I love Crowley because he's so aware of what Heaven, Hell, the world are really like, but he gently guides Azi through moral dilemmas and lets him find out harsh truths for himself, supporting along the way, but never forcing his opinions.
I love Crowley because he does little snort laughs and cheesy grins. He bounces around all silly-like, unabashedly himself. He has such an infectious smile.
Because his style is always changing, not because he wants to be with the latest fashion (he's always a bit behind) but because he loves exploring and experimenting with his looks.
Because despite millennia of being told he's evil, he's still a sweetie with a heart of gold.
Because he has a vast imagination and enormous will power. He's creative and adores human inventions, taking precious care of his Bentley for over 90 years.
Because he is so fiercely loyal and protective, not just of Azi, but of humans.
Because he's lived such a long, difficult life and he still finds so much joy in the every day, he's still an optimist.
Because he has endured immense abandonment and suffering, loss of identity, cruelty and fear - and despite it all, he's still kind.
Because he's immensely intelligent and wise and light-hearted and good.
Because even though he wouldn't believe it, he is so worthy of a happy ending.
There is such a special place in my heart for Crowley.
I've been compelled since the end of GO S2 to draw cheer-up post-fix-it fluff comic.
Tbh, the first four pages are just filler to get to the point where I could start drawing (and ogling pictures of) long-hair Crowley being needy (Biblical Crowley is sooo my jam)😍😆
Honestly, the standard of Good Omens fanart is so insanely high I was kinda nervous to even start drawing any (and I haven't done a comic in yearrrrs). But it was really really fun. Thank you for looking!❤
Good Omens Fandom is so so funny sometimes, especially on Twitter.
Sometimes you see some people complaining about how hard it is to lighten Crowley's glasses to see his eyes; and other times, you can see other people that manage to do edit like this :
Okay but like Aziraphale asking Crowley for things isn't just for Aziraphale. In fact it's often something Aziraphale does for Crowley. If Aziraphale asks, even wordlessly, this creates a scenario where Crowley is allowed to do something nice for someone while being allowed to hide it behind the context of an eye roll or an if you insist. It puts a degree of removal between Crowley and the act itself that makes it easier and safer for him to do. Crowley likes to do nice things. Aziraphale knows this. Just like Crowley knows Aziraphale likes to be cared for. They've stumbled this way into this mutually beneficial act where Aziraphale gets to indulge in being indulged and Crowley gets to indulge in doing the indulging - which are both things they do not normally get to indulge in - because they're complimentary even in this.
Asking the being that just quoted poetry at you to save this dying play you're both watching. Creating scenarios for him to rescue you when you know he loves the chance to get to save someone for once. Letting him drive you both around in his fancy new machine he's so delightfully proud of even though you got a license the same year he got the car. Asking him to remove a stain so he can act like you're the dramatic one while taking all the joy in theatrically removing it for you. They're all acts of mutual care and love. Because they're both so hopelessly smitten with another they can't help themselves from indulging the other.
Agree 1000%. This isn’t one-sided at ALL. It’s not Aziraphale selfishly taking and not giving back, because his pleasure is the point. Crowley isn’t looking for another reward. He likes giving Aziraphale what he wants, and doesn’t need or even want reciprocation in kind. He’s already getting the satisfaction from spoiling him. They both get a kick out of this arrangement.
This shot through my brain like a chain of firecrackers, so, without derailing the original post, I have some THOUGHTS to add about why this concept is not only hilarious (because it is), but also...
It. It kind of fucks. Severely.
And in a delightfully Pratchett-y way, I'd dare to suggest.
I'll explain:
As inferred above, both Crowley AND Aziraphale have canonical Biblical counterparts. Not by name, no, but by function.
Crowley, of course, is the serpent of Eden.
(note on the serpent of Eden: In Genesis 3:1-15, at least, the serpent is not identified as anything other than a serpent, albeit one that can talk. Later, it will be variously interpreted as a traitorous agent of Hell, as a demon, as a guise of Satan himself, etc. In Good Omens --as a slinky ginger who walks funny)
Lesser known, at least so far as I can tell, is the flaming sword. It, too, appears in Genesis 3, in the very last line:
"So he drove out the man; and placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life."
--Genesis 3:24, KJV
Thanks to translation ambiguity, there is some debate concerning the nature of the flaming sword --is it a divine weapon given unto one of the Cherubim (if so, why only one)? Or is it an independent entity, which takes the form of a sword (as other angelic beings take the form of wheels and such)? For our purposes, I don't think the distinction matters. The guard at the gate of Eden, whether an angel wielding the sword or an angel who IS the sword, is Aziraphale.
(note on the flaming sword: in some traditions --Eastern Orthodox, for example-- it is held that upon Christ's death and resurrection, the flaming sword gave up it's post and vanished from Eden for good. By these sensibilities, the removal of the sword signifies the redemption and salvation of man.
...Put a pin in that. We're coming back to it.)
So, we have our pair. The Serpent and the Sword, introduced at the beginning and the end (ha) of the very same chapter of Genesis.
But here's the important bit, the bit that's not immediately obvious, the bit that nonetheless encapsulates one of the central themes, if not THE central theme, of Good Omens:
The Sword was never intended to guard Eden while Adam and Eve were still in it.
Do you understand?
The Sword's function was never to protect them. It doesn't even appear until after they've already fallen. No... it was to usher Adam and Eve from the garden, and then keep them out. It was a threat. It was a punishment.
The flaming sword was given to be used against them.
So. Again. We have our pair. The Serpent and the Sword: the inception and the consequence of original sin, personified. They are the one-two punch that launches mankind from paradise, after Hell lures it to destruction and Heaven condemns it for being destroyed. Which is to say that despite being, supposedly, hereditary enemies on two different sides of a celestial cold war, they are actually unified by one purpose, one pivotal role to play in the Divine Plan: completely fucking humanity over.
That's how it's supposed to go. It is written.
...But, in Good Omens, they're not just the Serpent and the Sword.
They're Crowley and Aziraphale.
(author begins to go insane from emotion under the cut)
In Good Omens, humanity is handed it's salvation (pin!) scarcely half an hour after losing it. Instead of looming over God's empty garden, the sword protects a very sad, very scared and very pregnant girl. And no, not because a blameless martyr suffered and died for the privilege, either.
It was just that she'd had such a bad day. And there were vicious animals out there. And Aziraphale worried she would be cold.
...I need to impress upon you how much this is NOT just a matter of being careless with company property. With this one act of kindness, Aziraphale is undermining the whole entire POINT of the expulsion from Eden. God Herself confronts him about it, and he lies. To God.
And the Serpent--
(Crowley, that is, who wonders what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway; who thinks that maybe he did a GOOD thing when he tempted Eve with the apple; who objects that God is over-reacting to a first offense; who knows what it is to fall but not what it is to be comforted after the fact...)
--just goes ahead and falls in love with him about it.
As for Crowley --I barely need to explain him, right? People have been making the 'didn't the serpent actually do us a solid?' argument for centuries. But if I'm going to quote one of them, it may as well be the one Neil Gaiman wrote ficlet about:
"If the account given in Genesis is really true, ought we not, after all, to thank this serpent? He was the first schoolmaster, the first advocate of learning, the first enemy of ignorance, the first to whisper in human ears the sacred word liberty, the creator of ambition, the author of modesty, of inquiry, of doubt, of investigation, of progress and of civilization."
--Robert G. Ingersoll
The first to ask questions.
Even beyond flattering literary interpretation, we know that Crowley is, so often, discreetly running damage control on the machinations of Heaven and Hell. When he can get away with it. Occasionally, when he can't (1827).
And Aziraphale loves him for it, too. Loves him back.
And so this romance plays out over millennia, where they fall in love with each other but also the world, because of each other and because of the world. But it begins in Eden. Where, instead of acting as the first Earthly example of Divine/Diabolical collusion and callousness--
(other examples --the flood; the bet with Satan; the back channels; the exchange of Holy Water and Hellfire; and on and on...)
--they refuse. Without even necessarily knowing they're doing it, they just refuse. Refuse to trivialize human life, and refuse to hate each other.
To write a story about the Serpent and the Sword falling in love is to write a story about transgression.
Not just in the sense that they are a demon and an angel, and it's ~forbidden. That's part of it, yeah, but the greater part of it is that they are THIS demon and angel, in particular. From The Real Bible's Book of Genesis, in the chapter where man falls.
It's the sort of thing you write and laugh. And then you look at it. And you think. And then you frown, and you sit up a little straighter. And you think.
And then you keep writing.
And what emerges hits you like a goddamn truck.
(...A lot of Pratchett reads that way. I believe Gaiman when he says Pratchett would have been happy with the romance, by the way. I really really do).
It's a story about transgression, about love as transgression. They break the rules by loving each other, by loving creation, and by rejecting the hatred and hypocrisy that would have triangulated them as a unified blow against humanity, before humanity had even really got started. And yeah, hell, it's a queer romance too, just to really drive the point home (oh, that!!! THAT!!!)
...I could spend a long time wildly gesturing at this and never be satisfied. Instead of watching me do that (I'll spare you), please look at this gif:
I love this shot so much.
Look at Eve and Crowley moving, at the same time in the same direction, towards their respective wielders of the flaming sword. Adam reaches out and takes her hand; Aziraphale reaches out and covers him with a wing.
You know what a shot like that establishes? Likeness. Commonality. Kinship.
"Our side" was never just Crowley and Aziraphale. Crowley says as much at the end of season 1 ("--all of us against all of them."). From the beginning, "our side" was Crowley, Aziraphale, and every single human being. Lately that's around 8 billion, but once upon a time it was just two other people. Another couple. The primeval mother and father.
But Adam and Eve die, eventually. Humanity grows without them. It's Crowley and Aziraphale who remain, and who protect it. Who...oversee it's upbringing.
Thank you so much it means the world truly. Because I have to say that I'm very grateful that I was welcomed into the fandom with open arms (and hearts 😉) for that year and a half I was active.
These days I'm lurking here watching stuff from a far. Special love to all those lovely people pouring out their talent into their equally lovely works ❤️
The rumours are true. Well, the good ones are, anyway. Netflix is delighted and thrilled that so many of you, all over the world, have been watching and loving Sandman, which means that the thing we were all hoping would happen...? Well, it's happened...
warnings: gonna break your heart one last time, Dream is still Dream (reluctantly affectionate)
notes: all good things come to an end : )
ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: Rule the World (Odyssey Version) by Take That
1:32 ───|────── 4:55
part one | series masterlist | ao3 |
PART ELEVEN: BEYOND.
“Who are you?”
“I am Destiny of the Endless.”
“And who am I?”
“You are the one who wanders. You will do so until the universe ceases.”
“Why?”
“Because you have been cursed to do so. Because you chose no shackles, no roots. You wished, instead, to roam free. And now you shall.”
“Why?”
“Because all is as it is meant to be, Wanderer.”
“Why?”
“Because you wished to break your destiny. And so you did.”
.
“I knew a lad called Jack Constantine once.”
Book in hand, you step around Hob, licking the dryness from your lips. Copper lingers on your tongue. “Same family.”
He perks up at your subdued comment, arms unfolding from where they rested over his chest.
“Nah, really?” He mulls it over for a moment. “Wait, that actually makes a lot of sense. He was a bit of a twat.”
Johanna sniffs. “Piss off.”
Late evening sun streams through the blinds, bathing the dark wood office in syrupy, golden-brown light. Books and notes lay scattered everywhere you look, each inch utilised fully. Johanna leans her hands on the table, squinting at the grimoire laid open. She’s been chewing on her lip for the last five minutes. That doesn’t bode well.
“No can do,” Hob replies, hitching his shoulders with a proud smile. “I’m here on strict business.”
Dropping the grimoire Johanna requested on the table, you shoot them both a look, “Are you two done?” Your attention swivels towards the necromancer despite your trembling hands, finding her delicate features pinched. “Can you find Jed Walker?”
She huffs, her brows folding inwards. “You’re asking me to find a needle in a haystack of seven billion, give or take. I’m not a bloody witch. I don’t just cook up locator spells. I deal with demons and the dead.”
Bracing your hand on the table to mirror her, you soften your voice, “I understand what I’m asking for.”
“I’ll need time to figure this out,” she admits tightly.
Private displeasure colours Johanna’s voice, and you nod in defeat. It’s hard to admit any shortcoming, much less one rooted in one’s power. While Johanna may be more powerful than most mortals can comprehend, it’s not power without gaps. She’s still so young. But, as with all Constantines you’ve known, there now sparks that fiery, stubborn drive, seemingly blazing from within. This is a challenge and one she’s set to overcome.
“What about the other?” she poses abruptly, turning several pages in the grimoire. Her index finger trails over the yellowed pages, glued to another spell. “Do you have anything of theirs? You said this one has magical protection?”
“It’s conjecture,” you clarify. “But he’s been able to skirt me for over a century, so I’m left with one conclusion.”
Hob whistles under his breath. “A century? Bloody hell, you must be eager to find him.”
Memories flutter to life, birds caught in flight. A tall man with blonde hair, a dangerous smirk, and your blurred reflection dancing across his shaded glasses. Nothing more than a twisted memory that’s all fangs and blood. To file this want under ‘eager’ would be insulting. This specific longing comes with both elation and dread. Horror at what you might discover. This ignorance is no more than a flimsy illusion. You’ve spent the last century following Corinthian’s every crime, experiencing it as if he executed them on you instead.
“I can’t promise this will work,” Johanna continues, oblivious to your internal struggle. Your attention snags on Hob, who is watching you with deep creases denting his forehead. There’s old, shrewd awareness in how he examines your rumpled appearance. “At best, I might be able to cloak you. Again, locator spells are not my speciality. At all.”
You clear your mind, pushing away from the wooden fixture. “ What if I gave up an object? It’s old, full of history. Would I be able to form a tether?
You’ve seen such spells performed—you know they’re possible and incredibly advantageous when done right.
Johanna glares down at the grimoire for a beat, silent. Her chin lifts suddenly, her narrow-eyed stare harsh and biting. There’s digging intensity to how she inspects your appearance from head to toe, and you bristle at the probing check.
“You look like shit,” she says bluntly. “I don’t think you should be doing any tethering to anything.”
Your teeth gnash. “Can it be done, Constantine?”
Tension barbs through the room. Hob sighs, making you even more defensive because you can instinctively tell it’s about to become two against one. “We’re not daft, you know,” he says quietly. “It’s clear you’re unwell.”
Your eyes flutter shut. Forcing your jaw to relax, you mull over the most palatable way you can deliver this information to them. It’s clear from their wonderfully human determination that they’re not going to let this drop until they have more context.
“Fine.” Filling your lungs with oxygen, you hold your breath, gathering yourself. How difficult it is to draw oxygen should probably concern you. “Remember how I told you I’ve been experimenting? Well, I’ve exercised a degree of control over the curse. The travelling part, at least. I can force it to take me places I want, but it… costs me. Physically.”
Johanna folds her arms over her chest, humming in consideration. “Cost, eh? How steep?”
These damn Constantines.
The setting sun warms your cool cheek, and some invisible restraint in you loosens your invisible cast dropping. “Internal injuries. Bleeding, tissue tears, organ failure, haemorrhaging. It heals, but slowly. Excruciatingly so. If I abuse controlled travel too often, I can pass out. Slip into a temporary coma until internal damage heals. Vomiting, mobility issues, dizziness, hallucinations—take your pick.”
You’re avoiding direct eye contact, but utter silence encompasses the office when your words sink in.
Hob gathers himself first. “Jesus Christ.”
Shrugging, you say, “It’s fine. I’m getting better at controlling it.”
“Which part of that is fine?” Hob’s voice is barbed with horror. “None of that is fine.”
You wish neither of them were looking at you like this. Rattled, aghast, alight with shades of sadness. It's so much easier to handle this when no one is standing there reminding you of the ugly aspects of this curse.
“Can it be done?” you bite out.
Johanna wipes emotion from her face, stretching out her hand, palm up. “Show me this item.”
Without a preamble, you hand her the roughened wooden figurine. Your stomach roils at the sight. Desperately your fingers clench and unclench in the folds of your coat, blunt nails biting into your palms. The urge to snatch back the figurine is bone-breaking.
Johanna rolls the item in her hand, scanning it with eyes that see far beyond its material form. She’s digging deeper into what history—power—the object contains. “It might work,” she muses pensively. “I’ll cloak you, but the spell will have a time limit. The further away you are from me, the shorter the timer will be. Whoever it is won’t see you coming, but I can’t promise you the exact location.”
The grim determination bubbling in your gut answers: “Just get me as close as you can.”
.
Swirls of colours and shapes; loud, jarring noises, spinning, spinning, nails raking through the skin—
“Make it stop, make it stop—”
It doesn’t stop. There’s only colour—sound—sound—breaking—madness. And it doesn’t stop for a very long time.
.
A thousand reflections stare back at you.
“Coward.”
“Traitor.”
“Murderer.”
“I’m not,” you gasp. “I’m not.”
Do it, do it, do it—
A rat scurries past your arm, disappearing into the hoary mist, and you flinch.
No matter how loudly you plead for forgiveness, for relief, there’s only endless despair and glass cutting into your palms.
.
Flower fields. Sunshine. Peace.
A tall, pale, looming man with twin stars for eyes stands over you.
“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”
No reply.
But for the first time since you’ve woken up as you: hope.
A beautiful dream.
.
“Who did you say you were again?”
Mighty, leathery wings block out whatever light there once was, the newcomer’s pale hair shining like a halo around their fair face.
“I am an angel, here to save you,” a benign, soothing voice coos, followed by fingers tracing over your bloodied jawline. “If only you help me.”
“By doing what?” you slur, blood and sweat trickling down your split brow. “By spying on the Endless? On Dream?”
“Do not fear. I alone can protect you. Your purpose is to merely… observe.”
Demons hiss and growl around you, and you flex your newly healed jaw. They broke it four times in succession. So much for talking back. Scorched dirt beneath your feet stains with your congealing blood, and you chuckle. The croaking sound grows in volume until your throat bleeds.
It’s answer enough.
Your bones quiver under the sheer power of Morningstar’s displeasure. “Take this one away. Make sure there’s nothing left.”
The demons make good on that order.
.
Johanna pierces the world map with a letter opener, every inch cutting in with deliberate slowness. Candles flicker, settling after the spell, and you taste the magick at the back of your throat.
“Georgia, U-S of A,” the necromancer announces, loosening a breath.
“Great,” Hob chirps, his arm brushing against yours. “That’s just brilliant. It’s across the bloody ocean, that is.”
Johnna shoots him a venomous look. “Oh, sorry. Were you hoping for a nice trip down Brighton?”
Hob stares at her blankly in the shadowed office. He turns your way slowly as if mutely asking do you believe her?
You do. You’ve dealt with enough Constantines in your lifetime to ensure their sarcastic, surly nature is no longer a shock.
“You’re a highly unpleasant woman,” Hob concludes, though no real malice lingers in his tone or bearing.
“Thank you, Constantine,” you cut in before they can break into another bickering session. “There’s one more thing.”
The brunette rolls her eyes. “Is there now?”
“Magdalene’s Grimoire,” you begin deliberately. Johanna freezes. “I want you to locate it and retrieve it for me.”
Your companions speak simultaneously:
“Why?”
“You believe it has something to do with your curse, don’t you?”
Ignoring Hob’s incredulous outcry, you nod towards Johanna. Pain twinges suddenly in your core, and your breaths slow until you get a grip on yourself. But it’s slow. Numbing pain laps at your senses for a debilitating minute until it clears once more. The curse wants to drag you in a thousand directions, but you don’t permit it.
You right yourself again, swallowing over your dry tongue. Your temples throb insistently.
“I think it’s old—older than people assume and has spells that no mortal should have access to.” You lean towards the map, examining the range letter opener has offered. You’ve been to Georgia several times previously, but long ago. “Roderick Burgess might have gotten lucky, but the mere fact there’s a spell there that can help capture an Endless… I find that curious. Unlike what your records indicate, he was not the first Magus, but he was the last. This means the grimoire has to be with his family—likely his son—or someone relating to them. I’ll pay you.”
Somehow.
“Are you joking?” Johanna scoffs immediately. “One of the most powerful grimoires known to humanity? I’ll find it for free. Imagine what I could learn from it.”
Your stare glides to her unhurriedly, fixing on her fair complexion. She visibly falters at whatever she spies in your cool regard. “Within reason… and for the good of humanity. Scout's honour.”
Hob squints at her. “You’re not even American.”
“Shut… up,” she mutters, shooting him another nasty look.
You tug your coat free when it catches on a chair, slotting your hands in your pockets. “Thank you, both of you. Is the spell active?”
“Yes, but it won’t hold long at this distance,” Johanna warns.
Your attention latches on the wooden figurine on her desk. It’s wrong—it feels so wrong to have it out of your grasp, to feel nothing more than Dream’s pebble warming your hand. You try not to think about him now or your last conversation together. Instead, you focus on the thread woven around your heart, tugging you away and over the ocean.
“I won’t be back for at least two weeks, but see what you can discover in that time,” you tell them.
Hob balances on his heels, presenting Johanna with a charming grin. “Well, I guess I ought to help you.”
The sorceress scowls. “I don’t need your help.”
“Everyone needs help,” Hob counters.
Levelling them with a fond look, you wordlessly head towards the door while they verbally spar. Your hand briefly braces your chest, feeling the unsteady thud beneath your palm. You’ve been jumping too often, too far, and too rapidly for your body to recover. But just a bit more. Then you can rest.
You’re almost at the end of a darkened hallway before an urgent voice sounds behind you, accompanied by brisk strides in your direction.
“Wait, wait…”
You’re not even slightly surprised to hear Hob behind you or feel his fingers wrap around your bicep. Street light filtering through the window paints over his taut features, creating a pronounced tale of two sides. Light and dark. Young and older than anyone can comprehend. Quite fitting for both of you.
“Take me with you,” Hob says, imploring edge laced beneath his lighthearted manner. It pinches your heart. “You know what they say: two immortals are better than one, eh?”
If things were less dangerous, less volatile, if it were anyone but Corinthian, you would take him up on his offer. You would love nothing more—two immortals going on an adventure. Hob has known the same horrors, similar hardships, countless failures and highs. Together you’re as effortless as breathing, as familiar as old friends meeting after years apart. You’ve felt that kinship with him from the first moment you locked eyes in that overcrowded pub, sitting there soaked and miserable.
But this is the Corinthian. Even if Hob is the one human with nothing to fear from the nightmare, this goes much deeper. Soul deep. Perhaps deeper still. This conflict is between you, Corinthian, and Dream. It’s always been a tale of three parts, interwoven into a single, unbreakable thread.
“Hob Gadling, you are a gem,” you say softly, placing your hand on his warm cheek. An unsure smile forms across his mouth. “And maybe one day I will. But this… this is something I must do alone.”
“You don’t, though. You realise that, right?” Hob argues softly, fiercely. “There are people who care about you.”
You think about the Dreaming and its occupants, all the mortals and other beings you’ve encountered in your many travels. Friends and companions who have told you to visit, stay, there is always a place for you here even when they knew you could do no such thing without putting them at risk. You think about the Endless—your becoming and undoing.
Your hand slips away from him, your faint smile hollow. “I do. Two weeks.”
.
The Endless are formidable individually. The raw power holding this universe together, given form and reason. Their realms are kingdoms that put others to shame. You’ve visited plenty by now to draw the unsurprising conclusion. Dealing with each sibling is an exercise in patience, tact, and subtle respect in differing shades.
Sitting in the same room as seven of them makes you want to crawl out of your skin and run for the hills. You’ve met them individually in the past. There’ve been a handful of occasions where you encountered several simultaneously. But never all together in the same room like this.
They’re terrible and wonderful and so suffocating in their casual existence that every instinct in your mortal body warns you of one indisputable truth:
“I shouldn’t be here.”
Death shakes her head promptly, giving you a stern glance. “Nonsense, sweetheart,” she asserts. “You’re right where you belong. Isn’t that right, Destiny?”
Destiny of the Endless sits unmoving, only his mouth visible behind his flowing, beige hood. His hand rests on the Book of Destiny, pale but relaxed. Whenever Destiny does move, the chain connecting him to the book rattles through your bones.
He hosts these family gatherings, though all Endless have equal prominence in this universe and its continuous function. Despite it, from your angle, it appears as if he’s the one at the head of the table. Oldest and certainly the most overwhelming in his sheer aura. It took him a simple swipe of his hand for an additional chair to materialise at the table for you. For his fluttering, eerily silent attendants to lay a plate and glass on either side of you.
“All is as it should be, sister,” Destiny replies, his voice whistling wind through dry leaves.
Your pulse beats against the curve of your throat. If your stomach weren’t already empty, you would likely be throwing up right now.
Death grins brightly, pleased. Her smile is no doubt meant to be reassuring when she angles back towards you. “See, that’s a yes.”
Your words form clumsily on your tongue, “I didn’t mean to impose—”
Sitting on your left, Delirium tightens her grip on you, cutting your words short. Her chair had been dragged towards yours, your arms linked despite the uncomfortable angle. The scent of leather, sweat, and burnt sugar bites into your nostrils. Today, her hair keeps flickering between bright orange, yellow, and neon green.
“Uhm… impose?” she mutters. Her words flow so swiftly that it’s an effort to keep up. “No, no, imposing to be imposed on, and, um, imposing is impolite. What is impolite?”
“To impose would be impolite, yes.” Your words come out measured. “Like that man. You went into his home.”
“Well, he, well, he wasn’t a very good man.” Delirium’s voice thins, frustration biting into each syllable. On your other side, you sense Destruction turning in your direction. Tension blinks out from Delirium’s lovely features, her different-coloured eyes shining in the dimly lit room. “I made him see colours. Really pretty, pretty colours.”
Yes, she certainly did. You’re hopeful the man received a swift death via villagers, others having no doubt concluded him mad or consorting with devils and demons. As if to illustrate her point, Delirium lightly positions her thumb and index fingers together, forming an O. She giggles, blowing air, and much to your unspoken wonder, multicoloured bubbles float through the air. Some remain bubbles, bloated and bobbing. Others shape into animals and birds.
“I am not an Endless,” you remind, feeling foolish for doing so. As if anyone could mistake you for one of them. Your eyes briefly skim over each sibling, shifting in your seat for the dozenth time. “I don’t think it’s right for me to be here.”
Despair, sitting opposite to you beside her twin, hoods her eyes. The metal hook on her finger digs into her chin. Blood bubbles beneath the honed metal. “Yes. Mortal.”
Her whispering, thin voice blankets you, and your insides ball up.
Destruction chuckles on your right, deep and echoing in the dining hall, smoothing over your suddenly chilled, clammy skin. “Sister, do you meet many mortals who live over three hundred years? I see no harm in you being here, dear Wanderer.”
Desire stretches indolently in their seat, candlelight washing over their indescribable features. Scoff ripples from their chest, their chin dropping in their open palm.
“Right, is anyone else opposed to Wanderer being here?” Desire voices, sweeping a challenging look around the table. When no one speaks, Desire shrugs, arms open at their sides. “See, sweet thing, relax. Have some fruit.”
They pointedly push the fruit basket closer towards you. The fruit does look tasty, and you hadn’t eaten in two days, but don't think you can stomach it right now.
Dream casts an inpatient glance Destiny’s way. In extravagant robes, Dream Lord appears the most disgruntled with being summoned. “Why are we here, Destiny? You do not call upon the family without a cause.”
Destiny’s answer comes predictably vague: “You are here, brother Dream. That is all.”
Despite your unease to be dropped into their family meeting, annoyance pinpricks you at his words. Always the same ambiguity, always what the book dictates, and never what someone might feel. Destiny is not human. It would be unfair for you to hold any of the Endless to mortal standards. For you to expect them to comprehend sentiments that are so far out of their reach.
It doesn’t take away from the sting, though. At least this time, the curse was mindful enough to drop you inside Destiny’s stronghold inside the Garden of Forking Ways. Last time, you found yourself helplessly lost inside the boundless maze for weeks. Destiny did nothing to aid you—it was as it was meant to be. You associate him most closely with that wild animal fear and sheer helplessness. You can’t help it.
“Why the rush?” Desire calls out, interrupting your thoughts. “Eager to get back to another failed relationship, sweet Dream?”
Shadows coil around Dream Lord’s feet, seated between Delirium and Death. You silently question if it’s a purposeful partition.
“That’s enough from you, sibling,” Dream warns.
Desire’s lovely mouth spreads into a quick, beaming smile; all teeth bared and tawny eyes aglow with sadistic amusement. A predator having scented blood. “Oh, come on now,” they coo. “We all come here to talk as a family; even lovely Wanderer is present. Yet you think yourself above everything. Your realm, your rules—we’ve heard it all before! You’re oh so dull.”
Despair slumps beside her twin, face downcast. “Dull. Yes, rather dull indeed.”
“And are you perhaps bored, my sibling?” Dream returns, a slight pinch to his imperious features. His voice remains perfectly aloof. From this outsider’s perspective, it’s easy to see why Desire views Dream as supercilious. “Did you run out of adequate ways to amuse yourself?”
Momentarily swallowing down your fear, you slant your head over to one side, “Dream.”
Dream pauses at your drawn, anxious expression. The ignited stars dim, draining away, but the hard slant of his broad shoulders doesn’t drop.
“Oh, don’t run to his defence.” Desire’s voice is just edging on goading. Their nails tap on the wooden table when they cross their legs, leaning towards you. “This is quite characteristic. Surely you find him just as insufferable as the rest of us?”
Death’s retort is whip-sharp. “Desire. Shut up.”
Others around the table appear calmly accepting. They’ve seen this fight play out in the past a thousand times. While you’ve never demanded reasons for the bad blood between the two Endless, it’s clear it runs deep, a problem stemming from innumerable centuries long since past. And very clearly not a situation for you to get involved in. You’re not naive or arrogant enough to assume you can fix their problems for them. Neither Desire nor Dream seems particularly invested in settling anything, either.
But inciting like this is dangerous. Desire has never attempted to spark arguments involving you in the past, no matter how spiteful the mood.
As if mentally arriving at the same conclusion, Destruction’s rumbling words vocalise your unspoken plea: “Do not involve Wanderer in your quarrel, sibling.”
Delirium curls into herself, her legs raised on the chair and pressing into her chest. Her hold on your arm turns near painful. “Arguing, fights, it's not nice, but it… um… that’s not where Desire is supposed to be. It’s um… it’s somewhere else. It’s in Dreams.”
You’re not sure how to decode Delirium’s words. You once believed them to be mindless babbles. Then some phrases would come back to haunt you months or even years later. Whatever caused the turn in Delirium from Delight gave her foresight no other Endless seemed to possess. Save, perhaps, Destiny.
Desire’s fingers curl beneath their pointed chin. Desire surveys you, then his older brother, with a feline's slowness. “Well, well. Aren’t you two sweet on each other?”
This time, the darkness curling beneath Dream’s chair becomes physical. Visible even to your mortal eye.
“Cease your poisonous stipulations,” Dream says icily.
Desire scoffs, dropping back in their seat with a graceful, seductive stretch. Heat encompasses your being, pouring in the crevices of your skin. Desire’s effect is all but impossible to escape this close.
“Is it not my function, oh dear brother of mine, to sow desire in the hearts of all living things, mortal and otherwise? What are they without their desires?” The Endless straightens just as swiftly, their elbows digging back into the table while they eye you, chin back in their hands. Something cruel and fragmented, endlessly amused, slides through those golden irises—an intent you’ve never seen Desire direct your way until now. “Come, my sweet, doesn’t it get dreary? All those mortals set on your suffering? Surely you have missed the sweet, loving embrace of Desire? I could make you desire anything… even a kiss.”
And then…
The world melts away, and everything once making up your being bows and folds under the power pressing into you. You’re but a child. You are atoms. And you’ve forgotten how terrible their power could be once unleashed.
There’s only cocoon and darkness and golden, glowing eyes beckoning you, warming you, bewitching you. Your limbs are too far away to control, your will dulled into thin, worn paper—brittle to the touch. Your skin is too hot, and the air in your lungs is insufficient. It feels so good. So good, so good—
Even a kiss, even a kiss, even a kiss—
Your limbs are on strings, tugged in one direction, then another. Distantly, horror chokes you, and you scratch at the walls inside your mind, clawing for some semblance of control, but there’s only a sultry embrace of desire.
“Desire, no—”
“Stop—”
“Enough.” Something inside your chest trembles at that single word’s sheer, unbridled power. Your numbed senses are clear but not enough to free you. You're trapped, caught on the verge of awareness. “You dare.”
“Now, now, dear Dream. Did I get under your skin? It’s but jest. Lighten up.”
Few stars emerge in your blackened vision, guiding you closer. They urge you forward to safety, but you’re unable to move. It feels good to be here, so good and hot. There’s no pain, only desire and pleasure—
“We do not control mortals, sister-brother. Their will is their own. Release Wanderer.”
Destiny’s tepid command shreds through the heated, desire-filled veil. You return to yourself with a choked gasp, snapping into your tiny mortal body with a painful lurch. It’s overwhelming. Every sense was smothered to such a degree, it’s as if everything is twice as heightened now.
“Are you insane?” Death snaps. You’ve never heard her this angry until now. There’s always a smile on her face and a playful gleam in her eyes. But you’re too busy shaking to be afraid. “What was that, huh?”
Your hands convulse. Bloody indents line your palms. Your nails must have cut into your skin hard enough to draw blood. You fought. But what can a mortal do when faced with an Endless? You were erased, folded down to nothing. You are nothing.
Voices melt into one. You’re too shaken to separate them. When some semblance of awareness settles in, you realise how awful these… seconds, minutes, or hours have truly been.
You’re half straddling Destruction, arms half wrapped around his broad shoulders, your mouth near his neck. Horror liquefies your limbs, rooting you in your spot. Too much—it’s too much. Humiliation leaves you immobile, but Destruction rests his hand between your shoulder blades, his gaze kind and concerned beneath his bunched eyebrows.
“Are you well?” he asks quietly over the clamour behind you.
Your chin wobbles. Shame lashes your skin. You’ve been used as no more than a puppet to be thrown at him. On him. Like some mindless whore. A witless worshipper, begging for their chosen god’s favour, not understanding what they’re inviting. How the gods are never kind. How they only use and break for their amusement.
Even though Destruction doesn’t appear angry, you can’t stop yourself from croaking out, “I… I… I’m sorry.”
His sympathetic frown is visible even beneath his thick beard. He cradles you to him but with gentleness indicating how fragile he believes you to be at this moment. “Do not fret. It is quite alright, my friend.”
“Can you…?”
Your words splinter. The burn behind your eyes turns painfully prickly. Destruction’s handsome face creases further. He nods mutely, carefully manoeuvring your body to a standing position. His large hand presses between your shoulder blades, steading and hot through your thin robes. His fingers fold slightly, protectively. Your gratitude for his unprompted support is immeasurable. An anchor while your knees shake.
“It was a joke,” Desire calls out over his siblings. “Desire is who I am. It’s all in good fun. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?”
Your shoulders spasm, your back still to them. Your insides churn at the prompt, and you’re unsure if you’re about to be sick, cry, or some horrific mix of both.
You thought… you were foolish enough to assume…
How many times have you landed in the Threshold, thrilled to see Desire? How often have you shared jokes, laughs, and peaceful evenings and mornings in the twilight land? What other touch or embrace have you known over three centuries that didn’t end in agony but Desire’s? You’ve told them numerous times you have no preference for any sibling in their family—that you cherish Desire’s company as much as others, perhaps even more so. Because with Desire, you could remember what it’s like to be human—to want and need.
You had foolishly believed you were friends.
Now you see the truth. You feel the horrible, numbing heat licking across your flesh—the aftermath of this ultimate betrayal. Desire’s power shimmers on the outskirts of your mind, ready to devour you anew. Rob you of reason and choice.
“I—you… I trusted you.” Everyone falls silent at your frayed words, scraping through the eerily quiet dining hall. When you rotate clumsily towards them, you look only at Desire. You avoid others. Your humiliation burns too brightly for anything else. “You… just made me feel like nothing. You degraded me. I’m no more than a thing for you to play with.”
Some foreign emotion spasms briefly through Desire’s face—gone in a blink. Their answering smile is so patronising a deeper crack splinters your chest. “Wanderer. Be a good sport. It was simply a bit of fun.”
A bit of fun.
Desire can be fickle, and it can be cruel. But you’ve forgotten just how cruel they could be. To Desire, this is no more than a practical joke. You’re only a silly mortal. No wonder you don’t get the joke. You’ll get over yourself soon enough. But no one else is laughing or smiling, either. Even Despair in your peripheral remains hunched and mute, typically first to her twin’s defence.
“Fun.”
The word shatters something between you the second you voice it. You can see it on Desire’s face. The realisation settling in. There is no regret, no apology. Nor will there ever be. It’s clear from the dismissive curl of Desire’s mouth. They don’t see anything wrong with what just transpired.
It makes it worse. So much worse.
“Wanderer, brother Destruction. Sit.”
Destiny’s perfectly poised voice shreds whatever little composure you’ve been clinging onto.
“You knew, didn’t you?” The accusation rips through the room like wildfire. You shake off Destructions comforting touch, your lungs filling with air and spilling out fire. “You knew Desire was going to do that. That’s the only reason why you permitted me to stay. Do I not suffer every day? Or do you enjoy making me into your little plaything? Have I not been humiliated enough for your amusement?”
Destiny says nothing.
You shove away from the table with disgust. Your feet tangle before you command your sluggish limbs. Death rise after you immediately.
“Wanderer—”
You flinch away from her extended hand, from all of them. You don’t care what invisible line you may be overstepping. “Don’t touch me,” you spit out. “I never should have stayed.”
Your feet carry you several paces until another, more resounding voice calls, “Wanderer.”
A part of you doesn’t understand why you pause or look back. Dream’s gaze sears into you. Yet you can’t untangle a single thing you see burrowed there. He’s standing as well, his hand flat on the table. Foolishly, you hope he will come after you, say something in defence of you. But Dream is Dream. He’s likely just as clueless about why you took this so badly as others. Perhaps the fury you see glimmering in those starlit eyes is but your imagination. Another pretty lie your sentimental, human heart would be all too happy to convince yourself of.
He doesn’t move. You pivot away, your shoulders hunching.
Desire’s chuckle licks at your back, silky and smooth. “So tense, that one. It was only a bit of fun.”
No one laughs. No one responds.
Only a bit of fun.
“Take me away, take me away from here,” you sob, stumbling into a shadowed hallway.
For once, the curse listens.
.
Rivulets of sweat drip down your back. The puddle of blood at your feet is starting to go dark. These observations float from somewhere beyond the dense fog shrouding your mind. It’s so difficult to focus. Wiping across your sweaty forehead, you lean on your arm, breathing deeply. You’ve forgotten how suffocating the humidity could be here in Georgia.
Mercifully only heat-blurred fields surround you. The vast, open stretch of highway is all you see on either side.
Lights dance in your vision, your ears ringing. Maybe it’s the curse and not the heat. Your limbs obey no command, barely held together by sheer stubborn will to follow the tether pulsing in your chest. The spell’s power is already dimming. You have no choice but to jump. This is your only chance to get to Corinthian first.
“Come on… come on… I don’t obey you.” Your nails scrape on the heated metal, your head hanging low. “You obey me.”
Your tongue rolls the words clumsily. No matter how much you swallow, more saliva floods your mouth, causing your stomach to cramp. Your knees beg to fold beneath you. Lay down in this tall grass and wait for the inevitable that will never arrive. It’s foolish. Death is far from the worst thing that can befall an individual. It was the very first lesson you learned.
Digging deeper, you claw and yank on the curse’s power, squeezing it until the bleed becomes physical. Until your limbs rip from one place to another.
When you settle back into your body, skin stinging, your knees hit the ground immediately. Blood dribbles past your lips, your sweat-covered forehead pressing into the soft dirt. You pant loudly, blood trickling past your cracked lips. Pain is coming from everywhere. Sounds mangle into each other when you attempt to raise your head. Your stomach protests viciously, leaving you dry heaving. Nothing but more blood escapes your body.
A hotel sign. It’s the first thing you register. You’ve landed near one, practically on it. Your fingernails dig into the dirt as you stumble into a standing position. The tether Johanna’s spell has threaded pulses harder and faster in your chest. There. Corinthian has to be there.
Cradling your sore midsection, you painstakingly make your way towards the hotel. Relentless heat melts your already nonexistent strength reserves down to nothing.
Several people glance in your direction when you push through the reception door. In this climate, your attire certainly raises eyebrows, but you remind yourself there’s no way Corinthian can know you’re here this time.
“Can I help you?”
You stumble to a stop, breathing heavily. A man with a tiny hat and a nametag reading Fun Land sits behind a table, his annoyance palpable while he stares at you expectedly. It takes considerable effort to gather the strength required to speak.
“No.”
You turn to go.
“Hey, woah! This is a convention-only area. Can’t you read?”
Following the direction the man is gesturing wildly towards, you find a board reading Cereal Convention printed in large, bold letters. The rest blurs, sweat stinging your eyes. You work your jaw.
“No,” you repeat.
The man’s petulant glare would be comical if you were in a better mood.
“You can’t go here,” he declares stiffly.
Your fingers curl weakly, convulsing at your sides. You didn’t come this far to be precluded from finding Corinthian by a goddamn sign. By a cereal convention. Cereal convention. Cereal. At the back of your foggy mind, something nags at you.
Your brows dip inwards, your gaze slipping towards the man. His bravado stutters, washing away from him. He shrinks backwards the longer you stare at him, his throat working on a gulp. Your lips compress into a stiffer line. Someone brushes behind you, stepping up to the table. Fun Land exhales in audible relief, serving them, pretending he’s too busy to pay you further notice.
Fine. You’ll find another way.
Stalking outside, you keep to the shade, leaning into the wall for support. It doesn’t take long to track down the delivery entrance. Every hotel has one, and depending on the time of day, they’re not the best protected. Like right now, in the afternoon, after housekeeping has gone home, leaving only a handful of staff on standby.
He’s in here somewhere. The hotel corridors melt together. Beige walls and stale, humid air. They warp, smearing together into nothing but sensation. You’re a rat caught inside yet another maze. Sickness churns inside your stomach.
And then, impossibly, you see him.
A pale head of golden hair illuminated by washed-out light, his back to you while he strolls ahead and away from you.
“Corinthian.”
The raspy exhale ricochets. The nightmare stops dead in his tracks. Until this precise second, he wasn’t there, wasn’t real, but with his name, the nightmare becomes a reality. Corridor may separate you, but the spell winks out, confirming your suspicion.
Aircon buzzes through the long, otherwise vacant corridor. Your heart thunders in your ears.
Then, Corinthian speaks: “You shouldn’t be here.”
A sob wells in your chest at his drawling, smooth words. Nearly two hundred years you haven’t seen him. Over a century seeking him out, having to live with the ramifications of atrocities he’s been inflicting. And now, here, it’s just you and him. You’re not sure which sensation pulses in you stronger: anger or relief.
Your mouth quivers, your tongue dragging across your dry, cracked lips. “I searched for you.”
“I know you did,” he replies listlessly, his back still facing you. It hurts, because you were right. He’s been knowingly avoiding you. As if reading your mind, Corinthian raises his hand, and your stomach shrivels when you spot your ring firm on his finger. “I have this to thank you for, but it would seem you found me out anyway. Shame.”
The ring. Of course.
A small piece of humanity for you to hold. I told you, they’re not all bad. I hope this can help you experience it.
And experience it he did. An essential part of yourself put away in that ring must have given him a sense of your presence nearby. He used your own present against you.
The Corinthian finally turns to face you, all but unchanged except for his modern hairstyle and refined round shades. You want to say so many things to him that your tongue refuses to work altogether. A great chasm yawns between you, and you have no idea how to bridge it.
“What are you doing?” you ask at last.
There’s no smirk or sly grin in sight. He’s as closed off as you. Despite his seeming indifference, you read the subtle tension lining Corinthian’s broad shoulders. He can hide from others, trick and lie to them if he pleases, but never you.
“What I was made to do,” he replies tightly.
“No. You’re hurting them.”
Corinthian’s jaw locks. “He made me in your image, Wanderer. Now I’m making the world in mine. I thought you’d be proud.”
A disbelieving scoff rips from your chest, burning your windpipe as if acid washed down it. “Proud?” you parrot. “You’re killing them.”
Your harsh condemnation dissolves whatever neutrality remains in the space between you. Prior uncertainty dashes beneath a strain of a century dripping in the blood of innocents.
“Did they do less to you?” Corinthian’s voice is all nightmare; honeyed, cruel, and seductive. His head tilts playfully to one side. “How often did they torture you? Shun you? Sought to eradicate you? Still you defend them as you did him.”
Your sight muddies, and it takes a shake of your head to clear it. “You can’t punish all for crimes of a few.”
A snarl twists Corinthian’s mouth, his feet carrying him towards you in a measured, prowling stalk.
“A few? They’re all the same: greedy, selfish, and cruel. The curse reveals. I reflect. They don’t change; they only learn how to hide better.” He pauses, licking his lips as he considers you. Something seems to occur to him, a faint laugh vibrating from his chest. “Do you have any idea how many times I stopped them? Punished them for hurting you? New Orleans in ‘31. Berlin in ‘43. Vienna in ‘55. Seoul in ‘62. Moscow in ‘71. Bangkok in ‘89. New York in ‘00. Why those were all me and then some. I was there. I’ve always been there.”
Each date punctures through you like a stray bullet. Honed and whetted for the single purpose of hurting you in a different sense. A fragmented nightmare. You’ve chased a mirage while the nightmare has spent a century mirroring your steps, keeping you safe from the shadows whenever your paths crossed unbeknownst to you.
There’ve been times—
You thought you’d caught glimpses of him in decades-long since lost. But unfailingly, you’ve only ever found empty alleyways when you pursued these figments. Eventually, you stopped chasing these mirages. The pain was too great. But it’s never been just your overreactive imagination, has it? He was real. He was there.
He’s spent a century killing indiscriminately while also keeping you safe. You want to scream at him for the evil he’s committed and cry from sheer relief he hasn’t forgotten you.
“Then why hide?” you croak, stumbling closer. “Why not speak with me?”
“Oh, come now.” Corinthian clicks his tongue. He turns away, nostrils flaring, then turns to face you again. “You know why. You would have asked me to come back, and for you, I would have.”
His features blur, your words barely audible, “And would that have been so terrible?”
“Come back to what? Dream’s ball and chain?” Acidic words, despite their softness. His rage deflates instantly, a huffing laugh escaping him as if he’s surprised himself with the lapse. “You think he gives a fuck about either of us? He threw you out. You left.”
Indignation flares in your chest. “Not by choice.”
“Then you should have taken me with you. But you left me. All you ever do is play by Dream’s rules. I figured out how to leave the Dreaming back during Dreamfall, but I stayed. Wonder why.”
You have no response to that. You’re left standing there, gaping. For you. Who else? He had no one else there; no other reason to stay other than your presence.
“So that’s it,” you begin shakily, your words rasping, sniffling. “All this because you believe I chose Dream and his rules over you?”
“What did you do to yourself?”
Corinthian’s voice has gone dreadfully quiet. Fiercely unhappy. Too late, you realise you’re sniffling because blood is dripping from your nose. Clumsily, you swipe the back of your hand over your chin. Crevices in your skin crack with dried blood.
“It was never a choice, don’t you get it?” you whisper, your words pouring out thick and wet with emotion. “It’s always been you. Always. I was terrified the journey would destroy you. Had I known, I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat.”
Corinthian closes the remaining distance between you, grasping you by the forearms. It’s such a relief to have him near again. You sag into him, trembling. You try to raise your hand to wipe beneath your nose, but your limbs are too stiff to obey.
“What did you do, Wanderer?” He sounds furious while he examines you, as if only now realising the extent of your deterioration. “What did you do yourself?”
“I had to get to you first,” you tell him. Blood smudges the lapels of his jacket where you grasp it. “Please, you have to stop. They don’t deserve this, Cori.”
He looks disgusted at your words, but your legs fail you before he responds. Corinthian catches you before your knees hit the carpeted ground.
“It hurts.” His words come out hissing, sharp with incredulity. “Why does it hurt?”
Your chin jolts upwards, your bloodstained smile trembling around the edges. “You know why. I’m inside of you. You can’t escape that.”
Neither of you can. You’ll carry him in you until your bitter end, as he will carry you until his.
“Shh. I got you.” Corinthian tucks you into him when a whimper of pain escapes you. His hand cradles the back of your head. “I’m going to set us both free.”
And then, through horror, darkness closes in.
.
Motion.
“Who is that?”
A woman’s voice. Unfamiliar.
“Oh, yes. This one is with me. Won’t you be a good girl and share that tidbit with others, so we don’t have any… complications. I appreciate it.”
“But I thought—”
Arms tighten around you possessively—the air coils, suffused with thick tension.
“Good Doctor. No one touches this one. Or they'll have to deal with me. Personally.”
Footsteps retreat near instantly, the atmosphere lightening in the absence. You’re resting on something velvety. You have no idea where you are, but you know you’re safe.
“Cori…”
“Shh, I’ll be back before you know it.” Cold glass touches your lips. When your lips part, soothing water slips into your awaiting mouth. After several mouthfuls, the glass disappears. A cool hand traces your face. “Things will be different real soon, you’ll see.”
You reach blindly, seeking. “Don’t go.”
“Oh, don’t worry. After I’m done, we’ll have a Dreaming of our own.”
Then nothing.
.
Anchor around your ankle. Plunging, bitter cold water, pressure, pressure, a hand reaching uselessly towards the shrinking light above, then nothing—
.
Ropes bite into your wrists, the pyre is tall, and the crowd jeers with open delight. They throw things at you; some hit, some miss. You don’t know if you hate them or pity them. Both, neither. Sahsin’s face is disgusted, filled with hate. She has positioned herself in front of the throbbing mob. When the fire comes, Sahsin enjoys it. When the fire comes, the agony devours all else—
.
Blank page.
Blank page.
Blank page.
And beneath, a faint, pulsing power of Endless Destruction.
“My lord.”
Urgent footsteps head in his direction. Morpheus raises his head, his grip on the tome in his hands white-knuckled.
Loyal Lucienne and a rather familiar figure a step behind her.
“I apologise for leaving, Lord,” Fiddler’s Green begins, flustered but entreating. “But you must help. He’s killing them.”
.
You awake with a pained gasp. Your head swims, your fingers clumsily seeking purchase.
An eerily silent hotel room greets you when your hiccuping gasps assuage into a steadier rhythm. Corinthian is nowhere in sight. You wrench yourself from beneath the comfortable covers, stumbling. You grab your carelessly thrown coat on your way out, shrugging on the familiar weight. At least your vision is clearer than earlier. Pain remains undiminished by your fretful rest.
The hotel is unnaturally quiet—your nerves prickle. Nothing good ever comes from places where there should be life, being devoid of it. Unease pools in your stomach while you stumble through winding corridors. Where did everyone go?
Outside, twilight has settled over the landscape. Your pace increases, your palms dragging across the walls to keep moving.
You find the reception empty, the convention table barren. Except…
“—a black mirror, made to reflect everything about itself that humanity will not confront. But look at you—”
Your body turns to stone mid-step. There’s no confusing that voice with anyone—the absolute power infused into every deliberate, low syllable.
With a start, you realise your knees have bent, your coat pooling around your ankles. You’re scared. Dream wasn’t supposed to be here. Not when you’re not there to mediate. Clawing at the walls, you force your legs forward. Your bones quake in protest with each step.
Shoving into the conference room, you find the room full. Hotel patrons sit in neat rows, their heads bowed and eyes closed.
Dream of the Endless and the nightmare make for a lonely, contrasting sight on the stage: dark and light.
Corinthian’s small smile is scornful. “I’m not the problem, Dream.”
“You’re right,” Dream Lord concurs quietly. “This is my fault, not yours. I had so much hope for you, but I created you poorly then. So I must uncreate you now.”
Dream’s arm lifts in the air between them. You lurch forward, stumbling up the stairs.
“No!”
You let out a dry sob, pushing past Dream to get to the nightmare. The contours of Corinthian’s face have begun dissolving, singed red at the edges, disappearing back into the sand he was fashioned from.
Corinthian chokes out a breath, grinning widely, grasping your hand. “Hey, trouble—”
His hand in yours crumbles. A wounded, animalistic sound rips from you. There’s a futile, blind attempt to grasp onto his body as it slips between your fingers. Through your arms, and then out of your life.
“No! No, no.”
Your knees hit the stage so hard the sound is a thunderclap through the hushed room. Sand lays in a golden pile at your feet. A tiny skull containing teeth for eyes is all that remains and—
Your ring. Corinthian’s faint warmth still lingers on the metal. Wet dots fall into the sand. Only then do you register the tears dripping down your face. Followed by speckles of blood. It seems appropriate that, in the end, he should have your blood also.
Featherlight touch on your shoulder only registers after Dream’s voice floats through your agony: “Wanderer. I am sorry.”
Perhaps under different circumstances, you would have examined this moment closer—Dream Lord, an Endless, on his knees beside you, his voice impossibly soft. Instead, you want to disappear.
“I know,” you sob, shaking, half leaning towards the ground. If it weren’t for Dream’s grip on you, there’s no doubt in your mind you would collapse right where Corinthian has. Something mangles inside you, far beyond physical. “I know you had to stop him. I… to me… he… to me he’s…”
Everything.
Dragging your hands desperately through the slippery grains, you gather them in a smaller circle.
“What are you doing?”
Dream’s question is uncharacteristically gentle. There’s deeper awareness that a wrong question could shatter you completely.
Past your raw vocal cords, you only manage: “I—I can’t leave him. I can’t leave him again.”
You’re not sure if you’re coherent enough for him to understand. Each word borders on a pained howl. Black is rapidly devouring your fading vision. Too much. It’s too much. You’re about to explode. Collapse like the nightmare did, utterly undone.
Several scarlet drops drip into the sand, and Dream sucks in a deep breath beside you, his grip on you tightening.
“You’re bleeding.”
He doesn’t get a response. Blackness devours you whole.
.
Recovery takes three weeks. You’re unconscious for the first two. Another week crawls by until you can move again.
The simple fact that it takes you so long to become functional only confirms that Dream brought back a broken soul into the Dreaming. You’ve survived limbs being severed. Past incidents where your skin was peeled off. But this goes beyond skin deep.
You haven’t travelled since the incident. The mere thought induces a fresh dose of cramping terror through your system. The curse, wounded and worn, has retreated. Dormant. For now.
“You mourn him.”
You jump in your spot. Your fingers close protectively over the ring in your hand. Dream steps into your line of sight, his coat fluttering around his lithe figure. His face is slanted away from you, observing the waterfront. You try to hide your surprise at seeing him.
He’s been… distant these last three weeks. Not cold, but…
Sad.
There’s no other way to delineate the forlorn stares that seem to follow you.
“I’m not an idiot. What Corinthian was doing was horrific,” you say dully, tugging on stray blades of grass.
Fiddler’s Green has returned, taking his post once more. It should make you happy. He apologised personally for his departure, but you understood his reasonings for leaving. Without his creator, Fiddler’s Green wanted to experience what it was like to be human. What right do you have to judge him for such a wish? Yet memory is a cruel mistress—the recollections of the one whose absence is so torturously felt are everywhere.
“He took lives that were never his to take,” you continue. Anger bites into controlled syllables. “Not to mention his plan to have Rose become the new heart of the Dreaming. Did he realise the universe would have collapsed in on itself? He had to be stopped.”
It was what had awoken you back at the hotel. It’s only later that you learned the extent of Corinthian’s plan. Rose Walker was the vortex. Given enough time, she would have become the centre of the Dreaming, drawing dreams and nightmares to her. And collapsed this universe as a result. Dream would have killed her—it’s the only time the Endless are permitted to take mortal life, if they’re an active threat—but Rose’s grandmother had stepped in last second. A woman who should have been the vortex if it hadn’t been for Dream’s capture. If the sleeping sickness that swept through the waking world had not robbed her of life.
“But you mourn him still.”
Unequivocal insistence. Your composed mask cracks around the edges. Lying would be pointless.
“Of course I do,” you exhale, pained.
Dream’s fingers curl at his side, but he doesn’t look your way. “This was my oversight, Wanderer. Do not bear the guilt for those lost.”
Trees ripple and shiver in the faint breeze. Waterfall roars to your left, while to your right, the dark shores of the Dreaming reflect sunshine like the darkest obsidian. You consider the Dream Lord while he watches the beach with a stony expression. Utterly closed off—same old Dream.
Deflating, you struggle back onto your feet.
“Their blood is on my hands, too,” you say, turning to go.
Guilt will follow you no matter what he maintains.
“Are you departing once more?” he calls out, halting you in your tracks. He’s scrutinising you when you peek his way. “You are not fit for travel.”
Offering a throwaway smile, you shrug. “I’m a rubber ball. I bounce back quickly.”
“Stay until Dreamfall if the curse permits it.” Dream pauses after his brisk request, catching himself with a swallow. Awkwardness permeates the air. “It would mean a great deal to others if you celebrated with them.”
You loosen a reluctant breath, squinting at him. “Do you want me to stay?”
Something shifts between you at the forthright prompt; tightening, warming. Surprise collects in your chest at the fact you dared to ask. But you’re tired of feigning, acting as if you’re both not caught in some bizarre impasse.
Dream’s lips part softly, his answer a mere exhale, “I would.”
Light, tingling sensation webs through your chest. You hadn’t expected that. “Under one condition.”
“Name it.”
“Answer me something, Morpheus. Truthfully.” With deliberate slowness, you step into his bubble, so close Dream’s lashes flutter as he peers at you. There’s such unbearable weight to his gaze. There’s always been a raging storm brewing there, but this is more. Heavier. “Corinthian was convinced that you made him in my image. Is it true?”
Your jaw sets stubbornly, the nightmare’s name stinging your tongue. Dream’s eyes roam over your features, seeking some unknown truth. You’re not asking about physical similarities, but you permit him this moment. Because he digs deeper, because your heart is in your throat when Dream finally settles on his truth:
“While I did not recognise it as such at the time, I believe I did.”
You’ve known, been aware of this fact for centuries. Since Corinthian shared his hypothesis, you’ve been unable to scrub it from your mind. But to have confirmation from Dream himself paints many past events in a different light.
“I made you poorly then… a black mirror made to reflect everything humanity will not confront.” Recalling Dream Lord’s words, you stagger backwards, your mind whirling with thoughts. A startled gasp pushes from your lungs, your attention snapping back to the Endless. Suddenly all the puzzle pieces slot perfectly into place. “I had it all wrong. Corinthian was a manifestation of your anger for what humanity was doing to me. He was to be your mirror, your teacher, so humanity may choose to be better. So they may learn to overcome their darkest impulses.”
Staggering backwards, words escape you in a torrent, “But it went wrong, didn’t it? You gave him too much of that anger—the fury of an Endless and reckless, unshakable defiance of a cursed mortal. You created a masterpiece by giving him too much. By making something that is so much more than just a nightmare. A perfect hybrid between an Endless and a mortal.”
Dream says nothing in response. It’s the only confirmation you need.
In the end, you stay. But this time, you’re the one who avoids the Dream Lord.
.
“You’re always welcome in my chambers, sweet Dream. It’s lovely to see you. Can I get you anything you desire?”
Morpheus strolls through the glossy scarlet chambers of his younger sibling’s stronghold. Desire of the Endless curls with each word spoken, stretching indolently across their seat. Loving malice lines planes of Desire’s face, enigmatic and magnetic as their name suggests.
Dream moves closer. “I desire nothing from you, save some answers.”
Desire pouts, sitting up, their hands in their lap. “Oh? Do tell. I love a test.”
He’s never understood Desire’s love for games. Petulant slights or wish to inflict harm. To manipulate and use. Once…
He supposes it no longer matters what their relationship might have been once—too many years arc between them: too much history and bad blood. Morpheus prowls through the gallery, briefly flicking his attention towards his family’s sigils.
“Unity Kincaid should have been the vortex of this age. But someone saw fit to take advantage of my imprisonment and fathered a child with her, knowing full well that it would become the vortex and I would be left with no choice but to kill it.”
A mock gasp escapes Desire’s ruby-painted lips. Their golden eyes blow wide open, startled and innocent, while they monitor Dream.
“Are you implying I meddled with affairs of another Endless domain, dear brother?” Desire’s pout wobbles when Dream doesn't respond. The faux innocence melts away in a blink, leaving behind nothing but conniving malice, peering back through a hooded stare. “Oh, fine, was I really that obvious?”
A brief, cool smile touches Dream’s lips, his words coming out frosty, “No. You covered your tracks remarkably well.”
“High praise, coming from you,” Desire tuts, grinning sharply.
“What did you intend?” Dream heads towards the other Endless unhurriedly. “That I should spill family blood? With all that would entail?”
“This time, it almost worked.” Desire’s grin stretches wider, pleased. “I haven’t seen you this worked up since my little wrangle with lovely Wanderer. How is she, by the way? Still coughing up blood?”
His younger sibling adjusts their position once again, sitting up straighter. Bracing for a fight, Morpheus realises belatedly. This is a sore spot that always elicits a reaction. But this time, Morpheus will not be giving his sibling the satisfaction. He’s observed Desire’s and Wanderer’s relationship—or what little of it remains—long enough to draw his own conclusions.
“You do not fool me,” Morpheus begins deliberately. The corners of Desire’s mouth tilt downwards slightly. “I know your fickle heart, my sibling, and you resent the fact Wanderer forgives others but not you. But you fail to understand why that same forgiveness has not been extended your way. We of the Endless are the servants of the living, not their masters. We exist only because they know deep in their hearts that we exist. We do not manipulate them. If anything, they manipulate us.”
“Then perhaps I shall pay Wanderer a visit in person.” Desire drags their thumbs over the edge of their lips, sly in their wily deliberation. “I do, after all, wear your face now. But unlike you, I will endeavour to be a far more… devoted lover.”
Wrath kindles in his chest. Morpheus knows. He’s read about your and Desire’s encounter at the shores of the Dreaming while he was locked away.
He shakes his head. “Still, you fail to see. We are their dolls, Desire. You and Despair, and even poor Delirium, will do well to remember that.”
Desire presents him with a dismissive shrug, their nose wrinkling. “Maybe I don’t understand.”
“No, perhaps you do not,” Morpheus agrees softly. Circling, he slips behind his younger sibling. Desire’s head wrenches backwards, their gulping gasp nearly lost when Morpheus twists the other Endless’ head back, peering down at the blonde coldly. “Then let me tell you something you will understand: mess with me or mine again, and I shall forget you are family. You lay a finger on Wanderer, and I will make every circle of Hell feel like kindness by comparison. Do you believe yourself to be strong enough to stand against me? Against Death? Against Destiny?”
Desire forces down a gulp, their breath stuttering at the creeping wrath, “No.”
“No, indeed.” Dropping his hold, Morpheus straightens, his jaw rigid as he stalks away, adding, “Remember this next time you’re inspired to interfere in my affairs.”
And then he’s gone.
.
Translucent light kisses your shoulders as you stroll towards the looming stronghold, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Your fingers have turned numb from how tightly you’re clenching them. The impressive, stone-carved statues depicting the seven Endless guide your way. Well, six. You pause by Destruction, the only one facing away, unlike his siblings.
You don’t dare to stray from the path. The likelihood of finding your way out if you get lost in the maze again is non-existent.
The ruler of this sprawling, eerily silent domain greets you at the foot of the marble staircase.
“I welcome thee, Wanderer, Roamer of Realms, into my stronghold.”
Even at this distance, Destiny looms so impossibly tall, some forgotten human instinct sparks in a warning.
Undeterred, you halt before the imposing figure, bowing your head. “I greet and thank you for your welcome, Destiny of the Endless.”
Only Destiny’s lower face is visible behind his billowing hood when he speaks in a crackling rasp, “You have arrived here for a single purpose.”
No ifs or buts about it—he knows better than that, the book slotted neatly under his arm.
“And here I was, ready to ask if you’re surprised to see me,” you shoot back jokingly. Destiny does not smile or construe entertainment from your words. You sober, your attempt at levity now abandoned. “Guess we both know the answer to that. I’m here to share some theories if you have time to spare.”
To your surprise, Destiny slips past you, heading in the direction you came from, deeper into his garden. His footsteps make no sound. His cloak whispers behind him, shimmering in the dim, muted light. On equal footing, you have to crane your head to see him. The devouring dark pooling around the contours of his pallid face reveals nothing beneath the hood, even at your angle.
“You seek to ask questions for which there are scarce few answers, Wanderer,” Destiny says resolutely. “You are far older than most mortals can comprehend, yet your heart remains stubbornly mortal.”
You set out after him at once, your invisible hackles rising. “In what way? My defiance?”
Destiny does not falter, his pace remaining as steady as lapping waves. “That is not for me to judge.”
The garden is vast and a marvel to behold, but the temperature lingers on that unnatural lukewarmness that gives away how unorthodox this place is. The light is perpetually unfading, gauzy in the corners of your eyes. It’s a confusing, strangely profound place. It’s as if Destiny’s realm contains everything all at once but also nothing. A place of futures to come, lives unlived, and wilted pasts. There’s no point in attempting to unravel it. There’s only uncanny strangeness you’ve come to accept.
“You will spend time in the realm of each sibling—you will dream, despair, desire, destroy, delight and otherwise, and, eventually, die—but you were his from the very first page, and only he will read how your story comes out, a long time from now.”
Destiny doesn’t pause at your reiteration. There’s no indication he even heard you, but you’re a step behind him. A thousand years of trying to get answers have taught you he would not be entertaining you if this wasn’t heading somewhere. The thought of another scrap of information sets your heart thudding. Haven’t you spent the last two centuries piecing things together? Attempting to confirm your speculations before you came here to confront him with them. Your past attempts may have ended in uniform failure, but today is different. You can feel it.
“You told me that when we first met,” you continue, keeping your nonchalance. You’re no more than a child to him despite your millennia of existence—this is the only way to get him to take you seriously. “When I awoke in your garden, alone and terrified, with no clue as to who I was or what had happened to me. I’ve been thinking about those words ever since.”
Destiny slows, then stops altogether. Your heart climbs to your throat. You've paused by his statue, standing at the foot of polished, pale stone. Destiny’s cloak whispers when he hinges in your direction, anticipatory. He already knows what you will say.
“It was you. You’re the one who did this to me.”
The clarity that clangs through you with those words shakes your knees. Sucking down more oxygen, you add, “Not directly, maybe. I was cursed by mortal power. This much I know for certain. But you made it possible. You led me to this by the hand. Why?”
And like a dozen times you’ve tried in the past, you expect dismissal, or worse, silence with which he’s punished you often. Destiny would disappear from your sight altogether. His patience and unwillingness to give you clear answers are unmatched.
But not this time.
“Because you broke your destiny. Tore it to shreds. Painted it red.” Destiny readjusts the heavy book under his arm. “So you were allocated a new path. One of hardship and pain, but one that may lead you to salvation. Should you tread it mindfully.”
The roar in your head is so loud you barely understand Destiny’s low, equable words.
“You could have told me this a thousand years ago,” you choke out.
He remains a perfectly barren canvas, but in the tension pulsing between you, there now whispers a hint of displeasure. Sweat trickles down your nape.
“I did,” he replies flatly. “But you did not listen. You instead raged and ran, and what came of it?”
Madness and despair.
Stumbling forward, you bite out, “Why? What did I do? What could prompt eternity of this.”
All this pain for crimes you couldn’t so much as recall. Whatever it was, have you not paid back your dues? Have you not suffered enough to make up for your past?
“Forgetting is the only kindness you’ve ever been spared. Or ever will be. Treat it as such.” Cold needles your spine, and a terrible urge to fold yourself into a ball gnaws on your bones. Destiny’s pitch does not change, nor does his bearing, but it doesn’t need to. “In your quest to break, you reformed into something else.”
Your force down saliva, near choking. “Into what?”
“Challenger of the Unknown.”
Silence envelopes the garden. There’s little to no sound in the Garden of the Forking Ways to begin with, but those words blanket everything. Not even the wind seems to stir. No blade of grass moves. This means something; it means something crucial, but you have no idea what.
“What does that mean?” you beseech. Destiny doesn’t move, nor does he answer. Your voice cracks. “Please just tell me.”
But you already know it’s a lost battle. This is all too familiar—the cold, pitiless silence, utterly unmoved. He’s given you all he’s intended to.
“I used to think you hated me.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him this. Destiny won’t care. Your feet carry you past him. Briefly, you pause by Dream’s statue, then keep going. “More than anyone else in this universe. It wasn’t until Destruction left that I finally understood your position more. It is a burden to know what others don’t but be unable to speak that knowledge.”
There’s no doubt in your mind that Destiny knows where Destruction is.
The Prodigal’s statue pierces your vision, making you squint into the hazy skies above. Your following words slip out, each lilting with breezy ease: “But it doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive you for letting Dream rot in a cage for a hundred years when you knew it was coming, when you could have warned him somehow. I know you have a duty, but he’s your brother. However, indirectly you let Dreaming decay—my home. You let humanity suffer. I figured it out, by the way, why it’s a loophole. Why my book exists in the library, but nothing in other dimensions does. Why I can sleep in the Dreaming but not anywhere else.”
Destiny stands stock still, his bony arms close to his chest, clutching his book. He displays no outward reaction as per usual. It’s a relief to voice your thoughts. You’re utterly terrified of him, but he’s right—your heart is still stubbornly human, as brazen as the Fates accused you of being.
“Because if my curse was the will of the Endless, if my path—whatever it is—is so tightly bound to your family, then it only makes sense, right?” You’re not looking for a response because Destiny will offer none. “The Dreaming is the only place where aspects of each Endless manifest. It’s a loophole. The curse goes dormant when I’m in the Dreaming because the only thing more powerful than the curse is the combined power of the seven Endless.”
You’ve waited to voice your conclusions for so long, it’s surreal to have spoken them aloud. You might fear Destiny, but not enough to continue as a coward. He can deny it, but you’re confident that’s the reason. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
“My siblings have gained much from their companionship with you, Wanderer,” Destiny admits. You quell a flinch despite Destiny’s voice retaining its monotonous quality. “But you and I are antitheses of one another. My brother would not be who he is now had he not tasted that helplessness and sorrow. You are the ink and the quilt with which Dream will write his story.”
His words make little to no sense. Dream is… Dream. What could ever influence him? Much less you. He’s changed since his imprisonment, it’s true, but doubt still nestles in your heart. Had the situation with Gault not proven how those attempts to change come undone in a blink? Despite it, Dream is trying, and it’s more than enough. Change doesn’t happen overnight; not any profound version, anyway.
You wipe across your face, schooling yourself. “I won’t stop trying to save them even if I’m punished further,” you assert. “I’ll always fight for humanity.”
Even over his hood, you feel your gazes clash, burning into one another.
“I would expect no less,” Destiny assures.
Squaring your shoulders, you’re halfway between dimensions before a thought occurs to you. “Just one more thing before I go.”
Destiny is as grave as usual, entirely inhuman in his foreboding silence while he waits.
“It can be broken, can’t it?” you say, scrutinising him closely. “The curse. There are weak spots in its design.”
“That is for you to discover,” he replies, much to your surprise. It’s closer to a yes than a no. “But pay heed. This path will not be forgiving should you wish to pursue it.”
Icy trepidation creeps its claws down your spine. You don’t permit it to show.
“Nothing in my life has been forgiving,” you say curtly. “I bid you good fortune, Destiny.”
“And I you, Roamer of Realms.”
.
“Happy Dreamfall.”
Slanting your head, you let your chin dig into your shoulder, smiling. You hadn’t seen the Dream Lord since you snuck back into the Dreaming, seemingly no one having noticed your momentary departure. Normally, there are someone’s eyes on you. But only Dream can sense your appearance and disappearance inside the Dreaming itself. So you’ve taken advantage of his absence. You’ve had too much on your mind since your return from visiting Destiny to seek him out yet.
“Happy Dreamfall,” you say to the Endless, who comes to a halt beside you. “May Fates smile upon you, Dream Lord. And may your realm of dreams be aplenty.”
Behind you, the castle grounds buzz with activity. At long last, things were returning to normal. This is the first cause of celebration these dreams and nightmares had in over a century. Back home, safe and in a place where they belong. You hugged and drank sweet nectars with plenty, smiling and touching hands. Or claws. But it didn’t take long to slip away and settle out here.
Perched on the castle staircase, you must make for an odd sight, but Gatekeepers straighten back into their patrol positions with Dream’s arrival. You had left the castle to enjoy the darkening skies, the dreams swelling and blinking in the pitch-black canvas, ready for their journey. The Gatekeepers had clustered close, and you had spent a while simply chatting. You’ve missed them. It had been harrowing to witness them turn to stone while Dream was missing.
“Would you walk with me?” Dream asks.
Wetting your lips, you stand. “Sure.”
Without a preamble, Dream sets out. His gait hovers on ponderous this evening. You’ve gotten used to more hurried, curt interactions between you. Invisible tension stretched tautly. Will-o'-the-wisps dance and sway through the humming evening air. Flowers in your path bloom in different colours, fairy dust sprinkled through the air. You continue on the faintly lit path cutting through the heart of the Dreaming without a word.
“Are you well?”
Dream’s sudden question shakes you from your peaceful stupor.
“Busy, but good,” you answer. “And you?”
Dream halts abruptly. You pass him, then do the same, gazing back at him, confused.
Dream Lord’s pale eyes dig into you. They steal from you, and they give more than words ever could. But this once, Dream also uses his words: “I wish for us to talk as we once did.”
Anxiety pangs through your belly. You hadn’t expected him to point it out. Your lips compress into a stiff, bloodless line. It would be a bald-faced lie to insist something hasn’t broken between you. Corinthian’s unmaking has driven a wedge between you that neither can overcome. The nightmare had to be stopped, but it doesn’t take away from the grief festering in your chest. Most believe grief is an absence, but you’ve found the exact opposite is true.
Grief is a presence that should be there but isn’t. It’s a weight of memories, of possibilities, of life unlived. Corinthian has become your phantom limb, his absence invisible to all but you as is the bleed.
“We’re getting there,” you say lastly.
His wild hair covers his eyes when his head lowers. Subconsciously, you find yourself stepping towards him, folding your hand around his. Cool and silky to the touch. A breath, and then you feel Dream’s hand curl around yours. He doesn’t move otherwise, muscles sitting in rigid mass beneath his pale skin.
“Dream,” you call his name gently. “You’re trying. I see that. We’re finding new ways. Now tell me why we’re here.”
Because this path is familiar to you as your own hands. Just over the dark treeline lays the beach. The docks you’ve visited every night in his absence. This path had been your pilgrimage once, and now he’s returned. The fingers folded around yours tighten. Dream wordlessly tugs you with him until soft sand cushions the soles of your shoes.
“It is a night where anything is possible,” he says knowingly.
Your heartbeat jumps when he leads you towards the pier, wood creaking under your combined weight. “What are you doing?”
Dream draws you both to a stop halfway across the pier, something close to mischief sparking in his gaze. It’s so bizarrely unwonted you do a doubletake.
“Giving you my present.”
With that, he strides closer. Your mouth dries when he gently curls his arm around your waist. He raises your joint hands, spinning you to the side slowly. Clumsily, your legs obey, your breaths escaping uneven gulps.
“Are we dancing, Dream Lord?”
Dream bows his head closer to yours, his voice velvet, “We are dancing in starlight, you and I.”
It’s then you feel the tingling, reverent whisper of his power over your body. Your eyes widen when you see faint light needling the sturdy fabric, as if your coat has become no more than a window into the raw cosmos. Galaxies swirl in raging spirals across the once-dark material. Your head snaps to the side while Dream continues spinning you unhurriedly. Your coat is shrinking, reshaping to fit your body even better than it did up to this point.
“Dream this is…”
The coat settles into actuality. Sparkling dust spills from the material when you shift. Your overcoat has shrunk to kiss just above your knees. More fitted but no less comfortable. And then there’s the way it glimmers like a precious jewel whenever moonlight hits it.
“I had hoped to give you something more… fitting,” Dream murmurs. You look up at him, your noses almost touching. “It is only right for the one who roams the stars to wear a coat of pure starlight.”
“Thank you,” you whisper shakily. “It’s beautiful.”
Beautiful doesn’t do it justice. The midnight material shimmers with your movement, liquid starlight captured into tangible fabric, and your throat closes up as you examine it further. Dream slips his arm from your waist. He lifts your joint hands, comfortable in his own, and lays a light kiss on your hand.
Was this not it? Thick emotions still coat your tongue, lodged deep in your windpipe. But Dream only devours you with quiet intensity.
Above your head, dreams start raining down in shining beams of light.
“We begin… with a spin.”
Your heart stutters to a stop. Water roars behind Dream, wild spray flying through the air. The faint drizzle beats against your face, leaving you gaping.
“Dream. I…”
He extends his hand your way. “There is no Dreaming without Wanderer Island. Should you wish it, I would like us to create another.”
Your features crumble, the ball in your throat robbing you of your voice. Indecision holds you captive—on the one hand, you want nothing more, but on another, you’re too afraid. What if it all ends up in the same place? You watching yet another part of you sink into those inky depths.
But there’s something cautious, near vulnerable, to be found in Dream’s guarded features. It’s an effort for him to open up, but you can see the unsure way his hand hangs in offering between you. He’s bracing himself for rejection, for you to leave him alone on this pier.
You grasp his proffered hand, fingers winding cautiously around his. Dream’s shoulders slump slightly from their rigid slant, relaxing at the contact.
He guides you to an all too familiar position. You standing at the edge of the pier, him behind you, a hand on your shoulder. A disconcerting sensation of deja vu falls over you.
“Describe it to me,” he prompts.
Black, foreboding waters of the Dreaming spin in ferocious whirlpools. Dream’s elegant hand pierces your line of sight, primed for creation.
“There’s a small island.” Your voice trembles. You haven’t forgotten anything, down to the exact words used. You conjure the Wanderer Island in your mind’s eye as it once stood; brilliant and shining. The visual blooms bold and alive in your mind. “The grass that grows there is the greenest there’s ever been. And it tastes like sour apples.”
Dream’s hand on your shoulder squeezes lightly. Same amusement, even centuries later. You’re both changed, but a familiar outline of an island starts taking shape on the horizon.
“The sun that shines on the island is never too hot. The air is sweet and light. The flowers never wilt, and trees never shed leaves.” It’s pouring from your mouth now, an avalanche of memory. You’ve missed the island so dearly, and details from five centuries ago come readily. “The sky is an endless periwinkle shade. There’s always food and drinks. Books and games. And…”
Your heart bleeds, fresh wounds gushing. But you push on because it’s not about you.
“And an old friend waits at the beach to greet you with a patient smile whenever you arrive. Because not everyone has a family, and not everyone needs a lover, but everyone should have a friend. The island will be there whenever someone feels lonely, lost, or desperate for an escape. It’ll be there to welcome you. To give you a corner to hide. There is no sadness there. No loneliness or confusion. Only…”
Dream’s lips tickle over the shell of your ear. “… hope.”
And then stillness.
The water settles in a gurgling slosh. In the distance, a patch of land once again floats. There to welcome new dreamers. Wanderer Island blurs. The heel of your hand presses over your eyes, overwhelmed.
Blindly, you tug on Dream’s coat; a mute request. Between one inhale and the next, wood underfoot is exchanged for sand.
Everything is the same down to the last blade of grass and tree composition. Either your vision was so clear Dream could pluck every last detail from your mind or…
Or he remembered the Island with the same clarity as you.
You sink to your knees. Sand crumbles around your digits when you dip them into the pliable sand.
“Hi. There you are.”
Nothing, then…
Grass sprouts unprompted around your hand, tiny daisies twining across your thumb. Utterly impossible, yet tonight, here, anything is possible. A choked laugh escapes you. Your cheeks ache from your beaming smile.
“She’s missed you,” Dream reveals quietly.
Your head lifts in surprise. You stroke the miniature, perfect blooms. “I missed you too.”
With another tickle, the flowers and grass retreat, shrinking into the golden beach. Several moments pass by until you unearth the strength to stand. Dream’s profile greets you. He’s turned away, giving you privacy, but subtle uncertainty lines his features. Sensing your attention, he peers towards you, then past you.
“Thank you,” you breathe. Despite your verbal gratitude, Dream’s attention remains fixed over your shoulder. “What?”
His low words reach you over the sound of lapping waves. “Are you not going to say hello to an old friend?”
You follow his line of sight. Behind you, at a distance with falling dreams as his backdrop, stands a tall, pale-haired figure.
Everything inside you falls very, very quiet—all those tumultuous emotions freeze. Your head snaps back to Dream with a stifled gulp. It can’t be real. Surely it’s some mirage, a feedback loop, a ghost conjured from your love for the now-gone nightmare.
But Dream only slants his head in a marginal, affirming nod. You dare to peek behind you once more. There he stands. The nightmare. Not a twisted joke.
Your feet carry you towards him without conscious thought; half-running, half-walking, stumbling all the while. Corinthian stands with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders in a slight slouch. His nude-coloured slacks and white shirt shine like beacons in the pale moonlight. Round shades cover his eyes, his blonde strands fluttering in the light breeze.
He's a figment. Not quite tangible until your body crashes into him, your arms scrambling to hold onto him. “Oh, God!”
Dry, humoured, “Not quite.”
Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can feel it, if not hear it. A pained, whining sound bubbles up in your throat, gripping him closer.
“I… how…” You wrench yourself back, a horrible thought occurring. You search his handsome features. That infuriating smirk always curling his mouth is absent. “Do you remember me?”
Corinthian stands there, not moving, with no real emotion on display, either. Your heart sinks. Could it be that he—
Dull throb flares across your forehead. He’s flicked you—
A wide, toothy grin stretches across Corinthian’s mouth. “Gotcha.”
With a choked laugh, you punch his shoulder, hugging him close with a wide smile. “I hate you.”
A pleased hum. This time, the nightmare’s arm settles around you. “Hate you more.”
You’re not sure how long you both stand there. When you do part, reluctance keeps your hand on him. Fingertips connecting to some part of him. Remembering the Dream Lord you came here with—who gave you this, his present—you find Dream no longer on the beach. Or anywhere in sight. He’s given you privacy and time. Your heart softens further.
“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
Corinthian’s subdued question tugs your attention back towards him. You almost wish he didn’t remind you. Because now you’re faced with the reality that even though he’s been returned to you, there’s much you both need to overcome and fix. That losing him did not magically wipe away the wrongs he’s done. If you hope to return to the relationship you once had, you’ll need time.
You consider him for a moment.
“You’re always forgiven,” you tell him honestly.
Standing in the moonglow, you pretend you don’t notice how something coiled tightly seems to loosen inside him at your reassurance. Instead, you reach for his face. Your fingertips brush over Corinthain’s glasses, and his hand snap out, wrapping around your wrist tightly. Bones making up his jaw roll beneath the skin. Tension throbs between you while seconds tick by. Through clenched teeth, Corinthian unwraps his hold finger by finger.
You tug his shades away from his face. He’s tense as a bowstring, his head slanted at an angle. The same jagged teeth sit where most have eyeballs. They’re hooded, though. His discomfort—and anger at said discomfort—couldn’t be more perspicuous.
His shades close as you fold arm temples one at a time. You hold his stare, staring right at those jagged teeth with a slight frown. You extend his shades back to him mutely.
“But my trust is something you will have to earn back,” you state earnestly.
The nightmare hesitates halfway to reaching for his glasses. Those pale fingers dance over them before he plucks them from you.
“Sounds like a fair deal,” he muses absently. You expect him to put the shades back on, but instead, Corinthian hooks them on his shirt pocket. Turning to go, he calls out a honeyed, “You coming?”
He gazes at you over his shoulder, jagged teeth on full show, and you feel yourself smile.
“Always.”
.
Sun shines luminous and warm today. The Wanderer Island stretches as far as your eye can perceive, teeming with life and greenery around every corner. Flowers and trees bloom everywhere—an awe-inspiring marriage between tropical and temperate climates. The Island once again oozes a sense of magick and wonder that was once so prominent here. No place in the universe can compare.
“Rebuilding is almost complete,” you begin conversationally. “The Dreaming is more beautiful than ever.”
The Endless keeps pace beside you, a pensive sound rumbling from him. “It was not without aid.”
A smile twitches your lips upwards. “You’re welcome.”
Two weeks have gone by since Dreamfall. Things have mended—between you individually and the atmosphere around the Dreaming. While Corinthian’s return was met with some side glances, no one discussed it further. Dreamfolk trust Dream to make the right decision. Or perhaps Gault was right; they’re wiser than to outright question.
“The Corinthian has also been making progress,” Dream says. “I am hoping to place him under supervision and monitor his conduct. To make sure what happened is never repeated. Should the need arise, he will be allocated duties back in the waking world.”
Joy flutters in your heart. “Yeah? That’s great. Someone you trust, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“And?” you probe. “Are you going to tell me who or not?”
In your peripheral, Dream inclines in your direction. “Yours.”
You nearly trip. “Dream, I—” You clear your throat, pausing. “Are you sure? It didn’t exactly work out last time.”
Dream’s intent scrutiny slides over your facial features. “It was due to no fault of yours. And this Corinthian is the same in all but one function. He will not fail again. He has a different purpose now.”
There’s a solemn sort of finality about the way he articulates those words. A tiny shiver skitters down your spine. He will not expand further upon those words. Whatever that purpose is, you imagine time will reveal it.
You chew on your inner cheek. “Okay. I would like that.”
You smile at him. But Dream’s expression stutters, overcome by some foreign emotion. His mouth parts, then closes, his fingers folding into white-knuckled fists.
Just as you’re about to ask what’s wrong, Dream speaks: “Wanderer. Stay.”
You muster up an uncertain, perplexed smile. “I’m right here.”
Dream marches closer, sunshine caught in his onyx hair.
“Stay however long you want,” he insists softly. “Stay forever if it should so please you.”
Shock envelops you, freezing you in your spot. You’ve told him, didn’t you? That you would stay forever by his side if only he asked. Now he’s asking. Except confusion and unease battle in your chest. Can you trust his word? Did Dream change enough? He brought back Corinthian. He freed Gault from the Darkness. He insists this is a new age. But…
“And if I wanted to leave?” you question. “If I chose never to return, what then?”
“It would sadden my creations—”
“I’m asking you.”
Dream falters, shackled by your insistence. His lashes flutter, his head lowering in near palpable struggle. You’re challenging him, but you refuse to continue with the charade. If he wants forever, you can’t live with the fear he might change his mind about it.
“It would pain me, also. A great deal.” He hesitates again, and it’s bizarre because this degree of uncertainty is not something you associate Dream with. “But you are free. You've always been free. The Dreaming is your home. Should you wish to return, its gates will always await you.”
Doubt twists your mouth downwards. “I thought that once—”
“I swear it. No matter what the future may hold. No matter how angry I get, I shall never again take the Dreaming away from you.” Sheer power woven into those words leaves no room for doubt. It’s a vow. He will not break it. There would be a price to pay if he did. Dream’s fingertips ghost over yours, a graze leaving fire in its wake. “I read your book in the library. I did not wish to tell you sooner because I worried you would leave. Because… you were right. I could never understand the sheer devastation. Or the harm I inflicted.”
You drag your hand back, stepping away from him. Dream’s features fall subtly. You face away, giving him your back while you process. Raising the hand he was caressing seconds prior, you cradle it to your chest. Sunshine prickles your cheek, but you ignore it.
“I’m not ashamed of my past,” you tell him, turning back to face him. “I always knew there was a chance you could read it. So, what did you think?”
He appears pained. At least now you know why he’s been so melancholy these last several weeks. “That I should wish for nothing more than for you to stay by my side.”
Those unadorned words devastated you.
Smiling through your inflated, overjoyed heart, you mumble, “Stay forever… I can’t technically do that.”
But Dream is unruffled. If anything, you glimpse the beginnings of hope starting to take root in him.
“I’ll seek a way,” he avows.
“To what?” An incredulous chuckle escapes you. “Break the curse?”
Destiny’s warning jump back to the forefront of your mind, and you swallow thickly. You don’t dare to ponder freedom for longer than an indulgent moment.
“Yes,” Dream replies.
You stare at him. Tall and dark, sunlit and more open than you’ve ever seen him. Determined and golden. Your Dream Lord. He terrifies you. You love him.
“You can’t interfere,” you remind him emptily. “And I might die.”
“Or you may live,” Dream argues. “Freely. And choose for yourself. Always.”
“Trying to bait me, Dream Lord?”
Sudden tension between you loosens around the edges. Once more, the susurration of the trees trickles into your mind, elevating the brewing anxiety.
A thousand years. The curse has defined your existence and has kept you alive this long. What are you without it? There’s always been an unspoken acknowledgement that you could never break the curse without dying. Simply too much time has passed. No mortal vessel can survive over a millennium otherwise. When you asked Destiny, it was only to understand more about the nature of the curse. Not because you ever assumed you could survive breaking the curse.
Dream’s mouth compresses as if he’s attempting not to smile. “I would never.”
“Stay by your side, huh?” you mutter, looking away while you mull over your conversation. “And what exactly would that entail?”
His response is immediate, smooth, “Whatever you wish.”
“A companion, then?” Your words pitch lower and silkier while you close the minimal distance with relaxed, unhurried steps. Dream’s eyes darken a shade. “An emissary? A consort? A queen?”
His black-clad shoulders lift with his inhale.
“Those are but words,” he murmurs silkily. “For you would be all those things, and more.”
You examine his profile, those starlit irises, the doubt swimming there. Does he doubt you would stay? After such long years harbouring this affection for him? Silly, wonderful anthropomorphic personification. “I’ll stay, but only if you answer a question.”
“Even if the price were a hundred thousand questions, Wanderer, I would pay it gladly. What is this question?”
Narrowing your eyes, you scrutinise him. Dream does not balk under your exigent examination, waiting patiently. Biting back a smile, you permit your features to relax. He’s unfairly fun to tease.
“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”
Relish bubbles in your chest at the way Dream’s expression comes undone. As if from a thousand questions he was bracing for, nothing could have prepared him for this. Birds chirp a merry tune somewhere in the tree line, a warm breeze ruffling Dream’s dark hair while he gazes at you with utterly confused wonderment. A slight, fond smile curls his lips.
“A thousand years,” he begins in a bewildered drawl. “And still, you ask the same question.”
You laugh faintly, shrugging. “Well, in all fairness, you never answered me the last time. Which was very rude, by the way—”
In an inhale Dream of the Endless materialises in front of you. His hands slip to hold your face, cupping it with delicate hands as he tugs you closer. His kiss falls over you like stars. Silky, gentle warmth that washes over you with such fervent passion you gasp against his mouth. Your hands grasp onto him blindly. You part only long enough for you to gulp down oxygen before your mouths meet again, and again, and again, burning with need unquenched. Heat spreads through every inch of you. A thousand years being cold, floating unearthed, but now someone is holding you.
Dream presses another kiss to your mouth, desperate and hungry, gentle in his handling, and you return it with equal enthusiasm, equal need. Dizziness envelops you, and Dream pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. You shudder, a delicious heat licking up your senses. This closeness hurts better than anything ever has. You remind yourself to breathe, to remember this is real, he’s here, holding you, and nothing matters in this moment. Whatever the future holds, you do not fear it. Because Hob was right: there are people out there who love, and that makes all the difference.
Dream’s thumb grazes over your bunched-up cheek. Your smile is wide enough to light your entire face.
It continues with a gentle, rasping: “I’ll tell you one day, stardust.”
an:
Never apologise, never explain.
I set out to write nothing more than a fun little story that I expected to have maybe 3-4 parts max. Something entirely self-indulgent and fun for no one but me and maybe one or two mutuals. I never quite expected it would become as beloved as it did. I suppose here, in the end, I would like to take the time to thank everyone who read this and supported it. Be it by commenting, making edits/art for it or just sending me encouraging/funny messages. You guys are the reason this story became what it did. I'm immensely grateful for each and every single one of you. It was a rough month, but I'm glad I could offer you this conclusion at long last. Thank you for being here, thank you for being kind, and thank you again for reading.
Goodnight, and see you all in dreams, wanderers ☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ
This story has been amazing, incredible, magnificent, totally out of this world and so so beautiful. The emotions this made me feel, all of it, the way you write, the plot, the characters themselves literally everything. These last parts broke me and put me back together again (I'm MELTING over soft dream - dancing and the island and the kiss my poor heart). Thank you for writing this, bringing us-me- so much joy. Truly it's been an honor. I am forever staying here should you feel inspired to write some more about Dream and Wanderer.
Friday is the Deadline. That’s when Netflix will stop keeping track of who has watched The Sandman. Watch the entire series (including the bonus episode). That’s what they’re looking at before deciding if there will be a second season.
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