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It had rained every day in the Dreaming since their Lord had returned. Never enough to flood anywhere important, but enough that the subjects had begun to worry.
“I reckon he jus’ needs’a bit’a lovin’, Loosh,” Merv teased, elbowing Lucien with his thin, stick arms. His pumpkin head rocked unnaturally on its thin base. He smelled of fresh dirt and had managed to trail it all through the carpets of the library.
Lucien shoved him away, very real worry bubbling inside him, “Morpheus has forbid us entrance to his throne room. Even I must obey.”
Matthew hopped about the top of the shelves, appreciating the sound his claws made on the wood. Later, when he was feeling more adventurous, he might even tap it with his beak.
“It’s true, Merv. Us ravens know things, hey, Lucien? He don’t want us in there. Not even me! And I can always cheer him up.”
He stretched his wings and flew down to rest on Lucien’s shoulder. He preened his fellow raven to both comfort and show respect to him. It was a behaviour not exhibited by common ravens in the wild, but something that had developed among the ravens of Dream. The understanding being that the older ravens had knowledge that could be passed down to the newest of their Lord’s recruits.
Lucien smiled softly when he felt Matthew’s beak tugging at his hair.
“Yes, I suppose we do, my friend,” he said.
Merv began to flounder away, tugging a wheelbarrow of tools behind him, “Argh, what's the use, Loosh? He’ll get over himself. He always does. Comes out with his head held high like he ain’t made my job a livin’ hell with this bloody rain.”
Lucien ignored him and the dirt which was most likely permanently pressed into the carpet. He fidgeted amongst the books until his nerves were so unbearable he had to say something.
“I am worried, Matthew.”
The bird tilted his head, “Me too. But, uh, he’s kinda… scary. Don’t get me wrong I’ll shit on his cape if he treats me like a lower-class servant again, but somethin’ about this ain’t right. Someone should go up there.”
Lucien pet the top of matthew’s head, who puffed his feathers out and closed his eyes, cawing happily.
“Go to Eve,” he said, “If Morpheus grows angry with me for my actions, you may not wish to be around.”
“Nah, c’mon, Luci, what if you guys have great sex? I can’t miss out on that piece of action!”
Lucien frowned and shooed the bird away in disgust. Matthew laughed a crackly, screechy chorus.
“I would prefer you to, as you say, miss that action.”
“Eve’s got a couple rats lined up for me, anyway. See ya!”
Lucien watched him soar high up into the rafters, then dive swiftly, gaining speed until he shot out of one of the many windows in the ghost castle towards Eve’s cave. Lucien envied his flight just a little. He smoothed the wrinkles from his clothes, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and, drawing in a deep breath, began the long march to the throne room. The castle walls moved, the staircases growing tall and impossibly high to try to deter him, but Lucien had been serving Morpheus since Man was first dreamed of and he knew every inch of the place by heart. Eventually, he reached the wooden doors to the throne room and the gallery. Some days they were open, other days they opened only to Lucien, but now they were shut entirely.
“My Lord?” He called, knocking lightly on the door, “...Morpheus?”
There was silence in reply. Thunder and lightning split the sky of the Dreaming in two. Lucien jumped. He placed his hand on the doorhandle, his heart racing as he pushed the door open. It moved, and from the throne room came a wave of terrible, horrible grief. Lucien stumbled forward, his knees giving way, his breath sucked from his being by the pain in his chest. He heaved out a long wail, tears dripping down his cheeks. It was so overwhelming he was unable to even think. And then, as quickly as it had hit him, it disappeared. He gasped for air, finally free of the weight of immense sadness. Only when his eyes were clear of tears did he see the bare feet of the Dream Lord before him.
“M-m—“ he began, scrambling into supplication before him.
“I did not call for you,” Morpheus said, his words cutting through the very reality between them, “You will leave me.”
“No, I—“ Lucien stood, albeit shakily, to his feet, “Lord, we are all worried for you. I- I am worried for you. Please forgive my intrusion, sir, but what was that I just felt?”
Morpheus placed a gentle hand upon his shoulder to steady him, “It is none of your concern. Leave me now.”
Glistening like rubies against his pale skin, the smallest trickle of blood trailed its way down Dream’s thumb from under his cloak. He snatched his hand away, but the librarian had been a raven once, and he knew the smell of blood. A raven never forgets these things. Lucien pushed his glasses up his nose again and stood fully upright, asserting the little bit of height he had over the other, “Respectfully, lord, I won’t be leaving here until you tell me just what in the bloody hell is going on.”
The flames traversed up Morpheus’ cloak faster than they would engulf a dead tree, his expression hardening, “I will not be treated with such disrespect that you should ignore my request like this.”
“Frankly, sir, neither will I,” Lucien stuck his chin up in proud defiance, expecting that he might, at the worst, be snuffed out of existence.
Morpheus glared daggers at him before he tired -- his strength had not been what it used to ever since his return from being held captive -- and let out a soft sigh. His confession came bumbling out faster than he anticipated, snowballing with honestly until he couldn't hold any of the words back.
“I am so very empty, Lucien. I have been attempting, for these last few weeks, to remove the despair from inside myself. What you felt was… my true state.”
“Lord… Morpheus, I--”
“Please, I do not want your pity.” From his hand he produced the small hooked-ring of his sister, Despair, fresh blood lingered on the tip which he wiped away, “I thought perhaps I could use this as an outlet, to no avail."
Lucien held his tongue and declined from calling Morpheus a complete idiot, as he had so often wished to. Instead, he took the Dream Lord’s hand gently in his and pushed the sleeve of his cloak up to his elbow. Nothing but the dark carmine of dried blood remained. The cuts had healed already.
“I isolated myself so that it did not seep out into the rest of my realm.”
Lucien pulled him into a hug, to which Morpheus writhed about in uncomfortably and then gave in to when the librarian tightened his grip.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid man,” he muttered, buring his face in the other’s unruly black hair.
“I do not know what is wrong with me, Lucien. I am not a creature of despair, I am a creature of dreams, stories, and hope. I am just as lost as I have ever been. I am not the same as before, but I am not different, either. I think… that somehow… I am still in that glass prison man constructed for me. Perhaps I have always been there without knowing so."
Lucien hushed him, “I think what you need is to let someone hold you for a while.”
The corner of his lips flickered upwards into what might have been called a smile, “And that someone would be you, Lucien?”
“If you would retire the formalities, lord, it most certainly will be.”
Morpheus nodded and the castle moved, leading the pair of them to the Dream Lord’s private chambers where a kettle full of tea (because Morpheus had assumed that this is where tea comes from and not that it requires any sort of tea bag) and a warm bed awaited them.