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Lucienne has many duties as Librarian of the Dreaming. One of those duties, which she had not been fully aware of when Lord Morpheus first appointed her, is what one might call conflict mediation.
She has also heard it called, on occasion, babysitting.
“Mervyn,” she says. She has just finished shepherding a wayward dreamer who had somehow found their way into the Restricted section, where only a handful of personnel are allowed to enter. “This is the second time this month. Why is this staircase here?”
“Sorry, Loosh,” Mervyn says. He takes a drag from his cigarette, having just emerged from the entryway to the staircase in question. “Boss had me build a backdoor so it’d be easier to transport materials for the whole rebuilding op.”
Lucienne fights the urge to rub at her temples. “He did not inform me of this.”
Mervyn shrugs. “He’s not good at that,” he says, and to his credit he does look guilty. “Look, I’m sorry if it messed up your stuff—do you want me to talk to him?”
Trying to, Lord Morpheus had said. Lucienne believes him, honestly. However, trying and doing are two separate things, and change, while possible for him, still seems to prove difficult.
“No,” she says, coming to a decision. “I shall speak to him.”
“Well, good luck,” Mervyn says. “I tell you—guys like him? They never hear guys like us.”
Lucienne sighs. “It is not impossible to get through to him,” she says. Although Mervyn is…not incorrect, the instinct to defend Lord Morpheus remains. Lucienne’s loyalty relies not on his Lordship’s fickle moods—if it did, she would have left long ago.
“I dunno,” Mervyn says. Smoke blows out of his eyes and into the stacks. “Seems pretty impossible to me.”
She looks at him disapprovingly over her spectacles.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, then extinguishes his cigarette.
Lucienne finds him on one of the balconies, a book in his hand. With a jolt of surprised pleasure, she sees that it is Rose Walker’s book.
“My Lord,” she says.
He looks up. “Yes, Lucienne.”
She explains the situation to him, and he listens silently.
“I understand,” he says, when she finishes. He doesn’t get up, but instead waves a hand, the other still holding open the book. “It is done.”
Lucienne blinks. Well, that was…easy.
But the staircase is only a symptom, not the cause. She straightens a bit. “My Lord, if I may speak frankly.”
A moment passes, the only sign that he is surprised. “Very well,” he finally says.
Lucienne closes her eyes, then prepares herself. Opens them. “I appreciate your willingness to consider my input, especially during this time of rebuilding.” She tightens her grip on her hands, held behind her back. “However, if I may—when it concerns matters of the Library, I would request you inform me of any changes you may make moving forward.”
He looks at her, expression unreadable.
She continues, “Just this month, two dreamers were able to access the restricted section because of an entryway I was not aware of. While I am more than happy to take on more duties during this period, it would be helpful if you informed me what those duties were, ahead of time.” She clears her throat, her professionalism breaking for a breath. This is the most formally she has spoken to him since his return, and also the most critically. “That is all.”
A moment passes. Lucienne wonders if she is about to get fired. Probably not—she has, after all, shown him more cheek in the past. But it can be tricky, navigating his moods. In many ways, Lord Morpheus is now even more unpredictable than he had been before his capture—these days, Lucienne is never quite sure how far to push.
Lord Morpheus closes his book with a light thump. Lucienne swallows.
“…I see,” he says. His brow furrows as he thinks. “I was not aware of this.” He looks up and nods. “I will endeavor to inform you of such matters in the future.”
The tension in Lucienne’s shoulders eases. She feels a bit lightheaded. She feels…proud. “Thank you, sir,” she says quietly.
She amends her earlier thought—perhaps trying and doing were not so different after all. Perhaps that he tries at all is what is important.
“Is that all you required of me?” he asks.
Lucienne nods. “It was.”
“Very well,” he says. He opens his book once more. A clear dismissal—Lucienne holds back a sigh.
Well, progress is still progress. She turns to leave.
“Lucienne,” he says.
She looks over her shoulder. “Yes?”
A moment passes. A page flips. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
Lucienne turns away to hide her smile. “Of course, my Lord.”
***
Rose is having a fairly normal day, thank you very much, until her uncle materializes in the produce section of Aldi’s.
She just barely manages to stifle her yelp, but she drops the cabbage she’d been examining. It rolls across the black carpet and stops just shy of Dream’s boots.
He bends down and picks it up, then hands it to her, unblinking. It’s still wet from the sprinklers, Rose notes a little hysterically.
“Niece,” he says in lieu of greeting.
“Uh,” she says. She eyes the exit, just a few yards past the self-checkout. Maybe if she just…
“How go your queries?” he asks.
Rose blinks. She stares at him and his weird boyband hair and his pale, angular face. “I’m sorry?”
He inclines his head. “Your novel.”
The panic eases, replaced by utter confusion. The cabbage sweats in her hand.
“You know about my novel?” is the first thing she says, which, with a second of hindsight later, is an incredibly stupid thing to ask. He’s probably read it, somehow. She doesn’t know if that makes her feel more or less terrified than when he was actively trying to kill her.
Dream nods. “I am the Prince of Stories, yours included. Such is my domain.”
“…Right,” Rose mutters. She puts the cabbage in her basket; she’d feel bad if she put it back, since it fell on the floor. She and Hal can fry up some beef to go with it; there should still be some in the freezer.
“Well,” she says cautiously. “Um. Since you’re asking. I have a meeting with an agent next week.”
Dream nods again. “I see.”
This is…happening. Well, then. Rose heads for the dairy section—she still, after all, needs groceries.
“I am sure the meeting will be fruitful,” Dream says, following close behind. Motherfucker. “You have a strong voice.”
Rose stops, her hand stilling over the door handle of the refrigerator which holds the almond milk. “You think so?” she asks. Heat rushes to her cheeks. Receiving compliments on her work from anyone is always nice, but apparently Dream is the prince of every story ever.
It’s one hell of a compliment.
She can almost forgive him for trying to kill her. For…
She thinks of Lyta’s face as Hector had disappeared, the way she paces in her apartment between the kitchen and the cradle. Always worried, always watching.
Rose’s smile fades. She puts the milk in her basket and keeps walking. “Did you really come here just to ask about my book?”
Dream doesn’t blink, but Rose thinks she sees him frown. It’s honestly kind of hard to tell, since his face always kind of looks like that to begin with.
“No,” he eventually says. “I have also come to ask how your brother fares.”
And that—well.
Rose purses her lips and tries not to let her gratitude show. “Jed is fine,” she says, her voice softening. “He’s doing…okay. All things considered.”
Raising a younger brother is hard, even without all the shit the two of them went through in the last year, much less the hell Jed went through before Rose found him.
And even though Unity left them both with enough money to be comfortable for the rest of their lives—a fact that Rose will be forever grateful for—she wishes she could have made grocery runs like these with her great-grandmother, instead of alone.
Although, she realizes now, she isn’t alone. Not exactly.
Dream’s lips press into a thin line. “That is good,” he murmurs.
Rose recognizes his expression—not guilt, exactly. He did what he had to do—for all her gripes with the way he chose to do it, she can’t hold it against him.
She looks at her basket. Chews on her lip.
Children of the Endless. A few Google searches hadn’t given her much, but she wonders if this is, like, a thing. Visitations out of nowhere.
She hopes not—she has enough on her plate as is, and if the rest of the family is anything like this, then she doesn’t have the time or energy for it.
Besides, she already has her family—Jed and Lyta and Daniel and Hal. But she wonders, sometimes. About her great-grandparent. Unity’s lover with golden eyes. She wonders about where she came from, and where she might be going.
The silence stretches on, and Dream seems to be making no attempt to break it, so Rose sighs.
“Well,” she says. “You got your answer. Any other questions?”
Dream looks almost offended, and Rose bites back a laugh. She feels a bit of her anger soften—she’s spent so much of the past few years angry. Maybe it’s time to let some of it go, where she can.
“How is Gilbert?” she asks, taking pity on him. “I miss him.”
He stares at her for a moment more, like she’s a puzzle he can’t quite work out. “He is well,” he says. “I will tell him you send your regards.”
Rose smiles. “Is there any way he can come visit?”
“No. He has his duties.” Dream pauses. “But you are welcome to visit him at any time. Simply wish it before you sleep, and you will be there.”
Rose nods. “Alright,” she says softly.
She begins walking towards the bread aisle. Jed brings sandwiches to school every day—they’re making their way through each brand to see which they both like best, because they can afford to now, and also because why the fuck not? So far Jed’s favorite is the brioche. Rose likes the Hawaiian brand.
“Rose,” Dream calls out. He has not followed her this time.
She turns.
His hands are in his pockets. “I wish you the best at your meeting. May your story spur the minds of many.”
And before she can puzzle that one out, he’s gone, out the sliding doors. The electronic chime announces his departure—thank you for shopping with us.
Rose stares after him, the doors closing behind him.
Well, then. She’ll unpack…that entire interaction later, when the groceries are secured.
For now, she smiles, and reaches for the whole wheat.
***
Matthew lands on the Boss’s shoulder.
“Well, that was nice of you,” he says with a squawk. “So that’s why you had me follow that book lady.”
“I was merely repaying a debt,” Dream says. “Rose Walker has lost much in the last year. And she is a child of the Endless.”
“If you say so,” Matthew says. He’s learning how to pick his battles with the Boss, by which he means—he tries to avoid them when he can. He’s not super successful, if Lucienne’s expressions are anything to go by when he complains to her after the fact, but hey, he’s trying.
“Any more errands?” he says.
Dream is already holding a fistful of sand. “No, thank you. That will be all, Matthew.”
The Dreaming reforms around them, and the throne room swirls into view. A meteor announces their arrival in the night sky above, and Matthew alights from his shoulder.
“Well, alright then,” he says. “I’ll be at Cain and Abel’s.” Abel’s save him a steak at the House of Secrets, and he’s fucking starving. “Just call if you need anything.”
“As you will,” Dream says, already heading for his throne to do…whatever the Boss does when he’s alone. Brood and mope, probably.
Matthew’s halfway across Fiddler’s Green when it hits him.
No, thank you Dream had said.
No. Thank you.
Matthew has half a mind to turn back around and ask what the fuck was that? It’s only the knowledge that he would under no circumstances receive a straight answer, if he got an answer at all, that keeps him flying.
Matthew hasn’t known Dream for long—perhaps he simply hasn’t been in his service long enough to earn his thanks until now. Boss isn’t a bad guy—he could just be a little rude, sometimes. Lucienne would definitely know if him saying thank you was a common occurrence.
But a small, strange part of him—the one that glows with warmth at a job well done—doesn’t want to bring it up. Thanks from the King of Dreams is a heady thing, proof that Matthew is doing something right, in a way he never did when he was still human. So what if he wants to bask in it a little?
Plus Mervyn would probably call him a suck-up, or something. He’s still got a reputation to build among the veterans; probably better just to keep his beak shut.
So he keeps flying, satisfaction filling his chest.
This steak is going to taste fucking awesome.
***
Fiddler’s Green feels the shadow of Matthew the Raven passing overhead. He gathers himself the way one might put on a coat and makes his way to the throne room.
“My Lord,” he greets from the entrance. “Might I have a word?”
If Lord Morpheus is surprised by his appearance, he does not show it. “Fiddler’s Green,” he says. “Enter and ask.”
“If it’s alright, Lord,” Fiddler’s Green says, stepping forth. “I wanted to inquire about my friend, Rose Walker.”
“She fares well,” Lord Morpheus says. “She sends her regards and hopes to visit soon.”
“Oh, splendid.” Fiddler’s Green smiles, buoyed by the thought. “And her brother?”
Lord Morpheus inclines his head. “He was not there. But she says he is also well.”
Fiddler’s Green wonders about that. Those children have been through far more than most adults, the boy especially. Fiddler’s Green is certain the situation is more complicated than Rose has made it out to be, the poor thing.
But there is nothing that can be done about the past, save for continue. He too must do the same, and hope only to make himself available to his friend should she visit.
“I see,” he says, satisfied. “Thank you, my Lord. This has been most comforting to hear.”
He bows low, then turns to leave.
“Fiddler’s Green.”
He pauses. “My Lord?”
For a moment Lord Morpheus simply looks at him, and Fiddler’s Green wonders if he misheard. But then he says, “You have spent much time among the humans.”
Fiddler’s Green nods. “Yes, my Lord. I have.”
Lord Morpheus considers him, the stars in his eyes burning. “Given your experience,” he says, his voice soft in a way that catches Fiddler’s Green off-guard. Lord Morpheus’s voice can be quiet, but rarely is it soft. “I have an inquiry of my own, which you may be able to answer.”
Fiddler’s Green removes his hat. “Anything, my Lord.”
Another pause. Lord Morpheus looks to the infinite void of his ceiling.
“What are the duties of a plus-one?”
Fiddler’s Green has been the heart of the Dreaming—or rather, one of them—for his entire existence. It is the reason he was created—to be a steady place for his Lord and his subjects to return to, when the Waking World leaves them weary and wanting.
It is his many, many millennia of experience which he calls upon to maintain his composure now. He thinks he does rather admirably, given the circumstances.
"Ah,” he says. “I take it you’ve been invited to a gathering?”
Lord Morpheus nods. “I have.”
Fiddler’s Green doesn’t smile, because Lord Morpheus would view it as a slight, but he feels the flutter of happiness in his chest all the same. It’s been so long since Lord Morpheus has attended to anything other than his duties.
“I see,” he says primly. “Have you been tasked with bringing anything? Perhaps a gift, or food?”
Lord Morpheus’s brow furrows. “No. I was told to only bring my person.”
Fiddler’s Green nods. “Excellent. Then you should not need anything else, other than your presence. The duties of a plus one are often dictated by the one who invited you.” He pauses, but Lord Morpheus does not offer any further information regarding who invited him. Well, that’s alright—he hadn’t expected him to. He continues, “They should see to your comfort throughout the course of the gathering.”
This seems to sink in; Lord Morpheus nods. “I trust I will be well attended to,” he says.
This is promising. “Excellent,” Fiddler’s Green says. “It seems you are in good hands. Then, I only have one last piece of advice.”
Lord Morpheus leans forward, and finally, Fiddler’s Green allows himself a smile.
“Ask questions,” he says. “Even if you may already know the answers. People love to tell stories.” He clears his throat. “Although I am sure you know this already.”
A moment passes, while Lord Morpheus digests this.
“I see,” he finally says, nodding. “I will consider this. Thank you, Fiddler’s Green.”
Fiddler’s Green bows, then puts his hat back on. “Anything, my Lord,” he says. He feels a kind of lightness he has not felt since he returned—the kind he never thought he’d feel back here at his old post, away from the wonders of the Waking World. It is difficult, after all, to find wonder when you are the wonder of a realm, as Fiddler’s Green is of the Dreaming.
He returns to his post, still smiling. Perhaps things are changing around here, and for the better.
***
The door opens, and Hob sees Dream, his hands in his pockets and his hair the delightful bird’s nest he wears it as this century.
“You came!” Hob says.
Dream nods, as solemn and dear as ever. “I was invited.”
Hob laughs and opens to door to let Dream in. Dream enters with the air of someone approaching a battlefield, and Hob feels the insane urge to reassure him. Dream has faced Satan, for Christ’s sake.
Tonight they only face the faculty holiday party, which Hob is hosting downstairs—although to be fair to Dream, some of the postdocs can be a bit overzealous to newcomers.
“I’m assuming you didn’t come in from downstairs,” Hob says, slipping on his loafers and adjusting his tie. He can hear muffled chatter below, in the main room of the New Inn.
“No,” Dream says. “I came to your door first, as directed.”
Hob feels a rush of pleasure at that. Silly, he knows, but it’s hard to feel anything but touched when Dream is here, in the flesh. Six hundred-odd years without a name, and now he materializes at Hob’s door just to knock.
“Well, I should warn you,” he says, deeming his tie satisfactory. “If Jackie’s already gotten into the sherry, then you might be getting a lot of questions. I’ll try to fend her off.”
Dream’s eyes gleam in amusement. “I do not need a minder,” he says, but he does not object when Hob loops his arm through his as they head back out the door.
"I know,” Hob says, smiling. “But I don’t mind—actually been really looking forward to this. And give me some more credit! I wouldn’t just leave you to the wolves.”
Dream smiles faintly. “For which you have my thanks,” he says, and together, they descend into the warm air of the New Inn.
***
+1
The conclusion of the rebuilding efforts passes without fanfare. Lucienne comes with a query, Dream waves a hand, and an extra staircase is removed.
After she leaves him on the balcony, a sense of quiet satisfaction washes over him. His kingdom his restored, and he can now continue with his duties as before.
It will be as if nothing had ever changed.
Except.
A month later, Dream finds Lucienne waiting at the Library’s entrance, Matthew beside her.
“My Lord,” she says.
“What is the matter?” he asks. Dread fills him—an unfamiliar feeling.
Lucienne shakes her head, no doubt hearing the undercurrent of danger in his voice. “Nothing serious, my Lord. But I just thought you should know—”
“All this hard work and now we’re finally fuckin’ finished,” comes the familiar voice of Mervyn Pumpkinhead from within the Library foyer. “Of course I’m gonna enjoy this. Yeah, he makes the sand, but who’s the one who has to sweep it all up when he’s done, yanno?”
Lucienne sends him an apologetic glance. “As you can see,” she says. “Some were hoping to make this a bit of an event—”
Dream sweeps past her, blood burning. This is his realm, and these are his subjects—if he cannot even control the likes of Mervyn Pumpkinhead from chaos making, then what does that say about him? About the kind of ruler he has become?
“Boss, wait—” Matthew says.
Dream stops.
Within the foyer of the Library, golden light streams and golden streamers fly. There is a sweet smell which Dream recognizes as Fiddler’s Green’s finest flowers, and golden flutes of champagne which float in the air.
“Dream!” Hob Gadling says, holding up one such flute.
“Look who decided to join us,” says Johanna Constantine. Her own glass is already empty.
“You’re just in time for the cake,” says his sister. She wears a golden party hat and a bright smile.
Behind him, he hears someone clear her throat.
He turns, slowly.
“As you can see,” Lucienne says, her expression cautious. “Some wished to celebrate the completion of the rebuilding efforts.” She squares her shoulders, fully prepared to take the blame if need be. “I did not object.”
He turns slowly to his subjects, his family, his friends.
The whole hall waits with bated breath; he makes eye contact with his sister, who nods, once.
Slowly, his anger drains away.
He is monarch of this realm, but he is also its people’s steward. If they wish to celebrate the completion of the rebuilding, then so be it.
“As you will,” he says quietly.
A loud cheer goes up in the air, and smiles are exchanged. Because it is duty to see that guests are attended to, Dream does not leave, but he also finds the quietest corner to observe the proceedings, alone.
Or rather, he tries to remain alone.
Death comes to stand beside him. Cain and Abel are fighting again. Hob is making a valiant attempt at conversation with Constantine, who is nursing a third glass of champagne. Mervyn’s head is full of cake—speaking so loudly to Lucienne that frosting flicks through his eyes.
“Hey, you,” Death says. “Were you surprised?” She loops an arm through his. “I bet you were.”
“I did not expect this, no.”
“Oh, come on,” she says, nudging him. He frowns. “Let the people who care about you celebrate a little.”
“I am merely fulfilling the duties I neglected during my time away,” Dream says. Anger rises within him again, a familiar balm to the unfamiliar dread he’d felt earlier. “I see no cause for celebration.”
“Well, we do,” Death says firmly. Her tone brooks no argument. “Someone we love about has returned after much time away, and we are glad.” She fixes him with a look that is as unmovable as her very nature. “Would you deny us this?”
Dream holds her gaze. As he does so, the anger subsides. In its place comes something else—not quite happiness, not quite sorrow. He…
A tinkling sound echoes from the other end of the hall, and every head turns. Hob Gadling clamors to stand on a table, his glass raised as he had raised it in a tavern six hundred years ago.
“Strangers!” he calls. He meets Dream’s eye and smiles. “Friends.” He turns to the rest of the hall, his voice carrying across the way and out to Fiddler’s Green. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the return of one who has been dearly missed. But it’s more than that. We are here to celebrate not only his return, but him.”
Dream can only stare. To celebrate him is foolish, and unnecessary. After all, he is no mere god; he is Endless. He does not require recognition or praise to exist. He merely fulfills his function; as all things must live and die and dream, so too must he shoulder his responsibilities.
“Now, you’re probably thinking that this is unnecessary,” Hob says, turning back to Dream, and a chuckle goes through the crowd.
Dream bristles—what does Hob know of his thoughts? What do any of them know?
Hob smiles and says, “I can see it on that pale face of yours, my friend! But unfortunately you don’t get a say in the matter. You see, we here—” he gestures to the small crowd in the room—human and dreams alike, denizens of both the Waking and the Dreaming. “—We want to celebrate you. We can’t hope to understand the burdens you carry, but…” His smile turns determined, hopeful. “…Should you ever need a shoulder, a friendly hand, we’re here to help, and to listen. It’s the least we can do, for the diligence and care with which you shepherd our dreaming lives.”
Dream does not need to breathe, strictly speaking, any more than he needs food, or sleep. But in this moment he finds that he is breathless; the room spins.
“So thank you, dear friend,” Hob says, and around the room, murmurs of assent rise into the air as Hob raises his glass once more. “Thank you for your stewardship, and your careful hand. Your commitment, and your friendship.” His smile is soft and familiar when he looks at Dream. “Thank you, Dream.”
Applause erupts, and cheers echo up to the ceiling. Hob drinks and everyone follows suit, golden flutes sloshing champagne which never touches the floor, but instead turns to bubbles that float up into the high ceilings of the Library foyer.
And Dream…
“Little brother,” Death says softly. She is the only one close enough to see.
Dream finds that if it is her, he does not mind so much.
It hurts, he realizes. This gathering is further proof of his failure, of the damage that has been done to his realm, to his subjects, to him. To celebrate his return is to acknowledge his absence, and his weakness.
It is proof things have changed, no matter how badly he wishes they hadn’t.
But…
As he looks out at the sea of faces before him, he thinks that, perhaps, it is also proof that he is loved.
He doesn’t know if that hurts more than his failure—that his absence caused hurt to those who cared about him, hurt that has nothing to do with his function. That he was simply missed.
The tears of an Endless are rare indeed, though they taste of salt as any other’s might.
“Your cup is empty,” he says, once he has gathered himself. This is his realm, so he does not require the handkerchief his sister offers; he simply wills his cheeks dry.
Death smiles. “I’m afraid I can’t have too much more,” she says wryly. “I have to get back soon. Just need to say goodbye…ah, Lucienne!”
Lucienne, who from the look of it had been chatting with Gault, nods and walks over.
“Thanks for hosting,” Death says with a smile.
Lucienne bows low. “It was my pleasure,” she replies. “Are you leaving?”
Death nods. “Duty calls. But I’ll be back soon with your book—really loving it so far. Thank you for recommending it.”
Lucienne smiles. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve heard it’s going to be published soon.” She looks at Dream, an eyebrow raised knowingly. “Many more shall soon be able to read it.”
Dream says nothing, but unfortunately, they both know him far too well for him to hide it. He can tell, from the gleam in their eyes, they know he is also pleased with his niece’s work.
Death waves her goodbyes, leaving Lucienne and Dream alone.
They stand in companionable silence for a few minutes more.
“…Thank you,” Dream says quietly. “I was not expecting this.”
The dreamers are beginning to wake up—Johanna Constantine has already left, along with Mad Hettie. Hob Gadling is still swirling his drink and speaking to Matthew, but he too will awaken soon. Dream makes a note to visit the New Inn, to thank him for his words. Cain and Abel are still arguing, while Goldie sits safely on Mervyn’s shoulder.
“You have rebuilt the Dreaming from the ground up,” Lucienne says, her hands held behind her back as they both watch the proceedings. She nods at the small crowd. “This is our home, too.”
Dream hears it—the thing that she is too respectful to voice. There is no need for thanks, she might say, if she were less aware of Dream’s own faults—his pride, his loneliness.
But she is more than aware—she knows him, in a way very few do. Librarian yes, but also, first and foremost, in a way he is learning to appreciate more with every passing day—his friend.
And perhaps—just perhaps—Dream really has changed. Because he finds he means it, a moment later, when he says, “Still. I should like to say it.”
Across the hall, laughter rings out, through the doors of the Library and out into the Dreaming.
“Thank you, Lucienne,” he says again, soft beneath the laughter.
Lucienne smiles back. “It was my pleasure,” she says. “My Lord.”