The air above the newborn world trembled with thunder.
Dream stood on a mountain older than Olympus, watching storms crack open the horizon. Far below, giants the size of mountains moved through valleys of fire and stone — Titans shaping the Earth in their own image. Their voices shook the skies, vast and primal, every word a command that reality obeyed.
He had seen gods before, but not like this. These were not the quiet, dreaming powers that whispered life into being. These were storms given thought — raw will carved into flesh.
Gaea's children.
He felt her presence before he saw her. The wind carried her scent — soil after rain, the breath of forests before they existed. When she rose beside him, she was not a figure, but a living continent; mountains curved into her shoulders, rivers ran down her spine. Yet when she spoke, her voice was soft.
"You watch again, my child."
He smiled faintly. "It's what I do best."
Her gaze followed his, toward the gathering of Titans far below. Kronos stood among them, his scythe glinting in the half-light — a weapon forged to unmake time itself.
"They dream of power," Dream murmured. "Even gods dream, it seems."
Gaea sighed, a sound that echoed through valleys. "Power is the dream that devours its dreamer. My children forget they were born from my sleep, not my rage."
He glanced up at her, eyes reflecting constellations still being born. "And yet, you love them."
"Of course," she whispered. "A mother loves her children, even when they destroy her peace."
The first thunderbolt fell.
It split the mountain beside them in half, molten light spilling into the sea below. The war had begun — not in whispers, but in roars that cracked the sky. The Titans rose against their own blood, and the heavens bled silver fire.
Dream watched as the Olympians rose — smaller, swifter, mortal-shaped yet immortal in essence. Zeus stood at their head, lightning crowning his hand, a weapon of rebellion forged from the chaos his father tried to swallow.
Dream felt something stir in the Dreaming — the pulse of every mind, mortal and divine, feeling the same thing for the first time: defiance.
He whispered it to himself. "They dream of freedom."
And with that realization, something new blossomed in the Dreaming.
It wasn't the soft warmth of imagination, nor the gentle comfort of hope. It was fire — the dream that says no more. The desire to rise, to break chains, to burn the world rather than be caged by it.
Dream shuddered. It was beautiful, and terrifying.
The war raged for years that would be remembered as eternity. Titans fell like mountains collapsing; seas boiled; stars died screaming. And through it all, Dream walked unseen among them, neither ally nor foe. His presence rippled through the Dreaming — through gods and mortals alike.
He wandered the aftermath of battles that scarred continents. Rivers ran red, and the earth mourned quietly beneath the ruins of creation.
One night, after the fall of Hyperion, Dream found Gaea again — smaller now, diminished by the cost of her children's war. She sat beside a lake of molten gold, her hair of forests burned to ash.
"They've won," she said softly. "The sons of my pain have dethroned my pride."
Dream knelt beside her, his voice quiet. "The old always gives way to the new. Even in dreams, nothing stays."
She looked at him — eyes deep and endless. "You speak as though you understand loss."
"I do." His tone carried the weight of another life, another death. "I've lost entire worlds. Sometimes all it takes is a single breath to end a universe."
Gaea smiled faintly, a sadness like dawn. "You sound so human."
He looked toward the horizon, where Olympus rose for the first time — jagged and brilliant, a monument to victory and pride. "Maybe that's why I see beauty where others see ruin."
For a long time, they sat in silence, watching smoke rise into the sky. Beneath it all, Dream could hear something new — the murmuring of mortal thought. Myths were being born in their sleep.
They would dream of gods who rose and fell, of wars waged in the heavens, of thunder and rebellion. They would tell stories of love, betrayal, and vengeance. They would build their fears into religion and their hopes into legend.
Dream smiled. "They'll remember this war for ages. But they'll turn it into story."
Gaea tilted her head. "And that comforts you?"
"Yes," he said softly. "Because stories outlive their makers."
When the war finally ended, the Titans were cast into the pit — Tartarus, the echo of Chthon's old dominion. Zeus stood triumphant, thunder still burning in his veins, the world reshaped by victory.
Dream lingered at the edges of Olympus, unseen. He could feel the new gods dreaming already — of permanence, of glory, of immortality. And he knew, as all dreams do, that even those would fade.
He turned away from the light, descending the mountain. The air smelled of smoke and ozone, of newborn divinity.
At the base of Olympus, something stirred — a shadow against the dying firelight. A figure, pale as moonlight, watched the fallen Titans vanish into their prison. She said nothing, only folded her hands behind her back.
Dream paused.
"Hello, old friend," he whispered.
Death didn't answer. She never needed to. Her silence was acknowledgment enough.
When he blinked, she was gone — as if she had never been.
The Dreaming pulsed softly around him, sighing through the ashes of war. For a moment, Dream closed his eyes and listened. Somewhere far away, a mortal dreamed of gods bleeding for their freedom. Somewhere else, a poet would one day name it the Titanomachy.
And Dream simply smiled.
Because even in destruction, the universe still believed in itself.