Date: 1944
Location: European Front, Near the Alps
The world burned, but the snow still fell.
Dream stood at the edge of a ruined village — a silent witness in a world that had forgotten silence. The night sky above him was blackened by smoke and the ghosts of artillery fire. Beneath his feet, frost and ash mingled until it was impossible to tell where winter ended and war began.
He felt Death's warmth still clinging to him like starlight, faint but real. She had returned to her work after their night together — her duty endless, her kindness unbroken — but the memory of her laughter, soft and impossible, lingered in the empty spaces between gunfire.
And because of that, Dream found himself watching mortals with new eyes.
He no longer saw them as fragile sparks destined to fade.
He saw stories. Each man and woman here was a fleeting dream given flesh — and tonight, they burned so brightly.
The Dreaming trembled with their fear, their hope, their ache for home.
It all poured through him like a river, filling him with both wonder and sorrow.
He walked among the sleeping soldiers in their trenches, unseen. They tossed and turned, each mind a flicker of light — some saw mothers waiting by the hearth, others saw fields that would never bloom again. He knelt beside one such light: a young man clutching a photo of his sweetheart. His dream wavered, uncertain.
Dream touched the air, and the nightmare softened into warmth. She smiled at him in the dream — alive, safe, waiting.
"You'll make it home," Dream whispered. "If only in the dream."
He stood and looked toward the eastern horizon. The war was nearing its final crescendo. And within that storm, one dream burned brighter than the rest — a flame of will so pure that even the Dreaming bowed around it.
Steve Rogers.
Dream turned his gaze toward the mountains, where Hydra's shadow festered. He could feel Rogers's resolve ripple through the Dreaming like a beacon — small, defiant, beautiful.
When he found him, the man was deep in sleep aboard a transport plane bound for the front. The air around him shimmered with purpose. Even in slumber, Rogers dreamed not of glory, but of saving lives.
Dream appeared beside his bunk, a wisp of pale mist and starlit reflection.
"Sleep, little soldier," he said quietly. "The world will demand much of you soon."
Steve stirred, murmuring something — Peggy's name, softly spoken.
Dream's expression gentled. "Ah. So you dream of love, too."
He could almost hear Death laughing at that, fond and teasing: Of course he does, Azrael. That's what makes him human.
Dream let the vision unfold — Steve's dream of dancing beneath a soft light, the faint scent of music and peace. It was fragile, simple, mortal. And yet it carried more weight than most gods' prayers.
Dream felt it fully. The love, the ache, the impossible hope.
"You are more than a soldier," he said softly, placing his hand against Steve's temple. "You are what mortals imagine when they dream of good men."
⸻
The next morning, war found them again.
Dream stood in the shadow of the Valkyrie's launch site, invisible among the chaos. He did not intervene — he never truly did — but he followed the ripples that Steve Rogers created as though tracing the movement of destiny itself.
The Dreaming responded to Rogers's courage.
Each act of defiance, each selfless decision, sent a tremor across the unseen veil, stitching new hope into the hearts of sleeping children an ocean away.
When Rogers leapt into Hydra's fortress alone, the Dreaming whispered with awe.
When he freed hundreds of prisoners and led them home, the Dreaming sang.
And when he faced Johann Schmidt — the Red Skull — Dream felt Death's distant gaze brush across the battlefield.
For a heartbeat, they shared sight.
Her presence whispered through him: Do you see why I cherish them?
"I do," Dream answered aloud, though no mortal heard him. "They dream even as they die."
⸻
It was dusk when Steve boarded the Valkyrie.
Dream followed him into the sky, unseen, silent, a shadow among the clouds. Below, the world looked peaceful — a lie only the stars understood.
Inside the cockpit, Rogers's hands shook. He stared at the controls, at the frozen ocean stretching ahead. He knew what he had to do.
Dream stepped closer, his voice soft as falling snow.
"You could dream another ending," he said, even though he knew Steve could not hear him.
But Steve smiled through his tears, radio crackling. "I'm gonna need a rain check on that dance."
Dream closed his eyes. The line hit something deep inside him — the human ache for more time.
Death's voice whispered within him, gentle as a kiss: He's not afraid, Azrael.
"I know," Dream whispered back. "And that's what breaks me."
The plane dove toward the ice. The Dreaming trembled with every heartbeat. In those last seconds, Steve's dream flickered — not of war or victory, but of a woman's smile and a dance that would never come.
Dream reached out, and for the smallest instant, their minds brushed.
Steve felt peace. He saw light. He dreamed of a future where his sacrifice mattered.
And then the ice swallowed everything.
Dream stood upon the frozen sea long after silence reclaimed the world. His reflection shimmered faintly on the ice, blurred by wind and grief.
Death appeared beside him, as she always did. No words at first. Just her hand finding his.
"He dreamed well," she said softly.
Dream nodded. "He dreamed beautifully."
They stood together beneath the aurora — ribbons of green and gold rippling across the sky like brushstrokes of memory.
Death rested her head on his shoulder. "You love them," she murmured. "You always did. You just never wanted to admit it."
"Perhaps I have learned from you," he said, smiling faintly. "You taught me that endings give meaning to the dream."
She squeezed his hand. "And dreams," she said, "make endings worth facing."
The aurora shimmered brighter for a moment, and all across the world, mortals dreamed of heroes.
Dream looked down into the frozen sea, where Steve Rogers slept in time's slow embrace.
"Sleep well, soldier," he whispered. "Your dream will wait for you."