The Iliad, by Homer. (via styxgian)

page 38 from The Sandman #1 by Sam Kieth and Mike Dringenberg

Deathless, Catherynne M. Valente (via lo-gic-us)

The Sandman #7

"mmhmm, so you say " she smiled warmly as she walked over to seat and sat down

"So, what have you been doing that you have been so very busy, brother?"

With an idle wave of his hand, he conjured a seat for her—an overstuffed couch that would not have looked out of place in her realm, though it seemed altogether too cozy for his austere private rooms. Even as he sat next to her, it was stiffly, as if he was more used to thrones.

"My duties seldom change. You know this." And yet he knew that such an answer would not satisfy. "I have been busy shaping nightmares." Such was his mood, as of late.

"And how are you, sister? Your...fish, they are well?"

+hewhoshapes

No, it would be unwise to appeal for my nonexistent wisdom—

                   Loki thought, taking a few steps back.

The being in front of him was no doubt powerful, yet he had no idea who or what this was.

“I apologise,” his reply was, followed by a bow of his head — confused rather than fearful — and he dared to look the being in the eyes. Those what should be eyes, but weren’t, not really.

“Rune magic… has flows. This is an unfortunate accident. What can I do to fix it?”

The King of Dreams only stared, unmoving and unimpressed, as cool and silent as night itself.  Summoning an Endless, as one would a servant?  How foolish.  How peremptory.  It was an act that demanded reparation.

And Dream would have it.

"Unfortunate, yes." Quite unfortunate, to summon that which he could neither dismiss nor control. "It may well be.  Still, it has been done.  I will not subject others in my family to such indignity."

Amidst the base of his robe, flames and terrible faces flickered, and were gone.  No stars shone in his eyes.

"You address Lord Morpheus, brother to Lady Death. Your audience, Lauyefson, is now with me."

           &, subsequently, that their older sibling’s discomfort            gives the younger Endless some dark form of            amusement, goes equally without saying. Desire            knows well how Dream values his privacy, H O A            R D S it close as if it was precious diamonds

                                                 and it is for this exact reason that Desire also                                                  so loves to impede upon it.

                               ❝ Maybe it’s because of those like you, who continue                                to feed them. ❞ It goes on as if Dream had never spoken,                                fingertips glossing idly over dark cream feathers;                                                   the bird shivers once, happily, before taking off                                                   with a f l u t t e r of wings to search for its mate,                                                   as per Desire’s influence.

           At last, then, a wry gaze of bright amber settles again            on its night-cloaked sibling, and a hand fetches forth a            cigarette, a heart-shaped lighter. ❝ It’s been a few            years, Dream. ❞ Spoken as though this should be reason            for conversation.

                        ❝ Any new developments ? A new girlfriend, perhaps ?                                       Those are always fun. ❞

          Truly, he feeds birds simply because he wants to, though           Dream dares not voice such a sentiment to his sibling,           the embodiment of want.  Such emotions could be easily           controlled, manipulated, made sour.  Not even The Endless           were immune to such influence.

                                And Dream, now and again, more susceptible than most.

                  “And you have a gallery, had you wished to speak.”  To                   Desire's honey-voice, Dream has only ice--cold, clipped,                   and distant.  "Unless you presumed that finding me in                   the waking world would be somehow preferable."

                                                     It was not.

          Whether a trick of the wind or a trick of Desire, smoke wafts           in front of his face, briefly adding to the summer's haze.             Deep within the shadows of his eyes, a star in burns with           the fire of vexation, and then dies away.

                     “You know I have taken no lovers, Desire.”  More than ice,                      now, Morpheus speaks of bitter memories, of old slights that                      he refuses to let heal.  This is some trap he is playing into,                      surely.  And yet, he allows himself to be so baited.

                                            Perhaps because he wants it.

          “Fun, sibling?  For you, it seems.  I imagine you took some           enjoyment in my last misadventure.”  And all of the romantic           misfortunes prior to.

                                   Enjoyment, and if suspicions true, at least some                                    of the responsibility.

Pablo Neruda, I Like You Calm, As If You Were Absent

Bobby Darin - Dream Lover

Morpheus and Orpheus from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman. For the 20th anniversary exhibit. Pencil, based on the work of Moreau.

hewhoshapes

"Ugh. There you are, Dream. I was looking all over for you! How come you’re late all the time? Even Desire makes it on time. Desire.”

To say that Dream bristled at the mention of Desire would have been, perhaps, too broad a term for his change in expression —a slight narrowing of his eyes, if anything.   But to those that could read him (few as they were, for Morpheus preferred it as such), the difference was marked.  However unintentionally, Death had hit upon a very particular, and very stubborn nerve.

She knew, better than anyone, how talk of his estranged sibling could only deepen what was an all-pervasive melancholy.

"I do not welcome the comparison, sister.   Desire treats its responsibilities as it does all things—with fickle indifference.  If I am indeed late all the time," and 'bristle' finally was appropriate, Dream slightly shamed, though not altogether surprised, by his sister's candor, "then it is only because there were matters in the Dreaming that first required my attention before I traveled."

With a nod, clipped but not altogether without warmth for her, his favorite sibling, Dream tried his best at amends.  Apologies had never come easy.  "I am sorry.  Tardiness was not my intent.  Were you waiting long, my sister?"

David Bowie is my queen

One more reason he’s my favorite artist ever