He’s just standing there when she walks up, a distinguished-looking older man in a nice suit, staring down at his own body lying in the street. He looks up at her as she walks over, unsurprised but not entirely welcoming either, and she pauses a few feet away. He glances down at the street again, then over his shoulder at a small park not too far away, and gestures at it. “Do you mind?”

She follows his line of sight, then gives him a considering glance before smiling slightly. “Nope.”

He gives a half smile in return and walks over to drop heavily onto the nearest bench, unconcerned with wrinkling his suit for maybe the first time in a long time. After a moment, she follows after him and climbs up onto the bench beside him to perch easily on the back.

They both sit quietly, watching the street in front of them. It’s still early yet, early enough that no one passes by, that no one sees.

( If only I could do it over )

Muse: Death
Fandom: The Sandman
Word Count: 628

This is who she is, what she is, and possibly why and how as well. She's taken men, women and things that are neither. She's taken stars, galaxies and gods. She's even taken one of their own before. She'll take them all before the end, and she'll do it with a smile and open arms.

But this...

Sitting here on a desolate cliff in the rain, watching her brother hunched over, determined to stop his realm from being torn apart. But what has the Dreaming ever been but a reflection of it's master? Dear, poor, stupid Dream. He always did feel too much, too deeply.

She could talk him out of it, she supposes. She's talked him down from his melancholies before. The Furies can be pacified, the Dreaming restored. In his own realm he is inviolate, as she in hers, and they both know it. There are so many, many ways this could end.

And yet.

He's worked so hard for this, orchestrated it so carefully, even if he refuses to see it. And what sister can deny a brother the thing he wants most?

"Dream? Give me your hand."

A touch of flesh, and then nothing.

The Dream King is dead. Long live the Dream King.

And she continues on.

Muse: Death
Fandom: The Sandman
Word Count: 212

I don't really have scars. I mean, personification of an abstract idea, you know? I'm not even that sure I could get hurt, though I don't really want to test it out. And well, there's that once a century thing, but even then they don't last. I could always create some for myself, I guess, but that would kind of defeat the purpose.

So, physical scars? Not really an issue. Emotional ones, though. Everyone's got those, and we're no exception.

My scar? It's simple. No one's ever happy to see me. Most of the time, anyway. It sounds silly, I know, but that kind of thing can really wear on a girl. To be greeted constantly by fear and loathing and pleading and crying, well…it gets tiring after a while. It's not like I'm doing anything horrible. It's just natural. Things have to end. Amazingly, few people ever seem to get that.

I let it bother me for a long time. Did the whole holding myself aloof so it wouldn't hurt thing. It could have gone a lot of ways. I could have let it chase me away, like Destruction. Could have let it turn me into something else, like Delirium. Could have let it destroy me, like Dream. In the end, I just chose to accept it. I am who and what I am, and what I am is necessary, even if no one likes it. Besides, moping gets old eventually.

But that was a very long time ago.

Muse: Death
Fandom: The Sandman
Word Count: 250