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One day, out of the blue, Dream of the Endless is struck with a thought about the Corinthian. Some part of him has surfaced again, gnawing at his mind, reminding him of his rebellious creation. Of his faith, of his betrayal, of his misery.
It is not time to remake him; Dream is sure of that. But perhaps some reflection is due.
Corinthian’s foray into the waking world marked the mortal psyche. Not many survived an encounter with the nightmare at his most dangerous, but those who did were damaged irreparably. During their waking hours, they live haunted by his presence, and during their dreams, they relive their worst moments in the bite of his smiles.
Dream reaches inside of himself now, seeking out these scraps of anxiety and fear. Four dreamers, held hostage by the remnants of his most rebellious creation. He lets himself fall away, pulled into the chaos, and he steps foot onto a crisp hardwood floor.
He looks around. He’s in a moderate-sized kitchen. On the dinner table, there is a Tupperware container of homemade chocolate chip cookies. One of the two chairs is knocked over. An opened bottle of wine sits on the counter next to the refrigerator.
Dream turns and sees a hallway to his left. There are grotesque, liquid sounds coming from the bedroom at the end. Dream proceeds.
He stands in the doorway, spectator to a rather disturbing scene. Straddled over a man on the bed, the Corinthian messily gouges away at his eyes, pulling bits and pieces of gore out from his mangled sockets. In the corner sits a wizened old woman, apparently frozen in place as tears silently run down her face.
It seems that she originally came home to find the Corinthian in her kitchen. When she couldn’t move out of shock, he simply smiled and left. She then discovered her son’s mangled body. Ever since, she cannot help but conjure up the nightmare, time and time again.
For the Corinthian’s part, he showed restraint in leaving her alive. But this small mercy does not do him any great favors in Dream’s mind.
Now, Corinthian’s apparition, finished with its victim, turns towards the old woman. As he clutches her by the hem of her blouse and raises his knife, he catches Dream’s eye. The air fills with the sound of laughter and a keening scream as he plunges the knife in. Then the dream ends.
Dream blinks. As expected. This victim affirmed his perception of the Corinthian’s behavior in the mortal realm.
Next- he finds himself observing an enormous, gilded birdcage upon a grassy hill. Perched inside is a diminutive man whom Dream recognizes- a survivor, it seems, of the gift he granted the odorous “collectors.” He stares out in paranoia from behind the bars, sat as deep within the cage as possible.
Suddenly, a figure appears, swiftly taking a hold of the murderer and yanking him into the open. The Corinthian has a cold, suave smile as he maneuvers the collector in a jilted waltz only he can hear. The man lets out a distraught cry, but Corinthian only grips him harder, nails digging deep grooves into his skin.
As they dance, the birdcage melts away in shades of gold; the dream transitions into the image of a cliffside. The blue sky becomes overcast and gray, dark clouds blowing a cold wind through the tumultuous waves below. The shadows of the water cast impressions of an abyssal maw, as if the ocean itself were about to rise and swallow one whole.
It is along that jagged cliffside that the Corinthian leads his quarry. The nearer to the edge the two wander, the more the man struggles, prompting the Corinthian to plunge his razor sharp nails into the back of his hand and bare his wolfish teeth. “There’s no point getting cold feet now, my little dreamer,” he says.
The man begins to cry, muttering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again under his breath.
Paying him no mind, the Corinthian shines with glee, puppeteering his plaything closer and closer until the tips of his neatly manicured shoes veer on the cliff edge. And in one swift spin, the man is flung over, falling into the dark waters that consume him without a sound.
At last, the Corinthian looks at Dream and smiles. “Enjoying the show?” He says, bending over in a mocking bow. “My lord. Should I dance some more for you?”
The last element of the dream before it melts away is the shining white of the Corinthian’s smile.
And quiet.
Interesting.
With a flick of his wrist, Dream shifts to the next victim.
Rose Walker’s apartment. Weak sunlight filters in through the window of the bedroom, the centerpiece of which is the prone body of Rose’s friend, Carl, sprawled on the bed. There’s a jagged wound like a grotesque mouth on his throat. Sagging pieces of sinew and tendon hang limply from what used to be his neck. Beside him sits the Corinthian, who carefully wipes some residual gore from his lips and removes his glasses with his back to his victim.
Carl watches him intently. He does not appear resentful; instead, he seems to have a curiosity, even a yearning, for the dream creature that just took a bite out of him like he was a slice of cake.
As Corinthian finishes wiping his glasses, returns them to his face, and pulls out a lighter and a box of cigarettes, Carl opens his mouth and rasps something through his mutilated vocal chords. “What are you doing?”
“Smoking,” the Corinthian says. He lights it and takes a single draw. A moment passes.
What he was expecting from the action is unclear, but he doesn’t seem to find it, because he only sighs and puts it out on his own leg.
“Oh,” Carl says. Then he closes his eyes, and he is silent.
Finally, Corinthian turns towards Dream, notices him, as he runs a tongue across his teeth. The air hangs heavy like a blanket. Quietly, without inflection, he asks, “What are you doing here?”
Then the dream is over.
Morpheus stops. There’s a discomfit brewing inside him, sitting heavy in his stomach. It feels a lot like doubt.
He frowns. There’s one more human he can visit.
He has half a mind to abandon this endeavor and step back into his throne room, but he knows he should see.
He imagines the tiny skull in his hand, smoothing his thumb across its ever-so-slightly sandy surface. Three miniature smiles.
He takes a step in.
Jed Walker dreams of his aunt and uncle, of Funland, of loneliness. He dreams of running from a basement that he cannot escape. He wants to stop running. His wants do not matter, because he will die here, in this house, and no one will remember him.
They’re coming. His uncle cocks his gun. Funland’s hands reach like clamps. His aunt looks away. They will relish this cruelty. Jed is almost gone.
And then they’re falling; like puppets with their strings cut, they collapse to the floor, the abstract idea of their blood pooling into the carpet.
Shaking, Jed slowly looks up at the confident face of the Corinthian. Clean. Not a hair out of place. He opens his mouth, gulps down a gasp of air. With a bravery he does not feel, Jed asks, “Are you gonna kill me?”
The Corinthian laughs. And laughs. And laughs. He brandishes a handkerchief and wipes his knife. “Of course not,” he says, leaning over, “Why would I kill you? Jed. No, I think you’d be better off living. Isn’t that so much better?”
Jed sniffs. “Yes.”
“Good. No more running.”
Jed nods as his eyelids start to close and he drifts off to somewhere else. The Corinthian stands straight.
Dazed by what just happened, Dream says his name instinctively. “Corinthian.”
The nightmare suddenly turns, scowling. “Corinthian, Corinthian, Corinthian,” he says, gesticulating wildly, “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re in trouble now, Corinthian.”
Dream shakes his head and frowns, paying the Corinthian’s comments no mind. Instead, he says matter-of-factly, “You’re in their dreams.”
A raised eyebrow. “Yes, I’m in their dreams. Is it so difficult for you to understand that my actions hurt humans? I thought you made that abundantly clear to the Corinthian. Created poorly and all that.”
“But that’s not all you did. You didn’t hurt all of them.”
Corinthian grows still. Finally, he says, voice wavering, “Right. Let’s say I didn’t. So why are you telling me this? What the hell is it that you want from me?”
“I am Not sure if I could tell you, my little dream. Perhaps that’s why I’m here.”
“I’m not your dream.”
“You are my Corinthian.”
“No,” he murmurs, words dripping with melancholy, “I’m not.” He takes off his glasses, and where his carefully-crafted mouths should be- the ones Dream could know by sense-memory alone, millennia spent on the shores of the Dreaming, sculpting, carving, becoming - are two slightly blurred blue eyes. The nightmare blinks, and they turn a light hazel. “I never took them off in front of him,” he explains.
Dream shakes his head. “But you are a version of him.”
“I’m gone when Jed wakes up.”
“I can remedy that.”
The Corinthian’s eyebrows draw together to worry at his brow. “You mean to say you’ll remake him.”
“Yes.”
“Hm. So do I have a say in this?”
“Do you not want it?”
“I don’t,” he says decisively. “Don’t do it.”
Now it’s Dream’s turn to be confused. “For what reason?” He ends up asking, though he isn’t sure if he wants the answer.
Corinthian lets out a watery laugh. “Are you going to make me say it?”
Yes.
When Dream doesn’t respond, he shakes his head and smiles.
What a beautiful creature Morpheus created, so ready to crumble into sand, to sift beneath his feet, clinging to his eyelashes, nestling beneath his fingernails. Remarkable. Effervescent.
“My Lord… It hurts too much.”