[unknown]

[mr_gaeta]

Once upon a time, New Caprica City sat on the dusty mouth of a riverbed.

The alluvial deposits have turned rust red, oxidized by air that scrapes at Gaeta's mouth every time he breathes. He stands at the boundary between water and ground, arms tucked close, shivering as he stares out at the river. The water, too, has turned red.

It's not water.

It laps at Gaeta's shoes -- both shoes, both feet -- and he can feel its sickly warmth even through the thickness of his boots. Every so often, something washes ashore. A torn jacket. A hand. A limb.

(He can't tell if it's his own lost limb or not.)

His stomach clenches, and he can't stop shaking, and his eyes are frozen open: unable to blink, let alone look away from the shoreline.

Comments

[mr_gaeta]

Gaeta huffs out a breath. "So say we all."

He lowers his hand, absently pressing his palm over the dog tags as he surveys the open field.

"...Could I learn to do this?" he asks after a moment. "Leave New Caprica?"

[the_shaper]

Dream's gaze is on the large tree.

"If you dream of the same thing over and over, there is a reason. In your case, I suspect there is no prophecy involved."

It's not a yes. It's not a no, either.

[mr_gaeta]

His focus has settled on the bench beneath that tree. Gaeta glances to Morpheus, back to the bench, and begins to walk toward it.

"I don't see how there could be," he says. "It's the past. It's gone."

[the_shaper]

Dream follows, hands clasped behind his back. "If your nightmares do not come as a result of a prophecy, or a latent ability, then there is another reason that your nightmare continues."

[mr_gaeta]

"Like what?"

Just as he could feel the sand through his boots, he can feel the grass, too, as soothing as the breeze and the sun warming his shoulders. He exhales, softly, and tilts his head back an inch.

[the_shaper]

They have been through this.

(They hinted at it, at best.)

Dream says, neutral, "You have not accepted that you merely hastened the inevitable."

[mr_gaeta]

Gaeta stops walking. He keeps his eyes fixed on the tree, and the bench; they're much closer than a mere minute of walking ought to allow.

"Is that my only choice?" he whispers. "Accept it, or keep going back?"

[the_shaper]

"I am not omniscient, Felix Gaeta. I do not know if that is your only choice."

Dream is looking down at the top of his head.

"I know that place. I am that place. What I know is that if you return there again and again, there is a reason."

[mr_gaeta]

He turns just enough to look up at Morpheus. It feels like a very long way up.

"So you've seen how bad it gets," he says, barely audible.

Every glimpse of the Eight's smile; every time he's suffocated in the cold of deep space; every dawn over a ruined Earth and every sunset over a bloodied New Caprica.

[the_shaper]

Dream inclines his head.

[mr_gaeta]

It's -- embarrassing. Terrifying. Demeter and Aphrodite knew so little of Gaeta's life, but Morpheus has been privy to some of his most intimate secrets.

"I can't think of a reason," he says. "It's just...twisting the knife in. I want to pull it out. I want to leave."

By the end, his voice holds nothing but pleading.

"How do I leave?"

[the_shaper]

"You awaken."

Dream's voice is dispassionate.

"What are you asking of me, Felix Gaeta? I may send creatures to sleep. I may grant them eternal waking -- but that is not something that you want." A pause. "Do you have any conception of what you want, and what might be possible?"

[mr_gaeta]

He shuts his eyes, trying to think through the jumble enough to articulate it.

Did they move? He doesn't think they moved, but the bench is right next to him now; Gaeta takes a seat, weaving his fingers together, studying his palms like a fortune teller.

"I want to know that I'm safe, sir," he whispers, feeling out the words with care. "That I can get out of the dream. That I'm -- that I am dreaming and I'm not really back there."

[the_shaper]

Dream lifts his head; the sunlight catches one of the stars in his eyes.

"Do you know where you are right now?"

[mr_gaeta]

"I'm dreaming." Quietly. "But I wouldn't have known that if you hadn't, um, stepped in and stopped it."

[the_shaper]

"The Dreaming," Dream agrees. "This place is called Fiddler's Green. Sailors dream of it at least once in their lives."

He looks down at the top of Gaeta's head. "Or afterlives."

[mr_gaeta]

Gaeta looks up at Morpheus again, in faint wonder.

His hands fold closed; he turns his attention to the bright and healthy landscape, so much like what he envisioned Earth would be.

[the_shaper]

The Lord of Dreams stoops; long fingers pluck a rock from the earth at their feet. It's a uniform dark gray, flat, worn smooth by water at some point; it looks as though it begs to be touched, known.

Dream straightens, and holds his palm out. "Take it."

[mr_gaeta]

And if a Lord of Kobol offers him something, surely it's best if Gaeta obeys?

Wordlessly, still wondering, he takes the rock from Morpheus' palm. It feels solid, and whole, with a heft he doesn't quite expect: he wraps both hands around it, tracing the contours with one thumb.

It feels so real.

[the_shaper]

"From this point forward, when you return to one of your nightmare realms, this token from this place will be in your pocket. By this you will know that you are in a nightmare realm, and that you will leave it in due time. Will that suit you?"

[mr_gaeta]

A lump rises fast in Gaeta's throat.

"Yes, sir," he manages, blinking hard. "Thank you, sir."

[the_shaper]

"You will stay here until you wake."

That much he can do.

(Dream prefers not to have too many uncontrollable nightmares running around Milliways if he can help it. Too much risk of bleed or transference, into infinite universes -- an administrative headache.

Even Endless may learn from their mistakes.)

"I advise you to enjoy it."

[mr_gaeta]

"I will," he says swiftly.

It would be overkill to say thank you again, but Gaeta doesn't know what else he could say. Surely something more adequate, that would match the respite Morpheus has provided.

He can't come up with anything. Gaeta swallows down the lump in his throat, bowing his head as if in prayer. "Thank you."

[the_shaper]

When he lifts his head, Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, is nowhere to be seen.

[mr_gaeta]

There is only sunshine, and a wide open field. Trees he could climb; a river he could follow.

A stone in his hands.

Gaeta smiles. He can hear the river rushing over bedrock, moving ceaselessly in a single direction. Here, the water doesn't breathe in and out with the tide; it doesn't cycle back, over and over, to claw at the shoreline. Even that would be enough to bring comfort.

Time passes -- as with all dreams, it's difficult to tell how much -- but eventually, Gaeta closes his eyes. When he opens them again, predawn light filters through the windows of his room.