Work Text:
All beings fortunate enough to ever glimpse Dream of the Endless—Lord Morpheus to those close enough to speak to him regularly—were quite taken by his striking appearance. Well, of course, that appearance varied based on the being that happened to perceive him at the time. But common among many of Dream’s infinite forms was his striking eyes.
An author once perceived them as being filled with stars. An actor, in turn, interpreted them as full of tears. It made sense; after all, would not such an ancient and important being literally see through the cosmos? And would the weight of bearing the collective subconscious, of bearing all stories and thoughts written and unwritten, not weigh so deeply on the soul? Especially when he was fated to handle such responsibility alone? Such interpretations of him by mortals were… not incorrect. But there was further truth to the tale.
It dated back to the first time Dream had been dragged to the waking realm in eons. His beloved elder sister, Death, had taken on responsibility of getting him off of his ass and out of his constantly swirling thoughts for once. Life had really bloomed on this planet, this Earth, since the last time he’d been there, and it was about time that her brother experienced it firsthand for once. She especially needed him to see this certain special species known as humans.
Dream, of course, complained and resisted at first. After all, didn’t he already experience Earth enough, seeing everything through the dreams of every sentient being on the planet? Heck, he probably experienced more since his realm was not bound by the arbitrary rules of the Waking. Still, he would not disappoint his sister, so he reluctantly acquiesced to visiting her on the mortals’ plane.
Death met him before they departed, ensuring that he would not just show up on Earth the way he usually appeared in the Dreaming. As impressive as ever-shifting physics-defying cosmic robes looked in his home realm, in the waking world all that fabric would immediately become subject to gravity and unceremoniously flop to the ground, probably not even covering him enough to meet the modesty standards of the early civilization they were visiting. And unlike certain other Endless siblings, Death of the Endless would not see her brother intentionally humiliated in front of the mortals. So she shoved some properly-human robes into his arms (black, of course—she knew his aesthetic well enough after all these millennia), gave him some eyeliner to put on (“The humans discovered it to reduce sun glare,” she explained, “and hey, it looks cool too!”), and sent him to get dressed.
“I still do not see the point of this, sister,” he’d whined after getting prepared.
“Trust me, there’s things you just really need to experience for yourself, outside of other people’s dreams,” she’d insisted as she dragged him to the Waking.
His eyes started stinging as soon as they arrived. It was springtime, he recognized that. The world was so green. But…oh god…what was that in the air? The second it touched his eyes, it stung, and he felt the water in his eyes start to well up involuntarily. He glanced toward a sunbeam, noting how it revealed something dusty floating in the air.
“Sister is…is that pollen?” he asked.
“What? Of course? You’re familiar with all life forms on Earth that dream, surely you should know…”
“I do…” Indeed, Morpheus knew the dreams of plants. He knew how their thoughts turned to sending off pollen in order to secure the next generation of greenery. “But I have never felt the effects of it on a human physical form…” His words trailed off as he—oh the indignity!—reached to get a corner of his robe to dab the tears that had started to dribble lightly down his cheeks, smearing his eyeliner.
“Ah…well, it appears that you may have what the humans call ‘allergies’…” she explained, caught between honest observation and, admittedly, being amused at how distressed her brother appeared at such a humbling setback. She could tell he was mentally preparing a dramatic monologue about the pain of having his eyes constantly water, of how he was sentenced to such eternal indignity, how a grand figure such as he shouldn’t have such a mundane affliction. She decided to try and cut that speech off before it began. “Oh, don’t fret; they’re perfectly common! It’ll probably just make you more relatable to them!”
“Am I meant to be relatable to them, sister?” he responded, eyes continuing to sting and well up.
“Of course you are! We both are! Now, the humans’ settlement is right up ahead…”
While Dream would certainly not consider himself as affectionate towards humanity as his sister was by the end of the day, it was not the worst time outside of the Dreaming that he could imagine. While the humans themselves might be quite base and dull, he had to admit that the aspects of the Waking that inspired some of their dreams—such as the impressive landscapes and majestic animals—had at least some merit. As for those people that observed him though? They saw an impossibly beautiful man…nay, definitely more than a man…with equally beautiful glassy, wet eyes. They, as was their nature, attributed all kinds of meanings to those eyes. Sometimes, in their guesses of cosmic attributes or grand emotions, they were right.
But only rarely did they venture the entire truth: Lord Morpheus, when subjected to human form in the waking world, suffered from allergies. And, unfortunately for him, humans would not discover antihistamines for centuries.