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The Corinthian feels almost human tonight with the way anticipation burns in his gut. It tastes hot and bitter like whiskey and the Corinthian relishes it greedily.
The trap has been set and baited.
Naturally, the Corinthian feels the exact moment when Dream of the Endless enters the cramped, humid convention room at the heart of the tiny Georgia hotel. The smell of nervous sweat and reek of human bloodlust is sharply replaced by ozone and the edges of the room crackle and go shimmery.
Lord Morpheus has become even more powerful than when the Corinthian has last seen him, and it has been a long time indeed since the Corinthian was before his creator, over one hundred years since he knelt at Dream’s feet and begged for his life.
In 1916, Dream was cloaked and in helm, rage and cold energy rumbling from his very being. Now, here, Dream does not even care to display his tools. He looks nearly as human as the people who fill the room, painfully casual in a peacoat over skinny jeans and a tee, still graceful in glossy black combat boots.
The Corinthian seethes at his creator’s blatant display of apathy towards the power the Corinthian has amassed here. It is all he ever wanted to have his creator see his goals fulfilled, to see the Corinthian thriving and strong without the unforgiving leash of Dream’s control preventing him from reaching his true potential. Yet Dream does not even bother to wear his helm, his eyes do not spin with void.
Morpheus is serene, yet all the more terrible for it. His barely-bridled power shimmers underneath the human facade and the Corinthian wants nothing more than to tear his flesh away and drink in that power.
“You disappoint me, Corinthian,” Dream rumbles. “You and these humans you’ve inspired and created…disappoint me.”
The Corinthian shivers when Dream speaks his name, his ocular teeth clicking, chomping at the bit. One hundred years and Dream is still so cold, so unforgiving.
“I’ve done my best to be what you made me.” The Corinthian answers sardonically, spreading his arms as if to encompass his endeavors.
“No,” Dream says. “You’ve done your worst, which was in so many ways what I had hoped.”
It may be a trick of the light, but Dream seems to smile fondly, fleeting and melancholy. He walks down the middle aisle, between the forgotten humans who sit frozen in sleep, ignorant of the presence of the Dream Lord.
“You were my masterpiece,” Dream says softly and his eyes shimmer. He is beautiful even when his words are cruel and the Corinthian resents him all the more. “My little nightmare. You were intended to be a dark mirror made to reflect everything humanity will not confront.”
“That's what I am. That's what I've done.”
“No. Look at you, walking this Earth for over a century infecting others with your joy of death, but what have you given them? What have you wrought? Nothing. Just something else for people to be afraid of. That is all.”
The Corinthian must hold himself steady, refuses to flinch at the words. They are swift, unmerciful blows and Dream must know it. He chooses the most effective punishments for his most transgressive nightmares.
But the Corinthian has a plan to fulfill and he will not let Dream distract him from it.
“So what now?” The Corinthian sneers, eggs him on. “You send me back into their dreams? 'Cause I won't go willingly.”
To further add insult to injury, the Corinthian pulls a slender blade from his sheath, knowing it will irrationally bother Dream that the Corinthian would dare to do so.
“A knife against a dream?” Dream scoffs predictably.
“You don't think dreams can die?” The Corinthian croons, letting Dream draw closer, begging him to keep those infinite eyes on his creation. “Let's find out.”
Dream seeks to unmake the Corinthian with that unfeeling wave of his hand, but the Corinthian does not beg and kneel. Not anymore. He will not bargain with a creator who would forsake and resent his own work so bitterly.
The Corinthian strikes and it is satisfying to watch his blade sink into that untouching hand. It is satisfying to watch Dream sink to his knees this time, to see those storm-bringing, dream-dusted eyes finally see him. Not a haughty gaze that glances over the Corinthian as if he is a distasteful piece of furniture, not an ashamed glance over those tinted glasses, nor an imperial stare that demands submission. No, this time Dream looks at him and meets him eye to toothy eye. He sees his creation as the Corinthian always desired, acknowledging the power that his nightmare holds. Not a flawed creation, not a broken machine, not a sick creature to be put down. Dream of the Endless will feel pain and see the Corinthian, Major Arcana, the Black Mirror, standing over him with a biting blade in hand.
And perhaps, the Dream Lord will finally feel proud of his masterpiece.
They fight, of course. Rose Walker is a gathering storm and she refuses to be ignored. The Corinthian lets her draw he and Dream into her swirling chaos of dreamscape and waking world.
The Corinthian knows this was his plan all along, but he almost regrets bringing Rose here if only for the way Dream immediately turns his gaze to the girl. He does not look towards the Corinthian again, as if his creation is too disappointing to bear even perceiving.
The Corinthian croons at the vortex with sweet nicknames laced with bitter undertones. He is almost relieved when she wrenches back control from both of them, putting up the walls of dreaming and waking once more.
It is no more than a blink of an eye, and the Corinthian once more stands on that stage in the convention room with Dream in front of him. His breath rattles shakily in exhale. His creator is merely a dream once more. Distant, intangible. The Corinthian’s blades will not so easily find their mark again.
Dream raises his hand once more as if to simply pick up where they left off. His palm is smooth and unblemished where the Corinthian had struck him before.
There is no need to attempt desperate violence again. The Corinthian thinks that he can be satisfied with his unmaking knowing that Dream had looked at his true self and acknowledged him, even if for one brief second of bliss.
The Corinthian refuses to give Dream the satisfaction of begging, so he holds his tongues and waits to return to dust.
His undoing arrives with the caress of a cool hand on the Corinthian’s cheek. It destroys him in a way that violence never could, unravels the fibers of his being more thoroughly than returning to Dream’s sand ever could compare.
“Just do it,” the Corinthian bites out, hating how he must beg but desiring nothing more than for this cruel joke to end. The touch of the Dream Lord is the most sacred blessing in the Dreaming, for all dreams and nightmares are born from his touch, yet will never feel it in their lifetime again. It takes all of the Corinthian’s hard-earned control to not lean into that touch, to thank his lord for this last gift, no matter how bittersweet it may be.
“Little nightmare,” Dream soothes. “I thought you would not go willingly, yet now you freely ask for your unmaking?”
“And I thought that the Dream Lord would not be so cruel as to prolong the inevitable just to taunt his victory,” the Corinthian spits, despising the weak hand he is forced to show.
“I never said I would unmake you, though,” Dream counters and it is true. He had never once threatened the Corinthian, yet the threat still loomed large enough for the Corinthian to fear its shadow.
“Then what? What eternal punishment, what anvil of justice will you bring down upon me?”
Dream sighs. “First, I would ask my creation to stand before me the way I intended.” He slides his hand up to the Corinthian’s sunglasses, thumb resting on the cool metal frames. The glasses turn to shimmery black dust and Dream smooths a finger beneath the Corinthian’s ocular mouth.
“There. I never understood why you chose to hide away the beautiful design I made.”
The Corinthian shudders at the words, at the touch. “Is this a paltry attempt at comfort before my judgment? Neither the dreaming nor the waking world would consider such a monstrosity to be ‘beautiful’.”
There is a dark, melodic rumble that the Corinthian feels through the palm on his cheek. “Oh, my little Corinthian. You seem to have forgotten…I am not just the King of Dreams, but I am also the King of Nightmares.”
Dream drags his hand down the Corinthian’s face, curling strong fingers around the Corinthian’s jaw and forcing him to look into his creator’s night-dark eyes. The Corinthian realizes now that the cloudless blue was not weakness, but mercy. A black galaxy swallows the Corinthian whole and he finds he cannot look away. Dream’s gaze is terrible and infinite, the great maw of space and time yawning open before the Corinthian, spinning with starlight and the shattered screams of a million universes being born and dying at the same time.
The convention room melts away and perhaps it was never there at all. Perhaps it has only ever been Lord Morpheus, enveloping the Corinthian with every dream and nightmare that was or will be.
The Corinthian cannot breathe here but it does not matter. He floats aimlessly within the omniscient eyes of his creator.
“My sweetest nightmare,” Dream speaks and he is everywhere. The Corinthian cannot tell if the sound of Morpheus’ voice is coming from the space all around him or from directly within his mind. “Can you see it now? The King of Nightmares delights in the way the night reveals every blood-spattered, unbidden thought from the minds of the sleeping. Their dreams are my orchestrations, my canvas becomes beautiful through the twisted and deformed. To inspire is an art, and you, my dear, are my greatest piece. My most perfect creation, my magnum opus.”
The Corinthian’s tears are frosted glass upon his cheeks, frozen in this vacuum of space and time.
“My lord…my king,” the Corinthian chokes out. It is too much for him to bear. Dream’s presence is all-encompassing and unforgiving, everything at once yet nothing at all. The Corinthian drowns in the cold, endless sea of stars. He is grateful to die in the gaze of the King of Nightmares.
“Shh,” Dream hushes. “This place is not meant for little nightmares. Wake with my blessing, Corinthian.”
Everything turns to black and the Corinthian returns to himself in the little Georgian hotel. He feels something warm and soft around him and realizes that he rests against Dream’s chest, enveloped in Dream’s cloak. It is not the peacoat, but the cloak of stars that the Corinthian remembers Dream always wearing. It feels like home and smells of some far-off, intangible memory.
The Corinthian resents drawing away from the comfort of the cloak and Dream’s embrace, but he cannot stop himself from falling to his knees.
“My Lord Morpheus,” he whispers, head bowed in piety.
Dream lifts the Corinthian’s head with benediction, gazing at his creation with fondness.
“Such supplication suits you more than you know, little nightmare. But you are one of my Major Arcana, and you may rest easy in the presence of your king. Stand and meet my eyes without fear.”
The Corinthian hesitates but his lord’s voice compels him and he stands. He is both disappointed and relieved to see Dream’s eyes are serene blue once more.
Dream takes the Corinthian’s face in his hands. “Listen well, Corinthian. Do not mistake my forgiveness for leniency. Understand this — you have most gravely transgressed against me. You have betrayed my trust and love. You have caused me harm. You are a flawed, petty, and vindictive creature.”
The Corinthian feels that aching shame and fear once more. He should not have let hope kindle within him. This was, after all, the very same Lord Morpheus who had doomed his lover to hell for thousands of years for merely rejecting him. For his entire time serving Dream, the Corinthian had always known his lord to be ruthless in a way that only an immortal, unfeeling member of the Endless could be. Cold and distant like starlight, unchanging even in the face of time.
“However, my little Judas,” Dream continues, with a suggestion of mirth in his eyes. “You are, after all, my creation. And if you were created with flaws, cursed with pettiness and a vindictive nature, then it was because I, too, hold those qualities within myself. And I cannot fault you for what parts of myself I regret to have placed within your heart.”
“But… you are one of the Endless, my lord. Flaws and mistakes shouldn’t even be able to occur to you.” The Corinthian does not understand — the Dream he knew would not express such empathy and apology.
“What is it that humans say? That God made man in his own image? Their little books are rather uncanny sometimes.” A smile plays at Dream’s mouth and the Corinthian cannot believe it, for the Dream he knew never made jokes and teased in this way. Dream felt so human.
The Corinthian is unsure how to respond. He does not want to push his luck, but Dream has been so indulgent.
“Calm yourself, little nightmare,” Dream says as if the Corinthian’s thoughts were unabridged and displayed to him. “I have only recently come to accept the natural entropy that claims us all – change is inevitable. Although I was sore to admit it, my existence has been lonely. I have forsaken those closest to me and rejected the rare gift of love from many. The Endless are not so lucky to be blessed with love, yet I was a fool who tossed it aside so many times. I am a petty, vindictive creature.”
This, the Corinthian knows to be true. For Dream had rejected the Corinthian’s love and loyalty, forsaken him for his duties and empire, petty enough to cast aside the very masterpiece to whom he promised greatness and affection.
Dream slides a cool hand to the nape of the Corinthian’s neck, fingers carding through the fine hairs there. The other stays, a guide holding the Corinthian’s true gaze.
“I did not know myself then,” Dream whispers. “I did not know I needed those kind words and that gentle touch. But I know myself now. And I know you, little nightmare. I am willing to give you what you need. Would you accept it?”
The Corinthian knows what Dream is asking of him. He knows accepting Dream’s pardon means returning to his duties and obedience. It means loyalty and leaving behind this human identity he created. Leaving behind his success in the waking world.
Such a sacrifice tastes bitter in the Corinthian’s mouth. He spent over a hundred years building a life and legacy here. A place where he is his own master and no obligations or rules tether him.
But all of that pales in comparison to what Dream offers now. The unwavering affection and attention from his lord is all the Corinthian has dreamed of, a silly, irrational thought that planted itself into the Corinthian’s mind and refused to die. A nightmare should be an unfit habitat for dreams to thrive in, but it had blossomed within the Corinthian and dug its thorns into him until the very memory of the dream hurt to think of.
The dream has loosened its painful grasp now, hurt and anger giving way to hope.
“I accept,” the Corinthian said, allowing a nightmare’s dream to come true.
Dream drew him into his embrace once more, enveloping him in soft cloak and long-awaited comfort.
“My sweetest nightmare,” Dream sighed. “I hope you can see now that this is all I ever wanted for you. For both of us.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The Corinthian sobbed, curled against the crook of Dream’s neck. “I hurt you, but I love you. I’ve only ever loved you, even when I wanted to hurt you.”
“I know.” Dream said simply. “And I have hurt you, even when I only ever wanted to love you.”
He then bends his head and places a chaste kiss to the Corinthian’s mouth. His mouth is warm and dry and his breath is petrichor heralding a summer storm. Dream trails his lips across the Corinthian’s skin and presses a kiss to his left ocular mouth, then the right. Nobody has ever kissed the Corinthian there and it is an undoing of the very essence of his being. He shivers under Dream’s gentleness, having tasted his ruthlessness in such close succession.
Dream kisses away copper-sweet tears and soothes the wanton desperation of the Corinthian’s ocular mouths. They are more truthful than the Corinthian’s human mouth and they are not ashamed to ask for more, biting at Dream’s pink mouth and demanding for more of his bloody kisses.
The Corinthian has chased kisses for all his existence, yet realizes now that this is what he was looking for all along.
“I don’t know how to begin again,” the Corinthian admits.
“I will show you,” Dream said, taking the Corinthian’s hand and holding it between them, feeling the beat of the Corinthian’s inhuman heart and the rhythm of the universe held within Dream’s chest. “It is time to go home, Corinthian.”