(no subject)
Dream had taken to long walks, mostly at night, though sometimes he was restless, like today. He did a lot of thinking, mostly about mortality, about the things he had taken for granted, about home, oh, how he missed his Realm. Walking here was nothing like walking there. The terrain never changed.
The sun did not bother him so much now. He had burned, and it was painful, and though he did not quite seem to be tanning yet, he was not burning again either. And he was not quite so thin. Eostre's pastries and sandwiches were serving him well, apparently. You could not see his ribs, and he could no longer wear Death's shirts, unless he wanted to look like a stripper.
So he walked along the beach, across the foam-laced shallows, bare feet squishing into the damp sand. He would make it rain if he could.
His toe slid across something smooth, and he stopped to look down, wary of cutting himself. It was a rock, polished by the ocean. He bent down and picked it up, and upon closer examination saw that it was, if you turned it just so, in the crude shape of a heart. Opaque, white heart-shaped stone. He held it there for a moment, and his mind flashed to memories of heart-shaped glass: Desire's signil, Rose's heart [slightly NWS], the glass shards of Nada's city. Each memory was a symbol of a poor decision he'd made, each in a long line of events that had brought about his own demise.
But it was only stone. And he was only mortal. He looked out at the sun and squinted as he turned it over in his hands.
The sun did not bother him so much now. He had burned, and it was painful, and though he did not quite seem to be tanning yet, he was not burning again either. And he was not quite so thin. Eostre's pastries and sandwiches were serving him well, apparently. You could not see his ribs, and he could no longer wear Death's shirts, unless he wanted to look like a stripper.
So he walked along the beach, across the foam-laced shallows, bare feet squishing into the damp sand. He would make it rain if he could.
His toe slid across something smooth, and he stopped to look down, wary of cutting himself. It was a rock, polished by the ocean. He bent down and picked it up, and upon closer examination saw that it was, if you turned it just so, in the crude shape of a heart. Opaque, white heart-shaped stone. He held it there for a moment, and his mind flashed to memories of heart-shaped glass: Desire's signil, Rose's heart [slightly NWS], the glass shards of Nada's city. Each memory was a symbol of a poor decision he'd made, each in a long line of events that had brought about his own demise.
But it was only stone. And he was only mortal. He looked out at the sun and squinted as he turned it over in his hands.