Chapter Text
The Dreaming is dying and so is he.
Alone, and dying, and feeling the death of all his creations, Dream of the Endless waits.
He waits for his sister.
He has been waiting a long time, in truth. Preparing, though he had not let himself think that, for this ending. He is so tired: worn thin and scraped bare. He has neither the energy nor the will to keep going. It has been a life of many regrets, many mistakes. A few put right; some left to fester; the most important rectified, perhaps, at last. Though it is far too little and far too late. A reckoning is due.
He stands on the edge of a precipice- one both metaphorical and literal- whilst the Dreaming shrieks its agony around him. The wind howls, the earth trembles and the lightning lays further devastation upon his lands. Fire and thunder, doom and destruction, and no relief. Not yet.
He stares into the chaos, alone, and waits.
There is a shift in the air, and Dream tenses briefly then relaxes. She is here and he does not fear her. It is The End.
“Brother Dream,” the voice is unexpected, the words spoken not in the warm tones of Death but with the calm assurance of Destiny. Dream wheels around to face his eldest sibling, who stands implacable and inscrutable before him, somehow untouched by the torment of the Dreaming.
“Destiny,” Dream says. “I did not look for your coming.”
“You await Death,” Destiny pronounces, folding both hands over the great book held to his chest. “And she nears. You think you are ready to go with her, but you are not.”
Dream makes a disbelieving sound in his throat. His brother is mistaken in this. Dream is ready to take his sister’s hand, to finally rest .
“Events are moving apace.” Destiny continues. “You know this; you set the pieces in motion yourself. Though I fear that events have outpaced even your design, and you face your end prematurely. The Dreaming is destabilising and your successor is not ready. He is not yet equal to the task of safeguarding the future of this realm. To allow this to play out as you now intend could invite doom upon us all.”
This arrests Dream. “Could?” he says sharply. This is unusual. Destiny is not prone to ambiguity when he speaks; he is always unequivocal in his pronouncements. “You are not certain?”
“The future is in flux,”Destiny replies mildly. “It may be that the child, Daniel Hall will survive the transfer of power, emerging complete as the new Dream of the Endless and all will continue as it should. Or it may destroy him and the consequences of that even I cannot see. The first outcome is the more likely by far but,” he fixes Dream with his all-seeing sightless gaze. “It is not certain, brother. Disaster may prevail. Therefore I am here to offer you a choice.” He holds up a hand, and around them everything stops. The sudden silence is ringing and Dream draws a reflexive breath. Time is not Destiny’s domain: there is a more powerful force even than he at work here.
“A choice,” he says flatly. Not a question.
“A choice,” Destiny confirms. “A chance, if you wish to take it.” He opens his great book and withdraws from it a piece of paper- crumpled and torn and singed at the edges, as if it had been balled in anger then rescued from a fiery fate- which he hands wordlessly to Dream.
Nonplussed, Dream takes the sheet and scans the first few lines of writing. It appears to be a handwritten advertisement for- a nanny ? Written in the overly neat hand of a school child trying their hardest to to show off perfect penmanship.
Wanted: a nanny for a well-behaved and adorable young boy, located in London.
Must be kind and cheery ( here ‘ have rosy cheeks’ has been added in a much younger and messier hand) and enjoy playing all sorts of games…-
Dream looks up, utterly bewildered. “I do not understand. What is this?”
Destiny taps his fingers upon the open page of his book. His gaze flicks down, briefly, before returning to Dream. “In 1910,” he intones. “Two young boys were living in London with their widowed father. The father was cold and distant. He loved his sons but grief was setting him on a path to darkness. The sons loved their father but they could not reach him, not on their own. The gulf was too wide and they had no one to help them bridge it. This letter,” he indicates the paper clutched in Dream’s hand still. “Should have been received by someone who could have helped. Who could have changed the course of this small family’s history…
“But the letter was burned. It never found its intended recipient. The position was filled by one heartless, distant nanny after another. None stayed and none cared for their charges as a caregiver should. Resentment reigned in that house.The boys grew stunted, the father more aloof, more prideful. The eldest always striving to meet standards too exacting, the youngest never outgrowing his fear of a father who deemed him beneath his notice. Never nurtured, never cherished, never knowing the magic of existence or the spark of imagination.”
“Such is the fate of many,” Dream says dismissively. “Humans live and die in misery and joy. Why do you tell me this?”
“Read the letter, Dream,” Destiny gives a non-answer in reply.
Dream narrows his eyes but does as bid, scanning the letter quickly. It is a list of qualities and duties requested and required of an Edwardian nanny. Quite banal and clearly written by someone with an idealised and naive view of what being a perfect caregiver entails. It is nothing special, countless children had letters just like this-unwritten, unread, but dreamed up just the same- in his library. Why is Destiny wasting his time with this…?
Dream flips the paper and almost drops it.
Yours sincerely,
Randall and Alexander Burgess.
He had thought himself past anger, but seeing those names here at the time of his death, sends heatwaves of rage flaring through him, burning the apathy from his veins.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demands, hand clenching tightly around the paper, crumpling it even more, though it does not tear.
“It is as you see. An invitation from Randall and Alexander Burgess, for someone ‘wonderful’ to join their household and care for them. To inspire joy, creativity and love in them.”
“Randall Burgess has lain dead a century or more,” Dream snarls. “And Alexander, ” he spits that name with all the contempt and hatred within him, “is yet within my grasp, paying penance for his crimes against me-”
“In 1910,” Destiny interrupts before Dream can get up a head of steam. “All that yet lies before them. They are children of 12 and 5 years of age, and their futures are not yet fixed. That letter could be a turning point: for them, for their father and for you. Perhaps for the entire universe.”
Though he does not need to, Dream finds he is taking deep ragged breaths while his mind spins. “How so?” he grits out.
“There is another way. Another path you may seek. If you choose to. Take my hand and try again. Return to 1910 and answer their call.”
Dream stares at his brother in disbelief. “And what? Play nursemaid to the Burgess boys?” he sneers, incredulity overcoming his anger momentarily. “You jest, surely?”
“In all our long history, when have you ever known me to make a joke?” Destiny replies, placid yet implacable. His gaze does not waver under the intensity of Dream’s stare and he snaps the book shut, holding it once again to his chest.
Dream spins away, stalking back to the very edge of the precipice and glaring out at his decimated realm before swinging back around. He paces the ledge, fingers twitching with a nervous energy he cannot dispel. Destiny watches in silence.
“And you believe me capable of such a thing? That I can put aside the century of torture and torment for the sake of what? ‘Making merry’ with my captors? For you are sorely mistaken in your estimation of my capacity for forgiveness if so. I will not countenance such a course.”
“Not even for your own salvation?”
“Roderick Burgess-,” Dream is unhearing as he continues his pacing, briefly lost in his own head as his mind conjures up memories of his time as a prisoner beneath Fawney Rig. Memories he had long thought suppressed. “That talentless pretender, that egoist knave… he escaped my justice once and now you wish me to face him again and not seek vengeance ?” he seethes. “And his son …Alexander Burgess is a coward and a wretch. He murdered my raven, kept me powerless and caged out of fear for his own miserable existence. Not a care for damage he was wreaking upon the world, upon my realm . Ten thousand years of their suffering would not be enough to rid me of my enmity towards them. And you ask me to care for them? I cannot do such a thing. I. Will. Not.”
“Even though Alexander will be but a child? And not yet the man who will commit these crimes against you?” Destiny presses, ever calm. “Indeed, with your guidance, he may never be. It is within you to turn them all down different paths.”
Dream scoffs at that, shaking his head. “I am not minded to be forgiving, and I am tired,” he says quietly as he comes to a halt before his brother. “You- or is it our father holding the puppet’s strings?- no matter… you may send me back to 1910, but know that this ridiculous plan of yours will not work. I will not look upon these mortals with kindness, I would not consider this… ‘proposition’ of theirs acceptable. Even if I did, even if I convinced myself to try , for the sake of the Dreaming, I cannot change the course of a man already so corrupted, or find it within me to show love for his progeny. All will end in disaster.”
“That may be,” Destiny says, inclining his head slightly. “Perhaps nothing will change. Perhaps you will fail. Perhaps all will play out again just as it did this time and you will return to meet your end here. But before you make your decision, Dream, know this: If you return to 1910, it will be without your memories of the past century. You will know these humans without prejudice and you will remember none of what has since come to pass: your capture, your realm’s decay, the death of your son. You will return to your past with only the certainty that this” he indicates the letter still crumpled in Dream’s fist. “Is something you must attend to.”
Dream is silent. He looks down at the letter and smooths it over, rereading the words again: …. interesting outings required daily, in addition to the supply of sweets…. Bedtime stories each night (and no castor oil!).... Do not be cross or cruel… Do not scold or dominate….- such simple but telling wants. He starts when Destiny speaks again, quiet and oddly gentle.
“I would also have you know this: there is not a one amongst us who would truly wish you gone from us, Dream. Myself least of all… Now” his voice firms back up. “There is no more time. She comes.”
And with another lifting of Destiny’s hand, the tumult returns and with it, Death.
In a flutter of wings, she appears beside Destiny, casting her sibling a curious look before looking to Dream with her warm smile and understanding eyes.
“Heya, little brother,” she says quietly. “Whatcha doing up here?”
They stand side by side, both impervious to the fury raging around them, his unknowable brother and his compassionate sister. Truly, Dream longs for her warm embrace and the peace of the sunless lands, but a chance to truly spare the Dreaming-and himself- from the horrors of the past century, and the threat of its complete destruction… his gaze slides between them.
Two siblings.
Two hands.
Two choices.
He is so tired…
“I am making a choice, dear sister” he says, finally, in answer to her question..
And he reaches out, and grasps.