Lord Morpheus stands in the doorway to a room of spheres, tiny bubbles of dream floating in the mists of a great hall, larger than even his eyes can see the end of.
They are all true dreams; though they reside here in his castle, at the centre of the Dreaming, they are always close to the Gate of Horn. They are perpetual dreams; they live as long as their dreamers do. That is, after all, their purpose.
His sister walks up behind him, hands stuck deep in the pockets of her ragged jeans. She is not uncomfortable here; she is the only one of them who walks freely in her brother's realm. But even she is not in Dream's realm often. He is a solitary creature.
She glances at the portraits on the walls, illustrating the race of dreamers. "That hair looks terrible," she says, reflectively, as she has said many times before. "I mean, it's hard to be impressive with hair like that. People keep staring at it, expecting it to jump off your head and attack them, or something." He does not answer; there is no need. They have had this conversation many times before.
"So," she asks, "What's this all about, then?" There are a great many dreams that are engulfed in flames. More than she has ever seen here before. This, she decides, cannot be a good sign.
She looks into one, studying it closely. An old man, berift of the hair she so often derides, lies on a cold, hard bed in a cold, hard room, far from home. A terrifying and awesome figure of light stands over him. He is afraid. His fear, however, is not only for himself. He fears the portents the shining figure brings. "This one will be going soon," she says, pointing out the dream sphere to her brother.
"I had thought as much," he says. "But that is not what concerned me enough to call you here."
"Well?" she asks when he doesn't continue quickly enough for her tastes. There is a certain amount of respect she will accord him, here as a guest in his realm, but he is rapidly crossing that line.
Instead of answering, he moves forward into the cloud of dream spheres, which parts silently before him. Lady Death follows, somewhat bemused.
The corridor is long, the dream bubbles thick, though they do not lack for space as they part to allow passage to the Endless. The number of them filled with fire continue to disturb her, and there are more as they go along. It is several minutes, several hundred yards, several lumens before she realizes that they were thinning out. The bubbles are fewer and further between, and there is more fire.
And then the fire stops abruptly, when there is but one sphere every few feet and the corridor has narrowed so that she can no longer walk side-by-side with her brother.
He stops at the end of the corridor, and at first she cannot see what it is he is looking at, but then it shimmers and she understands.
"It is the last one," Dream says quietly, cupping his hands around the dream sphere almost protectively. "It began to form only a fortnight ago. There will be no more."
She reaches out a hand as if to stroke it, but does not touch the fragile dream. "It happens," she says quietly. "Races come and go, like individual lives. It's always sad, but it happens." She looks up at her brother inquisitively, and his face is unreadable. She understands him anyway. "You have changed," Death says.
Dream is silent.
She thinks this should be all, and that she should leave now, but some instinct tells her to remain a bit longer. Eventually, Dream speaks again.
"Perhaps I should go to their worlds. It has been long since I walked among these dreamers." It is clearly meant to sound like a spontaneous idea. It is most certainly not. Death politely declines to mention this to her brother.
She nods carefully. "That might not be a bad idea." It might be very interesting, in fact. This idea holds promise.
"I may be gone for some time."
She nods again. "Do you want me to tell the rest of the family where you've gone?"
"If you wish."
That is most certainly a dismissal. She would like to wish her brother luck, but cannot think of anything to say that would not sound patronizing. She settles for an encouraging grin before taking her leave of her brother's realm. Interesting, indeed.
They are all true dreams; though they reside here in his castle, at the centre of the Dreaming, they are always close to the Gate of Horn. They are perpetual dreams; they live as long as their dreamers do. That is, after all, their purpose.
His sister walks up behind him, hands stuck deep in the pockets of her ragged jeans. She is not uncomfortable here; she is the only one of them who walks freely in her brother's realm. But even she is not in Dream's realm often. He is a solitary creature.
She glances at the portraits on the walls, illustrating the race of dreamers. "That hair looks terrible," she says, reflectively, as she has said many times before. "I mean, it's hard to be impressive with hair like that. People keep staring at it, expecting it to jump off your head and attack them, or something." He does not answer; there is no need. They have had this conversation many times before.
"So," she asks, "What's this all about, then?" There are a great many dreams that are engulfed in flames. More than she has ever seen here before. This, she decides, cannot be a good sign.
She looks into one, studying it closely. An old man, berift of the hair she so often derides, lies on a cold, hard bed in a cold, hard room, far from home. A terrifying and awesome figure of light stands over him. He is afraid. His fear, however, is not only for himself. He fears the portents the shining figure brings. "This one will be going soon," she says, pointing out the dream sphere to her brother.
"I had thought as much," he says. "But that is not what concerned me enough to call you here."
"Well?" she asks when he doesn't continue quickly enough for her tastes. There is a certain amount of respect she will accord him, here as a guest in his realm, but he is rapidly crossing that line.
Instead of answering, he moves forward into the cloud of dream spheres, which parts silently before him. Lady Death follows, somewhat bemused.
The corridor is long, the dream bubbles thick, though they do not lack for space as they part to allow passage to the Endless. The number of them filled with fire continue to disturb her, and there are more as they go along. It is several minutes, several hundred yards, several lumens before she realizes that they were thinning out. The bubbles are fewer and further between, and there is more fire.
And then the fire stops abruptly, when there is but one sphere every few feet and the corridor has narrowed so that she can no longer walk side-by-side with her brother.
He stops at the end of the corridor, and at first she cannot see what it is he is looking at, but then it shimmers and she understands.
"It is the last one," Dream says quietly, cupping his hands around the dream sphere almost protectively. "It began to form only a fortnight ago. There will be no more."
She reaches out a hand as if to stroke it, but does not touch the fragile dream. "It happens," she says quietly. "Races come and go, like individual lives. It's always sad, but it happens." She looks up at her brother inquisitively, and his face is unreadable. She understands him anyway. "You have changed," Death says.
Dream is silent.
She thinks this should be all, and that she should leave now, but some instinct tells her to remain a bit longer. Eventually, Dream speaks again.
"Perhaps I should go to their worlds. It has been long since I walked among these dreamers." It is clearly meant to sound like a spontaneous idea. It is most certainly not. Death politely declines to mention this to her brother.
She nods carefully. "That might not be a bad idea." It might be very interesting, in fact. This idea holds promise.
"I may be gone for some time."
She nods again. "Do you want me to tell the rest of the family where you've gone?"
"If you wish."
That is most certainly a dismissal. She would like to wish her brother luck, but cannot think of anything to say that would not sound patronizing. She settles for an encouraging grin before taking her leave of her brother's realm. Interesting, indeed.