Work Text:
When The Corinthian saw his master, he knew it was all over.
“Shit,” he thought, “shit, shit, shit!”
He was going to be forcefully taken back to The Dreaming. And to do that, Lord Morpheus knew that he wouldn’t go willingly – so The Corinthian had to be unmade on the spot, dissipated into that damned sand and then it would be nothingness.
From his time with mortals, he had heard his fair share of their trivial worries, concerns and fears. It was good. He was a Nightmare; he was meant to inspire fear. What was it his master had said when he made him? A mirror to be held up to humanity, possessing all of its darkness and pushing them to do better.
The Corinthian had thought that he was full of it. A detestable, completely stiff and humourless thing. Dream – he could do it; he could say his master’s name in his head at the very least – was nothing without his tools and nothing without the inhabitants of The Dreaming to assist him. And so, as a mirror to be held up to humanity, The Corinthian took his own chance to make their nightmares come to life. No one would learn if they didn’t experience that visceral, crawling sensation of fear. The breath of a warm exhale against their neck, swiftly followed with his fingers tracing the apples of their cheeks reverently and that sickening pop of their eyes.
Yes, he thought, that was what he was made for.
Yet, on nights where he had found himself listening to mortals before he indulged in their eyes, he frequently heard about Death. He had met her once, when he was Dream’s favourite. A very, very long time ago. It was a blur in his memory; the most memorable thing that stuck to him like a stubborn stain on a cream coat, was his master’s favouritism. In the waking world, he tried not to think too much about it.
Mortals talked about her like they knew her intimately. As if they knew that she would come around, call their names and give them a nice bright smile before taking their hand and bringing them to the beyond. Some of them were afraid – of hell, of eternal torment and most strikingly, nothingness.
The Corinthian once had a conversation that never quite left him:
“Are you afraid then?” He had asked, rather bored with all of it.
“Of dying? Or what comes after?” The man had laid carelessly in the bed, the luxurious sheets tangled with his legs. He was pale, illuminated by the moonlight when The Corinthian had bumped into him on the street. He had known exactly what this man reminded him of, but he couldn’t resist taking him to bed anway. “If I wasn’t afraid at the start, I won’t be afraid at the end.”
The Corinthian knew his own start. He had carefully come into existence, a sloppily made thing from his master’s inexperienced hands. There was nothingness before. Or maybe, not even nothingness. There was ignorance, a lacking awareness of what he was before he was brought into The Dreaming. The current him wasn’t even the first one. His master had remade him multiple times – he was the first, he was the favourite, and now he was going to be unmade.
“Please,” he found himself choking up. He had never expected himself to be afraid. Was he actually afraid? A Nightmare would know fear all too well. Was this something else? There was something warm against his cheeks and he stumbled, before shakily falling to his knees. “Please, my Lord.”
“I am sorry,” his master murmured, a quiet whisper that could’ve floated away with the wind. “You are one of my greatest regrets.”
Flinching, the Corinthian only stared back at him. A drop of blood trickled past his lips. He could nearly taste it. He knew it well, from mortal nightmares and from his indulgence in the waking world. There was something twisting and coiling within his gut, a horrible mimicry of what he did to mortals.
“Please,” he tried again, all of his pride built up from years of stalking amongst mortals, gone. He was the first. He was the favourite. Had been the favourite. “My Lord, I beg you.”
A long time ago, he had been in the same position. But that time, he had been asking for something different.
“Please,” he murmured. He was fresh out of existence again. This was the third time that his master had remade him. “It hurts.”
“I am sorry,” his master said, like he did every single time. “It will only be for a moment.”
No, he wanted to scream, it is a moment too long to be endured!
The sensation of being broken down apart, split into tiny bits of sand and laid to rest somewhere within the limbo of The Dreaming, had been already experienced by him twice. Lord Morpheus said that it wouldn’t hurt, but it did each time. His consciousness dissipating into the space of The Dreaming, ceasing to be, until his master brought him back. What did he do wrong this time? Why was he never enough?
“I didn’t mean it,” he protested, daring to clutch his master’s robes as he bowed his head. “Not entirely. What did I say that was wrong? Was it not what you made me for? Are we not meant to recreate the mortal world through their dreams, let them see the consequences of their corruption?”
“No,” his master quietly replied. “That is not what I made you for.”
Then, he raised that familiar ruby of his, a gleaming gem that casted its insidious glow onto the Corinthian’s face. His heart twisted, his breath caught in his throat, and then he was gone.
When he woke, he was held in his master’s arms. It was an echo of his first time in The Dreaming. His first existence had been cradled by Lord Morpheus, held almost adoringly as the Endless stared at his first creation.
He could feel that cold palm pressed against his cheek. Leaning into the touch, he forgave his master right there and then in his heart.
They did not exchange any words.
Time after time, breaking down and being pieced right back together, he was still not enough.
He never understood Dream, and he didn’t think that he ever would. There was so much fun in the waking world: so many mortals to play with, so many dreams to inspire. His new project was a string of murders, just tied closely enough for the humans to play detective and attempt to track him down. With each new body, there was one more horror for the particularly sensitive ones. And for those who could stomach the blood and gore he left behind, he would escalate it further just for them. In The Corinthian’s world, everyone was inconsequential. The waking world could be moulded by his hands, bending to his whims and forming his visions. If humanity’s darkness was in him, then he would perform his duty and show them the extent of their creation. He would do it for his master.
“Shedding blood in the waking world and taking pleasure in it, is not our duty, Corinthian,” Dream said to him, his tone even. “I will remake you. Not anytime soon, but one day. The waking world has no need for a Corinthian at the moment.”
Bitterness flared up within him. The waking world was never his main target. Digging his nails into his palms, he seethed and snapped back, “And how about you, my Lord?”
He was not proud of how his voice wavered. “How about you? Did you ever need a Corinthian?”
Did you ever want me?
His master paused. He had still not taken out his ruby. But the Corinthian still remained on his knees.
“My needs are not relevant. It is our duty to nurture dreams.”
Staring right back into his master’s eyes, the Corinthian paused in disbelief. Then he laughed. The most upsetting noise he had ever made in his life. A laugh so miserable that Despair would’ve revelled in it. He was so, so pathetic.
“Did you ever need a Corinthian?” He asked again, his tone far rougher than before, like sandpaper grating against metal.
Did you ever love me?
Instead of answering, his master only took out that ruby. Underneath the streetlamp, it glowed, all scarlet and mocking. Then, he finally replied, “All of the Nightmares and Dreams have a role to play.”
Lowering his head, The Corinthian knew that he was done. He uncurled his fists, let his arms hang loosely by his sides. Hollowed, he couldn’t bear to look into Dream’s eyes. He didn’t want to see the slightly furrowed brow, the lips pressed into a thin line and the eyes that he had always wanted – not to collect or to taste. He had dreamt of pressing his palms against his master’s face, his thumbs brushing against those lower lashes and–
“I will never love you again,” he murmured, an imitation of Dream’s own low voice. The last thing he saw was the gravel beneath his knees. There was still blood on his clothes.
The ruby glimmered, a raven cawed in the distance and this time, The Corinthian did not cry.