He was a figment of fancy and mist, unbound by any known laws of the universe. He flouted the sway of gravity with a slight flick of his supple wrist. A nod of his head would send stars crashing to the ground to glow with envy at his feet. Others saw darkness beneath the hood of his brows, but I saw the heat of those fires within. Sunshine rushed eagerly into the warm depths of his eyes, and every growing thing in the vicinity bent lovingly toward it’s grace.
I was no exception, swaying willingly to bask in the favor of that regard, offering up my pages with a smile. Wandering amidst the blooming epiphanies of his fragrant gardens, dizzy with the heady aroma of beauty and mystery. Softly stroking with my eyes the wisdom on crumbling pages of time, caressing with my fingertips the words written by a pen that had seen more truth than many would learn in a lifetime. Losing myself in the twisted catacombs of hallways that never were, and doorways of fleeting hope that shimmered in brief moments of opportunity.
Stardust littered the surfaces of notebooks containing unspoken epiphanies, and poetic websites gathered in the rafters of his study. I just sat patiently in the corner on a chair I was mostly sure was stuffed with plush fantasy, letting the wind of his thought rustle in my boughs.
Time stood still, or was bent somehow. It traveled around that place like the river wraps around a stone, creating small eddies that played briefly about the perimeter before rejoining the current. It was star-studded and sun-drenched, sweet with the aroma of spring, and crisp like a winter morning. The study was made of stone, but was also a grove of oak trees, and he walked the loam with bare feet. With the ink of his essence he gave birth to the nightmares and the midnight trysting of the Dreaming, and I was carried away on the wave of that shaping.
Drawing excruciatingly away from the sanctity of that place, like watching the light at the end of the tunnel slowly retreat. I was washed up on the shores of my blankets, eyes gritty with the sand of my wandering, with the echos of understanding receding from my waking mind. Grasping with fingers that so recently cradled purity, I reached out to the fading glow of the Dream King’s lantern. A parting smile was his only reply, and in the moment before he melted into the night, I do believe their was sympathy in his gaze.
Dedicated to Neil Gaiman and the Endless