The Dreaming — 1944
The Dreaming was quieter than it had been in eons.
Even the wars of men, the fears of gods, and the whispering cosmos had fallen still. The stars beyond the horizon dimmed to a patient hush, and the palace that was not a palace — the home of Dream — breathed softly in the dark.
Dream sat on the edge of a balcony carved from starlight and memory, one hand resting on his knee, the other trailing across the air. Where his fingers passed, constellations bloomed like sighs.
A voice behind him said gently, "You always make silence look beautiful."
He didn't need to turn. The air grew lighter, warmer — as if existence itself remembered to breathe.
"Death," he said. Her name was a song, a whisper, and a promise.
She stepped beside him, her feet making no sound on the glass floor. Her hair flowed like dark mist, and her eyes, infinite and kind, looked out upon the dreaming stars.
"Do you ever get tired of it?" she asked after a long pause. "All of this?"
He tilted his head. "The Dreaming? The endless creation of imagination? Or the watching?"
"All of it," she said softly. "The endlessness."
He turned to her, the faintest smile touching his lips. "If I said yes, would that make me mortal?"
"Maybe," she said. "Maybe it would make you alive."
There was no jest in her tone. Only weariness, the kind only someone eternal could know.
Dream looked down, then back to her. "You see every end," he murmured. "I see what might have been. Together, we watch the same tragedy from opposite sides."
Death smiled faintly. "And yet you still find beauty in it."
"I must," Dream replied. "It is my purpose."
She stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his arm. "And if it wasn't?"
He looked at her. For a moment, neither spoke. Eternity stretched and folded between them, the universe holding its breath.
"Then," Dream said softly, "I would find beauty in you."
Death blinked, a faint blush of starlight rising to her cheeks. "That's unfair," she whispered.
"Perhaps," he said. "But true."
The air between them shimmered. His hand, pale and steady, rose toward her face. She didn't move away. When his fingers touched her cheek, she felt warmth — not the heat of life, but something gentler, rarer. The warmth of being seen.
Death leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. "You shouldn't look at me that way," she murmured.
"How should I look at you?"
"Like you love me," she said.
He smiled, faintly but fully. "Then I will have to disobey you."
Her laughter was soft, a sound that made even the stars draw closer to hear. "You always were terrible at following rules."
"And you," Dream said, "always loved breaking them."
She reached for his hand and entwined her fingers with his. Their realms — dream and death — brushed against each other, overlapping for a heartbeat. Souls in sleep and souls departing felt a strange peace that night, a warmth they couldn't name.
Death rested her forehead against his. "Azrael," she whispered, using the name only she knew. "Do you ever regret it? Becoming what you are?"
He hesitated. "Sometimes. When I remember what it felt like to simply be human. But then…" He looked into her eyes, endless and kind. "Then I remember you."
Her thumb traced the line of his jaw. "You know what your name means, don't you?"
He chuckled quietly. "You've told me before."
"I still like it," she said. "Azrael — the Angel of Death. Not so untrue now, don't you think?"
"Maybe." he teased.
They laughed softly together, the sound echoing through the Dreaming like chimes in the wind.
When the laughter faded, silence returned — but it wasn't empty. It was full of all they couldn't say.
Death moved closer. Her hand rose to his neck, her thumb brushing the edge of his collarbone. He placed his hand over hers, holding it there. The gesture was small, but galaxies trembled with its weight.
And then, without ceremony or cosmic flare, they kissed — A meeting of eternity and endings.
When they finally parted, Death rested her head against his chest, listening.
"You don't have a heartbeat," she murmured.
"No," Dream said softly. "But for you, I can imagine one."
The Dreaming sighed around them, soft winds carrying the scent of memories yet to be. Somewhere beyond the veil of creation, a billion mortals slept — and for one night, none dreamed of endings.