Chapter Text
Ma femme à la bouche de cocarde
et de bouquets d’étoiles de dernière grandeur
Ma femme aux cils de bâtons d’écriture d’enfant
Aux sourcils de bord de nid d’hirondelle
Ma femme aux tempes d’ardoise de toit de serre
Et de buée aux vitres
Ma femme aux yeux pleins de larmes
Aux yeux de niveau d’eau de niveau d’air de terre et de feu.
A welcome summer rain fell on the still-sleeping London, cleansing it of the atrocities of the past days and gradually soothing the violence that had corrupted even the most innocent hearts. That night, for the first time in weeks, the sleepers had sweet dreams.
In the early dawn, a man dressed entirely in white stood in a street, his eyes raised towards a lit skylight. A raven landed on a low wall. He seemed to hesitate for a few seconds before approaching the man and, curiously for any mortal unaware of the supernatural aspects of existence, the black bird bowed his head to the man in a respectful curtsy.
“Are you satisfied, Matthew?” asked the man who, for the first time since he had taken the title of Lord Morpheus, had been able to watch over the dreamers in peace.
“Nothing is certain yet,” replied the bird, shaking his head.
“It seems so to me,” murmured the Lord of Dreams, touching the emerald hanging around his neck. “Everything is back to normal…”
“I don't like you,” declared the raven, casting a determined glance at the man who should have become his new master. “And my Boss will always be the Boss.”
Morpheus shot a surprised look at the loyal creature. He was well aware that Matthew was very attached to his predecessor, like many of his subjects, but none had dared to express their opinion so frankly.
“The Boss,” continued the bird, looking up at the only house lit up on the street, “he looked like a raven, whereas you... you look like a dove. And doves are despicable snobs, but…”
Matthew approached Morpheus and gave him a friendly peck on the arm.
“You tried to help him, and for that I am very grateful.”
“I tried to warn the mortal and protect their shared dreams. Nothing more... I fear my warnings were not enough and that a sacrifice had to be made anyway…”
At that moment, a rustling of wings broke the serenity of the dawn. Morpheus and the raven turned their heads towards the woman approaching them. She touched her Ankh with her fingertips.
The Lord of Dreams' face darkened.
“What are you doing here? Do not tell me…”
“Not today, my brother,” whispered Death, standing beside him.
“When?”
The young woman smiled curiously.
“I myself do not know... Perhaps I will return tomorrow, in a week, in a month, in a year or in a decade. Perhaps I will take them both away or separate them when one of them is still in the prime of life, or perhaps I will wait until they have both lost the memory of a long life filled with sorrows and small joys.”
“So, what brings you here, my sweet sister?”
A meow interrupted Death's reply. The siblings saw a tabby cat walking towards them, his tail proudly raised. He jumped onto the low wall and lay down, his amber eyes fixed on the house he intended to return to in a few hours, but for now, he wanted to enjoy the dawn in peace.
“You chose to sacrifice your penultimate life to return to this world, my dear Pygmalion,” whispered Death, stroking the faithful feline's head. “I hope you enjoy the last one you have left.”
Leaving the cat to its restful sleep, she took a few steps towards the house.
“I wanted to say a final farewell to the one who was my brother…” replied the woman, raising her hand to her lips before blowing an invisible kiss towards the bull's-eye window.
The two Endless stood silently for several minutes in front of the house that had been the refuge of a beloved brother who would soon be no more, and of a god who had passed on a part of his feelings and memories to his successor.
Morpheus raised his hand to his necklace and squeezed the jewel between his fingers. As soon as he had opened his eyes, he had felt the weight of responsibility and, above all, of the love that allowed his cosmic heart to beat and vibrate to the melody of dreams. He would fulfil his role because it was his duty, but he would breathe new life into it.
“Come, little brother, a fraternal dinner awaits us,” said Death, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Matthew?” asked the Dream King, leaning towards the raven still perched on the low wall.
“With all dull respect,” said the bird, looking him in the eyes, “I prefer to stay here. To watch over him.”
Morpheus nodded and gently stroked his feathers.
“So be it, my friend. My kingdom will always be yours if you ever wish to return. As for me, I hope to find a companion as loyal as you. Farewell, Matthew.”
He walked away from the raven. Death disappeared with a flap of wings. For a few hours, Death would allow herself a little respite to forget the one who had been his brother and discover the one who would replace him.
Morpheus turned back one last time towards the house and smiled in a way that no one could interpret.
“May your nights be beautiful and full of dreams,” he whispered before disappearing in a whirlwind of sand, leaving loyal Matthew at his post.
***
The caressing fingers of dawn brushed the sleeper's eyelids. A spasm seized him, as if he had been pulled from a long sleep or from his mother's womb. He opened his eyes hesitantly. The half-open skylight let in a teasing ray of sunlight that kissed every inch of his bare skin. Like a newborn seeing the light of day for the first time, he raised his hands to the sky and began to play with the sunbeams. He took a deep breath and let his lungs fill with oxygen. The smell of summer rain filled his quivering nostrils. He stuck out his tongue and caught a drop pouring through the half-open skylight: so this was what it felt like to be alive again? Hob Gadling couldn't suppress a burst of laughter and put his hand on his heart, which was beating steadily. He wrapped his fingers around his throbbing heart to revel in its rhythm. He turned his head. Little by little, the fog obscuring his eyelids dissipated, revealing the small studio that had become the temple devoted to his creative madness born of his love for a friend who was too absent, a love long hidden and a lost god.
He turned to the statue lying beside him, reached out towards the still unidentifiable face and touched it with his fingertips, murmuring a soft ‘hello, you’. He let his hand caress the clay chest and lose itself in the muscles drawn on the stomach, with its navel resembling a curious shell, before resting in the welcoming hollow of the thigh. His gaze caressed the sexless crotch. It was time to finish his work.
Hob struggled to his feet, the old pain in his knee no longer easing, something he would have to learn to live with from now on. He picked up the basin, emptied it, filled it with water and repeated the task – for the last time, he hoped – that had obsessed him for days and nights. He knelt down next to the statue bathed in light and kneaded the white clay to shape the sculpture's missing genitals. His fingers instinctively reproduced the shape of the sex he had caressed with his fingers and lips. Hob smiled mischievously, thinking that the proportions of this penis did not quite match those expected of a statue imitating those of antiquity...
He worked hard to shape the manhood to perfection, lingering over the small imperfect details that made up the beauty of a human sex, and concealed it under a proud tuft of hair, slightly less thick than his own. When he was satisfied, he stepped back to admire the member standing proudly between the statue's bent legs.
The temptation was great to take it between his lips to remember the sensation he had experienced in that last shared dream when his mouth had taken hold of that dick made of flesh and blood. He gave up this strange desire. The clay cock would never taste the same as the tender member he had enjoyed the night before.
Hob lay down next to the sculpture and kissed it. His hands slid down its torso, teasing its obscene nipples. He deepened his kiss, praying that the clay would become flesh. His arms wrapped around the motionless hips that had undulated so well against his own. His fingers dug lovingly into the cheeky dimples above the bony buttocks before grasping it, that appealing bum belonging to the man he had brought to climax during their last embrace. His legs slid between those of the statue. He rubbed their manhoods together, hoping that this sensual touch would awaken the blood of the clay being.
At the touch of Hob’s kisses, tinged with despair and fear, the clay warmed and softened. The statue's loins buckled under his touch, his member hardened against his, and the tip became moist.
The lover hesitated to open his eyes, fearing he had been tricked once again by the Kindly Ones. His wet hands detached themselves from the now soft buttocks and rested on the still unidentifiable face. Still with his eyes closed, so as not to shatter what he believed to be a cruel illusion, Hob's damp fingers shaped the face of his beloved, finally giving a name to the sculpture. He carefully modelled the prominent cheekbones and the distinctive nose, not forgetting, in a gesture that mimicked the dream, to imprint the shape of his index finger on the left side. He then reproduced the small wrinkles sprouting in the hollows of the eyelids, the full lips, a rosebud that had blossomed under his loving kisses. He traced a parenthesis wrinkle with the tip of his fingernail in one cheek and closed it on the other cheek.
A rub against his groin made Hob shudder. A leg moved against his. His mouth pressed against a real mouth. Hob half-opened his eyelids. Pink lips kissed his. He tried to hold them back when they parted. Large blue eyes rose towards the daylight before settling on Hob’s face. Their faces were so close that Hob could feel his lover's breath running along his face. Hob leaned forward and licked the delicate neck, intoxicated by the taste of the slightly sweaty skin, smelling of petrichor and mugwort. Slender, timid hands, their palms marked with lines and symbols, as if afraid to believe in the breath of life that animated them, caressed Hob’s cheeks and eyelids, tracing his wrinkles’creases that had deepened during his sleep.
“Hello, Hob,” whispered his lover, smiling slightly before kissing his forehead tenderly.
“Hello, Dream,” whispered the latter, pushing back a black strand of hair that hid the blue eyes, so full of life. “Look at you, you're beautiful…”
Hob gazed longingly at the body made of flesh and blood entwined with his own. His gaze traced the outline of his ears, his raven-winged eyebrows, his bird-like nose, his mouth swollen with desire and adorned with dark fluff, his proud cheekbones, before travelling down his chest, admiring his pink nipples, and slipped mischievously onto the fine brown hair spreading across his hard member.
“In a few years, my hair will turn grey and my wrinkles will deepen, Hob Gadling,” said Dream, pressing his forehead against his. “Do you still love me, my beloved, while I am nothing but a mere mortal?”
“Like me, love” replied Hob, sealing their lips with another kiss.
The two lovers made love under the sun, enjoying the fleeting moments of this unknown time, not eternal, which had been granted to them.