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He is made from the sand of a beach. He knows, because he can feel the sand against his feet and hear the distant sounds of the waves. They lap against some shore in the distance, a rhythmic white noise that accompanies him in the empty span of his thoughts. At some point, the knowledge of What a beach is was placed in his mind. The one who put it there is here again.
They step before him, a heavy presence, and begin to build him again, to draw their hands across his face.
Oh. He has a face.
Two fingers press against his cheeks, pushing dimples into his skin. They run along the length of his jaw, and he feels grains of himself fall away, returning to the sand.
They’re talking now, muttering low words under their breath as they shape and mold him into something new. He enjoys hearing their voice. It’s a quiet, almost delicate sound, but with a weight to it that suggests power.
The words don’t mean much to him, and yet he often finds himself listening to them as if they were a melody. It’s calming in what otherwise could have been a distressing state of being.
And that is how he passes the time, for what could be an eternity.
Finally, after making and remaking him, iteration over iteration, his sculptor seems to be satisfied.
He can feel it as well- an energy thrumming through him, like he’s on the precipice of something. He’s hungry for it, ravenous, ready to consume it whole.
Then, something is placed within him, and he opens.
Sensation floods through him, and suddenly, he can feel everything- the crack of his joints flexing, the thrumming of his veins, the blinding light against his- his-
He realizes he’s fallen down, his knees in the grayish sand, and he sees a pair of legs before him. He looks up, and the silhouette of his creator, lit by the shine of the sun, peers back at him. Their eyes are sharp, calculating, and their face seems to glow in the light, framed by a head of dark hair.
He raises his hands as if in reverie, and his creator takes them in their own. “Welcome, my little dream,” they say in that voice of theirs, “you have been made. You are ready.”
He smiles, genuinely. “My Lord,” he says, because the title feels right in his mind, “what am I to be?”
“You are a warning, a nightmare. You are my masterpiece. You are the Corinthian.”
“Corinthian,” he says languidly, slowly, feeling each syllable slide off his tongue, “I am… the Corinthian.” And in that moment, he is filled with a joy unlike any other. He is named. He has meaning. He is a masterpiece.
This must be his apotheosis, the Corinthian thinks, to know and love one’s existence, to be alive.
The Corinthian’s very first dreamer is a tired, middle-aged man. Worked to the bone and bitter for years, something’s got to give. And, as his Lord says, the Corinthian is simply here to push him in the right direction.
The chase begins slowly, a pleasant stroll through the town that Isn’t Quite Right. The Corinthian simply follows, taking in the distorted dream buildings, beautiful and almost human. Then, his quarry turns around. The man glares, pulls himself to his full height, making some throwaway threat about being followed.
He maintains this confidence until the Corinthian smiles with all his teeth and raises his hand to his glasses.
And finally, it’s a chase.
Together, they scramble through the cramped streets of the city, walls closing in, buildings suddenly consuming them in stone and shadow. The blank faces of the passerby look right through them, like they don’t exist at all.
His prey runs fast and agile, carried by the adrenaline pumping through him, but this is still a dream. And in a dream, the Corinthian must always be faster, stronger, smarter. What use is a nightmare that poses no threat to its victims? Always just one step behind, a crawl along the spine, hands reaching out to rip apart. It’s poetic.
When he catches him, the Corinthian plunges his dagger into the soft flesh of the man’s abdomen and rips it across. In a burst of blood and viscera, the man falls to his knees, clutching desperately at his gaping wound as if he were trying to hold the drooping contents of his body in.
The Corinthian steps before him as he flails and struggles on the ground, twirling his blade between his fingers and leaning down. The man’s eyes are blown open, wide and fearful as they meet the Corinthian’s… well. He lets his teeth clatter joyfully while he gazes at them. Dark brown, surrounded by a dirty, stained white. The edges are saturated with tiny crimson blood vessels that look like they’re about to burst from stress.
As he takes in his masterpiece, he is struck with the urge to feel the horror of his victim. He wants all of it; the fear, the pain, the anxiety, all the aching fatigue that pervaded this sad human’s life. He hungers. And, as it turns out, the Corinthian knows what to do.
He braces his hands against the first eye and pries the lid open with his fingers. His nails are sharp. He doesn’t even need the knife. (The trick is to use your thumbs.)
Blood bursts wet under him, and the man screams in fresh wails of agony. He’s got one in his hands now, all slick and shiny. In a moment of mischief, the Corinthian places it in his left mouth, pinches it lightly between his teeth so it gazes back down at his quarry and lets him witness the mutilation of his flesh, the desecrated form.
The man sobs. His blood pools on the dirty ground.
“Shhh…” the Corinthian croons. “It’s not over just yet.” And his hands are moving again, greedy and razor-edged.
He pulls, and then he has two.
The eyes are smooth and rounded against his tongues, and they taste of metallic blood as he rolls them around thoughtfully.
Below him, his prey seems to be on his last legs. His breathing has deteriorated into a slow, uneven rattle. Perhaps it’s time for him to wake up. If the Corinthian doesn’t end it, he’ll bleed out and end up jolting awake anyway.
So he grants the man one final smile and presses the tip of his knife against his temple.
“No, no, no…” he wheezes out, desperate for life even as his intestines peek out of his abdomen.
The Corinthian laughs, pats his jaw with his free hand, and says happily, “Death is natural.”
Then finally, he bites down, presses hard, and the flavors of that mortal life burst in a flurry of color.
When he looks up again, the burning traces of misery and resentment still on his palate, his Lord is before him, and the corners of His lips are turned in a tiny smile.
“My Lord,” the Corinthian says, beseeching, “did I do well?”
“Yes, my Corinthian,” He replies softly, “you did well.” He steps closer and takes the Corinthian’s face in his hands, carefully brushing His thumbs against the jut of his cheekbones. “My perfect creation.”
The Corinthian feels himself relax as he gazes up at his maker, feels his sand and dirt soul swim through him as he takes in that stoic face. His eyes are unfathomable- cold and flinty, yet strangely magnetic, like they’re two black holes consuming all the air around them. So far away, so out of reach.
His Lord holds out His hand and says, “Now, shall we continue?”
The Corinthian tentatively grasps his master’s hand in his and stands onto his feet. As he does, the red blood splattered on his pristine, cream colored clothes falls away and scatters into particles of sand, disappearing into the open air.
As he, too, vanishes in a flurry of dust with his creator in hand, he knows he has not a human heart, but if he did, it would be beating in joy.
After, his Lord leaves to attend to His duties, and the Corinthian is left on his own to venture the Dreaming. He visits a few more dreamers and introduces himself to the denizens of the realm, to mixed results. Some of the more jumpy dreams have quite an amusing reaction when he takes off his glasses. A lot of them don’t seem particularly fond of him. Because of his unsettling nature, or perhaps because he is his Lord’s favorite.
They tell him this, on occasion; he merely smiles.
When he grows bored of his hunts, he goes to see his Lord in His throne room. He sits on the arm of the throne, which never fails to draw an indignant caw out of Jessamy, and leans his head against his Lord’s shoulder, rambling on about inconsequential things like the shine of a freshly plucked eye, or how much he wishes he could know what a scone tastes like. In return, his Lord humors him with questions about his dreamers, even though he already knows everything about the goings on within his realm.
He is always indulged by his king. It is satisfying to be favored like this. He is the golden nightmare, the prodigious creation. He is sated, and that is how it is, for a long while.
One day, when the Corinthian visits his Lord, there is a strange energy in the air. All the dreams he passes in the castle are slightly on edge. When they see him, it is not the usual dramatic shaking of the head or exaggerated sigh. Instead, they simply purse their lips and quickly walk away.
It’s rather strange, but the Corinthian can’t find it within himself to care.
He approaches the throne room. Outside it, Lucienne is pacing restlessly, clutching at the book in her arms like it’s a lifeline. When she catches sight of him, she says, “You’re not going in there, are you?”
The Corinthian raises an eyebrow. “Am I not supposed to?”
She hesitates, squeezes the book a little harder. “No matter,” she finally says. “Maybe you’ll cheer him up.”
He smirks. “Who? My king? Is there any doubt he’d be delighted to see me?”
Lucienne just sighs and pinches her nose. “We’ll see.”
The Corinthian ignores her and pushes open the doors to the throne room.
There he is, stoically seated on his throne. He turns his head slightly at the sound of the door opening.
“My Lord!” The Corinthian says, strolling in and looking around. There are piles of sand scattered haphazardly on the floor. In the center of the room is the skeleton of a half-constructed dream. The sight of them sends a faint jolt of jealousy through him, but he presses it down. “Starting a… new project?”
“Corinthian.”
He smiles. “That is the name you gave me.”
When he gets no response, he sidles up to the throne and takes his usual spot. But when he inclines his head to lean on Dream, his master raises his hand to block him.
The Corinthian sits up. “My Lord?”
“Corinthian,” Dream murmurs. “Why are you here?”
Slightly uneasily, he says, “Well, if you recall, you created me-”
“No. Why are you here, now, attempting to make conversation with me?”
The Corinthian gapes like a three-mouthed fish out of water. For once, he can’t find a single thing to say.
“You could be properly fulfilling your role in this realm. And yet, you’re not. Tell me, Corinthian, why are you here?”
The Corinthian feels himself tense up. A wholly unfamiliar feeling starts to flood through him- it’s anger.
His fingers twist and open as they start to tingle, numb to the touch. “What’s with this all of a sudden?” He snaps. “If you were so unwilling to talk to me, why didn’t you say anything until now?”
“I assumed you needed my indulgence to accustom you to your duties as a nightmare, but this has gone on far too long. You are aware of your purpose and perform it competently. There is no benefit to continuing these theatrical meetings.”
“So that’s what I am? A tool to be used? A means to an end?”
Dream is stony-faced as he replies. “I did not realize I told you otherwise.”
“I don’t-”
“We all have our roles to play in the Dreaming. No one is exempt.”
At this, Corinthian stands to his feet and averts his gaze. He doesn’t think he can look his Lord in the eyes. Above him, the panels of glass shiver in the image of his own face, smirking back down at him; goading him.
Finally, he says, “What do you want from me?”
Dream shakes his head. Disappointed. “I want you to be perfect.”
Corinthian lets out a frustrated yell and storms out of the throne room. He slams the door with a heavy boom behind him.
Corinthian roughly buries his knife into the dreamer’s body. Blood and bits of gore litter the front of his tailored suit. Messy, a voice whispers insidiously, not good enough.
The dreamer has already stopped breathing, and he hasn’t even taken the eyes. He lifts the weapon up and prepares to plunge it in once more.
“Corinthian.”
He jolts and nearly drops the knife. It takes him a second to realize that there are no shadows in the corner of his vision, no gleaming eyes staring at him from the darkness. He turns around.
There is Jessamy, perched on a window. As always, her chest is puffed out proudly, the white patch among her dark feathers flaunted for all to see.
Corinthian glowers at her. “What are you doing here? Come to gloat that you’re now Dream’s favorite?”
“No,” she says testily. “I come bearing a message.”
“Well, spit it out then.” He turns back to his victim, but before he can do anything, the dreamer’s body disintegrates into sand. He groans. “Oh, great. Now look at what you made me do. I didn’t even finish the job. Now my liege will hate me even more.”
Jessamy ruffles her feathers. “He doesn’t hate you.”
“Close enough.”
“Oh, for- listen. Why don’t you try talking to him?”
Corinthian withdraws his handkerchief from his back pocket and smooths it along the edge of his knife. Carefully, he says, “Does he want to talk?”
“Of course he does! He’s been in a bad mood ever since your little squabble. If you just-”
“Oh, so you’re just trying to use me to bear the brunt of his fit. I get it.”
“No, that’s not it!” Jessamy says with a squawk. “He wants to speak to you. He’s just- you know- proud.”
“So he sends his little snitch to get me. And it’s up to me to go to him begging for forgiveness? What if you’re wrong? What if he just dismisses me further?”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Corinthian tests the point of his knife against his finger. Sluggishly, a bead of crimson blood builds and smears on his skin. “See, you’re so full of faith that you don’t even realize how little you matter to him.”
“You’re being temperamental. We all know you’re his favorite.”
“Yeah. His favorite what? Because right now, I’m feeling a lot like his favorite toy.”
Jessamy is silent.
“We’re all just toys to him,” he continues, “fun to play around with and dispose of at a moment’s notice.” He cocks his head and smiles at her as he lifts his glasses back up to his face. “So you can tell him what I said, or admit that you just want me to distract him from the rest of you. If he feels the need to talk, he knows where to find me.”
As he turns and walks away, Jessamy lets out an angry caw. “You know what? You’re insufferable. It’s no wonder he grew tired of you so quickly.”
Corinthian waves his hand nonchalantly, feigning indifference. But under the dark shine of his shades, his teeth bare in a snarl.
For a while, he does nothing. Well, he does his job. He plays his role, just like Dream wants him to, but he won’t seek him out.
He doesn’t know what he wants, only that he won’t go crawling back like a dog. He’s worth more than a creature in the dirt. He knows that.
He does all he’s supposed to, and he’s not satisfied. The dreamers he consumes taste like sand. Flavorless. The Dreaming distorts around him, and still, no one comes to find him.
He craves.
Corinthian slips into the waking world unnoticed. Dream doesn’t see him. He hasn’t seen him in a very long time.
He finds himself in a busy city. It’s nighttime, but the sky is awash with the faint glow of human technology. In the distance, a tower shines like a beacon.
Amusingly, he feels a little drunk. No longer in the Dreaming, he is strangely light; no dream power; no invisible strings to pull the world in around him. Just him- solid. Real.
He begins to walk. Down a dingy alley, he catches sight of a couple clutching at each other passionately, and he stops.
It’s not a surprise to him, per se; he certainly was aware of the more perverse natures of many humans. It was simply never in his purview to pay any attention beyond the odd flirter in a dream. He’d end up killing them anyway. So, in a way, it’s intriguing to him more than anything, like a new experience.
That is, until he catches one’s eye and both turn to stare back at him like owls.
His hand drifts towards his hidden knife, considering, but then they give him a look, like disgust. He decides against it and ends up scurrying away like a rat.
He grits his teeth as he feels an uncomfortable fire light in his throat. This might be a new emotion. This might be shame.
The Corinthian doesn’t feel shame. The Corinthian is perfect.
Scattered along the roughly brick-paved road are dirty puddles, reflecting the faint light of the city. In the distance, someone is crying. The Corinthian looks at one puddle. The one with his face staring back. He looks a mess. His glasses are askew, his hair mussed up, and his mouth is in a frown.
They’re still crying. It’s loud. Obnoxious.
Can he cry? Why do mortals even cry? When his victims cried, it was out of fear. Well, the Corinthian should be feeling a lot of that, right? He’s in the waking world. Sooner or later, Dream will notice, even if it takes years. And he will come to take back all that the Corinthian is, make him his tool again. He is afraid.
He’s also very angry. Why can’t he cry? He’s afraid. He's mad. He’s so fucking full of emotions.
He strains even harder, but his cheeks remain dry. How typical that Dream never even bothered to give him a basic outlet to express himself.
Then, he thinks, and he knows what to do.
He bites down. Blood dribbles from the corners of his eyelids, and he tastes copper.
One mouth opens and whimpers. “It hurts.”
But his face is wet with his tears. He’s one step closer to his becoming. That’s all that matters. So he says to himself, “shut up,” and he laughs. He wants to rip the small pinpricks of stars from the night sky and crush them into dust.
A man walks quickly past him, clearly spooked by his behavior.
The Corinthian smiles and reaches for his knife. One step at a time. For now, he’s hungry.
He knows now that he was a fool. A fool for believing that his creation was the culmination of his being, for believing in Dream, for trusting him.
His life in the Dreaming dulls in comparison to the vibrancy of the waking world. Humans are so fascinating; fucking, killing, loving, conniving, grieving; all manner of sadness and anger and joy all wrapped up in the human experience.
He is but a lesser reflection of this great disaster of a species, but every person he consumes, he thinks he gets a little closer to understanding. So he doesn’t think he can stop, even as he feels the hounds of his own unmaking nipping at his heels. Dream might not have the power over the waking world as he does the Dreaming, but Corinthian is and always will be one of his creations. They both feel the pull, like the needle of a compass, magnetic and irrefutable. And he cannot run forever.
So he must live, truly live, while he still can.
This is how he ends up in Berlin, 1916, knelt in the headlights of an idling car. He holds his knife up to examine in the light, relishing how the beads of rosy blood slide, pristine, down the gleaming edge of his blade. The Dreaming never held this amount of detail; it was always slightly blurred, a little off, like a tilted painting in an otherwise immaculate room. Only here amongst the living, the breathing, does he get the chance to savor every little bit of existence.
Then, there is a heavy, familiar presence behind him, and he knows the wolf’s leg has finally befallen the hunter’s trap.
“Corinthian.”
Slowly, he turns around to face his maker. The helm he wears conceals his face, and the shadows seize and shift around him, making him look like a specter of death.
“My creations stay in the Dreaming,” he says, quiet, heavy. “They do not walk amongst the living, killing mortals for pleasure.” He is angry now, enunciating his words, punctuating them with a force that threatens punishment.
As for Corinthian, he is struck with an awe that he hasn’t experienced in a long time. His Lord, before him once more. And his reverence, an instinctual piece of his fractured being, pulls at him to placate his king, to seek acceptance, even as his anger roils and screams in defiance.
All manner of love and resentment and desperation tangles inside his throat; nights spent ruminating, words unspoken, the quiet loneliness of a body gone cold- but nothing comes out.
He ends up saying, “Isn’t this why you created me?”
Dream does not respond, so he continues. “Why should we confine ourselves to their sleeping minds? Here, in the waking world, we’re unstoppable.” He allows himself to entertain the thought of an acquiescent Dream- one who finally listens, who accepts him. Slowly, he begins to smile, like hope. “There is nothing preventing us from taking… whoever, whatever we want.”
Then Dream of the Endless speaks, and Corinthian’s weapon, the constant of his identity, falls away to sand. Thus, his fate is sealed.
All the dread pressed deep down within him bursts out into the open. His legs fall to kiss the hard concrete, and he begs, raising his hands up in placation, once again the servant, once again kneeling to worship, to supplicate, please, my lord, it’s me, your masterpiece, forgive me, please, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, no, no, no, no, no.
That wretched ruby. Tearing him to pieces. It will hurt. He will hurt. He will be taken apart, and he will never be the same. Corinthian. Breathe with those wretched lungs while you still can, little nightmare. Sacrilegious child. Prodigal creation. Horrible weapon. You are doomed. Doomed. DOOMED.
Corinthian gasps.
Dream is gone.
He is free.
He tells the repulsive mortal all he needs to know. Take the objects of power; guard the endless; cage his form. If the cage ensures that none can lay hands on his cruel creator, it is simply happenstance.
He considers taking a look at Dream in this diminished state. How satisfying it would be, to finally be above the god who molded him, laid weak and bare. Look at me, he would say, look at what your greatest masterpiece has become. And Dream would shatter, and Corinthian would be happy.
Right?
He doesn’t end up doing it. Maybe a part of him knows he wouldn’t be able to stand it. ( You’re so full of faith that you don’t even realize how little you matter to him.) Instead, he leaves. And he doesn’t look back.
Thus begins a journey of blood and consumption. Corinthian wanders the world, slaughtering and claiming the lives of mortals for his own, finding fragments of their humanity through the window of his gift.
And apparently, he finds something else, too. Because he is a reflection of all the darkness of mankind, he is also the sinister charm, the poisoned affection- and humans… well, they find him attractive.
After careful examination, Corinthian comes to the conclusion that he does have a certain allure about him. His jawline is sharp and strong, his hair naturally falls to frame his face, and his dark glasses lend him an air of intrigue, right until he takes them off and feeds.
Out of the many enigmatic decisions Dream made while creating him, though, the one that puzzles Corinthian the most is why he gave him the ability to experience attraction back.
He’s standing in the dirty alley outside of a bar, pulling at the end of a cigarette. The last mortal he consumed seemed to derive a great deal of satisfaction from using them, but all he’s getting is a burning throat full of smoke. He’s considering pulling down his glasses to let another one of his mouths have a try when a man sidles confidently up to him and asks if he has another.
Corinthian looks at him, calculating. He must be careful. He is a hunter, after all. “No,” he eventually says, “but you could help me finish this one.” He holds it out to the man, who takes it between two fingers and smirks lasciviously. Maintaining heavy eye contact, he lifts it to his lips and takes a long drag.
Meanwhile, Corinthian gives him a good look up and down. He’s wearing a three piece suit and a hat in dark gray. The waistcoat hugs his abdomen tight, while the jacket hangs haphazardly off his shoulders. His black hair sticks out in tufts from under the edge of his cap. His eyes are sharp and piercing.
The stranger chuckles. “You like what you see?”
Corinthian tilts his head, smiling. “Do you?”
He draws closer. “You know, I think I do.”
The cigarette falls to the ground, crushed by a smooth heel.
“Is that so?”
A hand grips his shoulder.
It’s strange. At first he thinks it’s just hunger, but he doesn’t reach for his knife. Not yet. So if it’s not hunger, then why does he feel the urge to rip- to tear? The burning warmth?
There’s a mouth on his neck. He bends his head back to let it roam and lets out a quiet sigh. The moon is bright tonight. Fingers ghost at his skin as they move to unbutton his shirt. When the man snakes his palm underneath the cloth to press against his chest, Corinthian looks down, and the shine of the moonlight on his pale cheekbones makes him look like the sharp edge of a mother-of-pearl. Like a god.
Oh. Well then.
Corinthian smiles and pulls Him closer, looking into those dark eyes. He is going to take what doesn’t belong to him.
Corinthian scowls and presses out the cigarette on his palm. For a moment, he had it. He understood the appeal. But now it’s gone again, and he’s left with… what? The taste of blood on his tongue? A lack of satiety? For now, at least. Soon, though, he’ll be hungry again. He needs more.
Maybe the next one will last, and, finally, the flavor of humanity will permanently be his. He will be whole, not a half-made tool for a cold god.
He smiles at the thought, and he touches the bruises forming on his neck. In the meantime, he has other things to occupy him.
A century passes. He is standing by the clear glass window of his apartment, gazing down at the city. The taste of blood and sex is still fresh on his lips.
The moment it happens, he knows. He can feel it deep within himself. Something placed inside him long ago wakes up and starts to crawl on the inside of his skin.
“He’s free,” he says to himself. “He’s out of his cage.” He feels strangely weightless at the realization, like his tether to gravity has severed. He’s drifting away from the earth, floating into the yawning abyss of space. Like it or not, Dream of the Endless is back, and he will come for the Corinthian.
He puts his glasses on. The hunt has begun once more.
When he finds Ethyl Cripps, the last thing he expects is to be ripped apart by her amulet. It’s painful, sure. His flesh tears itself from his frame; his form deconstructs itself into nothingness, shredding like flimsy paper. It’s not the pain that scares him, though.
As his body falls to pieces, he feels the pull of the Dreaming. With no corporeal form, he is being forced back after more than a century, right into Dream’s waiting hands. He lets out a horrible cry. He miscalculated, and now he’s going to pay with his life, his freedom. He screams.
He remateralizes on the sands where he was created. His hand is out, grasping for something to hold onto, anything to save him. For a second, he imagines looking up to see his Lord, glowering down at him. He would scowl, voice full of contempt, and crush the Corinthian under his heel until nothing remained of him but dirt.
When he looks up, though, it’s just Lucienne. He’s filled with a sense of relief and- disappointment. Of course Dream couldn’t be bothered to think about him. Not when his precious tools are gone.
She makes some smug little comment about his returning to the Dreaming, but he brushes her off and stands to his feet.
“Where are you going?” She asks, mildly surprised.
She’s just like that wretched raven, so deeply entrenched in her loyalty. Well, the bird’s gone now. He knew when she stopped following him that Burgess had succeeded. If things go his way, his creator will soon disappear as well.
“Back to the waking world. To freedom.”
She tries to argue, but it doesn’t matter what she says; his mind is made up. He passed the point of no return a long time ago, and now the only thing left to do is keep digging. He leaves her with a warning; she won’t listen.
He can’t stand being here anymore. Everything he sees is just a reminder of the past, with only ghosts of naïveté left to haunt him. It stings.
As he lets himself blow away in the sand, though, he thinks that it does feel good to see those gray beaches one last time.
Things don’t go his way.
The helm and the sand are returned; the ruby is destroyed, and Dream is stronger than ever. Humans and all their little machinations can twist the hold of a god, and yet when he tries to nudge them in the correct direction, they can’t do a single thing right.
It’s fine. He still has another avenue to take. After all, word has spread of a certain vortex’s manifestation. All is not lost.
He will not disappear. He refuses to disappear.
He is hunting down Rose when he sees news that new victims of his have been discovered. This is all well and good, except he hasn’t eaten in days- too busy searching, amongst other things- and certainly hasn’t killed anywhere near here.
Now, he really should be concentrating on finding Rose, but there is a certain level of audacity he won’t accept from humans, and copycat killing under his name definitely falls within that range. So they better have a good explanation, or he’ll use them to whet his appetite.
He finds them in a local diner.
It seems he’s unknowingly inspired a group of followers. Collectors, they call themselves. The irritation from before settles into a pleasant kind of satisfaction as they discuss their little convention, ask him to be their guest speaker.
He’s inspired these people; they look up to him, think of him in awe and fascination.
(Fancy yourself a god now, do you?)
He decides: he will find Rose, take her to the convention, speak to his Collectors, destroy Dream, and wrap it all up, nice and clean.
The first thing on his list is simple enough; he finds her just fine. The problem is that there’s another raven now, and he’s just as annoying as his predecessor, and just as close to the Dream lord.
(Jealous?)
Instead of confronting them, he takes the mortal’s flyer and leaves. He does not have any misconceptions about what would happen were he to face Dream head on.
With a little investigation, he finds the location of the foster facility; the eyes of the tired woman he consumes taste like a life lived bitter with little reward. Not very filling. But he knows where the boy is now, and there may be more sustenance for him yet.
Jed Walker is an alright kid. He’s remarkably resilient for having gone through such a turbulent life, though he is a tad bit trusting.
Corinthian never really pays any attention to children. They typically haven’t lived enough to make a satisfying meal. The sickly sweet flavor of innocence doesn’t particularly appeal to his palate.
That being said, he doesn’t mind this one. He might even be fond of him, in whatever way something like him can be fond of anything. Of course, he doesn’t feel any remorse about taking advantage of him to get to his sister, but he is enjoying their little road trip. He thinks the boy is just grateful to be free from his “uncle,” and Corinthian can certainly understand the sentiment. He’s going to be free soon, too.
From the heavy ocean air of Florida, they drive through the warm countryside of rural Georgia, appreciating the wide fields of golden farmland. He has no problem with the heat, but he keeps the roof down for Jed, who enjoys the breeze.
After a good drive, they arrive at the hotel. He will admit the organizers chose well; the place they booked the convention at is just short of eye-catching, located in a mid-sized city. It’s the sort of place that people wouldn’t look twice at if there was a “cereal convention” or two.
As they enter, Corinthian scans the room. It’s bustling with a variety of people, wearing everything ranging from smart and dressy to wife-beater with a pair of sweatpants. All manner of veiled discussion is taking place, with snippets of “…tools on the job” and “clean finish” filtering to his ears from the hum of conversation around him. Automatically, his hand hovers behind Jed, guiding him. Most of these humans wouldn’t even make him break a sweat, but it would be best if he could establish that Jed is strictly off-limits.
The irony is not lost on him that he, the Corinthian, the one and only serial killer that plagued the world for a century, is so protective about the life of a child. But, well, Rose Walker would be much less likely to cooperate if he let her brother get hurt, and he would rather this process were easier for everyone.
Unfortunately, due to a brief lapse in concentration, he ends up finding Jed casually perched on the table of one Fun- fun- whatever. He was unremarkable enough in the diner, but today he’s wearing a child’s hat, and he’s talking to him with a little too much enthusiasm for him to permit, so Corinthian quickly sidles up next to them and places a hand firmly down.
Fun land isn’t very happy about his… conversation being interrupted, but there isn’t anything he can do right now, with all these people around. Corinthian introduces Jed as his guest; he also does his best to subtextually imply the threat of violent retaliation at any misbehavior. To emphasize this point, he slowly chews one of the candies from the table while making his closest equivalent to direct eye contact. He’s not sure if it sticks, though, because Funland looks more pissed than anything. He’ll have to keep an eye on him- so to speak.
He quickly whisks Jed off to his room, in the hopes that the boy will stay put and not let himself loose in a hotel full of serial killers. Alas, young kids are not prone to listening or remaining in one place for prolonged periods of time.
As he watches Nimrod and the Good Doctor rip Phillip Sitz open like a child’s rag doll, he hears the creak of a door opening. They all turn to see- bright against the blue light of the hallway- the terrified face of Jed Walker. Corinthian can feel the killers behind him shift. He lets out a breath, running his tongue along his teeth in slight irritation. Before the two can move, he strides forward. “This one’s mine,” he says coolly.
By the time he’s back in the open, Jed has disappeared. He’s small and agile, as a child is, and easy to lose track of. Unfortunately for him, Corinthian is a hunter, and he can catch a scent easily. He glances at the convention’s orientation table. On second thought, it may be fortunate; Funland has left his post.
Just that moment, he catches the eye of a portly, middle-aged gentleman. Corinthian stares. He stares. It’s Fiddler’s Green. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. He compartmentalizes and breaks eye contact, quickly running towards the stairs.
He is just stepping out of the stairwell when he sees a large silhouette barrel down the hallway. It’s Funland- and he looks rabid. Swiftly, Corinthian unsheathes his knife from its harness and deftly twirls it in his fingers, stepping into a run as he chases the enraged man down the hall. He can hear Jed and Rose, their panicked voices rising in volume as Funland rushes closer. His mouth rises sharp in a grin. He’s hunting now. His shoes pad soundlessly upon the carpeted floor. He is an apex predator- faster, stronger, and he lives for the chase.
Corinthian grips the handle of his dagger, an extension of his body, and drives it deep into his prey’s back. He feels vertebrae shatter under the pressure, splintering nerves, killing instantly. The body falls, revealing two very shocked kids.
He breathes deeply and relishes the adrenaline of a satisfying kill. “Hello, Rose.”
With a firm tug, his weapon is plucked from within flesh and run across a handkerchief. The blood sluices off the blade and soaks into the white cloth, painting it with ruby red stains.
He smiles. “You’re safe with me.”
And finally, Jed looks at him with the fear that he should. He’s drawing away, clinging to his sister. Good. He needs to learn.
Corinthian gazes out over the heads of his Collectors, hands splayed upon the podium as he speaks. This is the culmination of his existence. These people are the mark he has left upon this fragile world. Their dreams will give way to a new life, to true freedom. It’s beautiful.
He closes his eyes and dreams with the crowd before him, for a moment.
He opens them, and Dream is here.
He is still the same after a century: eyes that don’t love, the arrogant turn of his head, the cruel set of his lips. And he is just as ready to make the Corinthian disappear, like he’s a dirty spot to be wiped from a pane of glass. Well, he’s not going to go down easy this time. He is a wolf, and he will not falter. Not anymore.
Dream speaks, and his sharp words feel like shattered glass along his back. You disappoint me.
Corinthian swallows down furious expletives.
“You were my masterpiece,” his Lord says, sending a jolt down his spine, and he is brought back to the days of his creation. No. No. You are not him. You are stronger. You are more than what you were.
Dream cares not about what he has to say though, dismissing, deflecting, forever looking through him like he’s a window instead of his stupid little mirror, so he pulls out his knife and bares his teeth. Hunt.
Dream smiles, actually smiles, but it’s not a good smile. It’s the kind of smile that feels like concrete digging into his damp pants, a metallic smell in the air, feeling the pieces that make him break apart. “A knife against a dream?” He says, amused, and that really pisses Corinthian off.
Thus, when Dream raises his hand and the pull of sand tickles at his face, Corinthian grips the dagger and plunges it straight through the flesh of his god.
Dream gasps. He clutches at his bleeding hand and falls to his knees. His blood, sluggishly flowing from the wound, is red. Not gold, not ichor. He is just as small as the rest of them, and Corinthian is the one who brought him to these depths. It’s exhilarating. He feels as if he has been struck by lightning.
Like a coddled prince, Dream shakes. Slowly, he looks up at Corinthian, eyes glittering, looking so wronged that it makes him want to laugh. “How?” He demands.
So Corinthian tells him. He wants his creator to know exactly how he won, how his nightmare will watch him get ripped apart and siphoned until he is nothing. How he’ll know exactly what it feels like to be worthless and weak and unmade.
Maybe it’s this hubris that destroys him. Or maybe nothing he did ever mattered.
See, he thought that if Roderick Burgess- a mere human- could capture and hold Dream of the Endless for a century, then surely he, the Corinthian, could rid himself of his master once and for all.
But he forgot: he is not human. He is below human, a pale facsimile of mortal vice. In their short lives, humans go through millions upon millions of changes; they are tenacious, foolhardy, greedy- they cling desperately to every fragile minute, always seeking more, better, mine. They are the only ones who can alter the world, consume their gods, and live in open defiance of the universe.
He is not human. He is static, designed to do one thing. No matter how he tries, he cannot change his fate. The created will never usurp the creator.
This whole time, there was never any doubt he’d fail.
So- as Rose Walker raises the walls back up around them, faster than the Corinthian’s silver tongue can deign to stop her, what short lived joy he felt in those moments of triumph is dashed into pieces. His time is up, and he feels the floor fold away beneath him. He is free-falling. Dream is waiting for him.
He blinks. They’re back; the wound is already healing. Dream turns his hand over in fascination, as if he’s a child enamored with some pretty new plaything, and Corinthian stands there, nothing but dread.
He takes off his glasses. Nothing left to hide behind. If you think I’m going back to the Dreaming with you-
“You’re not going back.”
Right. That’s what he thought.
What do humans do at the end of their lives? Tie up loose ends, maybe. You ruined me, he should say .
He doesn’t want to disappear. He imagines nonexistence, and he finds it scares him. He enjoys being. He enjoys this Him that he has lived with for so long.
No matter how scared he is, though, he will never beg again. And in this fact, he is condemned.
He looks into his Lord’s eyes and knows that in them, he is worthless. He tries to get in his last protests nonetheless. Why is this his life? Bound by rules, unable to live by his nature. What a cruel game.
And Dream does acknowledge his own faults, but Corinthian doesn’t actually feel any better. Created poorly. Is that supposed to assure him? Absolve him of the burden of his existence? He doesn’t feel like he was created poorly. He feels like- him. The Corinthian. The lone hunter. He is simply following his impulses, the framework of his being. Why is he being punished for being alive? Is it so difficult for his vindictive Lord to love him as he is?
Yes. Yes it is.
His lungs gasp for air, desperate to take in all that they can before it’s too late.
Dream reaches out his hand for the last time. Those fingers that shaped him, created him, and sprawl towards him time and time again to destroy him are before him now, long, steady, and pale, coaxing his essence out of him. He begins to come apart.
It hurts; resentment floods through the cracks that form in his countenance.
“I am only sorry I won’t be here to see Rose Walker do the same to you,” he says, seething, and he knows his Lord is wrong. He was not made badly; he was made too well. He is the prodigious creation. He was created to be perfect, and he is perfectly broken.
(Doomed from the start, a shattered mirror tried desperately to fill the hollow inside him. Molded with all the ambition and hunger of humanity but never human enough to be loved, he was destroyed for the same reason he was created.)
If Dream of the Endless survives, he hopes he never makes the Corinthian again.
Hate you.
Love you.
(My Lord.)
He crumbles, and then he is nothing.