Dream hasn’t had a chance to speak this particular language, not for a long time.
He knows, all too well, that it’s not always understood or appreciated. That at first it is welcomed, with wonder and amazement, but it is not always cherished. That it is always too much, that it is suffocating, overwhelming and he can’t bear that. He won’t be the cause of his beloved’s pain, not ever again.
So gently, carefully, he takes up the dreamstuff in his hands, fashions out of it the softest grass and the most fragrant flowers. Trees to offer shelter and drop off luscious fruit, its juices tangy and sweet on the tongue. Perhaps a dream of the seas, the waters jewel-bright, the winds bearing the ocean spray as gentle kisses on his beloved’s face. Or a blanket of stars, glittering bright and a moon, round and curved like a smile.
Sometimes it is a good memory, of loved ones who had long since made their journey to the Sunless Lands with his eldest sister. Dream does not begrudge these early loves, for they had given his dearest joy and he knows that to remember them is both comfort and blessing.
(He envies that way that Hob has with grief, sometimes. Thousands of years have passed and it is only now that Dream can remember his son without that blinding agony. Only now that Dream has found his voice and could sing once more, sharing music with his beloved and these new children that have somehow ended up into his care.)
Dream does all of these things, especially when the darker memories creep in, banishing away the remembrance of a dark, damp night on a London street, when hurtful, ill-considered words were exchanged. He will not have this trouble his beloved’s sleep, not anymore.
And in the morning, he has Hob waking in his embrace, a sweet, sleepy smile curving his lips. “Good morning, love.”
Dream lets Hob tug him close, lets him nuzzle in, welcoming the scrape of morning stubble against his skin, knowing that it will mark him. Dream will not care, not one whit, even if Matthew will tease and Lucienne will shake her head and smile.
“My dearest has slept well, I see,” Dream teases. He is absolutely not breathless when his rogue of a husband steals a kiss - he has no need to breathe, after all. And he certainly has no compunction sinking his hands into Hob’s hair, inviting him for more kisses.
“Well, I’ve had the sweetest dream in my arms all night.” Hob gently brushes a knuckle against Dream’s cheek, his eyes tender. “Thank you for that, love.”
“It is not too much, is it?” Dream regrets asking this question almost immediately. Too much, again, always, he is a fool, why must he keep doing this –
“Never. Never too much,” Hob tells him. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been doing, myne owne hertis rote. I just – ” He shakes his head, a soft, rueful smile on his lips. "I'm no bloody Shaxbert but, what was that again? Though my soul will set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly -- " And here, a gentle rubbing of noses, a soft kiss pressed to the corner of Dream's mouth. " -- I have loved this star, my King, too fondly, to be fearful of the night. You are always there, love, to welcome me home."
“For the longest time, I have thought that the only way for me to truly change…was to die. I began to want this, dearest. I can see it. Many of my actions, my choices, were leading me to it. But something else happened.”
“And what was that, love?”
“You happened, Hob Gadling. You are quite impudent, to command the Lord of Dreams so. Impossible.” A soft huff. “Beloved.”
“And now, my Lord of the Dreaming? Do you still wish to die?”
“No.” A soft kiss, teasing, filled with promise. “My husband tells me that Death is a mug’s game. He is quite wise, you know. I have so much to live for.”
-end-
Footnote the First:
Hob’s students know their professor so well that if they mention certain Shakespeare sonnets, there are guaranteed reactions.
Without fail.
Every damn time.
Obviously, they all remind him of his darling husband, Professor Murphy, but it was interesting to catalogue the intensity of his reaction versus the sonnet in question.
Blushes? Awww, cute.
Swearing? Pffthahahaha. Adorable.
Medieval-inspired oaths? Ooooh. Uh. Huh. Is it hot in here?
Legit Middle English? Hey, who let Professor Murphy in here?
Footnote the Second:
“I can’t decide whichis worse,” Rose declared. “The absolutely pathetic pining or the adorkable flirting using Shakespearean poetry."
"If we’re going to put it to a vote, I’d go for the poetry,” Matthew cracked. “We get better weather in the Dreaming that way."
His Darkness, the King of All Night’s Dreaming, attempted to gather the tattered shreds of his dignity. Not that he truly cared, but he had to give it a try, if only for form’s sake."Iresemblethat remark."
Rose snorted. "Yes, you do, Uncle Dream. And you’re enjoying every moment of it.”
“Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
Mine eye my heart thy picture’s sight would bar,
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.”
Rose and Matthew started yelling.
“NO! OMG! UNCLE DREAM!"
"BOSS! HE’S NOT EVEN HERE!"
"One must find amusem*nt where they can."
Rose and Matthew looked at each other. Matthew is the first to crack. "Look, kid, I’d rather have him all silly like this than endure Hurricane Morpheus in the Dreaming. Takes forever to dry off these feathers, y'know?"
Rose slides a bowl of chocolate ice cream to her favorite idiot uncle. "Here, Uncle Dream. Have some ice cream instead of inflicting ridiculous love poetry on us. And please don’t look at the ice cream like that… this is weirding me out."
"It is the same color as my dearest’s eyes.”
“AUGH! NO! STAHP!”
Really, Rose decided, there was only one way to deal with this. She had to inflict the knowledge about her uncle, the personification of the collective unconscious, being ahopeless adorable dork in love, upon the rest of the world. She mentally filed this away for use in the next installment of her Dreaming novel series.
Somebody had to share in their suffering!
