#[ rue do you ever think about how your extremely traumatised-ass dream would feel if corinth2 left him alone too long. ]

[nightmarecountry]

“You left me.” / from dream. uhoh.

The Dreaming has gone dark. Great stormclouds gather, shrouding the palace in gloom and pelting rain. Thunder shudders the foundations. The only light is from the electricity that forks through the sky at seemingly random intervals, no correlation between it and the dreaded thunder.

Here and there, parts of the realm are set ablaze in the strikes, and all things great and small run for shelter. Fire; lightning; rain. The Dreaming waits for the storm to pass, and trembles.

In the cavernous throne room, empty of all save himself and his lord, the Corinthian waits, too. Unlike his fellow dreamkin, however, the threat to his safety is immediate and personal. He is on one knee, head bowed, teeth clenched to keep them from chattering. He has been holding this position for some time, waiting for Dream to pass judgment. It is exactly as he knew it would be, when it comes: short, to the point, and no less excruciating for it. It is not so much what he says as how he says it.

You left me.

His voice is like glass: sharp, cold, fragile. Something breakable and wounded in the clipped nature of it. It isn't just the Corinthian's disobedience that disappoints him: it has hurt him. It has damaged his trust by leaving when it gave its word that it would never stray, never leave his side. Time and time again it proves itself little better than its predecessor. The same hunger. The same curiousity. The same inability to heel when it is told to, to stop straining at the leash, slipping the collar.

It stares hard at the cool, smooth floor, listening to the deep roll of thunder beyond the palace walls.

"I came back to you."

If he were mortal, his body would ache from holding this position so long. If he focuses, he can feel tension in his muscles, his jaws; he can feel a dull pressure where his weight rests on his knee. Rather than making him feel grounded, it makes him feel less real. Like he's not really here; like he left something of himself behind in the Waking on his little excursion.

"I did not mean to... leave you for long, lord shaper. I intended to return long before anyone might notice my absence."

He knows, he knows that he is making it worse. What else can he do? He cannot grovel; he will not plead or beg as his predecessor might have. He can only explain, and make promises he cannot keep, and hope that Dream's mercy prevails over his hurt.

All around them, the rain makes the windows tremble.