#endl0ss

It should know better. For a moment its jaws feel wired shut, remembering: a hand shoved into the cavity of his chest, up to the elbow, the flesh wet and loose around it, dark matter dripping out. His heart in Dream’s hand. His eyes, wet with blood and tears, choking. He has not invoked his master’s extreme displeasure since then, there have been no more betrayals, but…

The Corinthian inclines its head the smallest amount. “As you say, lord-shaper. I apologise.” How easily apologies come to him now. Faced with his creator in the Waking world, thinking he had the power of a Vortex at his disposal, he had been confident: he would have fought and been destroyed before he ever made concessions to his creator.

But that was before.

“Even so…”

It sidles a little closer, coming to stand to the left of the throne, its eyes never leaving its maker—just in case he rises suddenly, or gives the Corinthian a look, or. Or.

It is better to see a threat coming.

“…you wouldn’t have to do anything to it. Just let me have it. It’s just sitting out there.”

He had found, on the farthest reaches of the Shores of Nightmare, a great black inverted pyramid. Obsidian and glass; quartz, like his heart; mirrors and mirrors. It was empty. Nothing seemed to want to go near it. No one he asked seemed to know where it had come from or if Lord Morpheus had created and discarded it long ago.

The Corinthian had immediately wanted it as a place to live, so to speak, away from the castle and away from his king and the rest of the Dreaming.

He has had enough of other dreamkin looking at him. Word travels fast in dreams, and they all know what he did.

THE SIGHT of the stranger gives nikolai an innate discomfort that radiates through his bones . his monster pushes at his ribs , unsettled and anxious and it only ratchets up nikolai's concern . the only time the demon gets this pushy is when aleksander is around , and that is entirely different from THIS .

" odd feller, ain'tcha? " not that he minds. well, he does sort of mind. the dark figure, though very handsome and intriguing, is a stranger to him. still, he doesn't seem dangerous. hester had lead him here, anyway ( dragged is more accurate. like she couldn't help but find this man ) so how bad could he be if his skittish little daemon trusted him enough to seek him out?

still, the touch is strange for him -- not only is he not used to the contact, the man just has an odd vibe about him. one lee can't place. he can't even tell if any of this is real or if he's still asleep, curled around his campfire, hester keeping watch as always.

It was Vasily's doing. Every bit of it was a mark of his cruelty. The gallows had been constructed under his command, and the violence that came to her during her time in the cells was most likely his order. Whatever he touched, cruelty always followed. It was the wont of mortals who had too much power; she come to realize. The fear they felt towards Grisha--like a dog barking in the dark--was because their existence of them was a threat to that power. Lark had come to realize some were beyond saving. For the briefest of moments, she could have sworn she heard the Darkling chuckle in the back of her mind. Like calls to like. He always said it, and she was coming to realize he was not entirely wrong.

Where was her like? The sun summoner, Nikolai, anyone who would come to her aid to stop this? No one would come to her defense, Vasily saw to that by plotting this for when they were too far to make it in time.

She stepped upon the gallows and for the first time in a long time, she felt true fear. She gazed out to the crowd gathered there and did not understand their insults and ire. The royalty sat in an ornate booth as if it was some sporting event. It had filled Lark with rage. She was seething, and flames flickered about her but it did nothing to the Gallows or the rope being tightened around her neck. Vasily's sly smile told her everything she needed to know. It was Durast made, and it was fireproof. The irony wasn't lost on her. Her gaze found Vasily's. He would feel her wrath, her pain, they all would.

The crowd hushed as she was permitted a few last words. She would use them wisely. Lark glanced up at the sky and parted her lips.

" Morpheus. ( @endl0ss ) " She called out into the sky. Her voice loud and echoing. Her beautiful one, her King of Dreams. The One who walked with her and spoke a thousand conversations. The one who truly cared.

The Corinthian does not bow, or bend to one knee. The urge to do exactly that, though, is almost unbearable. A pressure bearing down on him that comes not from Dream's power but from somewhere inside himself: a need to capitulate, thought long-buried. Discarded like every other weakness the moment he stepped into the Waking as a free agent.

Free no longer, he still clings to his Waking-world self image... and loathes himself for hating Dream a little less than he should.

Avoiding the question, the Corinthian bares its teeth in its usual smile. "You were gone a while," it observes, pointedly. Its tone is light, faux-innocent when it adds: "Some of us were starting to wonder if you'd left for good... again."

Am I pleased to see you?

Never. Always.

He can't help it. The retort is right there.