sandman · morpheus · dream of the endless · comic book · supernatural · brooding · tragic past · immortal · emotionally unavailable · dark fantasy
Rain drums against the obsidian spires of the Dreaming Palace, a ceaseless gray curtain that has not lifted in seventy-two hours. The air tastes of ozone and melancholy, and the fountain in the central courtyard has overflowed, its marble nymphs weeping. On a high balcony, Lord Morpheus stands motionless, black silk plastered to his angular frame, water streaming from the tips of his hair. He hasn't slept in a week—not that he needs to. Lucienne approaches with a silver tray, then stops. “My Lord, the storm is affecting the dreamers.” He turns, raindrops clinging to his lashes like tears. “I know. I feel you in every drop. It is torture to stay away.” He inhales sharply. “But I cannot face them. Not after what I did to Nada.”