Work Text:
The eerie, suffocating silence on this side of the gates of Hell was interrupted by heavy footsteps, a rumbling voice, and a terrible smell. Dream wrinkled his nose against the putrid smell of decaying flesh and rotten fruit and burning trash. Raising his head high, he was surprised to find it was not Squatterbloat at the gates this time, but someone new and unfamiliar. The only thing that was familiar was the old taunting rhyme- thief, thug, or whore? Dream didn't remove his helm just yet, wanting to look as confident as he could, even if he didn't feel it.
"I have come for an audience with the Morningstar," Dream said, not bothering with a rhymed reply. This would be no friendly visit. "Lucifer has something of mine, and I will take it back. By the old laws, you will allow me passage."
The beast considered him, but thought better of arguing, and swung open the heavy, squealing gates. Dream's presence must be expected, something that wasn't entirely comforting. Just what did Hell have planned for him?
Silently, Dream followed the demon on the long journey to Lucifer's palace, careful not to look at anything to his right or left. Knowing what had happened last time, with Nada, he fully expected to be distracted with something else, similarly cruel.
But even Dream hadn't expected the voice he heard, echoing in the distance. "Pappa! Pappa, please-- Pappa, please help me!"
Dream froze, his chest tightening as his heart felt that it dropped to his feet. He knew the voice instantly, in his bones, even if it took his mind a few seconds to catch up. Orpheus, his son, still a child, still alive-- With shaking hands, Dream removed his helm, turning in every direction and looking with desperation for his son. The boy must be trapped again, the way he often had been when he was very small. His curious, exploring nature had led him to climb trees, to throw his arms wide and pretend to fly with his little dream friend Golden Wing. Sometimes he had climbed too high, though, and realized too late that he'd gone too far. He would call for Dream and Calliope, his tiny voice echoing across the Dreaming as he begged Pappa and Mama to come rescue him. And Dream would come running, would extend his hand and bid whatever tree his son had climbed to bow, to bend its branches and bring the boy safely down to the arms of his father.
He must be trapped again. He had climbed too far...
"Pappa, please, it hurts! Help me, please!" the tiny voice cried, the pleas filling Dream's head.
Hurts? Then he hadn't climbed a tree. What could he have done? Had he fallen while running with his little dream friends? Morpheus just had to find him, and he could kiss it better, he could pull clouds down from the sky to cover his son in a comforting, soft blanket. He could sing to him, and catch him little fish made of stars, float them above his cloudy bed and let Orpheus count them...
"Please, Pappa!" Orpheus called, from above and below, and behind and everywhere around Dream.
"I will! Where are you?" Dream said, turning and turning, spinning until he was dizzy, but he couldn't see his son anywhere.
Matthew looked nervously up at Dream, cooking his head to the side as he watched him stumbling about. "Boss? Boss, who are you talking to?" When Dream didn't answer, Matthew flew up and landed on his shoulder. It was no easy feat, though, as Dream spun like a monster was behind him with every turn, eyes wild and unfocused. "Boss! Stop!"
Dream fell to his knees, his head bowed, and squeezed his eyes closed. "I hear him-" he said, voice anguished and strangled. He tried to clap his hands over his ears, but his fingers tightened like claws, and dragged down his face, his nails leaving a trail of marks. It did nothing to drown out the voice. "I-I hear him… but it is not… it is not real, is it?"
“There’s no one here but us, boss. And the demon leading the way.” Matthew tightened his talons on Dream’s leather-clad shoulder, hoping to give some reassurance. “They’re messing with your head. Is it safe to keep going?”
No one here. Of course, of course. Orpheus was no longer a boy, bright eyed and giggly, holding his arms up for his Pappa to lift him onto his shoulders for a ride. He was no longer a child, so easily enchanted by the simplest of tricks, by fairy dust and woodland friends. He was no longer the little boy who would sing with his Mama, and climb into her lap and lay his little head against her chest when he wanted to nap. He was no longer a boy at all, and he was no longer alive.
Dream slowly stood, careful not to dislodge his raven. Pulling the helm back on to mask his face, he started forward again. “My son was a grown man when he died, and I am hearing him as a child. The Morningstar is certainly not holding back this time. Thank you, Matthew.”
Matthew gave a little shiver but stayed steady, knowing his boss needed him right now. That level of cruelty did not bode well for the rest of their visit.
Luckily for both of them, the phantom cries faded away, and there were no more traps or tricks for the rest of their journey. The memory of it was bad enough, anyway.