A/N: It's been a while since I wrote. Life, work, mental health, and general everything has kept me away. But The Sandman brought me back. So here I am.

Also, I'm largely abandoning this site. This site used to be great. But it's nothing but ridiculousness, ads everywhere (even interrupting the actual stories themselves), the Purges, and now rumors it's actually going defunct… Yeah, naw. I'm 100% on AO3 now. I try to continue cross-posting\updating on here, but it's behind and not as regular as on AO3. My username on AO3 is Rahar_Moonfire.

Chapter summary: In which Morpheus dies, but not in the way he expected.

1. Endings and Beginnings

It broke his heart. He was exhausted, heartsore, devastated, and still so very lonely. The Dreaming was in tatters. He could see it. Worse. He could feel it. It felt like he'd been flayed alive, the strands of skin and muscle and raw nerves left to flap in a fell wind. There were no stars left in the sky, no sun, no clouds, no birds. Just charred rock and dust and destruction.

He was alone now.

Fiddler's Green was dead.

Mervyn Pumpkinhead was dead.

The Kindly Ones had wrecked him where it mattered. His precious Dreams. His beloved Nightmares. His library. His creations. His Dreaming. By going after them, the Kindly Ones had ruined him in such an enduring way there was no chance of recovery.

His chest ached with every breath. Tears stung his eyes as the stars within them dimmed. This was the end for him then. The end for Morpheus. Not the Dream of the Endless. No, Dream would endure in little Daniel.

Perhaps it was the pettiness in him that hoped Lyta Hall suffered when she realized it was her fault. All of this was her fault. Morpheus knew killing his beloved son Orpheus would curse him. But it was Lyta who summoned the Kindly Ones and sent them on the war path. Had the woman waited just a day or so, or investigated, or done anything, she would have known Morpheus had not killed her son Daniel.

Dream would never. Could never.

And yet Lyta believed the lie and spelled the end for Morpheus and ultimately doomed her Daniel Hall to be the new Dream of the Endless. A curse of her own making.

But a blessing for Morpheus. He was still lonely and broken and in tatters, but Daniel was there to fill the position of Dream of the Endless. Daniel wouldn't be alone.

The Corinthian. Gault. Lucienne. Matthew.

Hob.

Oh. He wouldn't get the chance to say goodbye to his beloved friend. Hob would be alone for the rest of his life and would never know why Morpheus wouldn't keep their centennial meetings anymore. Perhaps Matthew would tell him.

Yes. Perhaps.

Matthew and Lucienne were loyal when Dream needed it most. When so many of his creations abandoned him after his century long captivity, only Lucienne remained behind in the Dreaming waiting for him. And only Matthew was bold enough to call Morpheus out when he deserved it. He would miss them.

But Hob. There was hope there. Listening to the man ramble about his life, the things he'd seen and done, the ideas of the present, and the hopes he had for the future, it was perhaps the only time Dream ever felt relaxed and at peace. A quiet part of him wished, dreamed their friendship could have become more.

Maybe it could have. Maybe not. Now he would never know.

"Brother."

Ah. His dearest sister.

She moved to stand next to him. Her skin, which usually glowed with her inner light and the joy she radiated, was dull and shadowed in the bleak darkness of the demolished Dreaming. Her hair, a brown just a few shades off from black, moved around her face like a cloud pulled by a powerful wind. She looked at him with her loving, eternal eyes and everything stilled.

She held out her hand.

She smiled.

"Come on, brother," she whispered, her gentle voice a balm to his broken soul. "Let's go."

For a moment, neither of them move. Then Dream sighs, another tear trailing down his face. Death, ever so tender, brushes it away with her thumb then cradles Dream cheek in her hand.

"It's ok, Dream," she said, resting her forehead against his. "I'll be with you the whole way. I won't let you go alone."

She held out her free hand between them, waiting patiently. Slowly, with shaking fingers, Dream took her hand. A tear fell down her cheek and she pressed a kiss to his nose.

"I'll tell Hob," she said. "I'll give him the choice to stay or follow."

"He'll choose to live."

His voice was ruined and gravelly from the tears he had and had not wept. He barely recognized it as his own.

Death's smile saddened but she said nothing. She just spread her beautiful black wings and cocooned them both protectively.

When Dream next opened his eyes, he was standing in his throne room. The grey stone arched far overhead, vanishing into the starry sky above where galaxies and nebulae swirled. The stained glass windows behind the throne tinkled as they shifted.

It was whole. Not burnt and broken and ground to dust. It was whole and alive. What a dream this was. Is this what the Sunless Lands looked like? Did they shape to adapt to the person? Dream wasn't sure if this was a mercy or a cruelty. He had lost this in life. To have it in Death….

"My lord?"

No. Oh please no. Not, "Lucienne?" he gasped, turning to look over his shoulder. Hoping what he would see was just a memory, a dream, a longing, and not real. Oh gods if it was real. Please don't be…

It was. Lucienne stood there, a book clutched to her chest, gazing at him through her glasses. She was real. He could feel her existence in his very being. This wasn't an illusion or hope or memory. This was Lucienne. So she was dead too.

He had failed her too. He had failed so many.

"My lord!?" Lucienne cried, her eyes widening in shock. She took two hurried steps towards him before stopping, as if afraid to approach any further.

He could barely see her through his tears. It was over. Morpheus was dead and Daniel would now be the new Dream of the Endless. Morpheus was not Lucienne's lord anymore, nor would he ever be.

All because he failed. He was so tired. It was odd how detached that thought was. A part of him hoped he would simply cease to exist when he took his sister's hand. That he would cease to be tired and drained and hopeless.

He had changed. He'd changed. So much. He barely recognized himself anymore. So many missed opportunities. So many failures. If only he could have held on. If only changing hadn't been so…

Arms wrapped tightly around himself. It took longer than it probably should have for him to realize it was his own arms. A farce of comfort. If only the arms belonged to another.

Hob.

A sob slipped out before he could stop it. Why couldn't he have just ceased to exist? Why did the sadness remain? The loss? The loneliness? Why did it linger? Why did the Sunless Lands look like the Dreaming? Why did it feel like the Dreaming? Why did it…

It felt like the Dreaming.

It felt like…

No.

Breath escaped him as slowly, cautiously, he reached out with his senses and felt the world around him. No. It didn't feel like the Dreaming. It felt like him! It was him. The Sunless Lands were not of Dream of the Endless. They would never feel like him. But this… This place did!

Which meant…

Cool stone slammed again his knees as his legs gave beneath his weight. His gaze stared into the Dreaming, traveling with his senses across his realm. It was alive. It was well. It was whole. Exactly as it was before the mess that drove him to take his sister's hand. Before his imprisonment. Before…

Hair tickled his cheek and he blinked back to his physical manifestation in confusion. One hand reached up and touched the strand curiously. Long hair, longer than he'd worn it in centuries met his gaze. He didn't understand. It didn't make sense. It couldn't be real.

Time did not work this way. Time was merciless. Time moved ever forward, heedless of anyone and anything, including his own children. Time only ever tolerated Death, but rarely listened to her. Never Dream.

He tightened his grip on the long hair that should not be and pressed his clenched fist to his throat. Cool power that was his brushed his hand and Morpheus froze. Unclenching his fist, he released his dark hair and brushed his fingertips against the cool surface of a Dreamstone.

Fear took hold of his heart, squeezing it tight enough to make him gasp. His fingers clawed around the stone, clutching it desperately. His mind pleaded with the universe for the stone to not be what he knew it was. He ripped the stone from his throat and stared at it.

Red the shade of the blood shed by Fiddler's Green, crystalized in a perfectly cut, rectangular ruby, gleamed in his palm. It shouldn't be here. It couldn't be here, it was destroyed by John Dee years ago. Morpheus had been without it for years. It was destroyed. It was destroyed. It was-

"Sir!"

Terrified, Morpheus clutched the Dreamstone close to his chest and whipped his gaze to-

"Lucienne," he gasped breathlessly.

Oh. He was hyperventilating. He couldn't stop. Panic that had been growing steadily as the inexplicable circumstances of his continued existence began to claw away at his heart and chest. He couldn't catch his breath.

His body was shaking too, he realized. Shudders wracked his body as his thoughts raced across his mind, some too quickly to fully grasp. He couldn't process this. It didn't make sense. He died. He died! He took his sister's hand! Why was he still alive? Why was he here?! Where was here? When was here?!

"Sir, please, listen to me," Lucienne pleaded, now clutching Morpheus' shoulders. The book she'd been carrying was lying forgotten on the floor by Morpheus' knees. "You need to breathe. My lord, please!"

Oh. It was storming outside. He could barely hear the rain battering the stained glass windows and the wind howling through the walls. The throne room glowed a brilliant white followed almost instantly by a crash of thunder that was near deafening. The floor and walls shook with the sound.

No. They were shaking. The very foundation of the Dreaming was shaking. Morpheus was breaking, shattering, collapsing. And he was taking the Dreaming along with him.

He couldn't allow that. He would not take them down with him. Not again, he refused.

Carefully, he took a deliberate breath. It wasn't as deep or as fulfilling as he needed it to be. He had the distinctly abstract thought of how odd it was that an Endless, a creature that had no true need to breathe, was struggling to catch their breath. How ironic.

It was so hard to focus. His vision was blurring. His thoughts were tangled and confused. He remembered taking Death's hand. He remembered Daniel being kidnapped. He remembered remaking Corinthian. He remembered finally meeting Hob thirty years late and after a century of confinement. He remembered…

He couldn't quite remember. His thoughts swirled in nonsensical mayhem. Names and places and events and things he remembered but suddenly couldn't quite think of. They were all slipping away from him. They were escaping. He couldn't remember.

He was forgetting.

The realization of what was happening crashed into him with the force of a mountain. Terrified, he bolted to his feet and fled the throne room, bursting into the library and racing down the aisles as fast as he could. The first desk he came across was covered in books. He swept them all off the surface with a careless hand, heedless of Lucienne's offended cry from behind him.

He snatched a piece of scratch paper covered in drips and splotches of ink from where it was teetering on the edge of the desk, seconds from drifting to the floor. He grabbed the pen from the inkpot too fast, knocking over the pot and spilling ink everywhere.

He didn't care. He was forgetting and he couldn't afford to.

He had to write down what he remembered before it was gone. Before it vanished from his mind. But where to start? He couldn't remember…

Names. Do names!

Rose! He couldn't forget her. She was important. He wasn't sure why but he knew she was important.

Corinthian was going to do something terrible. He had to be stopped. But stopped from what?

Red glinted in his hand and Morpheus quickly wrote John Dee! That name was attached to his ruby Dreamstone. How or why, he didn't know. He couldn't remember! But they were important. They went together.

"What the hell is going on here?" Mervyn's voice broke through his tumultuous thoughts. "Wha- My lord?!"

Lord? What did that have to do with this?

No!

Burgess! He wanted Death!

Oh god. Who was Burgess? The name terrified him. Did they hurt Death? Did they hurt his beloved sister? How? When?

Who?

Shuddering, Morpheus forced himself to dismiss the thought and grasp onto something else before it slipped away.

Hob! The New Inn! These words puddled and the ink ran as tears dripped from Morpheus' cheeks to the paper. Something about those words broke his heart in the best and worst of ways.

Why was this happening? What was happening? Why was he doing this? Why did it mean so much to him to do this?

What was this?

The pen slipped from nerveless fingers, bouncing lightly on the wooden desk. His other hand clutched the ruby. It felt comforting in his hand. It fit perfectly in his palm. What was he doing? Why did his chest hurt? Why was he shaking?

What were these names?

"Sir?"

He almost looked at his librarian, but something about these names was important. It pulled at… something.

Rose. Corinthian. John Dee. Burgess. Death. Hob. The New Inn.

He only recognized three of those names: Corinthian, Death, and Hob. None of them were related in any way.

"Lucienne," he whispered, feeling strangely tired and shaky. As if he was off kilter. Why? "What… happened?"

Finally, he did look away from the strange paper and its odd list of names. Lucienne was staring at him as if she was almost afraid of him. Why?

"Lucienne?" he asked, frowning in worry. "What's wrong?" Movement behind the librarian drew his attention to the pumpkin headed scarecrow Dream standing there. "Mervyn? Did you need something?"

Luciene and Mervyn shared an oddly worried look before turning back to him.

"Is something wrong?" Morpheus asked again, concerned.

Cautiously, almost as if afraid Morpheus might bolt, Lucienne approached him. She didn't say anything. Instead she just looked at him. Her gaze was caring and full of genuine worry.

Then her dark eyes drifted from Morpheus to the desk. Curious, Morpheus followed her gaze and noticed a piece of scratch paper covered in messy ink and… names? Frowning, Morpheus reached out and took the paper, raising it to better read the names written there. It vaguely resembled his own handwriting, if a bit rushed and messy. Did he write this?

"What is this?" he asked.

Lucienne's gaze snapped back to his face and she took a step back. Morpheus noticed the uneasy movement and returned his attention to her. "Lucienne?"

The librarian simply stared at him as if she couldn't quite decide what to make of him. He shifted self-consciously from foot to foot. He trusted Lucienne. If she was wary, then there was a good reason to be. But why was she wary of him?

Swallowing nervously, Morpheus glanced hesitantly at Mervyn Pumpkinhead who stood still, unmoving, and watchful. The jack-o-lantern face was scrunched in a frown and stick arms were crossed in consternation.

"Sir, forgive me for being forward, but are you well?"

Was he well? Morpheus tilted his head and considered the question. He didn't feel ill. The Dreaming was still thriving. He had a few ideas for a new Dream or two. And his annual appointment with Hob was scheduled to take place in the Waking soon. He couldn't think of any reason why he would feel amiss.

"I do not believe so," he said slowly. "And Lucienne, you are only ever forward when you need to be," Morpheus said, attempting to soothe his librarian's nerves. "There is no need to apologize."

Her eyebrows rose nearly to what would be her hairline had she any hair. She reached out hesitantly, as if to touch his shoulder. Only to stop halfway and pull back. Seeing the flinch hurt a bit in a way Morpheus couldn't quite understand. Lucienne had always been careful with how she interacted with Morpheus and Morpheus had always been reticent about touch.

Yet seeing her visibly decide not to touch him… hurt.

Somewhere within the Dreaming, a clock struck a quarter to the hour. He would need to leave for the Waking shortly if he planned on being on time for his meeting with Hob. With a sigh, he set the odd paper of names back on the desk.

"If that is all, then I'm afraid I must take my leave. I have an appointment to keep," he said, flashing his friends a soft smile.

The shock on both Lucienne and Mervyn's faces did something to Morpheus' nerves that he couldn't quite understand. Instantly, his tiny smile vanished. He glanced between his trusted librarian and his trusted handyman, feeling their shock and discomfort focus on him.

The warmth he'd felt since he first noticed their arrival seemed to leak out of him, replaced by the familiar cold of loneliness. He swallowed and ducked his head. He really didn't want to be here right now.

So he turned and stepped out of the Dreaming and into the Waking. No one called for him. No one tried to stop him. A small part of his fragile heart chipped just a bit. He chose to ignore it and focus on the Inn of the White Horse still standing on the banks of the Thames River.

The inn had been refurbished over the years, the interior altered to fit the ever changing times, demands, and desires of the owners and their guests. Morpheus allowed himself to slowly become more noticeable to the mortals moving along the street as he approached the inn door.

He could feel more than a few gazes linger on his form. He knew his prefered black was unusual, especially during this time of year and surrounded by powdered white wigs of 1689. But it was comfortable and safe and reminded him of his mother. Perhaps it was a bit on the nose to wear a cloak of night at all times, but it was safe and comforting in strange situations like this.

There were so many people here. So much noise. So much stimulation. How did humans tolerate it? The Dreaming was a colorful place, ever changing, ever moving. But it was a dream and Morpheus was Dream of the Endless. He was safe in himself.

But here in the Waking World, Morpheus was out of step. He knew the right clothing style, the right hairstyle, the right language and mannerisms the humans deemed appropriate for whatever time and place he found himself. But it wasn't… it wasn't safe. It wasn't familiar.

With an imperceptible sigh, Morpheus tucked a strand of his long black hair behind his ear and pushed open the door. The innkeeper guided him to an empty table for two and Morpheus took a seat. He ordered nothing, merely saying he would wait for his friend to arrive before ordering.

Not that he would order anything anyway. He rarely ate food in the Waking. Perhaps a glass of wine later, after Hob arrived and brought with him the warmth of new stories. Morpheus loved Hob's stories. He couldn't pinpoint when exactly this little venture had ceased to be a bet and had become something he actually cared for and looked forward to. But Morpheus wouldn't skip this event for the world.

An hour passed. Then two. Still Hob had not arrived.

White wigs and frilled dresses moved through the inn with the ebb and flow of guests. Morpheus felt worry begin to edge into his mind. Where was Hob? He was always on time, sometimes even early. Why was he late now? Was he well? Did something happen on the road?

Did he decide to take Death's hand?

His heart pounded in his chest for a brief instant of terror before he heard the voice he'd been waiting for.

"Let me go! I need to see him!"

Hob! Morpheus' eyes flashed to the front door, hoping squashing the fear that had clutched and squeezed his heart mere moments ago. Only to be caught off guard by what was unfolding by the inn entrance.

Hob, dirty and ragged in tattered clothes and bedraggled hair, was tussling with one of the inn employees. The employee had Hob in an effective armlock and was bodily dragging Hob across the inn floor and back out the door as if to toss him onto the street like an animal.

Hob!

"Wait!" Morpheus called. He did not raise his voice so much as cast it out into the room, demanding attention and drawing the eyes of every single person there with ease. "Let him go. He is my guest."

Shocked, the employee's grip loosened just enough for Hob to slip free and stumble to Morpheus' table. For the first time in over a century, Morpheus got a good, long look at his friend.

Hob looked awful. He smelled like he hadn't bathed in weeks. His clothes were so torn and dirty and ill-fitting that Morpheus wondered if they even belonged to Hob at all. Hob's hair which should be a soft, wavy chestnut brown was now lank and stringy. Dirt covered Hob's body from head to toe and there was something in his baby blue eyes that Morpheus didn't like.

Morpheus was the King of Dreams and Lord of Nightmares. He created each Nightmare in the Dreaming by hand with the loving care and attention of an artist. He loved his creations. He knew them.

Which was how he could say with certainty that it looked like Hob had seen a Nightmare in the Waking.

"Hob?" he said softly, placing a gentle hand on the immortal human's arm. Hob flinched and Morpheus withdrew his hand, not wanting to upset his dear friend. But he had to do something.

"Innkeeper," Morpheus said, pitching his voice so the pub's owner heard. Considering how the man hovered nearby, as if just waiting for an excuse to throw Hob out, Morpheus didn't need to do much. "I would like to book a room, please."

Startled, but not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, the innkeeper hurried to his desk and retrieved his scheduling book. "Ah, for how long, sir?" he asked.

Morpheus studied Hob's bedraggled form for a moment before stating, "A week."

The innkeeper frowned, glancing at Hob in dawning understanding. "A room for two then?" He pressed.

"For one," Morpheus corrected quietly. "I will not be sleeping."

The innkeeper's frown deepened, but he said nothing. Money was money, after all.

"Please include hot meals."

Judging by the man's barely contained sneer, the innkeeper had been hoping to avoid that.

"Payment up front."

Ah, of course. Morpheus reached into his pocket and produced required funds. When the innkeeper closed his hand around the coins, Morpheus held on and meet the mortal's gaze. "Bring the first meal to the room as quickly as possible."

Only when he received a reluctant nod, did Morpheus release the innkeeper from his hold. Grumbling, the innkeeper took the money and went back to his desk where he retrieved a room key. He made a point of handing it to Morpheus before returning to his post.

"You don't have to do this."

Hob's voice was low and rough, as if it had been overused or perhaps disused.

Morpheus stood and hesitantly placed his hand on Hob's arm once more, heedless of the dirt and filth there. "I know. I want to."

Hob lifted his heavy gaze to Morpheus' face and just stared at him for a moment. Then the smallest of smiles broke across his face. It took a bit longer than normal for Hob to get to his feet. His legs shook forcing Morpheus to scoop his arm around his friend's back and help hold him up.

Together, they made their way up the stairwell to the designated room. It was small, with just a single bed, a chair and small desk by the lone window, and a chest for clothing. It would do.

Morpheus guided Hob to the chair and eased his friend down onto it. No sooner had they gotten situated did a knock come from the door. Morpheus stood and answered it, taking the tray of food from the young lady who curtsied politely before hurrying away.

Closing the door behind her, Morpheus carried the tray to his friend. "Come," he said softly. "Eat. Then remove your clothes and rest. We will speak later."

He leaned back, only to find his arm caught by Hob's strong hand, immortal blue eyes glittering with unshed tears. "You'll stay?"

It was a quiet plea, a dream that Dream of the Endless could not ignore.

Indeed. He would not.

He merely smiled gently and sat on the windowsill. "I will stay. You have yet to tell me your new stories."

Hob's face melted into a heavy smile. "I have lots of that," he said, reaching to start shoveling food into his mouth like a man starved. It was mildly horrifying to Morpheus. What had his friend suffered through?

"Tell me later, my friend," Morpheus said, turning his gaze to the window to watch the humans move on the street below. "We have time. Unless…" he paused, and glanced back at Hob who was staring at him in awe. He cleared his throat. "Unless you wish for Death's gift?"

The awe softened to a chuckle as Hob returned to devouring his food. "Are you kidding? Death's a mug's game. I've got so much to live for." His blue eyes peeked out from between messy, dirty locks of hair. "My friend."

Something inside Morpheus eased and he felt his shoulders droop in relief. This man. He dreamed so unabashedly, held onto hope with such a tight grasp. Hob would live for another hundred years. He had another visit to look forward to.

There was hope yet.