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Row upon row of plush red seats gape vacantly at the Corinthian, like jaws stripped of their teeth.
He stares back with disbelief and growing resentment. Where the convention hall had brimmed with euphoric believers not minutes past, it’s deserted now, quiet and empty, the last of the collectors departed stumbling and weeping. The thunder of the dream king’s judgement rolls yet in his mind.
Your dream is gone. I have taken it away.
It’s gone, a century of work vanished at the whim of the godforsaken prince of stories. The vortex, too, gone who knows how. The three grins that had cracked his face wide open when Dream left the Waking for Rose Walker - there for a handful of seconds, before he'd reappeared, smooth and unruffled, and erased the collectors - vanished like the rest of the nightmare's make-believe empire.
A sense of smallness makes the Corinthian swallow. It’s an old feeling he hasn’t felt in awhile. He has to back-step, steady himself, flex his fingers so his knife slides smoothly to his palm.
Good. That’s better.
But where does he go from here? The grains of his being recognize their creator and sing at his proximity, a hateful, suffocating song that makes it clear - the Corinthian has no options. Hasn’t had since that night in Berlin, where he had knelt begging for his life. And Dream won’t find a heart now, not after yet another century of him running amok.
“What now?” Acrimony curdles his tone, making it harsh. “Going to drag me back to the Dreaming? Unmake me?” He refuses to look at Dream, staring straight ahead, shelving the instinct that warns him from turning his back upon his maker.
“...What now, indeed.”
He’s not prepared for the shudder that runs down his spine, for that unmistakable calm growl, cool and velvet smooth, to make him go liquid inside. Even after all this while. His smaller mouths squeeze shut like eyes, as though that has any protective effect.
“Will you not look at me, my nightmare?”
He’s twitching towards Dream before he can stop himself. Too late he makes himself face Dream with a challenging glare, as if to intimidate; but Dream receives it as the bravado it is and quirks a brow in amusement.
“A disobedient creature such as yourself should not stand so defiantly before its master, if it still wishes to live.”
A cool dismissal. A casual threat. Dream puts him down in a single breath, and the Corinthian jerks where he stands, swallowing in rage and the fear, learned and instinctive, of Dream and what he can do.
“As if that's still an option,” he snarls back. “Aren’t we right back where we were, before your imprisonment?”
Dream looks sombre.
“We are. And with a chance to start over.”
The Corinthian barks sharply with laughter.
“What the hell does that even mean, o mighty Endless?”
His words drip with insolence. There's no way in hell he has a rat’s chance of getting out of this alive.
“It means, Corinthian, that I'm not going to pick up where I left off. I’m not going to unmake you immediately."
Ice-cold relief first, reflexive and visceral, before he can realize that there must be a catch -
"No. I'm going to let you choose from two options.
“The first option is a compromise. You may walk the human realm by day, and experience it as freely as you wish, on the condition that you do your job as a nightmare by night. But there will be no hurting or maiming of any sort. Cross this line and I will unmake you immediately. You will have no second chance.
“The second path is a match of strengths between you and I. You may determine the contest, and the stakes. With this contest we shall settle our differences.”
The Corinthian gapes silently before he finds his tongue.
“Ah - hah - I don’t understand. Option number one - letting me off with a scolding? And option number two - a - a - a challenge? A chance to bring you low?”
“Yes.”
“Wh-why would you even do this?”
“For the chance to resolve things with you, nightmare, once and for all, short of destroying you. The compromise you may choose, with the full knowledge of what I am willing to tolerate, and the punishment if you cross the line. Not a satisfying choice, I think, but one that you have. Or choose the contest, and accept my rules if you lose. As I will, if I lose. And this will make things final between us. I tire of your rebelliousness, just as you chafe at my rules.”
To stand before the feared dreamlord - to contest him - to rival him - the very elements of his form shrink from the temerity.
And yet, a chance, a single chance, to set things straight, draw the boundaries between himself and his creator forever - he stammers out a protest before his thoughts can go wild.
“The - the king of dreams, against a lowly little nightmare? What chance does a nobody like me have?”
“Any chance you wish. I would not waste my time on a farce. You may determine the manner of the challenge, and you have my word that I will equal the playing field.”
“The second one, the second option”, the Corinthian gasps - he’d stopped listening after you may determine the challenge. “No compromise, I want the fight, you and I, no weapons, no magic. As humans. A fair fight.”
“Fine. And how shall we determine who has won?”
“The first who is unable to stand, shall be the loser, and the one who remains standing shall be the victor.”
“That is acceptable.” Dream inclines his head. “And the stakes? What will you take if you win?”
The Corinthian stalls before he forces himself forward. “Your eyes.” The world spins dizzily and he braces for a strike, any suffering the dream king would deem good for him. But nothing happens. Dream only looks superciliously upon him.
“Very well. I will allow you to ask for that. But believe you me, when I say that the eyes of an Endless are not for a creature so little as you. Not that I expect you'll listen; you never learned your lesson unless you were taught.”
Another insult, another lick of unthinking disregard. Heat tongues down his spine, and he stiffens against it as best as he can.
“I shall have them anyway. Your eyes, and your submission, my king, to any desire I may have.”
“Alright.”
“And yourself? What will be your prize?”
“What will you give me?”
“I - that - that’s not how it’s supposed to work.”
It sounds like a protest, even to himself. Because even now - flash-quick thought quashed in a blink because it's just so pathetic - he doesn't know what he wouldn't offer Dream if a chance to reset was on the table. Before he can recover and sneer, Dream elaborates,
“If I had wanted to take something by force, little thing, I wouldn't bother with a duel.”
There’s no air to his tone, just a bare articulation of fact that sends his wits scuttling. The Corinthian feels his belly flip queasily at Dream's words.
“I don't know yet. I need some time,” he manages to stammer.
“If it’s so difficult, you may decide after you lose.”
A worse proposition. One that makes him bite his lip and taste blood. He can’t imagine holding his ground after Dream stands victorious. It’ll be that much harder not to give it all up if he’s bleeding and exhausted, wrung out from the fight, tired of running and sick of defying; if he’s put right back where he was when he first came into existence, and -
“You won’t win.” Dream musn’t. “Not if we’re having a fair fight. There’s nothing I have to decide. You’re fighting for your eyes and your life as you know it. That’s it.”
It’s an outburst and the Corinthian knows it, Dream arches an amused brow - the Corinthian quickly hisses,
“Enough chit chat. We’ve negotiated everything, haven’t we? Are we going to fight it out here, on this little stage? Magic up an arena or something, will you?”
The dream king smiles a glinting smile, cheshire in the darkness, and suddenly they are no longer in the convention hall in Atlanta, but in the open, with the cool, salty scent of rain approaching in the air.
They are back in the Dreaming.
The Corinthian has never seen this place before.
They stand upon a plateau so colossal as to be a continent jutting upwards in the shape of an isle. It is perfectly cylindrical, with evenly curved sides, and a summit of dark marble so polished it reflects their images. Its edges end beyond their plane of sight, and they are a third of the way to the Dreaming’s sky.
Despite himself, the Corinthian asks in wonder, “what is this place?”
Dream replies with a voice warm and canyon-deep with fondness and remembered pleasure.
“It has no name in my realm, although dreamers from old Sumeria beheld this titan in their sleep, and built mighty E-temenanki to follow. My brother Destruction carved this from the very foundations of the Dreaming for me, when we were young and the realm was wild. We spent ages here, sparring with each other in our free time. I invited Death to join us on occasion, and she was gracious enough to pretend to lose from time to time, although that irked my brother. Destruction, if you will believe it, could be such a sore loser.”
“W-was he?” The rare wistfulness in Dream's tone, the little gem of a story distracts the Corinthian, and he can’t help but ask in a small voice, “did you win much?”
Dream only smiles and says, “I am looking forward to our battle.”
That’s right. That's what they're here for.
“We will fight here, then. On the monument your brother made you, I’ll best you, and you’ll lose like you never have.”
“We shall see, you prideful creature.”
They are no longer immortal.
Dream is a human now. Clad only in black slacks, he is alabastrine fair, and the lines of his body hard and clean. He had always been spare, every last surfeit expended in his control of the realm, but he’s even thinner now, rangy from imprisonment.
He gazes coolly upon the Corinthian, as if from untouchable heights.
The Corinthian stands barefoot in a pair of cream coloured pants. He had always been the taller and broader of two, and the more heavily built one, but the difference is much clearer like that. He smirks at Dream.
“Like what you see?” he taunts.
“What I made, little thing.”
“You should be more careful,” the Corinthian leers back. “What you made is going to knock you flat on your back. And that reminds me. I want a trial punch.”
“A trial punch?” Dream’s voice hitches with mirth.
“Yes. I need to know you’re for real, that you’re truly human now. That you're really going to let me hit you.”
He steels himself - if he’s making a titanic mistake, it’s too late - then plants his feet, winds back, and socks Dream squarely in the jaw.
There’s a satisfying crunch of bone on bone, and the Sandman is flung cleanly off his feet. Dream lands hard on his side and skids off the polished floor, all wiry limbs and jutting edges.
The Corinthian doubles over, clutching his stomach, and screams in delight. The sight of Dream ricocheting off the floor, a god amongst gods smacked around like a doll, floods him with exhilaration, amplified by sheer relief when he’s not unmade on the spot.
“Right,” the Corinthian shrills, and spreads his arms to the sky. “Yes! We’re ready! Let’s fight!”
A bolt of purple lightning lances down between them, and the challenge begins.
King and subject circle, chins tucked, fists raised. The Corinthian is fey with glee, bouncing on his feet, Dream collected and patient. There’s the shade of a bruise creeping down his jaw, but he still looks worthy enough an opponent for the strapping Corinthian.
“You know, I’m surprised by how light your human form is. Bit delicate to be taking me on, aren’t you?” The Corinthian darts close, snake-quick, going for Dream’s jaw.
Dream jerks back and retaliates, only to fall short as the Corinthian twitches away.
“Ah ah ah. Too far. And too slow, my king! Let me show you how it’s done." He dives, pummeling hard, swinging at Dream’s face, his ribs, his temples, switching from his fists to his knees and even his shins, driving Dream relentlessly back. Some blows are parried off, but a few solid ones land and the Corinthian gloats when they do, pain sparking in Dream’s dark eyes. He’s about to clap him a smart one when Dream leaps back, beyond his reach, then propels himself forward and punches the Corinthian straight in the throat.
“Nnnmphh!”
The Corinthian lands on his back with a thud. His vision blacks out, his lungs cram up. He half-expects Dream to press the advantage then, to leap upon him and choke the air from his throat - but when he has had a moment to draw breath and looks around, Dream stands a couple of feet away, waiting for the Corinthian to rise.
“Come,” Dream says, when the Corinthian faces him again. “Let us continue.”
For all that Dream is slight, he makes every hit count, and the Corinthian’s head slams the floor more often than he had thought it would when he had first sized them up. But as the fight wears on, the Corinthian’s greater size and reach show. He lands three hits for Dream’s every two, and Dream has to pick himself up more often than he does.
The Corinthian assesses the fight with a drunken kind of ecstasy. When he sees that Dream is starting to reel, he lunges, catches Dream by his shoulders as he’s climbing to his feet, and bears him back down to the ground.
Sprawled on the floor, the Corinthian goes for his throat, grasping for that sinewy white column with large hands, all three mouths open and watering with anticipation. But Dream doesn’t get pinned, and the Corinthian finds himself surprisingly evenly matched, his greater weight and reach counting for less when they are already at close quarters, grappling with each other. Dream breaks his grip with an eely twist and coils back around for a hook. The Corinthian all but manages to writhe away, but Dream pursues, fast and python-strong, landing blow after ringing blow upon the side of the Corinthian’s head, and when the Corinthian has curled up in defence, lunges for the Corinthian’s knee.
The Corinthian flails away in a near panic. If Dream locks his knee and wrenches it, the fight will end with the Corinthian physically incapable of standing. He slips out by the skin of his teeth, scraping his forearms raw from how quickly he shimmies to escape, and scrambles to his feet as quickly as he can, to take the fight back upright where size difference can show to advantage once more.
Dream follows him up, and they face each other again, sides heaving. Dream’s hair is wild and sweat-slicked, his jaw and torso littered with blooming purple marks the size of the Corinthian’s fist. He’s dishevelled, dirt-streaked from his falls, and bleeds in multiple places - a cut on his brow, a split lip, and skinned knuckles from where they glanced off the Corinthian and onto the floor.
The Corinthian casts an appreciative glance over Dream. “I’ve always wanted to see you like this,” he jeers.
“Brawling?”
“Hurting. Like a common man.”
“Wearing a human body does not make me a common man, Corinthian.”
The pace of the fight shifts. They’re slower now, aching and panting, conserving their strength.
The Corinthian charges, a feint; Dream dodges anyway. A fateful move, for his feet slip on his own sweat, and the Corinthian howls and swoops. His shin makes savage contact with Dream’s side.
Dream falls with a groan, folded nearly in two, eyes closed, teeth bared, and the Corinthian bays with glee. Before Dream can stagger back upright, the Corinthian takes a good hard aim and clocks a truly monumental blow beneath Dream’s jaw. Blood sprays in an arc as Dream is catapulted backwards in a high, graceful crescent. He lands with a crack, bouncing twice off the floor before sliding to a stop, and the Corinthian winces scathingly at the sound, because he can.
“Ooouuuch,” he calls out loudly. He affects a mincing stroll towards Dream’s crumpled form, to make a show of how far the latter had been flung. “This must be a new position for you.”
“This - must also be - new for you,” Dream pants. "To be - standing, while I'm - not."
“You’re cocky, for someone who’s going to spend the rest of his endless life on his knees.”
They snap at each other, trash talk; the fight wears on.
When their steps are slow, and their breathing has become so laboured it drowns out even the sound of their blows, the Corinthian clouts Dream on the head, and when he's reeling grabs him around the neck and lets his knees buckle. He bears Dream down to the ground with his weight, another successful takedown, but it’s really more fall than punch now, and the Corinthian, barely managing to stagger upright, knows he’s closing in on his limits.
The fight is coming to an end.
“You’re done, my lord. Your human body won’t last much longer.”
In his exhaustion, he envies his master, lying there on the floor, resting on the smooth marble.
“No,” Dream agrees. “But it lasts yet.” He stands, slowly, as though he has all the time in the world. “We continue.”
The thought of pushing his aching body again almost makes the Corinthian groan aloud. To buy time, he says instead, “beg me.”
Dream chuckles, a rasping sound. “What for?”
“Beg me for mercy now, and I’ll spare you later. A little. If I feel like it.”
“Oh?” Dream wipes the blood from his mouth. Even now, so hoarse he’s cracking up, his tone is lofty. “You were so angry at me, nightmare. Would you really spare me if I begged?”
The Corinthian scoffs. He had meant to humiliate. He doesn't know how Dream makes it seem like it's his weakness instead.
“Guess I’m better than you, in that respect. Perhaps I’d even have been a better ruler.”
“No,” Dream shakes his head, “I have my flaws, but you are far too small, little one, to do what I do."
“Finally admitting you’re not perfect? Who knew you could get there.”
“I have gotten there,” Dream says. “I’ve seen much, and thought much, and changed, where I thought I should. Have you not realized? How do you think you came to be standing here? If I were the same person, Corinthian, you would be sand in the Black for your transgressions by now, or hanging blind from the Mother of Cities for the vultures to enjoy.”
There’s a beat of silence, a long, pregnant one, in which the Corinthian swallows bitterly, and is not sure if he should hit Dream now.
“One of my mistakes, to be sure, was the haste with which I was willing to unmake you, all those years ago. I should not have treated you with so little regard.” Dream pauses, and repeats, “I regret my imprisonment, but I do not regret that because of it, I did not get to unmake you.”
The Corinthian grunts in surprise.
“Another mistake I made was to think you would be happy forever. With my rules. With what I had you do. But you grew, of course you did. A nd you changed, while the rules did not.”
It’s not the admissions, one upon the heels of the other where there would have once only been haughtiness and distance, that hold the Corinthian captive, but the small note of understanding at the end. Unbidden, his lowered chin raises a little, his raised fists droop, and as Dream continues, "you felt so suffocated, did you not? So unhappy. You were angry for ages, even before you strayed. I am sorry you were so unhappy, my nightmare," the Corinthian wavers.
Not from fatigue. Not from pain. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to. He forces himself to bare his teeth, all three mouths pulling back to snarl.
“Stop doing that."
"Stop calling you my nightmare ?"
"Stop talking down to me.”
Dream thaws further. “As you wish.” He raises his fists again. There’s so little strength left in Dream now, that the Corinthian need merely bat them away.
But it's difficult to concentrate on that right now. With Dream looking at him like that, like he’s fond, he wavers again, and a memory emerges, strong and bright, undimmed through the generations of rage.
And the Corinthian can’t help but say in a small voice,
"I wasn't always unhappy."
Two steps forward take him within Dream's striking range.
“I was so happy, once. I was so happy - to be your - I only wanted - I loved -” He stops, tries to end the train of rambling, but the words tumble from him, low and quick, like he’s running out of time.
“I fought for you,” he rushes. “I killed the god that attacked your realm, attacked you, and laid his body at your feet." He remembers it like he’s there - the howl and the heat of the battlefield; himself, blood stained and dust streaked as he is now, his hair whipped back by gusts of hot air. He aches, bone-weary, trudging through the swamp of dead, every step a slog as he drags his prized corpse behind him. He’s so far away, but he wants to bring it back on his own. When he reaches Dream at last, he sinks, presenting the slain god like an offering. He's so pleased with himself, so very thrilled to have proven his worth, and exultant to have earned Dream’s praise.
“I remember,” Dream smiles. “You were so strong. How well you fought. Not a single god dared brave you after that. And my realm was safe.” Dream softens further, and his next words are loving, without scorn. “You were my loyal guard. My chosen blade.”
The memories whisk over the Corinthian, fleeting and bittersweet. The side profile of Dream. The back of Dream. His sharp jaw, his imposing visage. The shock of hair, starlight upon his brow, the sweep of his lashes, and a cool, imperious gaze.
The nightmare sees himself in the throne room, halfway up the steps. Nothing crosses him but for Dream saying so. Before celestials and supreme beings with their confidential letters, formal words - the Corinthian is my guard. He may hear any message you have for me. That’s where he stands - halfway up the steps and closer to the king than any other god or angel or petitioner who has ever come before Dream. That’s his place. Between guests, he takes a self-appointed break. Dream's a shadow behind him, exasperated - gods, Corinthian. Stop lounging. Have some decorum.
Sand whirls receding, leaving them in yet another realm, wonder and amazement as he walks beneath arch upon breathtaking arch, head tilted straight back with little self regard, every mouth open and staring, - old grudge…unhappy with me…may try to attack if - are you even listening? How will you guard me if you’re not paying attention? Corinthian?
Any random stroll. In front of him, Dream stops, and he pretends not to notice so he can stumble close and smell the lightning on him.
By the gods, he had never stood a chance.
It's not fair.
"But you dismissed me when you no longer needed me. When you no longer needed a guard, I was a normal nightmare again."
Dream contemplates the Corinthian for a long while. When he speaks, his words are the slowest and most careful yet.
"I never knew you were so attached to that position, my nightmare."
Not the position - but no, he can't go there, Dream already too knowing at it is.
But Dream seems to understand.
“Was that why you were so angry? Not because you chafed at the rules, but because you weren't with me?”
“I - I - ” Mortification inches over the Corinthian.
“You were not just angry, but sad."
“Abandoned,” the Corinthian whispers, before he can stop himself, and then he’s breathless, horrified by his admission.
Dream goes utterly still, save for his eyes, night deep and star bright, which flare wide with realization.
“Oh, Corinthian,” he breathes. “My poor nightmare.”
The Corinthian recoils, but blood-stained fingers stop him from turning away by the shoulder.
“It’s alright,” Dream croons. “You needn’t hide from me, little one.”
A sound, too small to hold back, rises in the Corinthian's throat and slips out.
“My nightmare,” Dream repeats, “my little one.”
Dream is drawing him in, and he tries to fight it, to pull away and hide or stiffen and soldier up, because he's not - he's not pathetic -
"You can't - it's been decades - you can't j-just -"
But Dream is too close now, crooning, encircling him with his arms, and he’s stroking the back of his head, saying softly, “hush, my dear, hush now, it’s alright. Thank you for telling me. I’m so sorry, little one. I'm so very sorry. I did not know.”
The hand in his hair is gentle, guiding his head down to the crook of his neck. It’s only a simple act, but level with Dream’s temple, he hovers, can't believe he's there. Because Dream can be a kind ruler, Dream can be a merciful king, but Dream is not a comforting one. Had never been, even when things were good between them.
"Are you really doing this?" he manages to grind out. As if he’s not falling apart inside, dying for his touch.
Dream smiles, the corner of his curving lips visible from where the Corinthian peers from the side, still trying to hang back. With a gentling stroke down the Corinthian's trembling arms, Dream places the Corinthian's hands on his shoulders, so they're holding each other. "I'm here, little one," he breathes; “I'm right here."
There’s another hushing noise, soft by his ear, and a hand returned to the back of the Corinthian’s head steering him lower still, till he’s a hair’s breadth from being tucked into the crook of the dream king’s neck.
“- I - I can’t -”
A tiny huff, a broken sob, and he’s in, nuzzling the line of his jaw.
“There,” Dream is saying gently, “there.”
The last of his resistance goes, and the Corinthian is pressing deep, inhaling, keening. It’s so warm and so reassuring, that he sobs from the sheer comfort of it. Dream holds him there, letting him whimper and cry. With every sound the Corinthian makes he crumbles a little more, until he’s mouthing Dream frantically, tongue and teeth out for the altar of his neck, the salt of sweat; he can’t stop, and though he’s still weeping he's also starting to get hard. Soon he's struggling not to brush against Dream's thigh with every little jerk, and then he's bucking up sloppily and trying to pretend he isn't. He can feel himself turning pink.
"Wanton already, little thing? Does it really feel so good?"
Rough words in a fond tone, insulting like only Dream can be at a time like this. The Corinthian would cry foul if he could, but it’s too late, it's over, he's going loose, gone, slipping down the length of Dream's body, through the circle of his arms, till he's on his knees, crying uncontrollably -
"Enough," he's gasping between sobs, "I've had enough, I'm done fighting, I don't want to do it anymore, you win - "
He drops to his hands and kisses the top of Dream's feet, kisses again, desperate and clumsy. Dream laughs and the Corinthian bends lower, contorts himself to go for the side of Dream’s ankle.
Not that the dream lord seems to care - his head’s tilted back and he’s chuckling throatily, wiping blood from the cut on his lips while his subject prostrates abjectly. He even staggers back a little, makes the Corinthian follow on his knees.
“I’m sorry,” the Corinthian whispers as he crawls. “I’m sorry I hit you. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t.” He grasps the bottom of Dream’s slacks and inches forward till he can dip his forehead to the cool fabric.
“Alright,” Dream says at last, “alright. It’s alright, now.”
“I’m truly,” the Corinthian insists, hiding his face in the cuff of Dream’s pants; and because Dream doesn’t laugh at this, only huffs, indulgent and exasperated, and the Corinthian’s tired, he stops there for a rest.
His knees ache on the floor, his neck hurts from trying to reach Dream's ankle, but he feels good like this. Even better than clinging to Dream and burrowing into his neck. Dream's presence over him is solid, reassuring, commanding. He feels so small like this. Like he doesn't need to care about anything except doing what he's told. He can almost forget all that's happened, and go right back to belonging at Dream's side.
He nuzzles Dream’s shin.
"Little one. So polite now? After all that talk about bringing me down? Making me pay?”
“I already said I was sorry.” Petulant voice coming from the fold of his pants.
Dream’s back to chuckling, but it’s softer, warmer now. “You did. You can be so sweet when you try.”
The Corinthian makes a small sound at sweet. Sweet is so belittling. At least he didn't say pretty. Pretty makes him squirm so bad.
Another snort. Dream must be pleased.
"You silly thing. Must always have a good cry before you're willing to behave."
The Corinthian lowers his head and whines. He's being scolded for behaving like a young naughty thing. He's not that young anymore, but he knows he's still naughty, even though he tries.
It feels good, to whine like this, though it's shameful to like it.
“Come here, my dear.”
His master pulls him from his hiding place by his hair and hits him.
His palm cracks across his face, smack, the sound loud and sudden in his ear. The pain yanks him up into an arch at the same time that it jolts straight down to his belly, to that thing between his legs.
Before he can think, Dream hits him again, hard and sharp. Then a third time, a backhand that makes him moan. Then a fourth. It’s so good, he loses track, only knows the glut of warmth drenching his gut over and over - that, and the place he has to return to every time after so Dream can hit him again. He's sturdy, he can be hit many times, but he has to keep getting back into position. It's a rule.
A sharp blow on his mouth sends a shock of fear through him. Is he being punished? It's one thing, being slapped for his master's pleasure. It's an entirely different thing being punished. He’d always had difficulty telling one from the other; because it can sometimes look the same and even sound the same, Dream plays so rough. And worse still, sometimes it starts off as one and changes into the other, or sometimes it’s both at the same time. But it’s different, punishment is so much worse. He shivers and prays he’s not in trouble.
"Don't you have something to say to me?"
He twitches in place, mind racing. Too slow, a backhand on his already stinging cheek, tears flooding up -
“Or do you think you have nothing else to apologize for?”
Another punishing crack over his mouth, he wails pitifully, and he's bleeding now, tasting blood in his teeth, shaking. Dream is raising his hand again -
"I'm sorry!"
Smacked anyway, an eye-watering one that draws a desperate scream.
"For what?"
"For disobeying you. Defying you. Being so bad. Please - "
A hard slap that snaps him rod hard, strips the breath from him. Punishment now. For all the things he’d gotten wrong. He curls in fear.
"Is that all?"
He’s so hard and scared, he can barely draw the words together. “Str…straying from your realm. From you. Into the waking world. Killing people, making others do the same.”
An unforgiving grip holding him by his jaw, his master saying icily,
"And what else, Corinthian? Is that really all? Must I pull the infractions from you one by one? How many times do you want to be struck?"
Dream's so strict, he’s writhing and babbling and the confessions spill unbidden from him -
“The plot, the vortex, against you - hitting you, kicking you, asking for your eyes, being so rude, I'm sorry, please, I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have!"
“Is that it?”
“And - I - I -"
"You're in the Dreaming now, little thing. Don't try to be smart."
Quicksilver flash of thought - it’s so bad, if ever he could keep it a secret, if he could just - he's flicked on a small mouth for it, flicked with a finger like he's no worthier than a fly. As if that were not unkind enough, his final warning is glacial, "if you think you can hide it, you foolish little creature, you can't."
Exposed immediately. Oh, he's so disgraced. He curls up small, curling into a ball. How did he ever think he'd get away with it?
“For imprisoning you. For costing you a century, please. I’m sorry, I did so wrong - ”
"‘Did so wrong?’” A pause, a lowered hand. “Little thing, do you even understand what you did?"
No he doesn't. Not really. He hunches. He’s so unworthy, he knows it. He did something so wrong and it's so bad and he's so small, he can’t even understand why.
Dream pulls him out of his ball and upright onto his knees.
"Look into my eyes,” he commands. "Tell me what you see."
He obeys, staring in. He's falling, falling, then he's seeing -
Something white in the darkness, shining, made of innumerable sparkling specks -
"What's that?"
"That, little one, is the universe."
"It looks wrong."
"How so?"
"It's slanted. Sideways. Falling."
"Yes. It's in trouble."
The image warps, changes. Becomes a little more familiar.
"...Why are those people screaming?"
"They're in pain, little one."
"They could sleep. Like the ones in the other room. Sleep can make the pain go away, sometimes."
"Not them, little one. They can't sleep anymore."
"And what's wrong with those children? They're wrinkly and grey and droopy."
"That’s because they're old now."
“How old?”
“Hm…those there are about sixty years old.”
"Sixty? How can that be? How can they be so old if they're so small? And why are they still learning to spell?"
"They stopped growing when they were children, little one. And when they stopped growing, they also stopped learning."
"Why?"
"Because they did not sleep."
"Because of me?"
"Because I was imprisoned, little one."
"Which I helped do."
"Yes." The images blink out.
The little thing struggles.
"I'm sorry. I think I understand now.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. The hurting could not sleep. The children could not grow. I did so wrong. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was so bad."
A sigh above him.
“You’re trying hard, little one. Thank you.”
A stroke on his hair, bliss, his small mouths sliding shut like eyes. He hopes he did something right. “It must have been hard for you. You don't understand fully. You can’t, not when you're like this. But you will, soon enough, when you’re not so far down all you can manage is a few words at a time."
The little thing sighs unhappily. So he didn’t get it all right. And there his master is, explaining why, and he doesn’t even understand. All he wants to do is be the chosen blade again. How is he going to get there if he can’t keep up?
An indulgent snort.
“Alright, alright. Don’t dwell on what I just said. Just remember that when you understand, it'll be painful. Come to me if it gets too much, and I'll hold you. I want you to learn, but I don't want you to be on your own.” There’s an eye watering tug on his hair. “Can you do that?”
“Yes!”
Gods, he’s hard again. How fucking embarrassing.
A light smack on his head sends him right over, cheek to the floor.
There, easy as anything. Wasn’t even pushed. So easy he’s shrivelling from shame even as he stays on his knees. He doesn’t even want to think about how he looks.
Soft laughter from behind.
“Pretty, Corinthian. That’s how you look.”
A whine spills from him. He’s shocked by the volume. He hasn’t even been touched yet.
He tries to turn around, so it’s less humiliating.
He’s stopped immediately. A knee on his throat, pinning him to the floor. Smacked on the cheek, told, “no,” in a voice that makes him so hard he sees stars.
Nails are on him, digging into him, somewhere below his belly, so hot the Corinthian tries to scream, can’t get the breath to do so, screams even harder from the sensation, ragged and loose on his last dregs of air, till he’s soundless and arching painfully up, a lightning cascade -
There’s no relief. None.
He comes to under Dream’s knee, pawing uselessly at his master, still struggling for breath.
“No, you stupid thing. How many times must I tell you?” Another rough slap on his cheek, enough breath to howl, lance of heat straight down. Dream is everywhere, the weight of him, hands scratching down his thigh, his voice, a growl now -
“Gods, you’ve done nothing right today. Can’t you remember a single thing? Must I teach you everything from scratch?” Dream is behind him, in him, he doesn’t even know how, can barely hear him over himself, can barely register the smack on his rump -
“The entire Dreaming is going to hear you. Is that what you want? Don’t you have any self respect?”
Incandescent heat, the Corinthian seeing white again, but it’s still there, that unendurable urge, so excruciating and torturous he keeps screaming, screaming for mercy, for it to end -
“Little one, you should know by now. It ends when I say it ends.”
Flipped to his back now, fingers in his mouth, and Dream on him, in him, and it ends like this, Dream taking him, coming in him, while the Corinthian wails and screams and shatters.
Weather in the Dreaming is flighty, strange. It doesn’t rain, for all that the clouds had brewed when they arrived. The moon takes its leave of the sky, and by the time the Corinthian eventually comes to, it’s morning in the Dreaming.
He regains awareness in stages. Hearing, first; howling in his ears that gradually ceases. Then there’s sensation - a hard stone ground beneath his bruised and battered back. Telling twinge in his lower back that goes all the way to his legs, gut deep.
Sight last. Dream, sitting a way off, still dirt-streaked and bloody, in his filthy fucking ruined pants, looking so goddamn ordinary the Corinthian can’t help but stare and feel a lump rising in his throat.
It’s not fair that the previous night should be so vivid in his mind like this, when it’s daylight now, and everything that had seemed so possible before is now earth shatteringly inconceivable.
The Corinthian tries his voice out. It croaks a little, but at least he’s not whining anymore. Gods.
"Where do we go from here?"
There's a huff of exasperation and amusement. "So ready to go already, are you?"
He swallows around the lump. "Will - will you have use for me, by your side?" No need to hide in the Dreaming, everything’s known to the dreamlord already - but it still comes out weaker than he’d hoped.
Dream looks at him, finally, and there’s something like wonder in his gaze, that the Corinthian has never seen. “I have something to show you first.”
Dream and the Corinthian are at the edge of the arena in a blink. The Corinthian finally looks out over the Realm, comparing it to his memory from over a century ago -
He gasps.
“What happened here?”
“It decayed, while I was imprisoned. The Dreamkind that served it left. In the palace, only Lucienne stayed.”
“But - but I see them now. They're back."
“Oh they returned quickly enough, when they heard I had returned.” A pause, then - “Gault told me that they only came back because they feared my wrath if they stayed away.”
The Corinthian says nothing. He knows Dream’s anger all too well.
“I was a terrible king. Even the Fiddler’s Green had felt confined. He left too, not unlike you, when I was gone - because he wanted something different. Not once in an age have I considered that my subjects would like such a thing.”
“A holiday?” the Corinthian ventures.
“Yes.”
The Corinthian is starting to understand.
“But I’m going to rebuild it now. Not just the Realm, but the soul of it. I will be a kinder ruler, Corinthian.”
The Corinthian listens in silence.
Then, in the great distance beyond the Gates of Horn and Ivory, he sees a cloud, but a strange one; it moves quickly here and there, but not in wisps - it seems to buzz in tendrils, curling and whirling in on itself.
“What’s that there?”
“The armies of Hell.”
“What?”
“I dealt Lucifer a great blow, when I was there. It is only a matter of time until he takes his revenge.”
“How - army? How far away are they - ?”
“A few months, by my estimate. I trapped them in a maze of dreams and fancies. Only the strongest ones will be able to perceive the illusion, and nigh none will be able to unweave it for a long time yet. That should keep them at the edge for a while, unless Lucifer himself comes. If he does, he will cut right through and reach the Gates.”
“But… you’re untouchable. In the Heart of the Dreaming. Right?”
“Against the whole horde of Hell? Yes. But Lucifer himself, once the second highest of the Silver City, may best me yet, Realm or not. I truly do not know what his power will count for here.”
The Corinthian turns his gaze from the shadow to Dream and then back again.
“So. Hell is coming.”
And then,
“We must prepare.”
“We?”
“Surely you’re going to need me. I’m your - your - ”
He can’t say it, for all his cocky arrogance. It drops away suddenly, and the images come to him quickly - a universe, wrong, slanted, the whole thing tilting and falling on its axis - he suddenly can't.
“My chosen blade.”
“I don’t - after everything - don’t deserve - ” tries again. “You didn’t have to. You didn’t. You're - a king. A god among gods. Could have just - just wiped - remade - I’m just - just another mistake. I didn't deserve it.”
“My lionheart.”
The Corinthian feels flayed raw, cut open and laid bare to the sun. He goes to his knees again, holds Dream’s hand in his large ones. He would spend an eternity like this, if it pleased his king. Something unnamed burns so deeply in him that he can’t take it, and when he opens his mouth, he has to snark,
“Alright. Fine. I’ll help you. If you wish.” His voice shakes, he has to pause. His next words are barely audible. Swallowing, he leans up and puts his chin in the crook of Dream’s hip. “How may I serve?”
A warm smile, the smile of his lord and master, maker and king, and he forgets how unworthy he is to be here again. Back at Dream's side, after everything.
“We still have time. Delight’s sun shines yet. Enjoy it with me.”
The sun of all his years takes a seat on the floor and gestures to the space beside him.
The Corinthian waits till his master is seated, then, feigning nonchalance, steps into the triangle formed by Dream’s crossed legs. He lowers himself as delicately as he can into Dream’s lap, dwarfing Dream with his bulk. When he’s wiggled till he’s comfortable, he sits his weight fully down.
“Little one,” Dream says from behind. He sounds cross, his voice muffled in the Corinthian’s shoulder. “You’re blocking my view.”