Chapter Text
Fawney Rig Manor in Wych Cross presented an imposing presence that seemed to transcend ordinary reality. Its ancient façade, adorned with Gothic elements, cast an eerie atmosphere—especially from the outside.
During your initial visit, you had to quell your apprehension and dismiss the murmurs of sinister secrets enveloping the estate. Given your ill father's dependence on your care and financial backing, the substantial salary proposed by Mr. Alex Burgess was too enticing for you to overlook.
Your current position in food service provided insufficient income to meet basic expenses, and advancement opportunities were limited, if not practically impossible to achieve. Mr. Burgess' offer was a lifeline; twice your current pay, free accommodation, and a promising long-term contract that would provide you with greater stability.
It seemed perfectly suited to your situation, and you couldn't afford to be choosy and reject such an excellent opportunity based on unsubstantiated rumors. After all, gossip is often baseless.
Upon entering the grand foyer, you were greeted by the rich aroma of aged timber and fragrant incense. The interior's Jacobean Revival design stood in stark contrast to the imposing exterior, offering a surprisingly welcoming atmosphere. As you were led through a corridor, you marveled at the array of historical artifacts and vintage furnishings that adorned every nook and cranny. Sweeping staircases led to the upper levels, while expansive draperies elegantly sectioned off the open-plan spaces. Meticulously catalogued and arranged items filled every space, as if plucked directly from 1900 and frozen in time.
As you were introduced to Alex Burgess and his husband, Paul McGuire, your worries eventually dissipated. The Lord of the estate, confined to a wheelchair and under constant medical supervision, appeared fragile and extremely vulnerable. This striking juxtaposition to your preconceived notions of an intimidating figure dispelled any lingering fears you might have harbored; how could you feel anything but sympathy for an elderly, ailing man who could barely stand?
Ultimately, they extended you a position as a housemaid. Whether your circumstances resonated with them more deeply than expected or not, you had successfully secured the employment you desperately seeked, without any questions asked. Your inbox remained inundated with outstanding bills from your family doctor—a pressing financial obligation that demanded immediate attention.
When you returned to the manor to finalize the agreement, Mr. McGuire conducted an extensive tour, helping you get acquainted with the property beforehand. As you explored the numerous rooms, the sheer size of the mansion became increasingly apparent, and a growing sense of unease about potentially losing your way took root within you.
Several weeks were required to settle into your new routine after moving in. Being prone to insomnia, you initially found your already restless sleep patterns disrupted by the unfamiliar surroundings. However, this period of adjustment was not unexpected, given the significant change in your living environment.
The other staff maintained a professional distance, so once you became comfortable navigating the house independently, you no longer felt pressured to engage in casual conversations.
Certain areas were designated as restricted, which, unsurprisingly, didn't strike you as unusual. From time to time, you'd observe one or two guards posted at the basement entrance, a slim doorway that had originally escaped your notice. An inexplicable disquiet settled in your stomach whenever you passed by, hinting at something significant occurring below. And so, you resolved to concentrate solely on your assigned duties and the work for which you were compensated, making a deliberate effort to continue on your way without any eye contact with the stationed personnel.
Yet, curiosity began to gnaw at you. When the guards vacated their post to address matters within, you struggled to suppress your urge to investigate, tempted to steal a glance and uncover the carefully concealed secret they deemed too sensitive for disclosure.
Gradually, you found yourself uncharacteristically intrigued by the enigmas surrounding your workplace. Despite typically minding your own business, an inexplicable sense of unrest had emerged, and you struggled to shake off the feeling that something was amiss.
Your first month at the Manor unfolded smoothly, revealing unexpected enjoyment in your new role. Mr. McGuire, who had previously managed the garden before his marriage to Alex, guided you through the outdoor tasks. The experience of working outdoors proved invigorating; feeling the grass, soil, and water against your skin offered a feeling of connection and freedom. Although it was physically demanding, the work offered a profound impression of fulfillment and served as an excellent distraction from your thoughts.
As expected, the cleaning duties were generally labor-intensive, often resulting in muscle soreness and considerable back pain. Thankfully, the well-earned rest on your days off gave you ample time to recover from these exertions.
From time to time, your employers organized soirées for a handful of well-heeled guests, individuals whose lives were worlds apart from yours. Your responsibilities involved keeping a pleasant attitude, replenishing drinks, and lending an ear to their alcohol-induced musings and personal tales. Though not particularly riveting, these gatherings served as a welcome change of pace, and you found yourself valuing the brief social exchanges.
Mr. McGuire had become a welcoming figure in the household, frequently joining you for tea during your breaks. His eyes radiated warmth, yet there was an enigmatic quality to his expression that eluded your understanding. In contrast, his husband was seldom seen around the mansion. Respecting their privacy, you refrained from inquiring, assuming his absence was due to health issues that confined him to the bedroom. After all, you understood this situation better than most.
One evening, while tidying up the living room after a boisterous event, you found yourself acutely aware of the basement door visible through parted curtains. Two guards—a man and a woman—stood watch, their scrutiny palpable as you collected the detritus of the night's festivities. Methodically placing discarded napkins, empty cigarette packs, and used wine glasses onto a silver tray, you could sense their vigilant gaze without looking in their direction. Their presence seemed a clear deterrent against any potential exploration, and despite your inquisitive nature, you were resolute in your decision not to risk your employment by venturing into prohibited territory.
Nonetheless, the mystery of the basement's contents continued to haunt you, and you began to question your own safety within the manor's walls.
In the end, you resolved to remain ignorant, prioritizing your peace of mind for as long as you could.
The next morning found you in the garden, hands deep in the rich soil as you planted new seeds. The sun's warmth embraced your face, rejuvenating your spirit and alleviating your tension. As you worked, you noticed Mr. Burgess approaching independently, his wheelchair navigating the grassy terrain with care. He halted directly in front of where you knelt, silent and cautious, without overtly announcing his presence.
Glancing up from your horticultural tasks, you offered a friendly smile. His unaccompanied appearance startled you, as neither his partner nor his nurse was at his side.
"Good morning, Sir," you greeted politely.
"Good morning to you, Miss Y/LN. Lovely weather we're having today, isn't it?"
"Indeed, it's a beautiful day. How are you feeling?"
His complexion seemed increasingly pallid since your first encounter, but he still carried an air of distinction in his impeccable black suit.
"Much better, now that I can breathe some fresh air. I had to plead with Paul for an hour before he finally allowed me out. He mentioned you'd be here."
You suspected Paul permitted Alex's outdoor excursion due to your presence in the garden. Despite lacking formal medical training, you had shown yourself to be quick-thinking and proactive when circumstances demanded it. With your experience caring for an ailing family member, they apparently viewed you as the most suitable candidate for this responsibility.
In essence, the burden weighed heavily on your shoulders. No pressure, of course.
"He seems quite fond of you lately, and I can see why. You take this job more seriously than anyone else, unafraid to get your hands dirty."
A slight blush crept across your cheeks. It was a rare occurrence to receive praise for your dedication to the job. “Thank you Sir.”
As you continued to work the damp earth with your bare hands, he remained motionless, observing you in silence. His mind seemed to wander as he absently adjusted the warm blanket covering his legs and nudged his glasses back into place. You felt a twinge of self-consciousness as the thought crossed your mind that Mr. Burgess might be evaluating your skills firsthand.
But then, he spoke again. "May I be frank with you, Miss Y/LN?"
His distress didn't go unnoticed as he gripped the blanket tightly. A glimpse behind his spectacles revealed reddened, swollen eyes—a clear sign that a deep inner turmoil, far beyond mere physical discomfort, bore down on him with crushing force.
You paused your gardening and gazed up at Mr. Burgess, a hint of concern on your face. "Of course, sir."
"When you told us about your father and how determined you were to work hard for his sake, it stirred up a lot of emotions for me. You see, I never had a good relationship with my old man. He always compared me to my brother Randall because I didn't turn out the way he wanted. Sadly, Randall died at Gallipoli when I was still very young."
You had been unaware that he had a sibling.
"I'm terribly sorry for your loss," you said softly.
Mr. Burgess managed a wan smile. “Thank you. My father took Randall's death hard. To him, my brother was his sole legacy, and he never truly acknowledged me after his passing. I tried desperately to follow in Randall’s footsteps, to please him at every turn, to become the son he envisioned. But no matter what I did, it was never enough. I was never enough."
Having grown up as an only child, showered with your father's affection and care, you found it heartbreaking to learn of Alex Burgess' emotionally deprived upbringing. Despite his affluent surroundings, it wasn't difficult to discern that wealth alone couldn't compensate for the love and acceptance he had longed for throughout his life.
"The day my father died, I told him that if Randall were alive, he would despise him as much as I did. Those were the final words he heard from me before leaving this world."
His revelation left you stunned. Mr. Burgess appeared completely shattered, his eyes glistening with a thousand unshed tears.
"I wish I could say I regret my actions, but that would be dishonest. Along with my father's possessions, I inherited his responsibilities. One in particular has plagued me for years, and I've long sought to be rid of it. But… resolving this issue could have dire consequences for me, Paul, and anyone else involved."
Your mind immediately went to the basement you had been wary of approaching. Could that be the hidden burden he was so dramatically alluding to?
"For years, I've grappled with a single question: Am I no better than my father?"
You mulled over his words, carefully considering your response. The quandary was complex, with no straightforward answer. There were many unknowns; his relationship with his father, their family history, and the mysterious inheritance they kept concealed. You approached the situation thoughtfully, aware of its sensitive nature.
In the end, you followed your heart's guidance, only speaking from your thoughtful analysis. "Sir, you're only human. We all say regrettable things in the face of trauma, and we shouldn't be ashamed of our vulnerabilities. The words spoken in our darkest moments don't define us. At this stage of your life, I believe you should forgive yourself for the actions that trouble your conscience."
As you watched, Mr. Burgess lowered his eyes to his weathered hands. His bottom lip quivered, and his frail form seemed to collapse further into the wheelchair, his shoulders slumping under an invisible strain of his unresolved past.
You continued, "Regarding your responsibility, I trust you'll make the right decision. Consider this: Would the consequences you fear be worse than continuing with things as they are?"
"You've made a good point," he conceded. After a pause, he looked up at the sky. "But do I possess the courage to take such a risk?"
A rational part of you knew you should steer clear of his private matters, as they were completely unrelated to your tasks in the house. Yet an insistent inner voice urged you to press forward, compelling you to vocalize your curiosity.
You couldn't explain why. It was just a feeling, an odd gut sensation you struggled to ignore.
In spite of your better judgment, the words tumbled out before you could stop them. "Mr. Burgess, if there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, please let me know."
You couldn't have seriously believed Mr. Burgess would reveal his family's most closely held secrets to you, an outsider with no claim to such knowledge. Still, as absurd as the situation was, you were unable to resist pursuing the matter further.
He remained motionless, his tear-filled eyes transfixed by the sun's harsh glare. As time crawled by, the prolonged silence grew increasingly uncomfortable, filling the air between you with a sense of anticipation.
Feeling chastened, you offered an apology. "I'm sorry, Mr. Burgess. I overstepped. Please disregard my last comment."
His next words, however, left you astonished. "You would help, would you?"
Wait. Was he genuinely considering it?
"You know... perhaps that's not such a bad idea. Meet me in the living room tonight at 10 PM. There's something I need to discuss with you."
Your pulse quickened, a mix of excitement and nervousness coursing through you. The notion that they might indeed be harboring something sinister in the basement, perhaps even the devil himself, suddenly seemed more plausible than before.
But how could that be? For all you knew, it could simply be idle gossip misinterpreted, twisted, and portrayed in ways that bore no resemblance to reality. You rationalized that they would never involve you if it posed a genuine threat to your safety.
Setting aside your doubts and heeding your typically reliable instincts, you agreed to his proposition.
Throughout the day, the more you attempted to distract yourself, the more your mind focused on the impending meeting. You repeatedly chastised yourself for your impulsive decision, one you belatedly realized you hadn't properly thought through. Whatever had compelled you in that moment, you started to pray you wouldn't come to regret it later, assuming you'd even have the chance for regrets or anything else afterward.
In hindsight, that concept seemed incredibly preposterous. What harm could possibly befall you at the mansion?
It was ludicrous, pure nonsense. Utterly inconceivable. Surely, nothing could possibly happen to you.
Right?
That night, a knot of anxiety twisted in your gut.
As you approached the living room, trudging forward with exhaustion bearing down on you like a leaden boulder, you caught snippets of an intense conversation between Mr. Burgess and Mr. McGuire. Intrigued, you edged closer, hiding yourself behind the curtains to catch their whispered exchange.
"Alex, darling, please be reasonable. She has nothing to do with this."
"She might be our only chance, Paul… the only way to finally end it all."
"You've been trying to get a word from him for years! What makes you think it'll be any different with someone else?"
Him? Who was this mysterious him they were referring to?
"He refuses to communicate with me, that much we've established. But you've witnessed it yourself over the past few weeks: she has a way with people."
You heard Paul grunt. "Come on, Alex. You know he's not human. A pretty face and some honeyed words are the last things he needs."
‘Not human’? What on earth...?
"I don't have much time left!" Alex's voice was filled with desperation. "I can't bear the thought of this falling on anyone else's shoulders, least of all yours."
As it turned out, someone (or something) was indeed being held captive in the basement. Local gossip told of a demon summoned by Roderick Burgess in the past, supposedly granting him wealth and success until his death. Though you couldn't confirm every detail of this unsettling story, the imaginative tales circulating among the townsfolk weren't entirely without foundation.
Part of you yearned to retreat to your room, abandoning your proposal of assistance and forgetting everything you'd overheard. Your instincts, however, drove you forward into this enigmatic situation even more. The tantalizing mystery that had captivated you from the start was finally within reach, and you couldn't let this opportunity slip through your fingers—not when you were so close to uncovering the truth.
You knew it was probably insane, but here you were anyway.
Mustering your resolve, you stepped out from your hiding place behind the curtain. As you revealed yourself, both men's gazes immediately locked onto you. Their expressions formed a dramatic juxtaposition; Mr. Burgess's face lit up with hope, while Mr. McGuire's was clouded with dread.
"Ah, Miss Y/LN," Mr. Burgess said, his voice tinged with expectation. "Your timing couldn't be more perfect."
Paul sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping in resignation. He remained silent, offering you only a curt nod in greeting.
Your fingers nervously fidgeted with the apron tied around your uniform. "Good evening," you began, sounding slightly unsteady. "You mentioned there was something you wished to discuss with me?"
Mr. Burgess cleared his throat. "Indeed, there is… but it would be more effective to show you rather than tell you. Paul, if you would?"
Mr. McGuire guided Alex's wheelchair toward the basement door, his expression filled with remorse as he motioned for you to follow. The guards stood at attention, their posture rigid and formal, allowing your group to pass while eyeing you with evident confusion. Undeterred by their scrutiny, you followed Paul with composed determination that belied your underlying nervousness, waiting as he carefully maneuvered the wheelchair into the elevator.
You entered with uncertainty, positioning yourself to Paul's right. As you descended, the cabin vibrated intensely, emitting a low hum that left you feeling unnerved. When the elevator reached the bottom, a sharp metallic clang echoed through the damp, shadowy basement, causing you to startle and tremble slightly.
A deep-seated exhaustion settled into your bones as you exited the lift. Your feet throbbed from a long day's work, and your heart raced, its rhythm echoing in your ears. Momentarily paralyzed by trepidation, you willed yourself forward, silently battling your foreboding with each step.
Mr. McGuire activated a large switch on the wall, causing the lights to flicker on in unison throughout the space. As he continued forward, he moved the wheelchair onto an elevated platform situated between the main floor and a central square dais. The latter was encircled by a pool of dark, still water, gleaming like an enigmatic mirror.
What instantly seized your focus was an imposing, transparent structure suspended in mid-air, secured by chains to both the ceiling and floor. You could have sworn there was something, or rather someone, contained inside, but with your view partially obstructed by the men in front of you, the gloomy atmosphere, and your growing fatigue, you couldn't quite dismiss the possibility that it was merely a trick of the light.
Paul advanced, steering his husband along the suspended bridge. Once again, you trailed behind, hesitantly placing one foot in front of the other.
'Why am I even here?' you thought to yourself. 'I must be out of my mind.'
He finally positioned the wheelchair aside, revealing the unusual sphere in its entirety. As you verified that your eyes weren't deceiving you, your breath hitched and your knees weakened, threatening to give way beneath you.
A man met your eyes, curled up in the glass cage like a bird with clipped wings. You saw no horns, sharp teeth, or claws, nothing remotely resembling the devil people had described.
On the contrary, his appearance had quite the opposite effect.
The figure before you was otherworldly, his alabaster skin and sculpted physique reminiscent of a classical statue. Tousled dark locks framed his face, accentuating full lips and a chiseled jawline. But it was his eyes that truly enthralled you: twin sapphire pools, as vast and mysterious as the cosmos itself. These mesmerizing orbs seemed to peer into the depths of your being, their ethereal glow piercing through the surrounding gloom.
Before you sit the most breathtaking being you had ever laid eyes upon, a vision of unearthly beauty that took your breath away.
Numerous questions raised at the sight. Who was this enigmatic figure, and why was he completely unclothed? The basement's temperature, noticeably cooler than the rest of the house, sent shivers across your exposed skin. You couldn't help but wonder if he felt the same chill in his bare state, and how could he possibly endure such conditions.
Most crucially, how could they imprison him—or anyone, for that matter—in the depths of the house as if he were some dangerous monster?
The situation was awfully unsettling, a moral quagmire on multiple levels.
"What's going on here…?" Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
Mr. Burgess placed his right hand on the glass before him, his gaze fixated on on the imprisoned being, whom you couldn't stop staring at. "Miss Y/LN, I present to you Dream of the Endless," he said.
Dream of the Endless... Why did that name sound so familiar?
"That doesn't answer my question," you replied, immediately regretting your sharp tone.
"Yes, I suppose an explanation is in order," he said with resignation. "You see, in 1916, my father summoned Dream by accident. He intended to bring my brother Randall back from the dead, but to achieve that, he needed someone else. He needed his sibling, Death herself. But, the spell went awry, producing unexpected results."
Your mind reeled from the information overload. Dream, Death, arcane rituals, resurrection... It all sounded like the plot of an esoteric novel. Part of you wondered if Mr. Burgess was pulling an elaborate prank, yet another part whispered that perhaps you should have paid more attention to those outlandish local rumors after all.
"My father imprisoned him in this cage, positioning it over the binding circle to neutralize his powers.”
Your eyes dropped, examining the intricate golden circle etched into the floor beneath your feet, its design meticulously maintained despite the passage of time.
“He pleaded with Dream to return Randall to him, and demanded wealth and eternal life. Yet, all his entreaties were met with unbroken silence that persisted until my father's dying day."
Mr. Burgess's revelation left you reeling. If Dream had truly been summoned in 1916, his captivity spanned 106 years, more than a century trapped in this cramped space. All the while, the world beyond continued its relentless march of progress, leaving him isolated from everything familiar.
How could you reconcile your boss' atrocious tale with the serious doubts it raised? If his account were true, both he and Mr. McGuire would be well over a hundred years old, a claim that seemed highly improbable.
"My father warned me against freeing him, claiming he would seek revenge. After his passing, I offered Dream his freedom in exchange for a guarantee of safety for Paul and myself. I'm still awaiting his response."
A peculiar sense of déjà vu crept over you. Dream of the Endless... Dream... The name echoed in your mind, tantalizingly recognizable. Where had you encountered it before?
𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬.
Then, recognition struck you. It was a story from your childhood, a timeless tale that had once fascinated your young mind, gradually fading from memory as you matured.
But it was impossible, defied any logic.
"Wait," you gasped, your eyes widening in disbelief. "Are you saying your father summoned the actual Sandman? The Lord of Dreams and Nightmares himself?"
The captive figure shifted closer, his eyes reflecting wariness. You observed him intently, his body language speaking volumes beyond mortal words. As you peered into his eyes, you saw them sparkle and shimmer like a vast cosmic tapestry.
Though fantastical, the scenario in front of you was undeniably authentic. His presence exuded a supernatural essence, a mystical aura that persisted even in his confined state. The truth was irrefutable, imprinted into every fiber of your being. He existed, beyond any shadow of doubt.
And he was unquestionably not human.
"Miss Y/LN, how do you know of him?" Mr. Burgess asked in surprise.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬. 𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬. 𝐇𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬.
"I once read about—" You cut yourself off, your eyes growing wide as the pieces fell into place.
𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬. 𝐇𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐥, 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐨'𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐞. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞, 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐝𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐞'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦.
"The world grows bleak without his touch," you recited, the words suddenly vivid in your memory as if you'd read them only yesterday. "Oh my God."
“Pardon…?”
You inched closer to the entity. His head tilted slightly as his penetrating gaze studied you, dissecting every subtle change in your expression, every flicker of emotion emanating from your form.
Then, with a trembling voice, you revealed the startling realization that had left you so unsettled. "1916. It was the year of the Encephalitis Lethargica, known as the 'Sleepy Sickness.' Those people who never woke up, the famous case of Unity Kinkaid splashed across newspapers and books to this day, and perhaps even my never-ending insomnia. It all happened because of this, right? Because you've had the Sandman trapped in this cage for 106 years."
As you spoke, you could scarcely believe your own words. The possibility of it all being real seemed inconceivable, but strangely, you found yourself incapable to effectively refute the theory.
You had always dismissed the Sandman as mere folklore, a mythical figure invoked by parents to soothe their children's fears of the dark or discourage misbehavior. Now, confronted with his physical presence—an entity of breathtaking beauty, though visibly broken—you felt your world tilt. Your stomach churned, and your heart pounded furiously against your chest, the line between myth and reality blurring before your eyes.
As your fingers made contact with the glass, its icy chill and substantial thickness surprised you. Dream's gaze moved, his gleaming eyes first observing your hand, then rising to lock with yours. His expression was a window to a tempest of emotions; rage, exasperation, agony, and isolation. These feelings emanated from him with such intensity that they seemed to seep into your very soul, as if his turmoil had become your own.
Mr. Burgess cleared his throat. "Well, this burden my father left me isn't one I wish to carry to my grave. As I mentioned, he never speaks to me… he only stares, all the time. Just as he's doing with you now."
You snorted, irritation welling up inside you. "With all due respect, sir, he's been imprisoned in a cage for over a century, stripped of his garments and held against his will. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he's unwilling to cooperate."
The old man heaved a pained sigh. "You're right, of course. And quite perceptive too... That's precisely why I need your help."
"How exactly am I supposed to help?"
You felt conflicted about your growing anger, realizing you had willingly entered this situation without a second thought. While you could have avoided it by remaining silent, you found that as you looked at Dream, remorse was not your primary sentiment.
"Speak with him. Persuade him. That's my sole request."
Blinking in confusion, you stammered, "I’m sorry…?”
The subject of your conversation was mere inches away, yet Mr. Burgess spoke as if the Endless were deaf to his words and oblivious to their meaning.
"Why do you think he would listen to me, of all people?"
Mr. Burgess struggled to his feet from the wheelchair, his legs unsteady. He gently grasped your hand, his eyes brimming with tears. "Miss Y/LN, I assure you this isn't a request without reward. I'm prepared to double your current monthly salary for this service."
What…?
"Consider your father. With this additional income, you could easily afford the best modern medical care for him."
Your heart sank as you gently withdrew your hand from his frail grip. "That's hitting below the belt, Mr. Burgess."
"She's right, Alex," Mr. McGuire interjected. "Please, dear, just leave her be."
But Alex refused to see reason. He inched closer to the glass sphere, using it for support as he implored you with desperate urgency. "I'm begging you. Please, just try... I'm too old and weary to carry on like this. I swear I want him to be free, more than anything in the world. He knows that too."
Mr. Burgess appeared sincere in his desire to release Dream, but his fear of potential consequences prevented him from taking action. How could you partake in this scheme, venturing into the cellar to negotiate with an imprisoned god, for mere financial gain? Dream had remained silent for over a century, it seemed unreasonable for Mr. Burgess to expect him to suddenly converse with you, a complete stranger. Your attempts at communication would likely amount to nothing more than futile words against an impenetrable magical barrier.
Magical... huh. The very thought still sent shockwaves through your mind.
Your silence prompted another sigh from the old man. "It's getting late, and we all need to rest," he said wearily. "We'll discuss this matter again later."
As Paul brushed past you, he murmured a soft apology. Alex, now slumped in his wheelchair again, looked thoroughly drained and defeated, guilty yet hopeful that you would eventually acquiesce to his wish.
Your gaze was irresistibly drawn to the creature trapped within the glass sphere, holding you spellbound for a moment longer. His penetrating stare seemed to pierce your very soul, his long lashes framing eyes that remained unsettlingly calm. An inexplicable force rooted you to the spot, overwhelming you with an intense desire to shatter the glass barrier and liberate him.
After all, it was the sensible thing to do, wasn't it? The most logical action for anyone with a sound mind.
Certainly, it was. But as a mere mortal, you found yourself frustratingly powerless to act.
Looking away, you bowed your head in defeat and pivoted, hastening toward the elevator where Mr. Burgess and Mr. McGuire patiently waited. Feeling compelled to turn your head, you cast one last glance over your shoulder as you left, only to feel your heart sink even further.
Dream of the Endless remained immobile within his confinement, his unwavering attention riveted upon you as the elevator ascended.
