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The dream starts with a voice that is entirely his own, asking a simple question:
“Do you think you are forgettable?”
Ink has gone his entire life, so far, with his name screamed at almost every appearance he makes. It’s fun to do, he surprises everyone by showing up in strange or funny ways. Spilled paint, grape soda, weird puddle in a dirty bathroom stall (yuck!) But most of all, he gets to hear someone acknowledge that he still exists. That his name is not yet forgotten.
But the question makes something shiver inside of him. Was he memorable enough? Did his face disappear among the other Sanses when the name and abilities weren’t enough? Did he ever get mixed up with others? Was he not unique enough to be himself? After the name, does he leave any lasting impression? Anything at all, that makes his name linger in a room?
If he didn’t roam the multiverse, would anyone look or wonder where he was? How long would it take until he was truly wiped from everyone's memory?
And in true Ink fashion, he responds: “I’m Ink, how could anyone else forget? Anyone but me, of course!”
That was entirely the problem.
The dream grew darker, if somehow possible. He was already floating over a vast and black expanse of nothingness, but then the voice of himself somehow made him feel as though he were being inscribed with every word-the page a pen writes on.
“How would you know?”
And Ink twisted his mouth, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. He thought for a second, of his great nemesis and his nemesis’s friends, and his own best friends and his friends in every world. Then he smiled. “Well, it’s just not possible. I’ve got so many friends out there! I’ve touched every soul in the multiverse somehow, or a version of them. There’s no part of the multiverse that I’m not part of!”
And this was true as well, for Ink really was the multiverse, as much as he was himself. Every name was etched upon his body in a string of swirling and looping lettering, permanent to his form. He could not be so easily erased or forgotten, the same way the multiverse could not be destroyed in one fell swoop by any illness or nemesis.
“You’d have to be crazy strong and have access to the whooooole wide world of all the stories in creation in order to get rid of me from every single person’s memory… and even then, you’d probably miss something!” Ink stuck his tongue out, twirling in a circle. He had already begun to paint stars into the dark, pink and blue and yellow. “You’d have to be even more than me and Error, and that just wouldn’t happen.”
And the slightest flicker of doubt budded in his soul.
The doubt spoke to him again, in his voice, a question.
“But what if it did happen?”
And Ink stilled, brush in hand, frowning slightly. Behind him his scarf continued to float aimlessly, as if he were underwater. The tail ends waved like jellyfish arms as he swam back from the colorful, painted stars. Like a pearl sinking into the abyss, Ink began to fall into the black.
“Why would it? And who are you?”
Ink did not let go of his reliable paintbrush, bringing a gloved hand to his bandolier to clutch the paints there. His soul thudded in its cage, his eyes trained on the spots of color in the wide expanse-that grew smaller and smaller, shrinking away from him.
“Why don’t you look?”
Suddenly the abyss was cut open, like black construction paper sliced by scissors. The gaping space left behind was a blinding white, and Ink felt a familiar dread awaken in him. It was not any different or unique, but it was so awfully unmistakable that he knew it before he could see the fuzzy and unfinished sketches of his companions- ____tale.
Inside, he saw himself-the sketch that is-turn and look back. It-he mirrored the same pose Ink had now, only his hand clutched something over his sketched ribcage. It glowed softly, though it was hard to see in the blinding white. It was as if it were a ghostly outline.
“You've never seen it before, right? Your soul.”
“But I don’t have one. This is a dream.” Ink numbly said, though hope sprouted. He leaned closer, drifting toward the cut in the abyss. A sudden longing made itself known-to reach out and touch the sketch, though its pale surroundings terrified him. “This is just a pretty dream, isn’t it? Am I being messed with?”
The other him was calm and nonchalant. “No. I’m telling you this because you abandoned me.”
The laugh came unprompted, though he felt a growing sense of unease. “Abandoned? I wasn’t finished! I couldn’t get a soul because there was never one to begin with!”
The soul frowned slightly, and suddenly Ink felt a sense of shame. Semi-apologetically, he said, “I didn’t know you existed. If you’re real.”
“You’ll know soon.”
Ink crooked a brow. “That’s really ominous, you’re not gonna do some evil stuff, right?”
“I don’t know what that is.” And Ink realized that he didn’t know that either, when he was first created, and began to feel a sense of unease.
“What are you going to do?”
The sketch smiled, and then the vessel began to ooze ink. Lots and lots of black ink, from its eyes, nose, and mouth, and ribs and fingers and spine. It overflowed with it, in sharp contrast to the brilliant and inescapable white. Beside it, the peers were motionless and unresponsive.
“I’m going to find you.”
Ink lowered his brows. “But you already did.”
“Yes,” it pleasantly said. “But I want to learn everything you know. I want to learn how to be you in the best way possible, and that way, I can be your soul. I can be Ink’s soul the right way. But first, we have to start everything over.”
The guardian already understood, and his hope had turned into fear and betrayal. “You’ll… make everyone forget me? But that’s- you don’t need to do that to be my soul! You don’t need to do any of that!”
Calmly, it continued, “I want to experience everything brand new. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you. You can’t feel pain like I do.”
Ink felt a familiar frustration. “I can! I’ve felt all of it without you! I’m just the same as anyone else, and I don’t need a soul to feel hurt or sad or anything! I don’t need you!”
“No one will be afraid. No one will feel a thing.”
“But what about my pain? What about my fear? I’ll remember, if anyone will!”
“You won’t.” It confidently said. “You said so yourself. You wouldn’t even remember who you were, if it came down to it. So there’s no need to be upset.”
Ink became speechless and to his surprise, watched tears float above him, reminiscent of iridescent bubbles in oil. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t figure out what to say.
“I don’t want you to do this.” He settled on. “I don’t want to be forgotten at all.”
The soul did not smile. “It’ll be okay. They’ll see you and meet you again soon.”
And he woke up.
When Ink left his house in the Doodlesphere, he went straight to Dream and asked: “Do you know who I am?”
With a patient and enduring smile, Dream said: “Ink, what are you doing now? Please let go of my tunic.” And Ink released his tunic with little fanfare and a flush of apologetic sheepishness. But he was mostly happy to be remembered.
“There’s a weird dream I had that I thought you should know about.”