Dream loves Corinthian

Adding the intended raw sketch because some part just don't work during the painting.

The emotions I want to portray on Morpheus is that he's terrified of their wedding, the possibility of upcoming destruction- that according to him is inevitable. While he has complete faith in the Corinthian, never had doubt for his masterpiece.

Corinthian however, had never been so sure in his life. If this is indeed the time of change, he thinks they should stop running away from taking the opportunity of what could be.

Every good and the bad, every wonder, every sins, even the everlasting ugliness within them, should Dream wishes to stay inside his arms, then he'll always have him.

For the theme song, I decided to do a sing cover of The Path, composed by Shiro Sagisu. Since the first time I discovered the song, I can't help but thinking this song is just meant to be, Corinthian's vow for his Maker and the love of his life.

The second time he appeared his nightmare seemed to want to talk.

A moment ago Dream had been alone in his throne room. Now he found the Corinthian standing in the same spot he’d first appeared, beside the throne, one hand resting on the peak of its stone arch as he slouched against it. Insouciant. Disrespectful. In the realm of dreams matter didn’t need to be solid to be real, could be echoes, could be smoke. The Corinthian seemed solid, yet it was a duality that made him eerie, the uncertainty of if the Corinthian could be touched, how he still didn’t register to anything but sight.

Dream’s represented eyes could see him but all else could not—the stone floor couldn’t feel him, the stone throne couldn’t either, the air did not move around him—that one sense the only one that could see.

What was he?

There was no such thing as ghosts in the Dreaming, not outside of the dream of them—though that wasn’t strictly true, was it, there had been one—and yet a remnant of his nightmare remained outside of his skull. As Dream’s gaze settled the fingers trailed down the back of the throne in a caress, slow enough to make the most of being watched, slow enough to perform. On the Corinthian’s index finger a ring gleamed in the light, the blue stone held there glittering, displayed to hook its catch. The prey was Dream; this to catch his eye, to let him know that the Corinthian still wore it, as clear here as it had been at the convention.

It was gold on the hand of a traitor.

That ring had been a gift.

Dream flicked his eyes upwards. “Corinthian.”

“Hello there Dream,” The Corinthian taunted, abandoning his position beside the throne, sauntering closer with a sharp smirk, the glasses covering the teeth of his eyes yet doing nothing to dilute their bite. “Surprised to see me?”

“You are not supposed to be here.” Dream replied.

A rebuke he couldn’t help, though for who he couldn’t say.

His masterpiece was getting closer, stepping past a distance considered polite, the tips of his shoes nudging up against Dream’s as he came to a stop. He was a thing of menace, prowling like a panther, golden still, golden like metal poured fresh and hot into a chosen mold. Cast there to be this, broad shouldered, smooth gait; it was like listening to someone play a score you’d written but never heard performed, it was like listening to the music perform itself. The same pattern of intimidation Dream had crafted in the Corinthian, now displayed in front of him, acted on him just as his nightmare had attempted at the convention.

There was still no reason to step back.

The Corinthian was still smirking; leaning in close, lips a tease at Dream’s ear, his breath a ghost as impossibly real as the one standing before him.

You are not supposed to be here.

“Then why am I?”

-

Lucienne frowned when Dream asked her where she’d put the Corinthian’s skull.

“Safe.” She’d said—confirmed what he had never doubted, no risk of misplaced faith—gesturing to their surroundings. “Here in the library.”

This place that was filled with stories.

It had been lost, taken while Dream was trapped, returned now to all its former glory. Renewed. A sanctuary for stories—those of any kind, tales both bright and terrible—shelves upon shelves of them. Here they were protected, displayed, maintained forever because Dream would never let this place be taken from him, from them, again. Lucienne guarded this for him, she guarded still more in the skull of bone he’d entrusted her to protect.

“I do not doubt you.” Dream said softly. “I entrusted the Corinthian’s care to you for a reason.”

“You approve of his presence in the library then?”

It was a place of stories; an urge to pick one from these shelves, to sit here in this library, to read as many as he wished to the Corinthian.

Instead Dream nodded.

“A worthy home.”

-

The third time the Corinthian wanted to dig.

It was a change in location. He’d appeared in Dream’s room—dared enter such an intimate space, no audiences held in here, no sovereignty enacted from his bed—an uninvited intruder now standing in front of the balcony. A breeze ruffled through Dream’s hair, running through it like a hand, like fingers greedily searching for all they could caress. At the Corinthian’s back the doors to the Dreaming were open, his nightmare framed by Dream’s light, obscured by it, an appreciation for the beauty in that even as it could not be fully seen. Lights spectrum limited, making lines to ensure an image crisp and clear.

Dream was now grounded in a human approximation of vision.

It registered an eclipse; a halo of light, shining in the Corinthian’s hair, lending the strands its glow, Dream’s glow, the ring of it casting the rest of him into shade.

With the sun still bearing down on him the Corinthian’s back must burn.

“I’ve never seen you from this angle.”

Dream laughed. “Do I look small?”

“No.” The Corinthian tilted his head, a motion of darkness in how his expression was cast in shadow, forged there as easily as it had been in gold. “Maybe angle was the wrong word. I’ve never seen you in this light.”

The light that now streamed so freely through the open doors.

Dream imagined to the Corinthian he must be the one who looked partly in shade. A reflection of how he saw him, perhaps blocking out the sun to made him clearer, burning his back so that he could find Dream here. Bearing the blunt of power so he could find Dream and look upon his face.

“Yet I have always stood under it.”

“You’ve always shone with it.” Unlike any of their previous encounters his nightmare had a rebuttal preprepared. The tone turned musing. “You can’t let anything go can you?”

Dream raised a brow.

The unspoken request for an explanation was made clear without him needing to stoop to asking. The Corinthian didn’t ignore the implicit order, didn’t fall at the need to buck against Dream’s authority, was on a roll, pursuing his advantage. His nightmare too intent to fuss, the skill of investigation primed and sharpened, the moment of pay off when the reveal was made already within his grasp.

There was a greedy awe in his voice, a cruelty to the Corinthian's wonderment. “You’ve kept everything; all the pain, all the joy, but you find pain the more common thing, don’t you?”

How interesting that he could be so perceptive when Dream could barely see his face.

“Is that what you are?” Dream asked mildly. “A memory of pain?”

The Corinthian shrugged. “You’re the King of the Dreaming, the so called Prince of Stories. You’ve always told me what I am.”

Bitterness in that.

“You are wrong.” Dream replied; bored now, used to such assumptions, used to a correct observation being followed up with one that missed the mark. “If that is what you think then you have a lot to learn, little dream.”

It was an insult—an endearment—one he’d never before used.

Not where the Corinthian could hear at least. The result was stillness like a held breath. Dream smiled, had demonstrated how it was done, how best to follow up on an advantage. His observation as correct as his rebuttal. The Corinthian hadn’t expected those words. Perhaps in the silence he was searching Dream for truth, smirking still because one didn’t reveal their hand while testing the strength of another’s, his probing for weakness sharp and taunting.

“Am I a dream then?”

Dream didn’t answer.

He’d not repeat unnecessarily. If he’d said it then it was so.

His nightmare should know that without needing confirmation. The Corinthian didn’t fall to impatience at his silence, didn’t scowl, watched him from within that ring of Dream’s light and waited for an answer that would never come. The Dreaming’s sun perhaps still burning his back. Dream thought about hope. Of all he’d had when he’d made the Corinthian. The disappointment of what his nightmare had then done with his existence.

Am I a dream then? Dream knew the answer.

Jessamy had scheduled a meeting to discuss the arrangements, prompt as always, the invite reaching Dream’s inbox at exactly 9:05am on December first.

This year had been a particularly busy one, the celebrations arranged for a date right in the midst of it all. In all honesty, Dream didn’t tend to pay much attention to the preparations, just ensured the funds were available and then allowed his employees to plan it as they wished. He’d almost forgotten about it entirely, had been reminded when Matthew had quite cheerfully given an update in the most recent team meeting. The subsequent email reminder that had been sent around listed out exactly what the schedule would be for the occasion.

Dream would much rather be onboarding the new client.

A latecomer to be sure but that could not be held against them—a novelist pitching a phenomenal detective story Dream had devoured in a few hours and immediately agreed to publish—the contracting process revealed to be far more complex than initially anticipated. It appeared his client dipped into different markets the same way Dream did; this the first novel, not the first venture, one such enterprise a dabbling into a franchise of horror themed escape rooms that was going very well. It may have added weeks of work to the end of the year but that was just part of the job. There was much to be done before the year was over, all needed to ensure a smooth transition.

Yet it was also Dream's responsibility to attend his own charity event. He would not risk creating an impression that he didn’t think it was important.

Still, when Lucienne knocked on the door of his office and explained that there had been a last minute adjustment he’d been sceptical. Then when she’d elaborated on how there would now be a charity auction added to the schedule Dream had stared at her a moment too long to claim neutrality.

“What sort of auction?”

There was much he could donate.

But Dream had his suspicions that this was an occasion of another sort.

“Not one you’re used to.” Lucienne’s smile was amused, but kind, she’d seen what his concern was without him needing to say it. “For your time. A dinner, to be precise.”

Dream frowned. “Who would want to take me to dinner?”

He didn’t try and hide the perplexity in his tone. Lucienne laughed; fond, not mocking, and so it did not rankle despite how it was clear she was laughing at him. “You might be surprised about that.”

“I don’t think I will be.” Dream replied. Then nodded briskly. “Very well. May I request a favour?”

“Depends.”

“Would you bid?” He asked. “To ensure that—”

Dream trailed off, frowned as he realised how he’d intended to end the sentence, unsure where the sudden insecurity had come from. He was not worried about being forced to spend time with someone intolerable—that was already a part of his job—nor was he concerned about no one bidding at all. That was already somewhat certain. Yet something about an unknown entity had him needing to ensure he would spend the evening with someone he knew.

Further explanation didn’t end up being required.

Lucienne’s smile was soft. “Of course. I presume you’re paying?”

The tone turned sly at the end, the gentleness a cushion for it. Dream laughed quietly, tension uncurling. “I will fund your donation.”

He waited a beat before changing tact.