Cut Him Out in Little Stars

Part One

The Lord of Dreams does not dream.

Perhaps you find this a little strange. Perhaps you're even outraged now by his chosen title. Or maybe you've always suspected as such. Whichever you lie, it is a fact nonetheless.

The Lord of Dreams does not dream. He has never had time to waste on dreaming, though he belongs to the endless and isn't governed by time the same way we are. Even now, with an unknowable amount of time to be spent, to be wasteless-ly wasted, he does not dream.

He no longer knows how.

But if he could dream, he would dream of his kingdom. The kingdom of dreams and nightmares, where dreamers, such as yourself, take refuge. He would dream of his kingdom exactly as he'd left it, in all its beauty and glory that he'd carefully crafted and protected.

If he could dream, he would dream of his stolen relics. The glistening, captivating ruby that stored his power. The shifting, neverending sand pouring from its pouch and landing to fall, coarse and sunkissed, in his hand. And his crown, a mask of nightmares carved from glass and metal.

If he could dream, he would dream of clothes. Protecting, comforting even, wrapped around his slender form to offer a sense of safety, of power. He felt so revoltingly vulnerable not wearing anything. He'd never imagined clothing would become his favorite mortal invention...

And if he could dream, he would dream of anyone. Anybody other than his captors. Someone with a smile on their faces. One of his subjects, perhaps. A caring mortal, even, would do. Or immortal. Anyone. Just... anyone...

The once great Lord of Dream sat, arms curled over his legs, and stared blankly, darkly ahead. He had but one thought in his mind, allowed only the one thought in his mind. 'When I am freed...'

Ahead of him, through the glass and stationed near the wall, were a pair of guards. They had a card game laid out across the table. He wasn't sure what game they played, but with time he could figure it out, if he so chose. He didn't. Thinking of cards, which he was not about to do, reminded him of a missed date. Did the immortal worry about him...?

No, he wasn't thinking about it. Cause when he was finally freed he would...

What would he do? What sort of revenge, pain or torment, could he inflict that could possibly make up for his imprisonment? What could make up for the murder of his friend, the loyal raven, Jessamy. How could he properly punish them for the mortal lives ruined due to him being away, for the damage, for... For everything?

Revenge would not be enough, never. And somewhere distantly he knew that. But he wasn't thinking about it now, he refused to dwell on that.

So he stared ahead, blankly, darkly, eyes fuming with rage. His exposed flesh, a lifeless gray in light and cold, longing for clothes though he'd never say.

His best form of entertainment was watching the guard switch out, or listening to their conversations, sometimes whispering in fear but often spoken as though he wasn't there. He learned a lot about them, about the world he was kept from, about how they viewed him, from those conversations. Or he could have, if he'd cared to.

Far less entertaining were the daily visits, pleas, from his captor. And he ignored those meetings, as they made his blood boil in a most unpleasant way.

And he waited. For there was nothing else he could do. Waited and allowed himself one thought. 'When I am finally free...' And the Lord of Dreams most certainly did not dream while he waited, for only nightmares awaited him behind his eyelids.