowed hard. He had not realised, until now, that Sleep's full attention was not there, even when talking to Hob. But whatever he was saying now, he had that focus, and it was daunting. Overwhelming. But Hob could never be called a coward, and pushed on resolutely, “Battle fields spring flowers and grass and fresh dirt. Seeds can be replanted. It takes time, but nature heals, doesn't it?”
Sleep did not blink. Not even as he very, very slowly, sat up to loom over Hob's reclined form. Though it would be useless, Hob clenched his sheathed sword on instinct. “I was not the one who granted your immortality. That was my sister, Death, who with holds her gift until you truly wish to die.”
“Which isn't any time soon.” Hob was quick to assure, thoughts reeling with the information Sleep was giving him. It was comforting to know the root of his new immortality.
A tiny smile, something hold wonder in it, crept up Sleep's lips as he continued as if not cut off at all, “She wishes to teach me something, though I'm not sure what. And that lesson, will be taught through you, Robert Gadling. So I will meet you once a century, but perhaps, I will visit in between as well. You are...inspiring.”
Astonished that someone as plain and ordinary as him, could be seen as inspiring to this otherworldly being, Hob could only lie there speechless as Sleep leant forward to press a gentle kiss to his brow. He was then blanketed with the comfort from the bed of his childhood home, where his parents would soothe him to sleep, and felt his eyes grow heavy. Fluttering shut, Hob murmured, "M' friends call me Hob."
The last thing Hob heard that night, was that low rumble of Sleep's voice promising, “You will have no nightmares tonight, so dream well, Hob.”
After that talk, Hob concluded this: Sleep was struggling to find a reason to continue to live, and if there was one thing Hob could teach him over their many meetings, was how to find the simplest of joys in life that kept him motivated and enjoying life.
And though the progress was slow, Hob noted a difference between the Sleep he talked to that night, and the Sleep that walked with him through Covent Garden. That starlight in his eyes looked less like a dying light, and more of a new born star, exploding into existence.
Sleep had mentioned on some occasions, his lack of wishing to continue on living, struggling to find reason beside the purpose he was created for. So Hob did his very best to give him such. And though Sleep never brought it up again, Hob had a knowing thought on what his sister wished him to learn.
To live. To have hope back.
And when Sleep never showed up as the years went by, not even for a short visit for a conversation over tea, Hob dreaded what exactly could cause such an absence.
(It felt obvious to Hob that in the frequent visitations, he would fall for Sleep. The being was captivating, even with his sorrowful expressions and dying-fire eyes. He could weave stories like none other, and when Hob gained the full attention of him, the man did everything he could to keep it. It took time, to realise that he did not have to try so hard.
Because when he had lost it all, his wife that he did love truly even as he held Sleep in his heart too, the being was still there, always. Unwavering in his quiet support and kindness. Even when Hob was laying in the gutter and starving, Sleep never lost interest.)
In this universe, when the first Vortex appeared, Sleep did not hesitated to kill her. He did so with regret, with tears filling his eyes, and mourned the young life he took. After having so recently healed the Dreaming – healed himself, though never to the degree he was before – Sleep could not go through another ruin again. He saw the way the Vortex began to warp reality, and did his duty as an Endless, and kept the universe intact and balanced.
Dreamers dreamt of nothing but waves of a stormy sea, anguished waters. Dreamt of torrents of rain and thunder. The Dreaming was crying, and so was Sleep.
It was through no machination of Desire that lead Sleep to be inside his glass prison. It was a leading of bad luck, of fate, of destiny, that led to Roderick Burgess getting the book, no influence at all from Desire. The reason being, that the siblings were on a more positive standing with one another.
In centuries past, Desire came to Sleep, and asked, “Did you still wish to make some dreams together big brother?”
And there was a break of a smile on their brother's marble face, elated. Their combined ideas and suggestions created dreams that mortals woke up from filled with confused or horrified lust. Shame for their subconscious making them dream such dark or uncomfortable sex. Desire found it delicious. Sleep thought it both amusing and necessary. One must confront what they don't wish to, in order to understand themselves better. He had to learn that through much pain and heartbreak after becoming Sleep.
So when their brother disappeared and was imprisoned, they did not know for a long time.
Until Despair sought audience with all her siblings – with Destruction's gallery empty and silent still – and informed them of Sleep's fate.
“He is crying.”
“Can't he ask for help?” Death asked, biting her thumb with worry.
Delirium floated upside down, playing with butterflies as she mumbles, “Asked and none came last time.”
The guilt from having dismissed her little brother's cry for help all that time ago still weighed heavy, and Death looked down silently. It was understandable then, why Sleep would not this time around.
“He's entered my realm.” Delirium then stated, and for a short moment, lucidity washed over her. Eyes both blue, Delirium wondered, “Can we not ignore the rules and save him anyways?”
Sightless eyes reading from the Book, Destiny intoned, “No. We can not.”
Desire then straightened up, “What about that mortal friend of his? Sleep mentioned him in our last family dinner.”
Brightening up, Death agreed, “Hob Gadling! Of course, that man would do anything for Sleep.”
Lips curling slyly, Desire purred, “Of course he would. His desire for our brother is blatantly obvious.”
Nodding, but not addressing what all already knew to be a six century long courtship between the two, the eldest sister decided, “I'll go talk to Hob, inform of where to go.”
The Corinthian was still the one to help Roderick Burgess construct that glass prison. The nightmare, the dark reflection of humanity, was endlessly confused and enraged by his maker's existence. All the dream creatures were created long after Sleep became what he was, the Dreaming having only been vague concepts for a near century before Sleep was able to create anything to full completion.
To the dream creatures, Sleep was an odd master. Distant but not cold. He came off as arrogant at times, with how he did not pay much attention to his creatures, because he had not much attention to focus with in general. He would lay himself out on the steps to his throne. He would sit on the Sands of the Dreaming, staring off into the dark depths silently. His mind was always somewhere else, and the dream creatures knew that as typical behaviour.
It had grated on the Corinthian, wanting those passive eyes to focus and pay attention to him and all the other denizens of the Dreaming.
He killed a human for the first time outside of a nightmare he had crafted, and basked in the euphoria, finally tasting real eyes, seeing the person's life as his own. And Sleep had arrived in a swirl of sand. His creator had stared at him blankly, but that focused gaze was finally on him for the first time since the Corinthian's creation.
Exhilarated, the Corinthian grinned with all three mouths, “Finally noticed me then, Sleep?”
“You have harmed a dreamer.” Sleep quietly stated, galaxy eyes narrowing and unhappy but with child-like confusion. “That is not your purpose.”
Smile turning into a curled snarl at the disapproving tone and the Corinthian snapped, “What does one death even matter? Maybe if you looked past them and to your own creations, you would see that there's more to us than just the purpose you gave us.”
Confusion shifted to realisation, which changed to sorrow, a strange expression on Sleep, as he quietly implored, “Were you so desperate for attention, my nightmare? Why did you not say it?”
And how could the nightmare put into words just how distant their king was. It was a struggle to even talk to him if he even deigned to, never fully paying attention to them. An insult that the Corinthian could no longer take. Now, he had the full focus, but it was not what he had expected. There was no arrogance, nor derision. Only a deep sadness. Pity. A concern he had not been prepared for.
Stepping closer, Sleep reached up to press a cold but gentle hand to the Corinthian's cheek. The nightmare shuddered, exhaling shakily at the soft comfort his touch brought. “I am sorry, my nightmare. I am sorry that I have failed you and the others in such a way. It was not my intention. However, I'm afraid that your punishment is still necessary for the death of a mortal. Dreams and nightmares are not mad to harm those in the Waking world.”
And he felt it, as the bits of him slowly started to disintegrate. He was being unmade, and couldn't help the plea that escaped him, falling to his knees. “No, please, my lord. Please.”
A tear began to fall from Sleep's eye, just as he faltered. A gasp of pain from his king as he hunched over, before his form distorted and was twisted, disappearing in a blink of an eye. Bewildered, the Corinthian only lingered in that feeling, before malicious joy took over.
Though he got the attention he had so desired, the Corinthian valued his freedom far more, and did not care about the destruction caused to his home and to the Waking world, as he helped Roderick Burgess keep his king trapped. After all, if Sleep was free, the Corinthian would be unmade, and he quite liked the way he was currently.
In the year 1989, it was a brisk evening on November 10th when Sleep was freed from his imprisonment. Hob had kicked down the front door, gun blazing and sword wielding, uncaring of the chaos and death he caused getting to his best friend. The guards stood no a chance, and Alex Burgess and his husband Paul were slow to arrive. By the time they made their way down the steps to the basement, Sleep of the Endless was out of his cage and curled up against Hob, shaking as he took in deep, thirsty breaths of fresh air.
The man that held their prisoner glared at them, one hand that cradled Sleep had a gun in it, the other held a sword, positioned defensively in front of the two. He had a fearless fire burning in his eyes, and both men knew that he would stop at nothing to get Sleep away from the manor.
Sleep, cracking open an eye from where his face was buried deep into Hob's neck, glanced dispassionately at the pair of humans. “Sleep well tonight, Alex Burgess. It will be your last peaceful night of your life.” It was soft, softer than either human had expected from their previously silent captive. But it trembled with rage, trembled with the decades of anguish, and that it was only softened due to the present weakness in Sleep. Still, it rumbled like an oncoming storm, a vow that will be filled.
With a small wave of his hand, sand hissed into being, swirling and taking away the human and Endless from the damp cavern.
The next evening, petrified but unable to stop his mind from succumbing to sleep in the end, Alex Burgess saw endless nightmares beyond his minds own comprehension.
Sleep did not have lovers. He barely had much love within him, much less any to give to others. Sleep only had time that was spent dutifully keeping his realm working smoothly, much less consider romance. It was a dream he didn't dream of, though he knew he used to, when younger and whole.
He never had Alianora, offered by Desire. Never had Nada, as he never walked through her city to be noticed by the queen. He had met Calliope however, and found her mind and work inspiring, and she helped him regain that once brilliant imagination that he had lost in slow increments. They were tentative friends turned shared lovers of art, spending hours coming up with songs and poems, creating stories and paintings. They were friends, and there was a time when Calliope had offered up more than just that friendship. Sleep had pondered it, before deciding no. It would not do well for him to be with someone. There was still too much broken, and he respected her too much to push that onto her. So friends they stayed, and Sleep saw her as someone under his care and protection, as he would later feel Hob was.
(And Hob was another matter entirely, when it came to romance. It was a tentative possibility, one that they continued to slowly construct and explore for a long, long time. They had, after all, all the time in the world. Sleep, who could have been with Calliope, had felt his mind had settled better, felt more present more often than not when he finally allowed himself to accept love.)
Calliope had Orpheus with another man, and her son's fate was still the same, though Death came to collect him in this world, the young man to never have to suffer a long, arduous half-life. Morpheus – as he was known to her by – brought Calliope flowers to place on her son's grave, a species never seen before in the Waking world. They were red.
So when she called to him for help, after realising he was free, Sleep came. He was devastated by what had become of his past friend, trembling and furious.
“He must be punished.” Morpheus had insisted.
“Why?” Calliope scoffed, “Because you deem me as one of yours?”
Frowning, hurt and taken aback, Morpheus corrected, “Because he hurt you.”
She softened.
Reaching out, he offered his hand to her, which after a second, she took. Gently, he stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. “I was trapped, and I got my revenge on the one who kept me. As you are unable to do so for yourself, then let me be the weapon. Aim me, Calliope. I can not bear to see you treated in such a way.”
Tilting her head upwards, Calliope pressed her head against his cheek. “Thank you, my friend.”
Releasing her hand after a second, Morpheus nodded, and disappeared.
When all was over with, the human without a single idea in his head, Morpheus opened the door of her prison for the Muse, and Calliope looked out into the open sky with a smile of gentle wonder.
“If you wish,” Morpheus began hesitantly, the goddess turning her wide brown eyes his way with curiosity, “You can visit me in the Dreaming as you used to, and we can...commiserate in our similar pain.”
Smiling, Calliope brushed her hand across his cheek, “I should like that, Morpheus. I will see you soon enough.”
With a tip of his head, a small bow, Morpheus replied, “I will inform the guardians of your coming visit.”
Watching her walk out, glowing in the moonlight, Sleep felt a knot unravel in his chest. He had only two friends in his life time, and to think that one was defiled and abused so harshly without his notice, was terrifying. He would do well in inspiring and encouraging humans in their dreams, to be better. To do better.
Hopefully, no other beings like them will have to be forced into such torment again.
Two days after having rescued Sleep, Hob was met with the being curled up in his bed after coming home from work. Sleep had brought him to stand in front of the White Horse, gave him a soft kiss on the cheek in gratitude, before disappearing with a promise to visit soon. Hob would wait forever, and could trust that his friend would show up again. After walking home, Hob continued on with life, as there was always something he had to fill his time. It was not spent entirely waiting for Sleep, a thought always on his mind. He had his own life to live, and went about it as always.
So after two nights, Hob had not expected to see Sleep so soon after everything and had been in the process of shrugging out of his jacket and shirt, when rustling was heard from the bed.
Glancing up, mildly startled, he relaxed at the sight of his friend. Blankets that were his, as well as ones he was sure he did not own, were piled onto Sleep, and his ruffled hair was adorable.
“How are you doing, my friend?” Hob asked.
Sitting up, and that was when Hob noted that Sleep was lacking in a shirt, the being murmured, “I have regained my tools of office. And I've been instructed by my family and librarian to rest. You are where I feel the most restful and at peace.”
It was an honour that Hob had known for awhile, and carried with the highest of pride. An old cosmic entity found him, middle ages peasant Hob Gadling, a person who could offer peace. Deciding he could wait to eat, the man pulled on some pajama pants and climbed into bed with Sleep. Said being immediately burrowed into his bare chest, seeking out his heat and flesh.
At the contact, Sleep shuddered with relief. Slowly, Hob began to feel wetness against his shoulder, and wrapped his arms around his friend with comfortable and familiar ease. He could not imagine the torture of going so long without air, without food, without even basic skin contact. A human would go insane from just even a year of such deprivation let alone nearly a century.
So Hob offered what skin he could, in abundance, and Sleep got that rest and the beginning of the recovery he needed for the week he stayed with him. Hob plied him with food and books and conversation. It was difficult, trying to keep Sleep on track and focused on the present, but he had long perfected such a skill after their many, many meetings and interactions over the centuries.
Matthew was a raven for only a few hours, and he had already decided that Sleep was someone that needed an eye kept on them at all times. The haze in his eyes, how distantly he looked at everything, Matthew thought it was disinterest at first. Thought that he looked down on everyone.
However, Lucienne's words of advice rang in his mind as he insisted Sleep take him with him.
“He is a powerful being, Matthew.” Lucienne explained firmly, “But he is also very fragile. A being with infinite wisdom, and sometimes with the emotional capacity of a child. He is not young, and can make decisions fine enough, but he can have mood swings like none other.”
“He...won't hurt us, right?” Matthew had to ask, newly dead-but-alive, however still young in his new existence.
“No.” Lucienne replied sharply, refuting his question right away. Then, she softened into an old sadness. “He would never hurt any of us in his upset. It is not rage that you should look out for, but hopelessness. Loneliness. And mania. He has spent a long while within his youngest sister's realm, Delirium. Sometimes, he is just not present, and can be quick to lose conviction in himself and others. You've got to keep him focused and encouraged, Matthew. That is your task.”
And boy was it a task and a half. Especially when travelling through Hell. It was where he thought he would've ended up when dead, and the irony of him visiting was not lost upon the raven.
But Sleep was quiet in his ever forward plunge into Hell, never looking back nor hesitating. Nothing of the horrors affected him, so Matthew had to wonder, “Does anything actually frighten you?”
Looking down at where he hopped along beside him, Sleep replied with honesty, “I fear the loss of myself, whatever is left. I fear the loss of my family and friends, those few that I have. I fear what can become of humanity, should something happen to me, which has, twice, in my existence. So, yes, Matthew, I do fear.”
Matthew could not begin to comprehend the amount of vastness contained within his new boss. But he could understand some of the concepts he mentioned. Matthew loved the family he had as a human, from what little memories he still had. He loved them and the idea of losing them had terrified Matthew the Human. But as Matthew the Raven, he had an inkling that such fear and protectiveness was to be directed to Sleep now.
It was something to think about later, when not in Hell.
“I am,” Sleep began, struggling to get up, “Hope.” And when he looked at Lucifer, Sleep felt those words truly, for the first time in a long, long time.