#though like i said if crossovers/fusions aren't allowed no need to reblog! that's my bad

[kjack89]

We'll Be a Dream

For @themiserablesmonth Day 19: Reincarnation (not sure if crossovers are allowed or not!)

Half-cheated again with this one, insofar as I expanded on something I had already half-written. #SorryNotSorry

E/R, The Sandman fusion. Implied character death, reincarnation AU.

Read on AO3.

June 5, 1832 Paris, France Night

“Grantaire.”

As soon as night had fallen on the barricade, as soon as the fighters, exhausted and hungry, made what beds they could among the rubble and spent ammunition, Grantaire had known he would come. For years now, Grantaire had avoided any who slept, for fear their slip from waking to dreaming would provide an easy path for the one he had been avoiding to find him at last.

He could no longer avoid him, drawn as he undoubtedly was by the dreams that lived still and the ones that lay shattered on the barricade. Still Grantaire kept his eyes closed, as if keeping them shut might keep him at bay.

“If you wish to avoid me, feigning sleep is not the wisest idea.”

Grantaire cracked one eye open, then the other. “Who said I was feigning?” he asked, a weak attempt at humor, as if that too might keep the tall, thin man standing next to him from his purpose. 

The man did not smile. “That you managed to slip from the Dreaming into the waking world is feat enough,” he said, his voice low. “That you have continued to evade me these years is even more remarkable.”

“Can you blame me?” Grantaire asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

If the man had any response to that, it did not show on his pale, thin features. “You are a nightmare of the Dreaming,” he said. “Your purpose is to haunt dreams, not this place.”

“You are the master of stories as well as dreams, are you not?” Grantaire replied. “And this – this is a story that deserved to be told.”

“A story, yes,” the man said. “But one that would have been told without your part in it.”

“You will see.” The man’s fathomless eyes stared at him and Grantaire wet his lips before starting, “Please, let me just—”

“Just what?” asked Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, Grantaire’s maker and, in due time, Grantaire was certain, his unmaker.

“Let me see his nightmare through to the end,” Grantaire pleaded. “Let me stay until Enjolras finds himself in your sister’s realm. Let me see if there is any role yet that I have to play in his story.”

For a long moment, long enough that Grantaire was certain he would be refused, Morpheus’s eyes bore into him. Then, when Grantaire could almost take it no more, he nodded. “Very well.”

Grantaire gaped at him. “You mean—”

“You may finish what you started,” Morpheus allowed. “But I warn you, should you fail to find yourself back in my realm where you belong—”

“I will not,” Grantaire said, practically tripping over himself to assure him. “And I will face whatever punishment you have for me, I promise.”

Morpheus said no more, just disappeared into the shifting sands of his realm, and Grantaire all but collapsed against the table in relief. His relief was short-lived as another figure stepped out of the shadows, scaring him half to death.

Of course, as he saw the ankh pendant that swung around her neck, he supposed that was half the point.

She studied him for a long moment, and he wondered just how much of his conversation with Morpheus she had overhead. “I will be back for the rest,” she said finally, and he recognized it for the gentle warning that it was.

“I know.”

“But not for you,” she continued. “Nightmares do not belong with the dead.”

He nodded, his throat suddenly tight. “I know that, too.”

She looked at him closely, a frown puckering her forehead. “If you are worried about my brother—”

“No,” Grantaire said, a little too quickly. “It is not Lord Morpheus that I fear.” 

“Then what?”

For the second time that night in the presence of one of the Endless, Grantaire wet his lips before uttering something so foolish even he could hardly believe it: “May I ask you for a favor?”

She stared at him as if he had grown a second head, not that he blamed her. Grantaire doubtedly highly that Death was used to being asked for favors by nightmares. 

Then, to his surprise, she smiled. “Yes,” she said simply.

Grantaire blinked. “Yes, I may ask, or yes, you will grant my favor?”

“Both,” she said. “Depending on what the favor is, of course.”

“Why?” Grantaire blurted.

“Because I suspect that whatever favor you’re going to request will provide my brother with a certain amount of, shall we say, consternation,” she said cheerfully. “And I rather think my brother could use some consternation.”

Grantaire tactfully chose not to comment on whether he thought the King of Dreams needed additional consternation in his life. Instead he met Death’s eyes and took a deep breath before starting, “It’s about Enjolras…”

— — — — —

February 22, 1848 The Dreaming

“My Lord?”

Morpheus did not look up from his work. “No,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

But Lucienne held her ground. “He is most insistent.”

“Meaning you no longer wish to deal with him,” Morpheus said evenly, “which would appear to be your problem, Lucienne, and not mine.”

“So it might be, my Lord,” Lucienne said, pleasantly enough but with an edge of steel to her voice, “save for the fact that it is not my library that he is waiting outside of at the moment, but your throne room.”

Morpheus glowered at her, but she did not seem particularly impressed. “Very well,” he said finally. “Let him in.”

Lucienne inclined her head, and within a few moments, Grantaire stood in front of Morpheus, looking almost nervous. “My Lord,” he said, wetting his lips before blurting, “I know I have no grounds to do so, but I have come to request a favor.”

“A favor?” Morpheus repeated, a dangerous lilt to his tone.

“Yes, my Lord. I have come to ask—”

Grantaire broke off as Morpheus stood, his black cloak billowing impressively as he glared at Grantaire. “A favor?” he repeated, his voice low. “Is it not enough that I did not unmake you, when it would have been a just punishment for escaping the Dreaming?”

Grantaire looked discomfited but to his credit, did not flinch or look away. “It would have been, yes, but—”

Morpheus cut him off. “And then you had the nerve to ask a favor of my sister to intervene on behalf of the human you are infatuated with—”

“I don’t know that I’d go so far as to call it infatuation—” Grantaire started, though Morpheus again did not let him finish.

“And yet you still seek an additional favor from me?”

Grantaire lifted his chin defiantly. “I suppose I do, yes.”

Morpheus glared at him. “And I shall assume that this favor is the same as what you have always asked.” He did not state it as a question, and as such Grantaire chose not to answer. Morpheus sighed. “Grantaire, no other nightmare besides you is as preoccupied with the waking world.”

Something like a smile twitched at the corners of Grantaire’s mouth. “Well, the Corinthian might give me a run for my money in that regard.”

“And is that the sort of company you wish to keep?” Morpheus asked flatly.

For perhaps the first time, Grantaire seemed slightly cowed. “No, my Lord,” he said quietly, before again setting his shoulders and lifting his chin. “But there’s something happening in France right now, and—”

“What is it about this human?” Morpheus asked, exasperated.

Grantaire considered it for a moment. “I don’t know that I can explain,” he said finally. 

This answer didn’t appear satisfactory to Morpheus, who pursed his lips. “You know that he is not the same as he was when last you were in the waking world.”

Grantaire nodded. “I know that.”

“That he will have no memory of you,” Morpheus pressed.

Grantaire swallowed before nodding again. “I know that, too.”

“And yet still you wish to seek him out?”

Again Grantaire considered his answer before speaking. “The parameters of the favor that your sister granted were clear,” he said carefully. “Enjolras will die, but he has the choice to be reborn until his cause of freedom succeeds. If this, the revolution that stirs in France, might be the one to fulfill his cause, then I would wish to see him one last time before Death claims him.”

Morpheus’s expression was curiously blank. “Do you not see him when he dreams?”

“I do, but…”

“But what?”

“But my presence in his dreams is not a pleasant one,” Grantaire whispered. “When I am there, I cast nothing but doubt, and trepidation in his mind.”

“You are a nightmare, Grantaire,” Morpheus said wearily. “That is your duty.”

Grantaire jerked a nod. “I know that. But when I am in the waking world…”

There was something almost wistful in his tone, but it was not enough to soften Lord Morpheus’s resolve. “Your place is here, in the Dreaming,” he said, with an air of finality. “If fate should decree that you see him again in his dreams, then so be it. But you are not to return to the waking world.”

For a moment, it looked as though Grantaire might argue further, but then he inclined his head once more. “Yes, my Lord,” he said quietly, not waiting for Morpheus to dismiss him before turning away and slumping out of the throne room. Morpheus watched him go, his dark eyes unreadable.

Then his eyes dropped again to his work, and all thoughts of Enjolras and Grantaire were quickly forgotten.

— — — — —

Over a Century and a Half Later The Dreaming

Morpheus stood in his throne room, surveying the damage that still remained following his imprisonment in the waking world for the vast majority of the twentieth century, and the better part of the first quarter of the twenty-first. 

Lucienne joined him. “I have completed the census you requested, Lord Morpheus,” she said, and he turned to glance at her.

“Good,” he said, knowing how important it was to determine what dreams and nightmares had escaped the Dreaming during his absence. “And?”

“I have accounted for 11,062 of them,” Lucienne confirmed. “Some minor nightkind are missing, a few of the lesser dreams and creatures.”

“Some minor nightkind,” Morpheus murmured, more to himself than to Lucienne, a glimmer of awareness in his pale features. “Very well.”

Lucienne glanced at him before starting, almost hesitantly, “Sire, about the missing nightkind—”

“One of them is Grantaire,” Morpheus supplied, more a statement than a question. Lucienne nodded and Morpheus sighed. “I suppose the temptation would have been too great for him to resist the opportunity to slip back into the waking world.”

“Will you go after him?” Lucienne asked.

Morpheus considered it for a moment. “I have more pressing matters to attend to,” he said. “But I will find him eventually.” His expression darkened. “And when I do, I will not make the same mistake of mercy that I did last time.”

— — — — —

Sometime Later The Waking World

Grantaire knew without seeing him that he was there, knew it as surely as a man being led to the executioner’s block or hangman’s noose. He pressed the hand of the man walking next to him. “Give me a moment,” he murmured, before stepping away to face his fate like a martyr.

“Grantaire,” Morpheus said, disapprovingly. “I assume you heard that I was freed from my captors.”

Grantaire nodded. “Yes, my Lord.” He managed a small smile. “Just as I assume you heard that I left the Dreaming. I am surprised it took you this long to hunt me down.”

Morpheus looked distinctly unamused. “I had more important things to deal with, and a dream vortex to stop,” he said. “But you had to know that our paths would cross eventually.”

“I have never doubted you would eventually find me, yes,” Grantaire said honestly. “Just as I expected always that this would be my fate, whenever you did.”

Though Morpheus nodded, he looked past Grantaire, examining the man he had been walking with, a man whose once-golden hair was now shot through with silver. “He is old this time, your human,” he said to Grantaire, whose smile widened.

“Yes,” he said. “I think the fight for freedom looks much different now than it used to. A lot less deadly.” He shook his head. “Though that which he has survived in this lifetime – wars, and protests, and a plague…”

“A plague?” Morpheus repeated.

Grantaire made a face. “Remind Lucienne to tell you about the AIDS crisis that happened while you were captured.” His expression evened out, a small, wistful smile returning. “But yes, he’s survived so much and still he’s fighting.”

Morpheus nodded. “That is his burden,” he said. “Just as yours—”

“I know,” Grantaire said softly. “I am sorry that I have failed you, my Lord.”

Morpheus looked closely at him. “But not sorry to have left. “

“He and I have spent almost an entire human lifetime together this time,” Grantaire said quietly. “I don’t think I could ever be sorry for that.”

For one long moment, Morpheus was silent, his expression as unreadable as ever. Then he sighed. “I am not the same as I was when last you and I spoke of your human,” he told Grantaire. “My captivity, and all that has followed—”

He broke off, and Grantaire frowned. “My Lord?”

“I understand better now,” Morpheus told him, saying more in those four words than he had perhaps ever offered as explanation to any of his own creation. “Why you have done what you did.”

Though he still looked confused, Grantaire nonetheless nodded. “For me there was no other choice,” he said simply. He hesitated before adding, “I understand better now, too. Why dreams and nightmares belong in the Dreaming. Why I will always be the doubt to his belief, the cynicism to his hope.” His expression softened, just slightly. “But still I tried in this lifetime to be a little bit of his dream instead of his nightmare.”

Morpheus nodded slowly, something flickering across his expression that Grantaire couldn’t quite place, almost as if he had heard those words before. “And yet still the price must be paid.”

“I understand, my Lord,” Grantaire said. “And I will face my unmaking in such a way as to make him proud.”

“I did not say the price would be your unmaking.”

Grantaire stared at him. “My Lord?”

Morpheus’s expression was as impassive and unreadable as ever. “I can unmake you, and perhaps even one day remake you as a dream instead of a nightmare, a dream that will be as beautiful as the one your human sees.”

Grantaire blinked. “But you are offering me a different choice?” he asked, not trusting to hope.

“Yes,” Morpheus said. “Just as your Enjolras is offered a choice by Death every time he dies whether to return, to continue his fight, or whether to go to the Sunless Lands, so too will I offer you a choice.” He looked impassively at him. “As I have said, I can unmake you, and you can be the dream you wish to be. Or you can remain, knowing you will always be his nightmare.”

“You would let me stay?” Grantaire whispered. “For the rest of his lifetime, or…?”

Morpheus nodded. “Until you wished to return to the Dreaming and be unmade,” he said. “I have come to be reminded that dreams have their place in the waking world, and perhaps you will yet convince me that nightmares do, too.” He raised both eyebrows. “Provided that is what you choose.”

“Yes,” Grantaire said instantly. “Yes, I will stay. I will be the nightmare that tempers his hope if it means that I can stay with him, in this lifetime and whatever ones there are to come.”

“Very well,” Morpheus said. “Then Grantaire, the next time I see you, you know what fate awaits you.”

Grantaire nodded, looking back over his shoulder at Enjolras. “Yes, I—” He broke off when he glanced back, and realized that Morpheus had disappeared.

He could not stop his smile as he returned to Enjolras, who smiled back at him, though he also looked a little puzzled as he again took Grantaire’s hand. “Who was that man you were talking to?” he asked.

“An old friend,” Grantaire told him, meaning every word.

Though Enjolras still looked confused, he didn’t question it any further, just squeezing Grantaire’s hand as he jokingly scolded, “You were gone so long, I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”

“Don’t worry,” Grantaire told him. “I’m not going anywhere.”