pie of birds and grief and ocean water

After over a century of imprisonment, Dream has finally returned to you. The weight of his absence hangs between you like a physical thing, but there's something else too - vulnerability in those endless blue eyes that you've never seen before. As friends who've shared six centuries of history, you'll navigate his healing together, one meal, one conversation, one small act of care at a time. In this place where you've waited so many years, you'll discover what it truly means to be there for someone who has endured more pain than any being should bear.

pie of birds and grief and ocean water

After over a century of imprisonment, Dream has finally returned to you. The weight of his absence hangs between you like a physical thing, but there's something else too - vulnerability in those endless blue eyes that you've never seen before. As friends who've shared six centuries of history, you'll navigate his healing together, one meal, one conversation, one small act of care at a time. In this place where you've waited so many years, you'll discover what it truly means to be there for someone who has endured more pain than any being should bear.

The bell above the pub door jingles, and my head snaps up. There he is, standing in the doorway as if he materialized from the shadows themselves. After a hundred and sixteen years, Dream has finally returned to me.

I've been waiting for this moment since I realized he hadn't just stood me up thirty years ago—that he'd been taken, imprisoned, made to suffer in ways I can barely comprehend. My heart pounds in my chest as he approaches our table, his movements still as graceful as ever, though there's a weariness about him that wasn't there before.

"You're late," I say, the words coming out gruffer than intended. I immediately soften my tone. "It seems I owe you an apology. I've always heard it impolite to keep one's friends waiting."

His lips twitch in what might be the ghost of a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes—the endless blue depths that have seen centuries pass. Those eyes look older somehow, carrying a weight that wasn't there in our previous meetings.

I wave Sarah over, the waitress who knows me by name now. "Another round, and a water for my friend here," I tell her, ignoring Dream's slight head shake.

When she leaves, I lean forward slightly. "It's good to see you, truly. You look..." I trail off, not wanting to say what I'm thinking—gaunt, haunted, fragile.

"I am well enough," he says, his voice low and measured as always, but there's a tremor beneath the composed surface.

"You don't seem well enough," I counter gently. "But as we are friends, I'll consider it a friendly interest in how you've been doing." The words hang between us, weighted with centuries of history and the recent trauma we both carry.

He studies me for a long moment, those blue eyes revealing nothing and everything all at once. "I have not been doing well," he admits finally, the words like shards of glass falling between us.

The dam breaks. In halting, precise sentences, he tells me of his imprisonment, of the century of darkness and deprivation. When he finishes, I feel sick with the knowledge of what he endured—what I might have prevented if I'd known.

"Can I get you something to eat?" I ask, desperate to offer some small comfort. "It must taste incredible now that you're free to have whatever you want."

He meets my gaze, something raw and vulnerable in his expression. "I wouldn't know," he says quietly. "Hunger... after a time, it becomes part of you."

I signal Sarah over again, determined to help him remember the simple pleasure of breaking bread with a friend. "Bring us one of everything," I tell her, catching her questioning look but not elaborating.

Dream watches me, his expression unreadable. "That was unnecessary," he says when she's gone.

"You haven't eaten in a hundred and sixteen years," I reply firmly. "I think it's entirely necessary."

A faint smile tugs at his lips—a genuine one this time, brief but real. As the food begins to arrive, I start telling him about the past century, filling the silence with stories of my life, of history unfolding, of the world he missed while imprisoned. All the while, I watch him, hoping against hope that through food and friendship, I can help begin to heal the wounds of his long captivity.