#GODS he is FUN to write y'all. like I am essentially trying to paint a picture with words here

[nycorix]

Lucienne & The Throne Room

Posting another excerpt from the sandman fic I am working on! It's going to be long and Involved lmao but this scene is pretty close to the beginning - basically, the weather in the Dreaming is fucked and Lucienne has taken it upon herself to investigate why. (Lucienne, the real MVP at all times)

More of this nonsense can be found in this post ! *~*~*

It only takes her three tries to find the throne room. She allows herself a moment of satisfaction, then lets herself in, bracing almost unconsciously.

She has no idea what to expect—the Dream Lord experiences as wide a range of emotions and troubles and snits as the mortals whose unconsciousness he curates, though he is loath to admit it. And while she is a firm believer in the concept of expressing one’s emotions in a healthy way, and Dream has made leaps and bounds of progress in the time she has known him, she also knows his instinct is still to suppress the above with a vigilance bordering upon desperation. 

The trouble with this is it invariably leaks out through the cracks of his consciousness despite his best efforts, which directly affects the very fabric and nature of the Dreaming itself—which is, of course, the environment that she and Nuala and the rest of his subjects all reside in. Whatever this fog is, she is certain that it must be dealt with as early as possible.

The throne room is bitterly cold.

She can see her breath in clouds before her as she strides across the cavernous space. The chill from the fog itself has not yet left her bones, but this is worse; and she shivers, slipping her hands into the pockets of her coat almost unconsciously.

She can see him, seated at the base of the throne stairs, cloak pooled around him like a shadow. His breath is cloudless.

Apart from the clime of the room, Lucienne can see nothing amiss—he is wraithlike and ephemeral in presence, alabaster-pale, bent gracefully over his work in either brooding or concentration, the fall of his dark hair hiding the deep furrow of his brow—but all of this, of course, is normal.

In his lap is a ledger, ornate and leather bound; he holds a feather quill, pinched between finger and thumb as if it may break or disappear, etching across the empty pages perfect lines of his loopy scrawl. 

So: official business, then. The dream journals of the mortals and others under his care dutifully write themselves in his absence, but very occasionally a spell will come upon him, a trance almost, nearly fitlike, and he will spend hours upon hours transcribing entries himself, usually for a specific Dreamer that has for some reason arrested his attention. 

Lucienne clears her throat to announce her presence, stepping forward. 

I did not call for a librarian, he says before she’s even halved the distance.

Lucienne, to her credit, does not break pace, though even after untold centuries of devoted service she will never fully be prepared for the weight his words command, the way they seduce and rebuff in equal measures. His voice is the rust on an old blade, the first breath of a storm, sharp ivory sheathed in the darkest velvet—but it is distant, here, his consciousness lost in the pages of some special Dreamer’s dreams, a monotone echo of habit rather than any true expression of disapproval.

“I know, my Lord,” she answers—drawing near enough to speak quietly, keeping enough distance to remain unable to read the journal. “But perhaps you may yet have use of my assistance?”

And she waits.

He makes a sound that is neither acquiescence, acknowledgement, or dissent, yet manages to somehow be all three at once. The ledger shifts in his lap, and he catches the edge with a thumb. He frowns, pen stilling. Turns a page. The shadows on his face deepen, and his shoulders slowly drop.

He looks up.

Is something the matter? He stares at her with the wide-open concern of someone just woken from sleep, stars glinting in the facets of his eyes.

She tilts her head in deference as her gaze sweeps up and down the whole of him. While nothing seems pressingly wrong, she knows better than to trust his appearance alone. “I was hoping to ask that question of you, sir,” she replies, with all the gentle respect she can muster.

He blinks. Of me. Why would you think to…

There’s a distinct confusion buried beneath his careful mask, mixed with a worry so tinged with the promise of panic that she relents and spares him the spiral of thought. He is, after all, still getting his bearings. Would be, she thinks, for some time yet—for it’s not just the present Dream work that’s preoccupying him.

“The weather, my Lord,” she explains, swallowing the start of a smile as a part of him visibly relaxes. “We were….” she pauses, delicately. “Unsure.”

Morpheus rises as she speaks, eyes falling shut as he turns his attention to the Dreaming. Between moments, in a motion so fluid it is almost indiscernible, the book and pen are folded into the lining of his cloak. Something in his expression resolves, and he exhales, long and soft, thin smoke guttering from his lips. When he opens his eyes, they are blue again. And when he opens his eyes the room warms, as if touched by the first rays of a sunrise.

Unsure, he repeats, a dry twist of amusement bringing an almost human quality to him. And of what do you require certainty, then - my condition, or my intent?

“Both, sir.” She gives honesty without hesitation; and this time, she does allow herself a smile in reflection of his own.

#the sandman #dream of the endless #fanfiction #lucienne the librarian #GODS he is FUN to write y'all. like I am essentially trying to paint a picture with words here #he's also a pathetic emo wet rat man and I cannot wait to make that even more apparent #my apologies lucienne #also: bonus points to anyone who can guess the Dreamer he's writing about here. lmao #kasey writes