#books of magic constantine is so special to me

[rollforjackass]

the way he manages to juggle a teacher-student friendship and ongoing beef with the same fourteen year old is everything to me.

[talentforlying]

listen i know there's plenty of tooling around behind the wheel in the nbc show and in legends but constantine Cannot drive. never got a license, would fail miserably even if he did. he knows vaguely how to, as in which pedal does what and turn-the-wheel, but do NOT let him drive your car unless you've got a REALLY GOOD mechanic.

[junespriince]

The unfortunate son of John Constantine au

Wally: I wanna go home!

Bruce, flying the plane while Diana rest her arm: stop complaining, we have a mission to finish.

Wally, whining: but I don't wanna, I want my dad, where's Robin? Why do I have to come along without a friend!! Let me go home!!

Bruce: Jordan, next time you leave Allen get kidnapped along with J'onn and we have to find him, I'm taking your spleen.

Hal: he is 6yo, and bored you wouldn't let me get him his chem books that are for long trips, what do you want me to do?

Bruce: use your ring to make them.

Hal: I didn't memorize that large book, if I get one thing wrong he'll know, this is his special interest B.

Wally: we're so slow, I wanna go and run, I want to go play!!

Clark: do we need a speedster, truly?

Bruce: yes, every league had one if we don't it could be make things worse.

Arthur: well, what do we do?

Oliver: well his dad is that magic freak... Hey kiddo you want to see a magic trick?

Wally: magic doesn't exist and you're the freak not my dad, loser.

Oliver: you little sh—

Diana: hey, child ears are listening.

Zatanna, on call: child ears, wha?

Wally, getting happy: momma!!

The league:

Bruce: where are you, we're picking you up.

After awhile

Wally, on zatanna's lap giggling: again, again!

Zatanna, been doing magic tricks: is this your card?

Wally, amazed: it is!

Oliver, grumbled: thought magic doesn't exist...

[ladylilithprime]

Day 10: Mushrooms

(Part of the Grand Not-Coven of Palo-Alto series.)

SAM WESSON'S GARDEN was a truly spectacular work of time, effort, engineering, and spell work. It was the first thing any visitor to his properly noticed from the street and a favored place for friends and family to gather to spend time together just chatting and enjoying each other's company. Even if you didn't have a lick of sensitivity to the supernatural and mystical energies, the Garden was a visual marvel of growth and care, at least some parts of it always in bloom no matter the season. If you were sensitive to mystical energies, it was a massive nexus of magic, from the carved stones and mosaics that marked out the footpaths and plant beds to the plants themselves. It was the focal point of the wards Sam had built around his house and extended to the house next door where Dean Smith lived, and it was where the anchor stones for the wards Sam maintained around the homes and businesses of his "network friends" and Palo Alto as a whole were kept, continually renewing and recharging with every sunrise, moonrise, and rainfall.

As a licensed herbalist and practicing witch, it was no surprise that the Garden held a lot of the plants and herbs Sam needed for various potions, tinctures, and poultices, grown fresh and harvested with care to dry and preserve. The large glass greenhouse at one end of the Garden, which connected to the main house via the Solarium, held the more "tempermental" plants in their specially warded pots and beds, the ones that Sam's FBI contacts really wanted to pretend didn't exist for one reason or another. There was even a section of the Garden devoted to growing fruits and vegetables which Sam used to cook and gave to or traded with other members of the network. Frankly, the only thing that was surprising to people who had learned the secrets of the Garden was that Sam would need to go anywhere else for some type of plant.

Specifically, mushrooms.

"It's not that there aren't mushrooms in the Garden," Sam explained as he led the way into the woods behind the house, Bones cheerfully bounding ahead before circling back to dance around her favorite human and his friends. "The act of foraging is itself a part of the ritual, much like harvesting. A reaffirmation of life and sustainability amid death and decay as part of the cycle of the natural world."

"And they're really safe to eat?" asked John Castiel Novak curiously, stepping around a fallen branch even as he split his attention between Sam and the mushroom guidebook the witch had given him.

"Some are," Sam nodded, then shrugged. "Some aren't. And some of them are only safe to eat in certain stages of their growth, so pay close attention to that guide book and if you aren't sure ask me or Bones to double check."

"Too bad we don't have a pig along for truffle hunting," Cas's twin, James Constantine Novak joked, and then yelped as the golden retriever abruptly stood up and changed into a golden-haired woman with her hands on her naked hips.

"I'd like to see a hog sniff out the good mushrooms of all types and warn you away from the bad ones even half as well as I can!" she snapped. Then her indignation melted away into a mischievous smirk as she added, "Besides, Dean said he was never doing that again after he got dirt up his nose that was still there when he changed back."

"Bones," Sam groaned as Cas and Jimmy exchanged slightly alarmed looks. To the twins, he explained, "It was a dare from Andy to see if I even could change someone who wasn't my familiar into an animal, and Jess suggested a truffle hog to see if we could find some wild growing truffles to save some money on ingredients. Dean volunteered to be the guinea pig, and, well.... actual pig."

"And it worked?" Jimmy asked with interest. "No negative side effects?"

"Dean gained a better appreciation for vegetables as a food group, so your mileage may vary," Bones snorted, then slipped back into her canine shape with a cheerful yip.

"I, on the other hand, was exhausted, which is the real reason he said never again," Sam explained, getting tandem nods. The twins were well acquainted with Dean's intense protective streak when it came to Sam. "So Bones conspired with Dean to learn the scents of every mushroom in these woods and a few that aren't so she could be my primary hunting partner."

As it should be, Bones whispered in Sam's mind, answering his small smile with a lolling canine grin. Sam may have left the world of hunting behind along with the Winchester name, but there were some aspects he just couldn't give up completely. He rather suspected that, with the way the Novak twins kept coming back with their increasingly flimsy excuses, the hunting world wasn't ready to be done with him, either.

He thought he might could live with that.

[vidreview]

VIDEO ESSAY ROUNDUP #6 [PART 2]

[originally posted august 1st 2024 NOTE: while migrating the archive from cohost i've discovered that tumblr has a 10 link-block limit, which means i have to split some of these roundups up in order to maintain the embeds. we love websites don't we folks]

"New Zelda isn't Zelda" by Eroymak.

it's novel to see one of these shot in the mountains! vibes like a younger, ganglier nakeyjakey. i like to imagine that there's an escalating war of spectacle happening between white outdoorsy middle-class nerds all trying to one-up each other by casually filming an otherwise anodyne video essay in increasingly precarious locales. how long until a 22 year old DJ from Wisconsin dies on the slopes of Everest trying to film an essay about Mario 1-1? who's going to be the first human being to levy a citation-heavy critique of Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead while skydiving? how long until Shiey accidentally loses Jacob Geller down an abandoned mine shaft? anyway, Eroymak is extremely correct here about what makes modern Zelda games a drag, namely that their "go anywhere do anything" attitude ruins the sense of progression that once defined the franchise. i worry about this with the upcoming Echoes of Wisdom, which seems to be applying the Of The games' open toolset philosophy to the 2D Zelda template, but i digress. for being only 7 minutes and 20 seconds, this is a pretty succinct and broadly comprehensive summation of why the open world Zeldas lack a certain magic that was once so easily flaunted by their forebears.

"so that's why they cut all her scenes from the movie" by CinemaStix.

i've seen CinemaStix videos in my recommended feed multiple times and avoided them like the plague. i mean, come on. "CinemaStix"? at a glance this conjures a monstrous Third-Way chimera betwixt CinemaSins and CinemaWins, and i would sooner stave my own head in with a rock than give such a thing the time of day. EXCEPT… Constantine 2005 is one of my favorite comic book movies. i saw it in theaters and it changed me. in the years since, i've defended Constantine's honor from the haters to little avail (thankfully the tides have turned in recent years and people are realizing that they totally missed the second-best John Wick movie), and it's top of my list of fun movies to show guests when we're bored. this special interest overrode my kneejerk book-cover judgment survival mechanism, and i'm so mad that i don't regret it. this video is about the editing of Constantine 2005, and how many of the film's iconic moments were constructed in post. as the title suggests, a substantial amount of time is spent trying to understand why an entire character was ultimately cut, a question that's also plagued me ever since watching the deleted scenes on the DVD in 10th grade. whether you've seen Constantine 2005 or not, this is an excellent portrait of editing as a substantive authorial process. i've since gone and watched multiple CinemaStix videos, and god damn it, these are some quality essays. sometimes popular things are good, she said grumpily.

"Conservative Comedy Ruined My Life" by Big Joel.

oops, can you tell this vidrev roundup has been sitting in my drafts for a long time? this video came out on April 2nd of 2024 and has nearly 2.5 million views, so i won't belabor the point. this is a great deconstruction of conservative comedy that looks hard into why so much of it sucks beyond the empty platitudes endemic to smarmy liberals. it's some of Big Joel's best work in my opinion.

"On Online Entitlement" by CJ The X.

an excellent autopsy of the rhetorical implications of an overly familiar instagram comment-- a description that i know probably sounds obnoxious, but genuinely is not the case. Mx. The X goes to great lengths to assure us that this is not about the person who left the comment, but the various attitudes and assumptions that are implied in its construction. gen z essayists in particular seem to specialize in this sort of editorial post-game breakdown of the things people say when they think they're saying something else, and i think they're always worth paying attention to. consider this something of a downstream epilogue to Shannon Strucci's seminal Fake Friends series. even as i don't always agree with the totality of their conclusions, i do always come away from CJ The X videos feeling like i've learned something about how i and other internet-dwelling social animals think.

"How Uber Is Destroying Food Delivery" by More Perfect Union.

More Perfect Union is not typically in the business of video essays, focusing more on feature stories that heavily rely on interviews and on-the-ground reporting. this one's a unique development in that it is just straight up a video essay, using the business model of Uber as an avenue for understanding Corey Doctorow's theory of platform decay (except he calls it Enshittification because god forbid 21st century materialist philosophy grow out of its twee blogosphere adolescence). if you know the theory then there's probably not gonna be much here that surprises you, but i felt it a notable inclusion nevertheless.

do you have recommendations for video essays i might not have seen, new or old? well my askbox is open and i'm always looking for ways to penetrate my experiential-algorithmic youtube bubble. hope you found something enjoyable in this collection, see you in the next one!

<- ROUNDUP #5

[kellshaw]

Magic: Transmission and Effect

Here's what you should think about when developing your magic system.

Why do people use it? Viewing magic as a process, why do people want to use it? How do they use it to do something in your story that they couldn't otherwise?

How does it work? This is the transmission layer. By what mechanism does the magic do the thing it does? It's perfectly okay to say 'by the blood of dead gods spilled into the ethereal seams of the world' but I like it when there's some thought behind it. Even if the characters don't know, stick this thought in your 90% of worldbuilding that the reader will never see. It'll help for background consistency.

What does it feel like to use magic? I love stories where people are exploring their powers (I enjoy superhero origin stories, except those we've seen repeatedly; looking at you Batman, Superman and Spiderman). How does it feel to channel and cast power? Anxiety of trying to memorise a difficult formula? Getting high from channelling raw energy from the gods? Is there a taste or sensation? Or even boredom, if magic is perfunctory?

Who can use it? Trained wizards? Anyone who gets the spell right?

Where does the magic fit into your world and society? Is it a secret? Only used by the elite?

Does your magic have an overall paradigm? Like a special esoteric programming code (spell) that can hack reality can if done right? Calling upon ancient gods for boons? The flavour is important to me. I read the first few pages of a book where the hero 'magicked a barrier in front of the demon' and while the scene was action-paced, the flavor of the magic didn't grab me.

Let's run my magic system through these questions:

Why do people use it? To do things they can't do via ordinary mortal means. Because it requires making a pact, it's all for personal gain or desperation. Maybe to help with revenge, or to return after death to deal with your unfinished business.

How does it work? Magic is a flow of energy from another dimension. A flow of extra-dimensional energy overwrites the localised reality, enabling supernatural effects when present. For example, to summon a zombie, you'll need a source of spectral energy from the Underworld, the land of the dead.

What does it feel like to use? Each realm has a distinct flavour of energy. Infernal magic is painful, like barbwire running through your guts. Death magic is sad and regretful, like holding a party that no one shows up to.

Who can use it? After the Rending—the terrible event when the Age of Magic ended—all portals to other dimensions were abruptly sealed off. Demons, fae, nature spirits, angels are trapped in their home realms and have limited agency to influence the mortal world. However, if you make a pact with one, you gain their vestige—a shard of their soul—and this enables you to channel supernatural energy into the mortal world. This changes you—you're not a normal mortal anymore. You're now half an extradimensional entity. Someone who accepts a demon's vestige becomes a cambion; another who makes a pact with a fae becomes a changeling.

Where does the magic fit into the world? It's secret and hidden. You have to figure out that magic exists, who you want to make a pact with, and hopefully find a patron whose goals align with yours.

The overall vibe is if you want magic, you hustle for it, and cut deals with powerful extra-dimensional entities. It's a grungy, noir occult world. You take on supernatural debt and have to weigh the bargain you've made against the power you gain. Sometimes you may not have a choice but to agree.

"So everyone's a D&D warlock?" someone asked when I described this.

Yeah.

Or John Constantine, as you sit on a teetering mound of debts and favors that are gradually spiralling out of control...

How about you? How does your world's magic work?

[havendance]

I was going to do a whole comics roundup post since I finally went out to the comics store, but I'm lazy and I really don't actually have that many opinions on this weeks birds of prey anyway. (I like the old artist better. I think this week's artist was doing some neat things and was nicely dynamic, but also I don't like the way that they draw faces and I miss how solid all the characters were when Romero drew them. The moments between Sin and Dinah were nice. Still figuring out how I feel about mageara.)

So what this post is really about is the comic I polled out of the dollar bin which I have much more opinions on!

Vertigo: Winter's Edge #1

This is the Vertigo holiday special which, while a little late to be truly seasonal (and also contains no santa appearences), I thought I'd do a write up on anyway.

This is a solid 96 pages of Vertigo stories and you can tell! Compared to the superhero side of DC/more modern holiday specials, this is much denser and well, filled with the funky little strange stories that DC created Vertigo to tell. There's no christmas carol retellings here! Just about every story here is filled with verbose, introspective monologues (at least that's what it felt like).

(Also, I have no idea who half these people are.)

The framing story here is that a bunch of Rain's (the girl who lives in the house of secrets I believe) friends show up for the holidays and she goes up to a room in the house to find a gift, finding a room with a man who shows her a bunch of paintings which connect to our stories.

The Flowers of Romance -- a Sandman story, featuring a horny satyr who is dying alongside the rest of his island from being forgotten or whatever. Desire shows up and uses their powers to have it so a young couple comes to the island on the night before Christmas eve so that the satyr can have one last night of pleasure before he dies.

I'd actually read this one before as it was collected in one of my Sandman Omnibuses. Honestly I thought it was one of the weaker stories in this (though far from the worse *sideyes the Invisibles story*). It just felt like it could use something more. It feels like Gaiman cut out down story that could've been an entire issue and it suffered for it. (Also the story itself is kind of eh to me. I don't really have sympathy for the dying horny satyr.)

Mazel Tov, Leo -- A story for some comic called The Minx which I have not heard of. Tom, boyfriend of the Minx, goes to meet her family (who's jewish) for the holidays.

I can't say I recommend this one if you (like me) have no idea what's going on in The Minx because I certainly felt lost.

Spirit of the Season -- A Wesley Dodds Sandman mystery! This was one was really good. Wesley goes to a synagogue to remember his dead mother for the holidays and stops some young hooligans from robbing the place.

Deck the Halls -- A story for the dreaming. The closest thing to light hearted we really get in this. Able is really into celebrating christmas and Cain is not. And since this is about them, while no actual murder happens during the story, it's certainly alluded to and implied!

Tell Me -- Our Hellblazer story. Constantine takes a break from spending the holidays with his current girlfriend's family to visit a bar, where the man sitting next to him tells the story of couple. The man disappears after telling it and it turns out he was actually the ghost of the man from the story (he'd died at the end.) Constantine passes on a message to his widow who just walked through the door.

I also recommend this one. It was touching.

Piss on Earth -- The holiday story for a comic called Nevada which I had never heard of before. This one features a irreverant, las-vegas themed nativity story retelling dream sequence.

It was much more approachable if you haven't read the comic than the Minx one. It also did fun stuff with the panel layouts during the dream sequence.

Thanks for Nothing -- A Books of Magic story. This one's a little matchgirl inspired only instead of selling matches our girl is selling acid (or maybe not). Also her father might be winter and he can only visit his kids while they're about to freeze to death? Anyway, I did enjoy his one, but also there's quite a few things that are ambigous about it. But that's what makes it Vertigo.

And We're All Police Men -- I am not even going to try to explain what happens in here because I have no idea. This is by Grant Morrison for The Invisibles and this story in no way motivates me to go check it out. It feels like Morrison is just stringing words and phrases together and occasionally they're even ones that make a coherent sentence. I started reading their Animal Man comics and those told a compelling story. This was not that.

Look, here's a sample:

(I'm sorry, I'm not going to transcribe this, but the whole story goes on like this for 8 whole tedious pages) Worst story of the bunch imo hands down.

[hbosscreations]

The Reason Dead in America Doesn't Work for Me

I know that this is the autism brain in me and not necessarily a rational argument that other people will have or even care about, and I don't think anyone is going to see this or care, but what is this platform good for if not shouting into the void?

There are a lot of things wrong with Dead in America, and if I got into the whole 'British White Dude talking about American Racism without understanding nuance or being particularly aware of British Racism' thing...well, I think I'd lose it again. Other people have talked about it more eloquently than I ever could.

So instead, let's talk about the feelings I'm having and the in universe reason that Dead in America feels...wrong to me. This isn't something a person who's starting with Dead in America might pick up on, but it lives rent free in my head and I haven't seen anyone else talk about it.

The world John is in isn't his world. Rather, the SOUL in John's body is from a different universe's John Constantine.

To be fair, if you're not reading the trade of the 2019 run, you might also not have read the Halloween special in which the apocalypse created by Tim Hunter (from Books of Magic) is happening and John gets Chas and his taxi exploded, but it's kind of important to the rest of the story, so I'm glad it was included in the trade. Kind of wish it was included as the first issue of the run. The trade also includes the issue of how John gets a cell phone with an angel trapped inside it, but that's less important.

Let me explain.

Basically, Tim Hunter is an extremely powerful magic user who punched a hole into the multiverse. John is an extremely powerful magic user who, as we all know, REALLY does NOT want to die. The apocalypse is happening, Zatanna is dying, Tefe is dying, John just sacrificed Chas and is dying. So, when a future version of him appears that seems happy and says 'hey, babe, just promise me that you'll give me your soul and I'll heal you up and send you somewhere you're needed' John says yes.

Why does older him want his soul? Fuck if John knows. Future John makes it sound like a con on the universe, and John's into that shit. 'Keep it in the family'.

Remember that line.

He wakes up in a universe where he's been in Ravenscar for years, the only visible scar on him we see is the deal he made with himself. The burn on his hand.

This is a universe (I suspect) where he didn't sell his soul to get rid of his cancer. What would be the point of punting him here if Future John would have to figure out how to get the soul away from the demons who may or may not still have a claim to it.

More to the point, I think this is a universe where Future John was supposed to have a measure of control over the happenings. Let me explain. We see this in Scrubbing Up Part 2 when John talks to Clarice.

(If you don't know who Clarice and Map are, they're from the original run and they're fantastic, but they're also magic people who've worked with John in the past.)

There's a prophesy that says a hungry void is murdering whichever magi it could not first consume, you say? A void like a tulpa, perhaps? An abomination under parliament? You mean the tulpa of Albion that Future John creates?

Why do I think these things are specifically Future John's doing?

Because the story says so.

Back in the 2019 Halloween special, John starts to lose his memories of the multiverse, his lives, his loves. He starts to CUT THEM OFF because they cannot coexist with this world that is so much more limited in scope.

John regularly complains in this run that the CGI shit is 'not his scene' which Future John scoffs at. Of course it's his scene, that's where he's at now, and while people like to forget about it, it was his thing in the original run too once he'd passed through a few hands.

The 90s were a hell of a drug for the comic book industry, I'm just saying.

Side tangent, this would have been an AMAZING jumping off point for newer readers. You literally don't need to know anything because he's been in a drug induced haze for a decade and doesn't remember his old life. A good writer could use this and have John be trying to parse through his memories and figure out what's real, what's not, and what the other him wanted.

Anyway, back to Future John's motives.

'You don't have to be afraid. I'll fix you up. Set you down where this unholy fucktangle didn't reach yet. Somewhere you're needed.'

Emphasis is something that should be important in a comic (Unless you're Frank Miller, I guess). In particular, Future John says 'where this unholy fucktangle didn't reach yet'. 'This unholy fucktangle'. Not 'this unholy fucktangle'.

Meaning there's a place that's already made and ready for John. A place his future self has chosen.

Where, exactly?

'Somewhere you're needed'.

Not 'somewhere peaceful' or 'somewhere exciting' or even 'somewhere familiar'.

No, 'somewhere you're needed'.

And the first thing after the issue of John getting his magical cell phone, what's the first real thing that happens to John that's not a mundanity?

Noah happens.

Noah, who was supposed to be hunting down Clarice (An OLD WOMAN IN A CAR WITH A BODYGUARD) and somehow convinces his friend and partner in crime that actually John is the person they are supposed to be kidnapping.

Noah has no clue why he decided to bring a man who looks anywhere between his 40's to 70's depending on the issue, but John does not look like a five foot tall brunette in a designer dress with a sleek car and a bodyguard, does he?

So, why would Noah do that? Why would Isa go along with it?

This time, this place, this universe was chosen for a reason.

Man, wouldn't it be interesting if John was here because of Noah?

Future John says 'I'm going to send you somewhere you're needed', John wakes up and pretty quickly gets himself attacked by his own son (we can argue about how long based on hair growth since there are not any dates given, but I digress).

His son who has a mother in a coma that hasn't woken up in seven years. His son who has a grandmother no one ever sees, names, or mentions again after the single issue she's first mentioned in. His son who is disabled because of magic and monsters and demon shit. His son who is so angry and yet so, so kind (No, I am not over the fact that he held the hand of his mother's would-be murderer as she died and offered her comfort despite her being an angry, bitter racist).

His son who WILL be killed by his own hands (even if those hands are a future alternate version of him or a tulpa of himself that he created) if John doesn't do what he's told.

His son, who was willing to walk back into the place where his only friend we ever see was mutilated in front of him, because John needed him.

His son who needed him not for his magic but because he was John.

What a perfect carrot. What a perfect stick.

Talk about 'keeping it in the family', eh?

WHAT DOES ANY OF THIS HAVE TO DO WITH DEAD IN AMERICA?!

Valid question! So valid! So real! This is a tangent that really in my opinion highlights why Dead in America doesn't work.

What does any of this rambling about John Constantine Hellblazer 2019 have to do with Hellblazer: Dead in America?

Nothing.

And that's the problem.

Look, I get that comic runs often don't have much to do with the previous runs, but Hellblazer has always been strongest when the stories built on one another. When there was a transition. And it was written by the same writer, as a continuation of his previous run.

Dead in America feels like someone who's got a vague idea and a bone to pick. 'Look at how racist the Americans are!'

I'm not going to go into too deep of a dive on this one, but I do have a serious question that highlights why Dead in America doesn't work.

What does John Constantine have to do with American racism?

Is there prejudice against non-Americans who are white in the US? Sure, but that's not the story being told. What does this story have to say about racism? That it's bad, that poor white Americans are stupid and racist, and rich white Americans are evil and racist.

WHY IS A BRITISH WRITER WORKING ON A BRITISH CHARACTER HEADING THIS CONVERSATION?!

AND WHY IS DC LETTING HIM KEEP DOING IT SO BADLY?!

There are good pieces of Dead in America, but they're just that, pieces. This story does not work as a standalone, it does not work in relation to anything that came before it, it does not work as a Hellblazer story, it does not work as a John Constantine story.

And it completely forgets EVERYTHING that came before it BY THE SAME WRITER! Did Si Spurrier forget that HE IS THE ONE WHO SENT JOHN INTO ANOTHER UNIVERSE?! WHY ARE WE SEEING PEOPLE FROM THE MAIN DCU WHEN WE ARE SUPPOSED TO BE IN A UNIVERSE WHERE JOHN IS ALONE WITH NO SUPPORT BECAUSE HE FUCKING KILLED THEM ALL IN PREPARATION?!?! THAT'S A MAJOR POINT OF THE PREVIOUS RUN, THAT THE FUTURE VERSION OF HIM HAS KILLED/CHASED OFF ANYONE LEFT BEHIND WHO MIGHT BE ABLE TO KEEP JOHN ALIVE! HOW THE FUCK IS ETRIGAN AROUND WHEN I'M CERTAIN FUTURE JOHN IS THE REASON CHAS DIED OF CANCER?!

And don't tell me 'oh, Future John's a tulpa, he couldn't have done that!'. HE COULD HAVE BECAUSE HE FUCKING DID ALREADY! BEING A TULPA DOESN'T NEGATE EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED IN THIS RUN!!!

WHY DID WE GET THIS INSTEAD OF AN ACTUAL CONTINUATION OF THE STORYLINE THAT WAS CANCELED ON HIM?!

Fuck, I WANT to be positive about the things I like. I'm so in love with the 2019 run that I went out and bought the entire original Hellblazer in both physical and digital formats, after years of not really reading comic books anymore just so I could make sure I really understood John Constantine as a character. I know Spurrier can write better than this because he did it five years ago.

I'm still buying the comics because I don't want Constantine to become another character DC pulls out for crossovers and to die and be resurrected as so many other characters are, but FUCK I really hope that someone considers a different writer before continuing forward or at least some better guidelines, because Dead in America is disappointing.

[doctorstrangereview]

Strange Tales #115

Cover Date: December 1963 On-Sale Date: September 10, 1963

At this point, there are no more interruptions. Doc's stories are published up to the point Strange Tales ends by splitting into to books. This is a very special story. It tells us how Doctor Strange got the way he is, why his relationship with fellow student Mordo is so troublesome, and, most importantly, why he seems to have a short fuse from time to time. Also, from this point on, Doc's adventures will consume a growing page count of the magazine. In this case he eats three pages from the Human Torch story as his adventures grow from five to eight pages.

The splash page (not just a panel this time) shows us a slight change to his design. Docs face is a bit smoother and more handsome than his first three stories, but still has the Mr. Spock eyebrows. Was the makeup artist on Star Trek a Doctor Strange fan?

As Doctor Strange is already an established presence in prior issues, this whole story is a flashback. We begin with a haggard figure entering a mysterious chamber in INDIA! (The Ancient One's retreat was in Tibet in the previous two issues. Does it move around like John Constantine's House of Mystery in the Justice League Dark animated movie or The Beast's fortress in the movie Krull?)

When Ditko draws backgrounds in this story they are absolutely gorgeous, despite the limitations of the small size and printing techniques used at the time. He takes a shortcut here and there with blank backgrounds, but it all works well.

Our haggard figure, the pre-Master of the Mystic Arts Doctor Strange, stumbles into The Ancient One's chamber. (Yup, no security. The place is huge and practically deserted. Not even some mystical alarms in case a psychotic murderer wanders in.) He immediately demands The Ancient One bless him with his healing power.

The Ancient One, wearing an absolutely lovely purple gown with cool pointed shoulders and an even more fetching crown than the previous issue, says "Hey, wait a minute! You gotta be worthy to be healed by me!" And then proceeds to probe his mind without any consent. The first thing we learn is his first name: Stephen.

What does The Ancient One see? The good doctor was an incredible brilliant, successful, arrogant and selfish neurosurgeon. He was a real asshole with no interest in helping his fellow humans unless they could pay his tab. This is really the coldest he's been portrayed in any version of his origin. Even the MCU Doctor Strange has some sense of responsibility to those who need his skills. Karma was a real bitch to the good doctor. He gets into a severe car accident that, of course, damages the nerves in his hands so he's unable to hold a scalpel steady enough to operate, effectively ending his career. He is also too arrogant to use his skills in other areas or consult for other doctors. He feels this is beneath him. Instead, he spends his entire fortune on attempts to cure his condition which all fail. Depressed and despondent he becomes a drifter and overhears a couple of sailors talking about a mysterious man named The Ancient One who could cure anything. Doc spends the last of his money to travel to, well, wherever The Ancient One's home is and ask/demand a cure.

The old man isn't impressed. "You too selfish, dude! No way I'm wasting my power on you! This is why you're gonna be a dick to a cab driver in London in a few years! But, maybe there's a bit of you that ain't an asshole. If we can work on that maybe you can find your cure. Study my feet. Whoops! I mean study at my feet! It's another old mystic guru that has a foot fetish."

Doc is all WTF? "You old fraud! Wait, when did this snow get here? Did you do that? No, wait, you're a fraud. You couldn't have." The Ancient One replies: "Naturally, man of the wester world, you must not allow yourself to believe in magic! It would be... unseemly!" This is the closest we ever get to The Ancient One cracking a joke.

Doc realizes he's stuck there until the snow melts and The Ancient One introduces him to his student, Mordo. Perhaps titles of nobility are verboten in the yet-to-be-named Kamar Taj. Doc wonders around the giant, weird palace mainly being bored and laughing at Mordo as he studies.

While aimlessly wondering around while bored, Doc wanders by The Ancient One's formal throne room. (It'll be about a decade before we see the casual one again.) Out of nowhere, smoke appears and attacks the old man. This is an important moment. "The Vapors of Valtorr!! I am being attacked by an unseen enemy!!" Why is this important? This is the first mention of one of the many cleverly and oddly named patron entities in the series! Stan was writing all the dialogue at this point so these names are most likely his creation.

The Ancient One calls on more entities: the powers of the Vishanti, the Dread Dormammu and the all-seeing Agamotto. The smelly vapors vanish in a flash of light. Unfortunately, The Ancient One loses his crown. I hope it wasn't damaged when it fell off his head. (This also happened in the first Mordo story when he gets poisoned by his servant. It may explain the multitude of headgear.) The Ancient One is worse for the wear after the brief but fierce battle and Doc shows a bit of humanity by being concerned for the old man's health. He tells Doc that he can't rest until he finds a successor.

The snows have nearly melted and Doc is getting ready to leave. He walks past Baron Mordo doing something evil over a little statue of The Ancient One. He's also calling on Dormammu. This reveals a conflict with the previous story where Doctor Strange he suspected Mordo was evil. Here we see he knew it definitively from the start.

Mordo can't risk getting caught so he casts a spell on the doctor so he's unable to talk about the situation. Even thinking about Mordo causes an electric shock like an shock collar. Walking around some more, he sees Mordo being obsequious to The Ancient One, and in another display of not being a total dick tries to figure out a way to warn the old man. He realizes that Mordo can't completely silence him as that would be suspicious. He can talk of other things. "Righteous old dude! I changed my mind. I want to study your feet. Whoops! At your feet!"

"At last I've reached the real Dr. Strange! Let me relieve you of what's left of Mordo's nasty spell." "You knew?" "Of course!" The Ancient One then goes on to explain his godfather like wisdom of keeping his friends close and his enemies even closer. Doc then spends years studying with the old man (and Mordo) bringing us back to the present day.

There's a lot to unpack here. This is probably one of the more original origin stories. Up to this point most of the Marvel heroes have gotten their powers by accident. The Fantastic Four, Spider-Man and the Hulk were exposed to radiation. Thor stumbled across the disguised Mjolnir in a cave while on vacation. The X-Men were born with their powers. Iron Man is the closest analog of seeking out the power voluntarily. In Tony Stark's case it was to save his life after being wounded. In Doc's case it was to save his career, a somewhat more selfish motive. Iron Man's mission developed as time passed while Doc was aware of the burden of his responsibility from the get go. We get a lot in this story: Character development and growth for Strange, the introduction of magical entities, more visually spectacular magic, no ghostly fisticuffs.

We also get this. The almost final version of The Symbol of the Vishanti which will adorn many things in the series for decades to come, including Doc's mansion which hasn't been seen from the outside yet.

[the-darklings]

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐗𝐈.]

summary: "We begin... with a spin."

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 16.2k+

warnings: gonna break your heart one last time, Dream is still Dream (reluctantly affectionate)

notes: all good things come to an end : )

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: Rule the World (Odyssey Version) by Take That

1:32 ───|────── 4:55

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART ELEVEN: BEYOND.

“Who are you?” 

“I am Destiny of the Endless.”

“And who am I?”

“You are the one who wanders. You will do so until the universe ceases.”

“Why?”

“Because you have been cursed to do so. Because you chose no shackles, no roots. You wished, instead, to roam free. And now you shall.”

“Why?”

“Because all is as it is meant to be, Wanderer.”

“Why?”

“Because you wished to break your destiny. And so you did.”

.

“I knew a lad called Jack Constantine once.”

Book in hand, you step around Hob, licking the dryness from your lips. Copper lingers on your tongue. “Same family.”

He perks up at your subdued comment, arms unfolding from where they rested over his chest.

“Nah, really?” He mulls it over for a moment. “Wait, that actually makes a lot of sense. He was a bit of a twat.”

Johanna sniffs. “Piss off.”

Late evening sun streams through the blinds, bathing the dark wood office in syrupy, golden-brown light. Books and notes lay scattered everywhere you look, each inch utilised fully. Johanna leans her hands on the table, squinting at the grimoire laid open. She’s been chewing on her lip for the last five minutes. That doesn’t bode well. 

“No can do,” Hob replies, hitching his shoulders with a proud smile. “I’m here on strict business.”

Dropping the grimoire Johanna requested on the table, you shoot them both a look, “Are you two done?” Your attention swivels towards the necromancer despite your trembling hands, finding her delicate features pinched. “Can you find Jed Walker?”

She huffs, her brows folding inwards. “You’re asking me to find a needle in a haystack of seven billion, give or take. I’m not a bloody witch. I don’t just cook up locator spells. I deal with demons and the dead.”

Bracing your hand on the table to mirror her, you soften your voice, “I understand what I’m asking for.”

“I’ll need time to figure this out,” she admits tightly. 

Private displeasure colours Johanna’s voice, and you nod in defeat. It’s hard to admit any shortcoming, much less one rooted in one’s power. While Johanna may be more powerful than most mortals can comprehend, it’s not power without gaps. She’s still so young. But, as with all Constantines you’ve known, there now sparks that fiery, stubborn drive, seemingly blazing from within. This is a challenge and one she’s set to overcome. 

“What about the other?” she poses abruptly, turning several pages in the grimoire. Her index finger trails over the yellowed pages, glued to another spell. “Do you have anything of theirs? You said this one has magical protection?”

“It’s conjecture,” you clarify. “But he’s been able to skirt me for over a century, so I’m left with one conclusion.”

Hob whistles under his breath. “A century? Bloody hell, you must be eager to find him.”

Memories flutter to life, birds caught in flight. A tall man with blonde hair, a dangerous smirk, and your blurred reflection dancing across his shaded glasses. Nothing more than a twisted memory that’s all fangs and blood. To file this want under ‘eager’ would be insulting. This specific longing comes with both elation and dread. Horror at what you might discover. This ignorance is no more than a flimsy illusion. You’ve spent the last century following Corinthian’s every crime, experiencing it as if he executed them on you instead. 

“I can’t promise this will work,” Johanna continues, oblivious to your internal struggle. Your attention snags on Hob, who is watching you with deep creases denting his forehead. There’s old, shrewd awareness in how he examines your rumpled appearance. “At best, I might be able to cloak you. Again, locator spells are not my speciality. At all.”

You clear your mind, pushing away from the wooden fixture. “ What if I gave up an object? It’s old, full of history. Would I be able to form a tether?

You’ve seen such spells performed—you know they’re possible and incredibly advantageous when done right. 

Johanna glares down at the grimoire for a beat, silent. Her chin lifts suddenly, her narrow-eyed stare harsh and biting. There’s digging intensity to how she inspects your appearance from head to toe, and you bristle at the probing check. 

“You look like shit,” she says bluntly. “I don’t think you should be doing any tethering to anything.”

Your teeth gnash. “Can it be done, Constantine?”

Tension barbs through the room. Hob sighs, making you even more defensive because you can instinctively tell it’s about to become two against one. “We’re not daft, you know,” he says quietly. “It’s clear you’re unwell.” 

Your eyes flutter shut. Forcing your jaw to relax, you mull over the most palatable way you can deliver this information to them. It’s clear from their wonderfully human determination that they’re not going to let this drop until they have more context. 

“Fine.” Filling your lungs with oxygen, you hold your breath, gathering yourself. How difficult it is to draw oxygen should probably concern you. “Remember how I told you I’ve been experimenting? Well, I’ve exercised a degree of control over the curse. The travelling part, at least. I can force it to take me places I want, but it… costs me. Physically.”

Johanna folds her arms over her chest, humming in consideration. “Cost, eh? How steep?”

These damn Constantines. 

The setting sun warms your cool cheek, and some invisible restraint in you loosens your invisible cast dropping. “Internal injuries. Bleeding, tissue tears, organ failure, haemorrhaging. It heals, but slowly. Excruciatingly so. If I abuse controlled travel too often, I can pass out. Slip into a temporary coma until internal damage heals. Vomiting, mobility issues, dizziness, hallucinations—take your pick.”

You’re avoiding direct eye contact, but utter silence encompasses the office when your words sink in. 

Hob gathers himself first. “Jesus Christ.”

Shrugging, you say, “It’s fine. I’m getting better at controlling it.”

“Which part of that is fine?” Hob’s voice is barbed with horror. “None of that is fine.”

You wish neither of them were looking at you like this. Rattled, aghast, alight with shades of sadness. It's so much easier to handle this when no one is standing there reminding you of the ugly aspects of this curse.

“Can it be done?” you bite out. 

Johanna wipes emotion from her face, stretching out her hand, palm up. “Show me this item.” 

Without a preamble, you hand her the roughened wooden figurine. Your stomach roils at the sight. Desperately your fingers clench and unclench in the folds of your coat, blunt nails biting into your palms. The urge to snatch back the figurine is bone-breaking. 

Johanna rolls the item in her hand, scanning it with eyes that see far beyond its material form. She’s digging deeper into what history—power—the object contains. “It might work,” she muses pensively. “I’ll cloak you, but the spell will have a time limit. The further away you are from me, the shorter the timer will be. Whoever it is won’t see you coming, but I can’t promise you the exact location.��

The grim determination bubbling in your gut answers: “Just get me as close as you can.”

.

Swirls of colours and shapes; loud, jarring noises, spinning, spinning, nails raking through the skin—

“Make it stop, make it stop—”

It doesn’t stop. There’s only colour—sound—sound—breaking—madness. And it doesn’t stop for a very long time.

.

A thousand reflections stare back at you. 

“Coward.”

“Traitor.”

“Murderer.”

“I’m not,” you gasp. “I’m not.”

Do it, do it, do it—

A rat scurries past your arm, disappearing into the hoary mist, and you flinch. 

No matter how loudly you plead for forgiveness, for relief, there’s only endless despair and glass cutting into your palms. 

.

Flower fields. Sunshine. Peace. 

A tall, pale, looming man with twin stars for eyes stands over you. 

“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”

No reply.

But for the first time since you’ve woken up as you: hope. 

A beautiful dream. 

.

“Who did you say you were again?”

Mighty, leathery wings block out whatever light there once was, the newcomer’s pale hair shining like a halo around their fair face. 

“I am an angel, here to save you,” a benign, soothing voice coos, followed by fingers tracing over your bloodied jawline. “If only you help me.”

“By doing what?” you slur, blood and sweat trickling down your split brow. “By spying on the Endless? On Dream?”

“Do not fear. I alone can protect you. Your purpose is to merely… observe.”

Demons hiss and growl around you, and you flex your newly healed jaw. They broke it four times in succession. So much for talking back. Scorched dirt beneath your feet stains with your congealing blood, and you chuckle. The croaking sound grows in volume until your throat bleeds. 

It’s answer enough. 

Your bones quiver under the sheer power of Morningstar’s displeasure. “Take this one away. Make sure there’s nothing left.”

The demons make good on that order. 

.

Johanna pierces the world map with a letter opener, every inch cutting in with deliberate slowness. Candles flicker, settling after the spell, and you taste the magick at the back of your throat. 

“Georgia, U-S of A,” the necromancer announces, loosening a breath.

“Great,” Hob chirps, his arm brushing against yours. “That’s just brilliant. It’s across the bloody ocean, that is.”

Johnna shoots him a venomous look. “Oh, sorry. Were you hoping for a nice trip down Brighton?”

Hob stares at her blankly in the shadowed office. He turns your way slowly as if mutely asking do you believe her?

You do. You’ve dealt with enough Constantines in your lifetime to ensure their sarcastic, surly nature is no longer a shock. 

“You’re a highly unpleasant woman,” Hob concludes, though no real malice lingers in his tone or bearing. 

“Thank you, Constantine,” you cut in before they can break into another bickering session. “There’s one more thing.”

The brunette rolls her eyes. “Is there now?”

“Magdalene’s Grimoire,” you begin deliberately. Johanna freezes. “I want you to locate it and retrieve it for me.”

Your companions speak simultaneously:

“Why?”

“You believe it has something to do with your curse, don’t you?” 

Ignoring Hob’s incredulous outcry, you nod towards Johanna. Pain twinges suddenly in your core, and your breaths slow until you get a grip on yourself. But it’s slow. Numbing pain laps at your senses for a debilitating minute until it clears once more. The curse wants to drag you in a thousand directions, but you don’t permit it. 

You right yourself again, swallowing over your dry tongue. Your temples throb insistently. 

“I think it’s old—older than people assume and has spells that no mortal should have access to.” You lean towards the map, examining the range letter opener has offered. You’ve been to Georgia several times previously, but long ago. “Roderick Burgess might have gotten lucky, but the mere fact there’s a spell there that can help capture an Endless… I find that curious. Unlike what your records indicate, he was not the first Magus, but he was the last. This means the grimoire has to be with his family—likely his son—or someone relating to them. I’ll pay you.”

Somehow. 

“Are you joking?” Johanna scoffs immediately. “One of the most powerful grimoires known to humanity? I’ll find it for free. Imagine what I could learn from it.”

Your stare glides to her unhurriedly, fixing on her fair complexion. She visibly falters at whatever she spies in your cool regard. “Within reason… and for the good of humanity. Scout's honour.”

Hob squints at her. “You’re not even American.”

“Shut… up,” she mutters, shooting him another nasty look. 

You tug your coat free when it catches on a chair, slotting your hands in your pockets. “Thank you, both of you. Is the spell active?”

“Yes, but it won’t hold long at this distance,” Johanna warns. 

Your attention latches on the wooden figurine on her desk. It’s wrong—it feels so wrong to have it out of your grasp, to feel nothing more than Dream’s pebble warming your hand. You try not to think about him now or your last conversation together. Instead, you focus on the thread woven around your heart, tugging you away and over the ocean. 

“I won’t be back for at least two weeks, but see what you can discover in that time,” you tell them. 

Hob balances on his heels, presenting Johanna with a charming grin. “Well, I guess I ought to help you.”

The sorceress scowls. “I don’t need your help.”

“Everyone needs help,” Hob counters.

Levelling them with a fond look, you wordlessly head towards the door while they verbally spar. Your hand briefly braces your chest, feeling the unsteady thud beneath your palm. You’ve been jumping too often, too far, and too rapidly for your body to recover. But just a bit more. Then you can rest. 

You’re almost at the end of a darkened hallway before an urgent voice sounds behind you, accompanied by brisk strides in your direction. 

“Wait, wait…”

You’re not even slightly surprised to hear Hob behind you or feel his fingers wrap around your bicep. Street light filtering through the window paints over his taut features, creating a pronounced tale of two sides. Light and dark. Young and older than anyone can comprehend. Quite fitting for both of you. 

“Take me with you,” Hob says, imploring edge laced beneath his lighthearted manner. It pinches your heart. “You know what they say: two immortals are better than one, eh?”

If things were less dangerous, less volatile, if it were anyone but Corinthian, you would take him up on his offer. You would love nothing more—two immortals going on an adventure. Hob has known the same horrors, similar hardships, countless failures and highs. Together you’re as effortless as breathing, as familiar as old friends meeting after years apart. You’ve felt that kinship with him from the first moment you locked eyes in that overcrowded pub, sitting there soaked and miserable. 

But this is the Corinthian. Even if Hob is the one human with nothing to fear from the nightmare, this goes much deeper. Soul deep. Perhaps deeper still. This conflict is between you, Corinthian, and Dream. It’s always been a tale of three parts, interwoven into a single, unbreakable thread. 

“Hob Gadling, you are a gem,” you say softly, placing your hand on his warm cheek. An unsure smile forms across his mouth. “And maybe one day I will. But this… this is something I must do alone.”

“You don’t, though. You realise that, right?” Hob argues softly, fiercely. “There are people who care about you.”

You think about the Dreaming and its occupants, all the mortals and other beings you’ve encountered in your many travels. Friends and companions who have told you to visit, stay, there is always a place for you here even when they knew you could do no such thing without putting them at risk. You think about the Endless—your becoming and undoing.

Your hand slips away from him, your faint smile hollow. “I do. Two weeks.”

.

The Endless are formidable individually. The raw power holding this universe together, given form and reason. Their realms are kingdoms that put others to shame. You’ve visited plenty by now to draw the unsurprising conclusion. Dealing with each sibling is an exercise in patience, tact, and subtle respect in differing shades. 

Sitting in the same room as seven of them makes you want to crawl out of your skin and run for the hills. You’ve met them individually in the past. There’ve been a handful of occasions where you encountered several simultaneously. But never all together in the same room like this. 

They’re terrible and wonderful and so suffocating in their casual existence that every instinct in your mortal body warns you of one indisputable truth:

“I shouldn’t be here.”

Death shakes her head promptly, giving you a stern glance. “Nonsense, sweetheart,” she asserts. “You’re right where you belong. Isn’t that right, Destiny?”

Destiny of the Endless sits unmoving, only his mouth visible behind his flowing, beige hood. His hand rests on the Book of Destiny, pale but relaxed. Whenever Destiny does move, the chain connecting him to the book rattles through your bones. 

He hosts these family gatherings, though all Endless have equal prominence in this universe and its continuous function. Despite it, from your angle, it appears as if he’s the one at the head of the table. Oldest and certainly the most overwhelming in his sheer aura. It took him a simple swipe of his hand for an additional chair to materialise at the table for you. For his fluttering, eerily silent attendants to lay a plate and glass on either side of you. 

“All is as it should be, sister,” Destiny replies, his voice whistling wind through dry leaves. 

Your pulse beats against the curve of your throat. If your stomach weren’t already empty, you would likely be throwing up right now. 

Death grins brightly, pleased. Her smile is no doubt meant to be reassuring when she angles back towards you. “See, that’s a yes.”

Your words form clumsily on your tongue, “I didn’t mean to impose—”

Sitting on your left, Delirium tightens her grip on you, cutting your words short. Her chair had been dragged towards yours, your arms linked despite the uncomfortable angle. The scent of leather, sweat, and burnt sugar bites into your nostrils. Today, her hair keeps flickering between bright orange, yellow, and neon green. 

“Uhm… impose?” she mutters. Her words flow so swiftly that it’s an effort to keep up. “No, no, imposing to be imposed on, and, um, imposing is impolite. What is impolite?”

“To impose would be impolite, yes.” Your words come out measured. “Like that man. You went into his home.”

“Well, he, well, he wasn’t a very good man.” Delirium’s voice thins, frustration biting into each syllable. On your other side, you sense Destruction turning in your direction. Tension blinks out from Delirium’s lovely features, her different-coloured eyes shining in the dimly lit room. “I made him see colours. Really pretty, pretty colours.”

Yes, she certainly did. You’re hopeful the man received a swift death via villagers, others having no doubt concluded him mad or consorting with devils and demons. As if to illustrate her point, Delirium lightly positions her thumb and index fingers together, forming an O. She giggles, blowing air, and much to your unspoken wonder, multicoloured bubbles float through the air. Some remain bubbles, bloated and bobbing. Others shape into animals and birds. 

“I am not an Endless,” you remind, feeling foolish for doing so. As if anyone could mistake you for one of them. Your eyes briefly skim over each sibling, shifting in your seat for the dozenth time. “I don’t think it’s right for me to be here.”

Despair, sitting opposite to you beside her twin, hoods her eyes. The metal hook on her finger digs into her chin. Blood bubbles beneath the honed metal. “Yes. Mortal.”

Her whispering, thin voice blankets you, and your insides ball up. 

Destruction chuckles on your right, deep and echoing in the dining hall, smoothing over your suddenly chilled, clammy skin. “Sister, do you meet many mortals who live over three hundred years? I see no harm in you being here, dear Wanderer.”

Desire stretches indolently in their seat, candlelight washing over their indescribable features. Scoff ripples from their chest, their chin dropping in their open palm. 

“Right, is anyone else opposed to Wanderer being here?” Desire voices, sweeping a challenging look around the table. When no one speaks, Desire shrugs, arms open at their sides. “See, sweet thing, relax. Have some fruit.”

They pointedly push the fruit basket closer towards you. The fruit does look tasty, and you hadn’t eaten in two days, but don't think you can stomach it right now. 

Dream casts an inpatient glance Destiny’s way. In extravagant robes, Dream Lord appears the most disgruntled with being summoned. “Why are we here, Destiny? You do not call upon the family without a cause.”

Destiny’s answer comes predictably vague: “You are here, brother Dream. That is all.”

Despite your unease to be dropped into their family meeting, annoyance pinpricks you at his words. Always the same ambiguity, always what the book dictates, and never what someone might feel. Destiny is not human. It would be unfair for you to hold any of the Endless to mortal standards. For you to expect them to comprehend sentiments that are so far out of their reach. 

It doesn’t take away from the sting, though. At least this time, the curse was mindful enough to drop you inside Destiny’s stronghold inside the Garden of Forking Ways. Last time, you found yourself helplessly lost inside the boundless maze for weeks. Destiny did nothing to aid you—it was as it was meant to be. You associate him most closely with that wild animal fear and sheer helplessness. You can’t help it. 

“Why the rush?” Desire calls out, interrupting your thoughts. “Eager to get back to another failed relationship, sweet Dream?”

Shadows coil around Dream Lord’s feet, seated between Delirium and Death. You silently question if it’s a purposeful partition. 

“That’s enough from you, sibling,” Dream warns. 

Desire’s lovely mouth spreads into a quick, beaming smile; all teeth bared and tawny eyes aglow with sadistic amusement. A predator having scented blood. “Oh, come on now,” they coo. “We all come here to talk as a family; even lovely Wanderer is present. Yet you think yourself above everything. Your realm, your rules—we’ve heard it all before! You’re oh so dull.”

Despair slumps beside her twin, face downcast. “Dull. Yes, rather dull indeed.”

“And are you perhaps bored, my sibling?” Dream returns, a slight pinch to his imperious features. His voice remains perfectly aloof. From this outsider’s perspective, it’s easy to see why Desire views Dream as supercilious. “Did you run out of adequate ways to amuse yourself?”

Momentarily swallowing down your fear, you slant your head over to one side, “Dream.”

Dream pauses at your drawn, anxious expression. The ignited stars dim, draining away, but the hard slant of his broad shoulders doesn’t drop. 

“Oh, don’t run to his defence.” Desire’s voice is just edging on goading. Their nails tap on the wooden table when they cross their legs, leaning towards you. “This is quite characteristic. Surely you find him just as insufferable as the rest of us?”

Death’s retort is whip-sharp. “Desire. Shut up.”

Others around the table appear calmly accepting. They’ve seen this fight play out in the past a thousand times. While you’ve never demanded reasons for the bad blood between the two Endless, it’s clear it runs deep, a problem stemming from innumerable centuries long since past. And very clearly not a situation for you to get involved in. You’re not naive or arrogant enough to assume you can fix their problems for them. Neither Desire nor Dream seems particularly invested in settling anything, either. 

But inciting like this is dangerous. Desire has never attempted to spark arguments involving you in the past, no matter how spiteful the mood. 

As if mentally arriving at the same conclusion, Destruction’s rumbling words vocalise your unspoken plea: “Do not involve Wanderer in your quarrel, sibling.”

Delirium curls into herself, her legs raised on the chair and pressing into her chest. Her hold on your arm turns near painful. “Arguing, fights, it's not nice, but it… um… that’s not where Desire is supposed to be. It’s um… it’s somewhere else. It’s in Dreams.”

You’re not sure how to decode Delirium’s words. You once believed them to be mindless babbles. Then some phrases would come back to haunt you months or even years later. Whatever caused the turn in Delirium from Delight gave her foresight no other Endless seemed to possess. Save, perhaps, Destiny. 

Desire’s fingers curl beneath their pointed chin. Desire surveys you, then his older brother, with a feline's slowness. “Well, well. Aren’t you two sweet on each other?”

This time, the darkness curling beneath Dream’s chair becomes physical. Visible even to your mortal eye. 

“Cease your poisonous stipulations,” Dream says icily. 

Desire scoffs, dropping back in their seat with a graceful, seductive stretch. Heat encompasses your being, pouring in the crevices of your skin. Desire’s effect is all but impossible to escape this close. 

“Is it not my function, oh dear brother of mine, to sow desire in the hearts of all living things, mortal and otherwise? What are they without their desires?” The Endless straightens just as swiftly, their elbows digging back into the table while they eye you, chin back in their hands. Something cruel and fragmented, endlessly amused, slides through those golden irises—an intent you’ve never seen Desire direct your way until now. “Come, my sweet, doesn’t it get dreary? All those mortals set on your suffering? Surely you have missed the sweet, loving embrace of Desire? I could make you desire anything… even a kiss.”

And then…

The world melts away, and everything once making up your being bows and folds under the power pressing into you. You’re but a child. You are atoms. And you’ve forgotten how terrible their power could be once unleashed. 

There’s only cocoon and darkness and golden, glowing eyes beckoning you, warming you, bewitching you. Your limbs are too far away to control, your will dulled into thin, worn paper—brittle to the touch. Your skin is too hot, and the air in your lungs is insufficient. It feels so good. So good, so good—

Even a kiss, even a kiss, even a kiss—

Your limbs are on strings, tugged in one direction, then another. Distantly, horror chokes you, and you scratch at the walls inside your mind, clawing for some semblance of control, but there’s only a sultry embrace of desire. 

“Desire, no—”

“Stop—”

“Enough.” Something inside your chest trembles at that single word’s sheer, unbridled power. Your numbed senses are clear but not enough to free you. You're trapped, caught on the verge of awareness. “You dare.”

“Now, now, dear Dream. Did I get under your skin? It’s but jest. Lighten up.”

Few stars emerge in your blackened vision, guiding you closer. They urge you forward to safety, but you’re unable to move. It feels good to be here, so good and hot. There’s no pain, only desire and pleasure—

“We do not control mortals, sister-brother. Their will is their own. Release Wanderer.”

Destiny’s tepid command shreds through the heated, desire-filled veil. You return to yourself with a choked gasp, snapping into your tiny mortal body with a painful lurch. It’s overwhelming. Every sense was smothered to such a degree, it’s as if everything is twice as heightened now. 

“Are you insane?” Death snaps. You’ve never heard her this angry until now. There’s always a smile on her face and a playful gleam in her eyes. But you’re too busy shaking to be afraid. “What was that, huh?”

Your hands convulse. Bloody indents line your palms. Your nails must have cut into your skin hard enough to draw blood. You fought. But what can a mortal do when faced with an Endless? You were erased, folded down to nothing. You are nothing. 

Voices melt into one. You’re too shaken to separate them. When some semblance of awareness settles in, you realise how awful these… seconds, minutes, or hours have truly been. 

You’re half straddling Destruction, arms half wrapped around his broad shoulders, your mouth near his neck. Horror liquefies your limbs, rooting you in your spot. Too much—it’s too much. Humiliation leaves you immobile, but Destruction rests his hand between your shoulder blades, his gaze kind and concerned beneath his bunched eyebrows.  

“Are you well?” he asks quietly over the clamour behind you.

Your chin wobbles. Shame lashes your skin. You’ve been used as no more than a puppet to be thrown at him. On him. Like some mindless whore. A witless worshipper, begging for their chosen god’s favour, not understanding what they’re inviting. How the gods are never kind. How they only use and break for their amusement. 

Even though Destruction doesn’t appear angry, you can’t stop yourself from croaking out, “I… I… I’m sorry.”

His sympathetic frown is visible even beneath his thick beard. He cradles you to him but with gentleness indicating how fragile he believes you to be at this moment. “Do not fret. It is quite alright, my friend.”

“Can you…?”

Your words splinter. The burn behind your eyes turns painfully prickly. Destruction’s handsome face creases further. He nods mutely, carefully manoeuvring your body to a standing position. His large hand presses between your shoulder blades, steading and hot through your thin robes. His fingers fold slightly, protectively. Your gratitude for his unprompted support is immeasurable. An anchor while your knees shake.

“It was a joke,” Desire calls out over his siblings. “Desire is who I am. It’s all in good fun. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?”

Your shoulders spasm, your back still to them. Your insides churn at the prompt, and you’re unsure if you’re about to be sick, cry, or some horrific mix of both. 

You thought… you were foolish enough to assume… 

How many times have you landed in the Threshold, thrilled to see Desire? How often have you shared jokes, laughs, and peaceful evenings and mornings in the twilight land? What other touch or embrace have you known over three centuries that didn’t end in agony but Desire’s? You’ve told them numerous times you have no preference for any sibling in their family—that you cherish Desire’s company as much as others, perhaps even more so. Because with Desire, you could remember what it’s like to be human—to want and need. 

You had foolishly believed you were friends. 

Now you see the truth. You feel the horrible, numbing heat licking across your flesh—the aftermath of this ultimate betrayal. Desire’s power shimmers on the outskirts of your mind, ready to devour you anew. Rob you of reason and choice. 

“I—you… I trusted you.” Everyone falls silent at your frayed words, scraping through the eerily quiet dining hall. When you rotate clumsily towards them, you look only at Desire. You avoid others. Your humiliation burns too brightly for anything else. “You… just made me feel like nothing. You degraded me. I’m no more than a thing for you to play with.”

Some foreign emotion spasms briefly through Desire’s face—gone in a blink. Their answering smile is so patronising a deeper crack splinters your chest. “Wanderer. Be a good sport. It was simply a bit of fun.”

A bit of fun. 

Desire can be fickle, and it can be cruel. But you’ve forgotten just how cruel they could be. To Desire, this is no more than a practical joke. You’re only a silly mortal. No wonder you don’t get the joke. You’ll get over yourself soon enough. But no one else is laughing or smiling, either. Even Despair in your peripheral remains hunched and mute, typically first to her twin’s defence. 

“Fun.” 

The word shatters something between you the second you voice it. You can see it on Desire’s face. The realisation settling in. There is no regret, no apology. Nor will there ever be. It’s clear from the dismissive curl of Desire’s mouth. They don’t see anything wrong with what just transpired. 

It makes it worse. So much worse. 

“Wanderer, brother Destruction. Sit.”

Destiny’s perfectly poised voice shreds whatever little composure you’ve been clinging onto. 

“You knew, didn’t you?” The accusation rips through the room like wildfire. You shake off Destructions comforting touch, your lungs filling with air and spilling out fire. “You knew Desire was going to do that. That’s the only reason why you permitted me to stay. Do I not suffer every day? Or do you enjoy making me into your little plaything? Have I not been humiliated enough for your amusement?”

Destiny says nothing. 

You shove away from the table with disgust. Your feet tangle before you command your sluggish limbs. Death rise after you immediately.

“Wanderer—”

You flinch away from her extended hand, from all of them. You don’t care what invisible line you may be overstepping. “Don’t touch me,” you spit out. “I never should have stayed.”

Your feet carry you several paces until another, more resounding voice calls, “Wanderer.”

A part of you doesn’t understand why you pause or look back. Dream’s gaze sears into you. Yet you can’t untangle a single thing you see burrowed there. He’s standing as well, his hand flat on the table. Foolishly, you hope he will come after you, say something in defence of you. But Dream is Dream. He’s likely just as clueless about why you took this so badly as others. Perhaps the fury you see glimmering in those starlit eyes is but your imagination. Another pretty lie your sentimental, human heart would be all too happy to convince yourself of. 

He doesn’t move. You pivot away, your shoulders hunching. 

Desire’s chuckle licks at your back, silky and smooth. “So tense, that one. It was only a bit of fun.” 

No one laughs. No one responds. 

Only a bit of fun.

“Take me away, take me away from here,” you sob, stumbling into a shadowed hallway.

For once, the curse listens. 

.

Rivulets of sweat drip down your back. The puddle of blood at your feet is starting to go dark. These observations float from somewhere beyond the dense fog shrouding your mind. It’s so difficult to focus. Wiping across your sweaty forehead, you lean on your arm, breathing deeply. You’ve forgotten how suffocating the humidity could be here in Georgia. 

Mercifully only heat-blurred fields surround you. The vast, open stretch of highway is all you see on either side.

Lights dance in your vision, your ears ringing. Maybe it’s the curse and not the heat. Your limbs obey no command, barely held together by sheer stubborn will to follow the tether pulsing in your chest. The spell’s power is already dimming. You have no choice but to jump. This is your only chance to get to Corinthian first. 

“Come on… come on… I don’t obey you.” Your nails scrape on the heated metal, your head hanging low. “You obey me.”

Your tongue rolls the words clumsily. No matter how much you swallow, more saliva floods your mouth, causing your stomach to cramp. Your knees beg to fold beneath you. Lay down in this tall grass and wait for the inevitable that will never arrive. It’s foolish. Death is far from the worst thing that can befall an individual. It was the very first lesson you learned. 

Digging deeper, you claw and yank on the curse’s power, squeezing it until the bleed becomes physical. Until your limbs rip from one place to another. 

When you settle back into your body, skin stinging, your knees hit the ground immediately. Blood dribbles past your lips, your sweat-covered forehead pressing into the soft dirt. You pant loudly, blood trickling past your cracked lips. Pain is coming from everywhere. Sounds mangle into each other when you attempt to raise your head. Your stomach protests viciously, leaving you dry heaving. Nothing but more blood escapes your body. 

A hotel sign. It’s the first thing you register. You’ve landed near one, practically on it. Your fingernails dig into the dirt as you stumble into a standing position. The tether Johanna’s spell has threaded pulses harder and faster in your chest. There. Corinthian has to be there. 

Cradling your sore midsection, you painstakingly make your way towards the hotel. Relentless heat melts your already nonexistent strength reserves down to nothing. 

Several people glance in your direction when you push through the reception door. In this climate, your attire certainly raises eyebrows, but you remind yourself there’s no way Corinthian can know you’re here this time.

“Can I help you?”

You stumble to a stop, breathing heavily. A man with a tiny hat and a nametag reading Fun Land sits behind a table, his annoyance palpable while he stares at you expectedly. It takes considerable effort to gather the strength required to speak. 

“No.”

You turn to go. 

“Hey, woah! This is a convention-only area. Can’t you read?”

Following the direction the man is gesturing wildly towards, you find a board reading Cereal Convention printed in large, bold letters. The rest blurs, sweat stinging your eyes. You work your jaw. 

“No,” you repeat.

The man’s petulant glare would be comical if you were in a better mood. 

“You can’t go here,” he declares stiffly. 

Your fingers curl weakly, convulsing at your sides. You didn’t come this far to be precluded from finding Corinthian by a goddamn sign. By a cereal convention. Cereal convention. Cereal. At the back of your foggy mind, something nags at you. 

Your brows dip inwards, your gaze slipping towards the man. His bravado stutters, washing away from him. He shrinks backwards the longer you stare at him, his throat working on a gulp. Your lips compress into a stiffer line. Someone brushes behind you, stepping up to the table. Fun Land exhales in audible relief, serving them, pretending he’s too busy to pay you further notice. 

Fine. You’ll find another way. 

Stalking outside, you keep to the shade, leaning into the wall for support. It doesn’t take long to track down the delivery entrance. Every hotel has one, and depending on the time of day, they’re not the best protected. Like right now, in the afternoon, after housekeeping has gone home, leaving only a handful of staff on standby.  

He’s in here somewhere. The hotel corridors melt together. Beige walls and stale, humid air. They warp, smearing together into nothing but sensation. You’re a rat caught inside yet another maze. Sickness churns inside your stomach. 

And then, impossibly, you see him. 

A pale head of golden hair illuminated by washed-out light, his back to you while he strolls ahead and away from you. 

“Corinthian.”

The raspy exhale ricochets. The nightmare stops dead in his tracks. Until this precise second, he wasn’t there, wasn’t real, but with his name, the nightmare becomes a reality. Corridor may separate you, but the spell winks out, confirming your suspicion. 

Aircon buzzes through the long, otherwise vacant corridor. Your heart thunders in your ears. 

Then, Corinthian speaks: “You shouldn’t be here.”

A sob wells in your chest at his drawling, smooth words. Nearly two hundred years you haven’t seen him. Over a century seeking him out, having to live with the ramifications of atrocities he’s been inflicting. And now, here, it’s just you and him. You’re not sure which sensation pulses in you stronger: anger or relief. 

Your mouth quivers, your tongue dragging across your dry, cracked lips. “I searched for you.”

“I know you did,” he replies listlessly, his back still facing you. It hurts, because you were right. He’s been knowingly avoiding you. As if reading your mind, Corinthian raises his hand, and your stomach shrivels when you spot your ring firm on his finger. “I have this to thank you for, but it would seem you found me out anyway. Shame.”

The ring. Of course. 

A small piece of humanity for you to hold. I told you, they’re not all bad. I hope this can help you experience it.

And experience it he did. An essential part of yourself put away in that ring must have given him a sense of your presence nearby. He used your own present against you. 

The Corinthian finally turns to face you, all but unchanged except for his modern hairstyle and refined round shades. You want to say so many things to him that your tongue refuses to work altogether. A great chasm yawns between you, and you have no idea how to bridge it.

“What are you doing?” you ask at last. 

There’s no smirk or sly grin in sight. He’s as closed off as you. Despite his seeming indifference, you read the subtle tension lining Corinthian’s broad shoulders. He can hide from others, trick and lie to them if he pleases, but never you. 

“What I was made to do,” he replies tightly. 

“No. You’re hurting them.”

Corinthian’s jaw locks. “He made me in your image, Wanderer. Now I’m making the world in mine. I thought you’d be proud.”

A disbelieving scoff rips from your chest, burning your windpipe as if acid washed down it. “Proud?” you parrot. “You’re killing them.”

Your harsh condemnation dissolves whatever neutrality remains in the space between you. Prior uncertainty dashes beneath a strain of a century dripping in the blood of innocents. 

“Did they do less to you?” Corinthian’s voice is all nightmare; honeyed, cruel, and seductive. His head tilts playfully to one side. “How often did they torture you? Shun you? Sought to eradicate you? Still you defend them as you did him.”

Your sight muddies, and it takes a shake of your head to clear it. “You can’t punish all for crimes of a few.”

A snarl twists Corinthian’s mouth, his feet carrying him towards you in a measured, prowling stalk. 

“A few? They’re all the same: greedy, selfish, and cruel. The curse reveals. I reflect. They don’t change; they only learn how to hide better.” He pauses, licking his lips as he considers you. Something seems to occur to him, a faint laugh vibrating from his chest. “Do you have any idea how many times I stopped them? Punished them for hurting you? New Orleans in ‘31. Berlin in ‘43. Vienna in ‘55. Seoul in ‘62. Moscow in ‘71. Bangkok in ‘89. New York in ‘00. Why those were all me and then some. I was there. I’ve always been there.”

Each date punctures through you like a stray bullet. Honed and whetted for the single purpose of hurting you in a different sense. A fragmented nightmare. You’ve chased a mirage while the nightmare has spent a century mirroring your steps, keeping you safe from the shadows whenever your paths crossed unbeknownst to you. 

There’ve been times—

You thought you’d caught glimpses of him in decades-long since lost. But unfailingly, you’ve only ever found empty alleyways when you pursued these figments. Eventually, you stopped chasing these mirages. The pain was too great. But it’s never been just your overreactive imagination, has it? He was real. He was there. 

He’s spent a century killing indiscriminately while also keeping you safe. You want to scream at him for the evil he’s committed and cry from sheer relief he hasn’t forgotten you. 

“Then why hide?” you croak, stumbling closer. “Why not speak with me?”

“Oh, come now.” Corinthian clicks his tongue. He turns away, nostrils flaring, then turns to face you again. “You know why. You would have asked me to come back, and for you, I would have.”

His features blur, your words barely audible, “And would that have been so terrible?”

“Come back to what? Dream’s ball and chain?” Acidic words, despite their softness. His rage deflates instantly, a huffing laugh escaping him as if he’s surprised himself with the lapse. “You think he gives a fuck about either of us? He threw you out. You left.”

Indignation flares in your chest. “Not by choice.”

“Then you should have taken me with you. But you left me. All you ever do is play by Dream’s rules. I figured out how to leave the Dreaming back during Dreamfall, but I stayed. Wonder why.”

You have no response to that. You’re left standing there, gaping. For you. Who else? He had no one else there; no other reason to stay other than your presence. 

“So that’s it,” you begin shakily, your words rasping, sniffling. “All this because you believe I chose Dream and his rules over you?”

“What did you do to yourself?”

Corinthian’s voice has gone dreadfully quiet. Fiercely unhappy. Too late, you realise you’re sniffling because blood is dripping from your nose. Clumsily, you swipe the back of your hand over your chin. Crevices in your skin crack with dried blood. 

“It was never a choice, don’t you get it?” you whisper, your words pouring out thick and wet with emotion. “It’s always been you. Always. I was terrified the journey would destroy you. Had I known, I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat.”

Corinthian closes the remaining distance between you, grasping you by the forearms. It’s such a relief to have him near again. You sag into him, trembling. You try to raise your hand to wipe beneath your nose, but your limbs are too stiff to obey. 

“What did you do, Wanderer?” He sounds furious while he examines you, as if only now realising the extent of your deterioration. “What did you do yourself?”

“I had to get to you first,” you tell him. Blood smudges the lapels of his jacket where you grasp it. “Please, you have to stop. They don’t deserve this, Cori.”

He looks disgusted at your words, but your legs fail you before he responds. Corinthian catches you before your knees hit the carpeted ground.

“It hurts.” His words come out hissing, sharp with incredulity. “Why does it hurt?”

Your chin jolts upwards, your bloodstained smile trembling around the edges. “You know why. I’m inside of you. You can’t escape that.”

Neither of you can. You’ll carry him in you until your bitter end, as he will carry you until his. 

“Shh. I got you.” Corinthian tucks you into him when a whimper of pain escapes you. His hand cradles the back of your head. “I’m going to set us both free.”

And then, through horror, darkness closes in. 

.

Motion. 

“Who is that?”

A woman’s voice. Unfamiliar. 

“Oh, yes. This one is with me. Won’t you be a good girl and share that tidbit with others, so we don’t have any… complications. I appreciate it.”

“But I thought—”

Arms tighten around you possessively—the air coils, suffused with thick tension. 

“Good Doctor. No one touches this one. Or they'll have to deal with me. Personally.” 

Footsteps retreat near instantly, the atmosphere lightening in the absence. You’re resting on something velvety. You have no idea where you are, but you know you’re safe. 

“Cori…”

“Shh, I’ll be back before you know it.” Cold glass touches your lips. When your lips part, soothing water slips into your awaiting mouth. After several mouthfuls, the glass disappears. A cool hand traces your face. “Things will be different real soon, you’ll see.”

You reach blindly, seeking. “Don’t go.”

“Oh, don’t worry. After I’m done, we’ll have a Dreaming of our own.”

Then nothing. 

.

Anchor around your ankle. Plunging, bitter cold water, pressure, pressure, a hand reaching uselessly towards the shrinking light above, then nothing—

.

Ropes bite into your wrists, the pyre is tall, and the crowd jeers with open delight. They throw things at you; some hit, some miss. You don’t know if you hate them or pity them. Both, neither. Sahsin’s face is disgusted, filled with hate. She has positioned herself in front of the throbbing mob. When the fire comes, Sahsin enjoys it. When the fire comes, the agony devours all else—

.

Blank page. 

Blank page.

Blank page.

And beneath, a faint, pulsing power of Endless Destruction. 

“My lord.”

Urgent footsteps head in his direction. Morpheus raises his head, his grip on the tome in his hands white-knuckled.

Loyal Lucienne and a rather familiar figure a step behind her. 

“I apologise for leaving, Lord,” Fiddler’s Green begins, flustered but entreating. “But you must help. He’s killing them.”

.

You awake with a pained gasp. Your head swims, your fingers clumsily seeking purchase. 

An eerily silent hotel room greets you when your hiccuping gasps assuage into a steadier rhythm.  Corinthian is nowhere in sight. You wrench yourself from beneath the comfortable covers, stumbling. You grab your carelessly thrown coat on your way out, shrugging on the familiar weight. At least your vision is clearer than earlier. Pain remains undiminished by your fretful rest. 

The hotel is unnaturally quiet—your nerves prickle. Nothing good ever comes from places where there should be life, being devoid of it. Unease pools in your stomach while you stumble through winding corridors. Where did everyone go?

Outside, twilight has settled over the landscape. Your pace increases, your palms dragging across the walls to keep moving.

You find the reception empty, the convention table barren. Except…

“—a black mirror, made to reflect everything about itself that humanity will not confront. But look at you—”

Your body turns to stone mid-step. There’s no confusing that voice with anyone—the absolute power infused into every deliberate, low syllable. 

With a start, you realise your knees have bent, your coat pooling around your ankles. You’re scared. Dream wasn’t supposed to be here. Not when you’re not there to mediate. Clawing at the walls, you force your legs forward. Your bones quake in protest with each step. 

Shoving into the conference room, you find the room full. Hotel patrons sit in neat rows, their heads bowed and eyes closed. 

Dream of the Endless and the nightmare make for a lonely, contrasting sight on the stage: dark and light. 

Corinthian’s small smile is scornful. “I’m not the problem, Dream.”

“You’re right,” Dream Lord concurs quietly. “This is my fault, not yours. I had so much hope for you, but I created you poorly then. So I must uncreate you now.”

Dream’s arm lifts in the air between them. You lurch forward, stumbling up the stairs.

“No!”

You let out a dry sob, pushing past Dream to get to the nightmare. The contours of Corinthian’s face have begun dissolving, singed red at the edges, disappearing back into the sand he was fashioned from. 

Corinthian chokes out a breath, grinning widely, grasping your hand. “Hey, trouble—”

His hand in yours crumbles. A wounded, animalistic sound rips from you. There’s a futile, blind attempt to grasp onto his body as it slips between your fingers. Through your arms, and then out of your life. 

“No! No, no.”

Your knees hit the stage so hard the sound is a thunderclap through the hushed room. Sand lays in a golden pile at your feet. A tiny skull containing teeth for eyes is all that remains and—

Your ring. Corinthian’s faint warmth still lingers on the metal. Wet dots fall into the sand. Only then do you register the tears dripping down your face. Followed by speckles of blood. It seems appropriate that, in the end, he should have your blood also. 

Featherlight touch on your shoulder only registers after Dream’s voice floats through your agony: “Wanderer. I am sorry.”

Perhaps under different circumstances, you would have examined this moment closer—Dream Lord, an Endless, on his knees beside you, his voice impossibly soft. Instead, you want to disappear. 

“I know,” you sob, shaking, half leaning towards the ground. If it weren’t for Dream’s grip on you, there’s no doubt in your mind you would collapse right where Corinthian has. Something mangles inside you, far beyond physical. “I know you had to stop him. I… to me… he… to me he’s…”

Everything. 

Dragging your hands desperately through the slippery grains, you gather them in a smaller circle. 

“What are you doing?” 

Dream’s question is uncharacteristically gentle. There’s deeper awareness that a wrong question could shatter you completely. 

Past your raw vocal cords, you only manage: “I—I can’t leave him. I can’t leave him again.”

You’re not sure if you’re coherent enough for him to understand. Each word borders on a pained howl. Black is rapidly devouring your fading vision. Too much. It’s too much. You’re about to explode. Collapse like the nightmare did, utterly undone. 

Several scarlet drops drip into the sand, and Dream sucks in a deep breath beside you, his grip on you tightening. 

“You’re bleeding.”

He doesn’t get a response. Blackness devours you whole. 

.

Recovery takes three weeks. You’re unconscious for the first two. Another week crawls by until you can move again. 

The simple fact that it takes you so long to become functional only confirms that Dream brought back a broken soul into the Dreaming. You’ve survived limbs being severed. Past incidents where your skin was peeled off. But this goes beyond skin deep. 

You haven’t travelled since the incident. The mere thought induces a fresh dose of cramping terror through your system. The curse, wounded and worn, has retreated. Dormant. For now. 

“You mourn him.”

You jump in your spot. Your fingers close protectively over the ring in your hand. Dream steps into your line of sight, his coat fluttering around his lithe figure. His face is slanted away from you, observing the waterfront. You try to hide your surprise at seeing him. 

He’s been… distant these last three weeks. Not cold, but…

Sad. 

There’s no other way to delineate the forlorn stares that seem to follow you. 

“I’m not an idiot. What Corinthian was doing was horrific,” you say dully, tugging on stray blades of grass. 

Fiddler’s Green has returned, taking his post once more. It should make you happy. He apologised personally for his departure, but you understood his reasonings for leaving. Without his creator, Fiddler’s Green wanted to experience what it was like to be human. What right do you have to judge him for such a wish? Yet memory is a cruel mistress—the recollections of the one whose absence is so torturously felt are everywhere. 

“He took lives that were never his to take,” you continue. Anger bites into controlled syllables. “Not to mention his plan to have Rose become the new heart of the Dreaming. Did he realise the universe would have collapsed in on itself? He had to be stopped.”

It was what had awoken you back at the hotel. It’s only later that you learned the extent of Corinthian’s plan. Rose Walker was the vortex. Given enough time, she would have become the centre of the Dreaming, drawing dreams and nightmares to her. And collapsed this universe as a result. Dream would have killed her—it’s the only time the Endless are permitted to take mortal life, if they’re an active threat—but Rose’s grandmother had stepped in last second. A woman who should have been the vortex if it hadn’t been for Dream’s capture. If the sleeping sickness that swept through the waking world had not robbed her of life. 

“But you mourn him still.”

Unequivocal insistence. Your composed mask cracks around the edges. Lying would be pointless. 

“Of course I do,” you exhale, pained. 

Dream’s fingers curl at his side, but he doesn’t look your way. “This was my oversight, Wanderer. Do not bear the guilt for those lost.”

Trees ripple and shiver in the faint breeze. Waterfall roars to your left, while to your right, the dark shores of the Dreaming reflect sunshine like the darkest obsidian. You consider the Dream Lord while he watches the beach with a stony expression. Utterly closed off—same old Dream. 

Deflating, you struggle back onto your feet. 

“Their blood is on my hands, too,” you say, turning to go.

Guilt will follow you no matter what he maintains. 

“Are you departing once more?” he calls out, halting you in your tracks. He’s scrutinising you when you peek his way. “You are not fit for travel.”

Offering a throwaway smile, you shrug. “I’m a rubber ball. I bounce back quickly.”

“Stay until Dreamfall if the curse permits it.” Dream pauses after his brisk request, catching himself with a swallow. Awkwardness permeates the air. “It would mean a great deal to others if you celebrated with them.”

You loosen a reluctant breath, squinting at him. “Do you want me to stay?”

Something shifts between you at the forthright prompt; tightening, warming. Surprise collects in your chest at the fact you dared to ask. But you’re tired of feigning, acting as if you’re both not caught in some bizarre impasse. 

Dream’s lips part softly, his answer a mere exhale, “I would.” 

Light, tingling sensation webs through your chest. You hadn’t expected that. “Under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Answer me something, Morpheus. Truthfully.” With deliberate slowness, you step into his bubble, so close Dream’s lashes flutter as he peers at you. There’s such unbearable weight to his gaze. There’s always been a raging storm brewing there, but this is more. Heavier. “Corinthian was convinced that you made him in my image. Is it true?”

Your jaw sets stubbornly, the nightmare’s name stinging your tongue. Dream’s eyes roam over your features, seeking some unknown truth. You’re not asking about physical similarities, but you permit him this moment. Because he digs deeper, because your heart is in your throat when Dream finally settles on his truth: 

“While I did not recognise it as such at the time, I believe I did.”

You’ve known, been aware of this fact for centuries. Since Corinthian shared his hypothesis, you’ve been unable to scrub it from your mind. But to have confirmation from Dream himself paints many past events in a different light. 

“I made you poorly then… a black mirror made to reflect everything humanity will not confront.” Recalling Dream Lord’s words, you stagger backwards, your mind whirling with thoughts. A startled gasp pushes from your lungs, your attention snapping back to the Endless. Suddenly all the puzzle pieces slot perfectly into place. “I had it all wrong. Corinthian was a manifestation of your anger for what humanity was doing to me. He was to be your mirror, your teacher, so humanity may choose to be better. So they may learn to overcome their darkest impulses.”

Staggering backwards, words escape you in a torrent, “But it went wrong, didn’t it? You gave him too much of that anger—the fury of an Endless and reckless, unshakable defiance of a cursed mortal. You created a masterpiece by giving him too much. By making something that is so much more than just a nightmare. A perfect hybrid between an Endless and a mortal.”

Dream says nothing in response. It’s the only confirmation you need. 

In the end, you stay. But this time, you’re the one who avoids the Dream Lord. 

.

“You’re always welcome in my chambers, sweet Dream. It’s lovely to see you. Can I get you anything you desire?”

Morpheus strolls through the glossy scarlet chambers of his younger sibling’s stronghold. Desire of the Endless curls with each word spoken, stretching indolently across their seat. Loving malice lines planes of Desire’s face, enigmatic and magnetic as their name suggests. 

Dream moves closer. “I desire nothing from you, save some answers.”

Desire pouts, sitting up, their hands in their lap. “Oh? Do tell. I love a test.”

He’s never understood Desire’s love for games. Petulant slights or wish to inflict harm. To manipulate and use. Once…

He supposes it no longer matters what their relationship might have been once—too many years arc between them: too much history and bad blood. Morpheus prowls through the gallery, briefly flicking his attention towards his family’s sigils. 

“Unity Kincaid should have been the vortex of this age. But someone saw fit to take advantage of my imprisonment and fathered a child with her, knowing full well that it would become the vortex and I would be left with no choice but to kill it.”

A mock gasp escapes Desire’s ruby-painted lips. Their golden eyes blow wide open, startled and innocent, while they monitor Dream. 

“Are you implying I meddled with affairs of another Endless domain, dear brother?” Desire’s pout wobbles when Dream doesn't respond. The faux innocence melts away in a blink, leaving behind nothing but conniving malice, peering back through a hooded stare. “Oh, fine, was I really that obvious?” 

A brief, cool smile touches Dream’s lips, his words coming out frosty, “No. You covered your tracks remarkably well.”

“High praise, coming from you,” Desire tuts, grinning sharply. 

“What did you intend?” Dream heads towards the other Endless unhurriedly. “That I should spill family blood? With all that would entail?”

“This time, it almost worked.” Desire’s grin stretches wider, pleased. “I haven’t seen you this worked up since my little wrangle with lovely Wanderer. How is she, by the way? Still coughing up blood?”

His younger sibling adjusts their position once again, sitting up straighter. Bracing for a fight, Morpheus realises belatedly. This is a sore spot that always elicits a reaction. But this time, Morpheus will not be giving his sibling the satisfaction. He’s observed Desire’s and Wanderer’s relationship—or what little of it remains—long enough to draw his own conclusions. 

“You do not fool me,” Morpheus begins deliberately. The corners of Desire’s mouth tilt downwards slightly. “I know your fickle heart, my sibling, and you resent the fact Wanderer forgives others but not you. But you fail to understand why that same forgiveness has not been extended your way. We of the Endless are the servants of the living, not their masters. We exist only because they know deep in their hearts that we exist. We do not manipulate them. If anything, they manipulate us.”

“Then perhaps I shall pay Wanderer a visit in person.” Desire drags their thumbs over the edge of their lips, sly in their wily deliberation. “I do, after all, wear your face now. But unlike you, I will endeavour to be a far more… devoted lover.”

Wrath kindles in his chest. Morpheus knows. He’s read about your and Desire’s encounter at the shores of the Dreaming while he was locked away. 

He shakes his head. “Still, you fail to see. We are their dolls, Desire. You and Despair, and even poor Delirium, will do well to remember that.”

Desire presents him with a dismissive shrug, their nose wrinkling. “Maybe I don’t understand.”

“No, perhaps you do not,” Morpheus agrees softly. Circling, he slips behind his younger sibling. Desire’s head wrenches backwards, their gulping gasp nearly lost when Morpheus twists the other Endless’ head back, peering down at the blonde coldly. “Then let me tell you something you will understand: mess with me or mine again, and I shall forget you are family. You lay a finger on Wanderer, and I will make every circle of Hell feel like kindness by comparison. Do you believe yourself to be strong enough to stand against me? Against Death? Against Destiny?”

Desire forces down a gulp, their breath stuttering at the creeping wrath, “No.”

“No, indeed.” Dropping his hold, Morpheus straightens, his jaw rigid as he stalks away, adding, “Remember this next time you’re inspired to interfere in my affairs.”

And then he’s gone. 

.

Translucent light kisses your shoulders as you stroll towards the looming stronghold, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Your fingers have turned numb from how tightly you’re clenching them. The impressive, stone-carved statues depicting the seven Endless guide your way. Well, six. You pause by Destruction, the only one facing away, unlike his siblings.

You don’t dare to stray from the path. The likelihood of finding your way out if you get lost in the maze again is non-existent. 

The ruler of this sprawling, eerily silent domain greets you at the foot of the marble staircase. 

“I welcome thee, Wanderer, Roamer of Realms, into my stronghold.”

Even at this distance, Destiny looms so impossibly tall, some forgotten human instinct sparks in a warning.

Undeterred, you halt before the imposing figure, bowing your head. “I greet and thank you for your welcome, Destiny of the Endless.”

Only Destiny’s lower face is visible behind his billowing hood when he speaks in a crackling rasp, “You have arrived here for a single purpose.”

No ifs or buts about it—he knows better than that, the book slotted neatly under his arm. 

“And here I was, ready to ask if you’re surprised to see me,” you shoot back jokingly. Destiny does not smile or construe entertainment from your words. You sober, your attempt at levity now abandoned. “Guess we both know the answer to that. I’m here to share some theories if you have time to spare.”

To your surprise, Destiny slips past you, heading in the direction you came from, deeper into his garden. His footsteps make no sound. His cloak whispers behind him, shimmering in the dim, muted light. On equal footing, you have to crane your head to see him. The devouring dark pooling around the contours of his pallid face reveals nothing beneath the hood, even at your angle.  

“You seek to ask questions for which there are scarce few answers, Wanderer,” Destiny says resolutely. “You are far older than most mortals can comprehend, yet your heart remains stubbornly mortal.”

You set out after him at once, your invisible hackles rising. “In what way? My defiance?”

Destiny does not falter, his pace remaining as steady as lapping waves. “That is not for me to judge.”

The garden is vast and a marvel to behold, but the temperature lingers on that unnatural lukewarmness that gives away how unorthodox this place is. The light is perpetually unfading, gauzy in the corners of your eyes. It’s a confusing, strangely profound place. It’s as if Destiny’s realm contains everything all at once but also nothing. A place of futures to come, lives unlived, and wilted pasts. There’s no point in attempting to unravel it. There’s only uncanny strangeness you’ve come to accept. 

“You will spend time in the realm of each sibling—you will dream, despair, desire, destroy, delight and otherwise, and, eventually, die—but you were his from the very first page, and only he will read how your story comes out, a long time from now.”

Destiny doesn’t pause at your reiteration. There’s no indication he even heard you, but you’re a step behind him. A thousand years of trying to get answers have taught you he would not be entertaining you if this wasn’t heading somewhere. The thought of another scrap of information sets your heart thudding. Haven’t you spent the last two centuries piecing things together? Attempting to confirm your speculations before you came here to confront him with them. Your past attempts may have ended in uniform failure, but today is different. You can feel it.

“You told me that when we first met,” you continue, keeping your nonchalance. You’re no more than a child to him despite your millennia of existence—this is the only way to get him to take you seriously. “When I awoke in your garden, alone and terrified, with no clue as to who I was or what had happened to me. I’ve been thinking about those words ever since.”

Destiny slows, then stops altogether. Your heart climbs to your throat. You've paused by his statue, standing at the foot of polished, pale stone. Destiny’s cloak whispers when he hinges in your direction, anticipatory. He already knows what you will say.

“It was you. You’re the one who did this to me.” 

The clarity that clangs through you with those words shakes your knees. Sucking down more oxygen, you add, “Not directly, maybe. I was cursed by mortal power. This much I know for certain. But you made it possible. You led me to this by the hand. Why?”

And like a dozen times you’ve tried in the past, you expect dismissal, or worse, silence with which he’s punished you often. Destiny would disappear from your sight altogether. His patience and unwillingness to give you clear answers are unmatched. 

But not this time. 

“Because you broke your destiny. Tore it to shreds. Painted it red.” Destiny readjusts the heavy book under his arm. “So you were allocated a new path. One of hardship and pain, but one that may lead you to salvation. Should you tread it mindfully.”

The roar in your head is so loud you barely understand Destiny’s low, equable words. 

“You could have told me this a thousand years ago,” you choke out. 

He remains a perfectly barren canvas, but in the tension pulsing between you, there now whispers a hint of displeasure. Sweat trickles down your nape. 

“I did,” he replies flatly. “But you did not listen. You instead raged and ran, and what came of it?”

Madness and despair. 

Stumbling forward, you bite out, “Why? What did I do? What could prompt eternity of this.”

All this pain for crimes you couldn’t so much as recall. Whatever it was, have you not paid back your dues? Have you not suffered enough to make up for your past?

“Forgetting is the only kindness you’ve ever been spared. Or ever will be. Treat it as such.” Cold needles your spine, and a terrible urge to fold yourself into a ball gnaws on your bones. Destiny’s pitch does not change, nor does his bearing, but it doesn’t need to. “In your quest to break, you reformed into something else.”

Your force down saliva, near choking. “Into what?”

“Challenger of the Unknown.”

Silence envelopes the garden. There’s little to no sound in the Garden of the Forking Ways to begin with, but those words blanket everything. Not even the wind seems to stir. No blade of grass moves. This means something; it means something crucial, but you have no idea what.

“What does that mean?” you beseech. Destiny doesn’t move, nor does he answer. Your voice cracks. “Please just tell me.”

But you already know it’s a lost battle. This is all too familiar—the cold, pitiless silence, utterly unmoved. He’s given you all he’s intended to. 

“I used to think you hated me.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him this. Destiny won’t care. Your feet carry you past him. Briefly, you pause by Dream’s statue, then keep going. “More than anyone else in this universe. It wasn’t until Destruction left that I finally understood your position more. It is a burden to know what others don’t but be unable to speak that knowledge.”

There’s no doubt in your mind that Destiny knows where Destruction is. 

The Prodigal’s statue pierces your vision, making you squint into the hazy skies above. Your following words slip out, each lilting with breezy ease: “But it doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive you for letting Dream rot in a cage for a hundred years when you knew it was coming, when you could have warned him somehow. I know you have a duty, but he’s your brother. However, indirectly you let Dreaming decay—my home. You let humanity suffer. I figured it out, by the way, why it’s a loophole. Why my book exists in the library, but nothing in other dimensions does. Why I can sleep in the Dreaming but not anywhere else.” 

Destiny stands stock still, his bony arms close to his chest, clutching his book. He displays no outward reaction as per usual. It’s a relief to voice your thoughts. You’re utterly terrified of him, but he’s right—your heart is still stubbornly human, as brazen as the Fates accused you of being.  

“Because if my curse was the will of the Endless, if my path—whatever it is—is so tightly bound to your family, then it only makes sense, right?” You’re not looking for a response because Destiny will offer none. “The Dreaming is the only place where aspects of each Endless manifest. It’s a loophole. The curse goes dormant when I’m in the Dreaming because the only thing more powerful than the curse is the combined power of the seven Endless.”

You’ve waited to voice your conclusions for so long, it’s surreal to have spoken them aloud. You might fear Destiny, but not enough to continue as a coward. He can deny it, but you’re confident that’s the reason. It’s the only thing that makes sense. 

“My siblings have gained much from their companionship with you, Wanderer,” Destiny admits. You quell a flinch despite Destiny’s voice retaining its monotonous quality. “But you and I are antitheses of one another. My brother would not be who he is now had he not tasted that helplessness and sorrow. You are the ink and the quilt with which Dream will write his story.”

His words make little to no sense. Dream is… Dream. What could ever influence him? Much less you. He’s changed since his imprisonment, it’s true, but doubt still nestles in your heart. Had the situation with Gault not proven how those attempts to change come undone in a blink? Despite it, Dream is trying, and it’s more than enough. Change doesn’t happen overnight; not any profound version, anyway. 

You wipe across your face, schooling yourself. “I won’t stop trying to save them even if I’m punished further,” you assert. “I’ll always fight for humanity.”

Even over his hood, you feel your gazes clash, burning into one another. 

“I would expect no less,” Destiny assures. 

Squaring your shoulders, you’re halfway between dimensions before a thought occurs to you. “Just one more thing before I go.”

Destiny is as grave as usual, entirely inhuman in his foreboding silence while he waits. 

“It can be broken, can’t it?” you say, scrutinising him closely. “The curse. There are weak spots in its design.”

“That is for you to discover,” he replies, much to your surprise. It’s closer to a yes than a no. “But pay heed. This path will not be forgiving should you wish to pursue it.”

Icy trepidation creeps its claws down your spine. You don’t permit it to show. 

“Nothing in my life has been forgiving,” you say curtly. “I bid you good fortune, Destiny.”

“And I you, Roamer of Realms.”

.

“Happy Dreamfall.”

Slanting your head, you let your chin dig into your shoulder, smiling. You hadn’t seen the Dream Lord since you snuck back into the Dreaming, seemingly no one having noticed your momentary departure. Normally, there are someone’s eyes on you. But only Dream can sense your appearance and disappearance inside the Dreaming itself. So you’ve taken advantage of his absence. You’ve had too much on your mind since your return from visiting Destiny to seek him out yet. 

“Happy Dreamfall,” you say to the Endless, who comes to a halt beside you. “May Fates smile upon you, Dream Lord. And may your realm of dreams be aplenty.”

Behind you, the castle grounds buzz with activity. At long last, things were returning to normal. This is the first cause of celebration these dreams and nightmares had in over a century. Back home, safe and in a place where they belong. You hugged and drank sweet nectars with plenty, smiling and touching hands. Or claws. But it didn’t take long to slip away and settle out here. 

Perched on the castle staircase, you must make for an odd sight, but Gatekeepers straighten back into their patrol positions with Dream’s arrival. You had left the castle to enjoy the darkening skies, the dreams swelling and blinking in the pitch-black canvas, ready for their journey. The Gatekeepers had clustered close, and you had spent a while simply chatting. You’ve missed them. It had been harrowing to witness them turn to stone while Dream was missing.  

“Would you walk with me?” Dream asks.

Wetting your lips, you stand. “Sure.”

Without a preamble, Dream sets out. His gait hovers on ponderous this evening. You’ve gotten used to more hurried, curt interactions between you. Invisible tension stretched tautly. Will-o'-the-wisps dance and sway through the humming evening air. Flowers in your path bloom in different colours, fairy dust sprinkled through the air. You continue on the faintly lit path cutting through the heart of the Dreaming without a word. 

“Are you well?”

Dream’s sudden question shakes you from your peaceful stupor. 

“Busy, but good,” you answer. “And you?”

Dream halts abruptly. You pass him, then do the same, gazing back at him, confused. 

Dream Lord’s pale eyes dig into you. They steal from you, and they give more than words ever could. But this once, Dream also uses his words: “I wish for us to talk as we once did.”

Anxiety pangs through your belly. You hadn’t expected him to point it out. Your lips compress into a stiff, bloodless line. It would be a bald-faced lie to insist something hasn’t broken between you. Corinthian’s unmaking has driven a wedge between you that neither can overcome. The nightmare had to be stopped, but it doesn’t take away from the grief festering in your chest. Most believe grief is an absence, but you’ve found the exact opposite is true. 

Grief is a presence that should be there but isn’t. It’s a weight of memories, of possibilities, of life unlived. Corinthian has become your phantom limb, his absence invisible to all but you as is the bleed.

“We’re getting there,” you say lastly.

His wild hair covers his eyes when his head lowers. Subconsciously, you find yourself stepping towards him, folding your hand around his. Cool and silky to the touch. A breath, and then you feel Dream’s hand curl around yours. He doesn’t move otherwise, muscles sitting in rigid mass beneath his pale skin. 

“Dream,” you call his name gently. “You’re trying. I see that. We’re finding new ways. Now tell me why we’re here.”

Because this path is familiar to you as your own hands. Just over the dark treeline lays the beach. The docks you’ve visited every night in his absence. This path had been your pilgrimage once, and now he’s returned. The fingers folded around yours tighten. Dream wordlessly tugs you with him until soft sand cushions the soles of your shoes. 

“It is a night where anything is possible,” he says knowingly. 

Your heartbeat jumps when he leads you towards the pier, wood creaking under your combined weight. “What are you doing?”

Dream draws you both to a stop halfway across the pier, something close to mischief sparking in his gaze. It’s so bizarrely unwonted you do a doubletake.

“Giving you my present.”

With that, he strides closer. Your mouth dries when he gently curls his arm around your waist. He raises your joint hands, spinning you to the side slowly. Clumsily, your legs obey, your breaths escaping uneven gulps. 

“Are we dancing, Dream Lord?”

Dream bows his head closer to yours, his voice velvet, “We are dancing in starlight, you and I.”

It’s then you feel the tingling, reverent whisper of his power over your body. Your eyes widen when you see faint light needling the sturdy fabric, as if your coat has become no more than a window into the raw cosmos. Galaxies swirl in raging spirals across the once-dark material. Your head snaps to the side while Dream continues spinning you unhurriedly. Your coat is shrinking, reshaping to fit your body even better than it did up to this point. 

“Dream this is…”

The coat settles into actuality. Sparkling dust spills from the material when you shift. Your overcoat has shrunk to kiss just above your knees. More fitted but no less comfortable. And then there’s the way it glimmers like a precious jewel whenever moonlight hits it. 

“I had hoped to give you something more… fitting,” Dream murmurs. You look up at him, your noses almost touching. “It is only right for the one who roams the stars to wear a coat of pure starlight.”

“Thank you,” you whisper shakily. “It’s beautiful.”

Beautiful doesn’t do it justice. The midnight material shimmers with your movement, liquid starlight captured into tangible fabric, and your throat closes up as you examine it further. Dream slips his arm from your waist. He lifts your joint hands, comfortable in his own, and lays a light kiss on your hand.

“It becomes you,” he compliments quietly, releasing you. “Now… it’s time.”

Your brows crease. “Time for what?”

Was this not it? Thick emotions still coat your tongue, lodged deep in your windpipe. But Dream only devours you with quiet intensity. 

Above your head, dreams start raining down in shining beams of light.

“We begin… with a spin.”

Your heart stutters to a stop. Water roars behind Dream, wild spray flying through the air. The faint drizzle beats against your face, leaving you gaping. 

“Dream. I…”

He extends his hand your way. “There is no Dreaming without Wanderer Island. Should you wish it, I would like us to create another.”

Your features crumble, the ball in your throat robbing you of your voice. Indecision holds you captive—on the one hand, you want nothing more, but on another, you’re too afraid. What if it all ends up in the same place? You watching yet another part of you sink into those inky depths. 

But there’s something cautious, near vulnerable, to be found in Dream’s guarded features. It’s an effort for him to open up, but you can see the unsure way his hand hangs in offering between you. He’s bracing himself for rejection, for you to leave him alone on this pier. 

You grasp his proffered hand, fingers winding cautiously around his. Dream’s shoulders slump slightly from their rigid slant, relaxing at the contact. 

He guides you to an all too familiar position. You standing at the edge of the pier, him behind you, a hand on your shoulder. A disconcerting sensation of deja vu falls over you. 

“Describe it to me,” he prompts.

Black, foreboding waters of the Dreaming spin in ferocious whirlpools. Dream’s elegant hand pierces your line of sight, primed for creation. 

“There’s a small island.” Your voice trembles. You haven’t forgotten anything, down to the exact words used. You conjure the Wanderer Island in your mind’s eye as it once stood; brilliant and shining. The visual blooms bold and alive in your mind. “The grass that grows there is the greenest there’s ever been. And it tastes like sour apples.”

Dream’s hand on your shoulder squeezes lightly. Same amusement, even centuries later. You’re both changed, but a familiar outline of an island starts taking shape on the horizon. 

“The sun that shines on the island is never too hot. The air is sweet and light. The flowers never wilt, and trees never shed leaves.” It’s pouring from your mouth now, an avalanche of memory. You’ve missed the island so dearly, and details from five centuries ago come readily. “The sky is an endless periwinkle shade. There’s always food and drinks. Books and games. And…”

Your heart bleeds, fresh wounds gushing. But you push on because it’s not about you.

“And an old friend waits at the beach to greet you with a patient smile whenever you arrive. Because not everyone has a family, and not everyone needs a lover, but everyone should have a friend. The island will be there whenever someone feels lonely, lost, or desperate for an escape. It’ll be there to welcome you. To give you a corner to hide. There is no sadness there. No loneliness or confusion. Only…”

Dream’s lips tickle over the shell of your ear. “… hope.”

And then stillness. 

The water settles in a gurgling slosh. In the distance, a patch of land once again floats. There to welcome new dreamers. Wanderer Island blurs. The heel of your hand presses over your eyes, overwhelmed. 

Blindly, you tug on Dream’s coat; a mute request. Between one inhale and the next, wood underfoot is exchanged for sand. 

Everything is the same down to the last blade of grass and tree composition. Either your vision was so clear Dream could pluck every last detail from your mind or…

Or he remembered the Island with the same clarity as you. 

You sink to your knees. Sand crumbles around your digits when you dip them into the pliable sand. 

“Hi. There you are.”

Nothing, then…

Grass sprouts unprompted around your hand, tiny daisies twining across your thumb. Utterly impossible, yet tonight, here, anything is possible. A choked laugh escapes you. Your cheeks ache from your beaming smile. 

“She’s missed you,” Dream reveals quietly.

Your head lifts in surprise. You stroke the miniature, perfect blooms. “I missed you too.”

With another tickle, the flowers and grass retreat, shrinking into the golden beach. Several moments pass by until you unearth the strength to stand. Dream’s profile greets you. He’s turned away, giving you privacy, but subtle uncertainty lines his features. Sensing your attention, he peers towards you, then past you. 

“Thank you,” you breathe. Despite your verbal gratitude, Dream’s attention remains fixed over your shoulder. “What?”

His low words reach you over the sound of lapping waves. “Are you not going to say hello to an old friend?”

You follow his line of sight. Behind you, at a distance with falling dreams as his backdrop, stands a tall, pale-haired figure. 

Everything inside you falls very, very quiet—all those tumultuous emotions freeze. Your head snaps back to Dream with a stifled gulp. It can’t be real. Surely it’s some mirage, a feedback loop, a ghost conjured from your love for the now-gone nightmare. 

But Dream only slants his head in a marginal, affirming nod. You dare to peek behind you once more. There he stands. The nightmare. Not a twisted joke. 

Your feet carry you towards him without conscious thought; half-running, half-walking, stumbling all the while. Corinthian stands with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders in a slight slouch. His nude-coloured slacks and white shirt shine like beacons in the pale moonlight. Round shades cover his eyes, his blonde strands fluttering in the light breeze. 

He's a figment. Not quite tangible until your body crashes into him, your arms scrambling to hold onto him. “Oh, God!”

Dry, humoured, “Not quite.”

Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can feel it, if not hear it. A pained, whining sound bubbles up in your throat, gripping him closer.

“I… how…” You wrench yourself back, a horrible thought occurring. You search his handsome features. That infuriating smirk always curling his mouth is absent. “Do you remember me?”

Corinthian stands there, not moving, with no real emotion on display, either. Your heart sinks. Could it be that he—

Dull throb flares across your forehead. He’s flicked you—

A wide, toothy grin stretches across Corinthian’s mouth. “Gotcha.”

With a choked laugh, you punch his shoulder, hugging him close with a wide smile. “I hate you.”

A pleased hum. This time, the nightmare’s arm settles around you. “Hate you more.”

You’re not sure how long you both stand there. When you do part, reluctance keeps your hand on him. Fingertips connecting to some part of him. Remembering the Dream Lord you came here with—who gave you this, his present—you find Dream no longer on the beach. Or anywhere in sight. He’s given you privacy and time. Your heart softens further.  

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

Corinthian’s subdued question tugs your attention back towards him. You almost wish he didn’t remind you. Because now you’re faced with the reality that even though he’s been returned to you, there’s much you both need to overcome and fix. That losing him did not magically wipe away the wrongs he’s done. If you hope to return to the relationship you once had, you’ll need time.

You consider him for a moment. 

“You’re always forgiven,” you tell him honestly. 

Standing in the moonglow, you pretend you don’t notice how something coiled tightly seems to loosen inside him at your reassurance. Instead, you reach for his face. Your fingertips brush over Corinthain’s glasses, and his hand snap out, wrapping around your wrist tightly. Bones making up his jaw roll beneath the skin. Tension throbs between you while seconds tick by. Through clenched teeth, Corinthian unwraps his hold finger by finger. 

You tug his shades away from his face. He’s tense as a bowstring, his head slanted at an angle. The same jagged teeth sit where most have eyeballs. They’re hooded, though. His discomfort—and anger at said discomfort—couldn’t be more perspicuous. 

His shades close as you fold arm temples one at a time. You hold his stare, staring right at those jagged teeth with a slight frown. You extend his shades back to him mutely. 

“But my trust is something you will have to earn back,” you state earnestly. 

The nightmare hesitates halfway to reaching for his glasses. Those pale fingers dance over them before he plucks them from you.

“Sounds like a fair deal,” he muses absently. You expect him to put the shades back on, but instead, Corinthian hooks them on his shirt pocket. Turning to go, he calls out a honeyed, “You coming?”

He gazes at you over his shoulder, jagged teeth on full show, and you feel yourself smile.

“Always.”

.

Sun shines luminous and warm today. The Wanderer Island stretches as far as your eye can perceive, teeming with life and greenery around every corner. Flowers and trees bloom everywhere—an awe-inspiring marriage between tropical and temperate climates. The Island once again oozes a sense of magick and wonder that was once so prominent here. No place in the universe can compare.  

“Rebuilding is almost complete,” you begin conversationally. “The Dreaming is more beautiful than ever.”

The Endless keeps pace beside you, a pensive sound rumbling from him. “It was not without aid.”

A smile twitches your lips upwards. “You’re welcome.”

Two weeks have gone by since Dreamfall. Things have mended—between you individually and the atmosphere around the Dreaming. While Corinthian’s return was met with some side glances, no one discussed it further. Dreamfolk trust Dream to make the right decision. Or perhaps Gault was right; they’re wiser than to outright question.  

“The Corinthian has also been making progress,” Dream says. “I am hoping to place him under supervision and monitor his conduct. To make sure what happened is never repeated. Should the need arise, he will be allocated duties back in the waking world.”

Joy flutters in your heart. “Yeah? That’s great. Someone you trust, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“And?” you probe. “Are you going to tell me who or not?”

In your peripheral, Dream inclines in your direction. “Yours.”

You nearly trip. “Dream, I—” You clear your throat, pausing. “Are you sure? It didn’t exactly work out last time.”

Dream’s intent scrutiny slides over your facial features. “It was due to no fault of yours. And this Corinthian is the same in all but one function. He will not fail again. He has a different purpose now.”

There’s a solemn sort of finality about the way he articulates those words. A tiny shiver skitters down your spine. He will not expand further upon those words. Whatever that purpose is, you imagine time will reveal it. 

You chew on your inner cheek. “Okay. I would like that.”

You smile at him. But Dream’s expression stutters, overcome by some foreign emotion. His mouth parts, then closes, his fingers folding into white-knuckled fists. 

Just as you’re about to ask what’s wrong, Dream speaks: “Wanderer. Stay.”

You muster up an uncertain, perplexed smile. “I’m right here.”

Dream marches closer, sunshine caught in his onyx hair. 

“Stay however long you want,” he insists softly. “Stay forever if it should so please you.”

Shock envelops you, freezing you in your spot. You’ve told him, didn’t you? That you would stay forever by his side if only he asked. Now he’s asking. Except confusion and unease battle in your chest. Can you trust his word? Did Dream change enough? He brought back Corinthian. He freed Gault from the Darkness. He insists this is a new age. But…

“And if I wanted to leave?” you question. “If I chose never to return, what then?”

“It would sadden my creations—”

“I’m asking you.”

Dream falters, shackled by your insistence. His lashes flutter, his head lowering in near palpable struggle. You’re challenging him, but you refuse to continue with the charade. If he wants forever, you can’t live with the fear he might change his mind about it. 

“It would pain me, also. A great deal.” He hesitates again, and it’s bizarre because this degree of uncertainty is not something you associate Dream with. “But you are free. You've always been free. The Dreaming is your home. Should you wish to return, its gates will always await you.”

Doubt twists your mouth downwards. “I thought that once—”

“I swear it. No matter what the future may hold. No matter how angry I get, I shall never again take the Dreaming away from you.” Sheer power woven into those words leaves no room for doubt. It’s a vow. He will not break it. There would be a price to pay if he did. Dream’s fingertips ghost over yours, a graze leaving fire in its wake. “I read your book in the library. I did not wish to tell you sooner because I worried you would leave. Because… you were right. I could never understand the sheer devastation. Or the harm I inflicted.”

You drag your hand back, stepping away from him. Dream’s features fall subtly. You face away, giving him your back while you process. Raising the hand he was caressing seconds prior, you cradle it to your chest. Sunshine prickles your cheek, but you ignore it. 

“I’m not ashamed of my past,” you tell him, turning back to face him. “I always knew there was a chance you could read it. So, what did you think?”

He appears pained. At least now you know why he’s been so melancholy these last several weeks. “That I should wish for nothing more than for you to stay by my side.”

Those unadorned words devastated you. 

Smiling through your inflated, overjoyed heart, you mumble, “Stay forever… I can’t technically do that.”

But Dream is unruffled. If anything, you glimpse the beginnings of hope starting to take root in him. 

“I’ll seek a way,” he avows. 

“To what?” An incredulous chuckle escapes you. “Break the curse?”

Destiny’s warning jump back to the forefront of your mind, and you swallow thickly. You don’t dare to ponder freedom for longer than an indulgent moment. 

“Yes,” Dream replies. 

You stare at him. Tall and dark, sunlit and more open than you’ve ever seen him. Determined and golden. Your Dream Lord. He terrifies you. You love him. 

“You can’t interfere,” you remind him emptily. “And I might die.”

“Or you may live,” Dream argues. “Freely. And choose for yourself. Always.”

“Trying to bait me, Dream Lord?”

Sudden tension between you loosens around the edges. Once more, the susurration of the trees trickles into your mind, elevating the brewing anxiety. 

A thousand years. The curse has defined your existence and has kept you alive this long. What are you without it? There’s always been an unspoken acknowledgement that you could never break the curse without dying. Simply too much time has passed. No mortal vessel can survive over a millennium otherwise. When you asked Destiny, it was only to understand more about the nature of the curse. Not because you ever assumed you could survive breaking the curse. 

Dream’s mouth compresses as if he’s attempting not to smile. “I would never.”

“Stay by your side, huh?” you mutter, looking away while you mull over your conversation. “And what exactly would that entail?”

His response is immediate, smooth, “Whatever you wish.”

“A companion, then?” Your words pitch lower and silkier while you close the minimal distance with relaxed, unhurried steps. Dream’s eyes darken a shade. “An emissary? A consort? A queen?”

His black-clad shoulders lift with his inhale. 

“Those are but words,” he murmurs silkily. “For you would be all those things, and more.”

You examine his profile, those starlit irises, the doubt swimming there. Does he doubt you would stay? After such long years harbouring this affection for him? Silly, wonderful anthropomorphic personification. “I’ll stay, but only if you answer a question.”

“Even if the price were a hundred thousand questions, Wanderer, I would pay it gladly. What is this question?”

Narrowing your eyes, you scrutinise him. Dream does not balk under your exigent examination, waiting patiently. Biting back a smile, you permit your features to relax. He’s unfairly fun to tease. 

“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”

Relish bubbles in your chest at the way Dream’s expression comes undone. As if from a thousand questions he was bracing for, nothing could have prepared him for this. Birds chirp a merry tune somewhere in the tree line, a warm breeze ruffling Dream’s dark hair while he gazes at you with utterly confused wonderment. A slight, fond smile curls his lips.  

“A thousand years,” he begins in a bewildered drawl. “And still, you ask the same question.”

You laugh faintly, shrugging. “Well, in all fairness, you never answered me the last time. Which was very rude, by the way—”

In an inhale Dream of the Endless materialises in front of you. His hands slip to hold your face, cupping it with delicate hands as he tugs you closer. His kiss falls over you like stars. Silky, gentle warmth that washes over you with such fervent passion you gasp against his mouth. Your hands grasp onto him blindly. You part only long enough for you to gulp down oxygen before your mouths meet again, and again, and again, burning with need unquenched. Heat spreads through every inch of you. A thousand years being cold, floating unearthed, but now someone is holding you. 

Dream presses another kiss to your mouth, desperate and hungry, gentle in his handling, and you return it with equal enthusiasm, equal need. Dizziness envelops you, and Dream pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. You shudder, a delicious heat licking up your senses. This closeness hurts better than anything ever has. You remind yourself to breathe, to remember this is real, he’s here, holding you, and nothing matters in this moment. Whatever the future holds, you do not fear it. Because Hob was right: there are people out there who love, and that makes all the difference. 

Dream’s thumb grazes over your bunched-up cheek. Your smile is wide enough to light your entire face. 

It continues with a gentle, rasping: “I’ll tell you one day, stardust.”

an:

Never apologise, never explain.

I set out to write nothing more than a fun little story that I expected to have maybe 3-4 parts max. Something entirely self-indulgent and fun for no one but me and maybe one or two mutuals. I never quite expected it would become as beloved as it did. I suppose here, in the end, I would like to take the time to thank everyone who read this and supported it. Be it by commenting, making edits/art for it or just sending me encouraging/funny messages. You guys are the reason this story became what it did. I'm immensely grateful for each and every single one of you. It was a rough month, but I'm glad I could offer you this conclusion at long last. Thank you for being here, thank you for being kind, and thank you again for reading.

Goodnight, and see you all in dreams, wanderers ☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ

[oswincoleman]

The new issue of Amazing Magazine is now out! It features Jenna Coleman on the cover, and contains pictures from a photoshoot of her, as well as an interview with her about her roles as Lady Johanna Constantine and Johanna Constantine in The Sandman!

You can order it here:

Jenna Coleman is navigating new waters as Johanna Constantine in the Netflix adaptation of The Sandman. Here the Victoria actor talks comic books, exorcisms and how Doctor Who prepared her for the DC Comics fandom.

“In terms of a female comic book character, I love the fact that she’s rough around the edges,” says Jenna Coleman, talking about her role as Johanna Constantine in the highly anticipated Netflix series The Sandman. “From Allan’s scripts she just leapt off the page and felt so textured, and layered; the cynicism, the wit, being such a lone wolf warrior, having this empathy and big heart, but having to not let anybody in. It really lent itself as a female role and I feel like, in the comic book world, there aren’t many female roles like that either.” The Allan in question is showrunner Mr Heinberg; he developed the show alongside Neil Gaiman and David S. Goyer, adapting it from Gaiman’s comic book of the same name. Published by DC Comics, the original series ran from 1989 to 1996 and followed the often-dramatic adventures of Morpheus (aka Dream), the king of dreams. Coleman’s character was the male John Constantine, who first appears to help Morpheus locate his stolen pouch of magical dream sand and in exchange is cured of his frequent nightmares. Johanna was actually another character – one of John’s ancestors from the 18th century – but Coleman’s Johanna is confirmed to be a direct replacement for John. “We played a lot with costume,” says Coleman, who previously transformed into Queen Victoria for the ITV historical drama Victoria, and time travelled back to the 1970s in Netflix’s The Serpent. “The visuals were really interesting, because the original comic book character is a chain-smoking Liverpudlian, so we went down that path with a version of that and the iconic Mackintosh coat on. It made me look more masculine, I guess, and myself and Allan wanted to take those roots and make Johanna a more upgraded version. We kept her quite sharp and sleek.” Johanna did maintain some of John’s rough and tumble, though; she swears like a sailor, with some choice quotes including, “Jesus f**k”, “run along and f**k off back to hell,” and the cleaner – but no less comically delivered – “Get in line, bruv, can’t keep God waiting.” The character is a detective with the powers of a sorcerer and is perhaps most notably skilled in performing exorcisms. Reimagined for the screen several times, he was played by Keanu Reeves in the 2005 film Constantine and portrayed by Matt Ryan in NBC’s live action Constantine TV series, and in various animated Justice League properties. A new HBO series revolving around the character is currently in development, though casting has not yet been announced. For Jenna Coleman's full interview and shoot, plus other AMAZING women, fashion and lifestyle features, order your copy of AMAZING issue 2 now. 

Jenna Coleman wears Chloé Photographed by Guy Lowndes Styled by Toni-Blaze Ibekwe Words by Jennifer Lynn Makeup by Naoko Scintu at The Wall Group using Shiseido Hair by Bjorn Krischker at The Wall Group using ORIBE Nails by Sabrina Gayle at The Wall Group using CHANEL Le Vernis in Pensée and CHANEL La Crème Main Production Director Morgane Millot Photography Assistant Wilbert Lati Styling Assistants Yasmin Williams and Ellis Kerwood Special thanks to the Four Seasons Hotel London at Ten Trinity Square

[ramoth13]

Thoughts on an old love:

Vertigo Comics

With the release of the recent Sandman show (highly recommend!!! Mr. Gaiman is, as always, a brilliant storyteller), I thought it might be time to have a look back on my favorite publisher back in the day. I know a few people (especially towards its final days) didn't really distinguish Vertigo Comics from DC comics, but when I tell you that there was a difference, I mean it was just something that can't be replicated.

I don't exactly remember which Vertigo comic I read first. It could've been The House of Mystery or Hellblazer but I'm pretty sure it was Fables. And that's the thing, they were all so special.

I grew up reading comics because my older brother and my Dad before him had grown up reading them. Shazam and superman were Dad's favorites, Batman, JLA, and Green Lantern (Kyle Rainer) were my brother's. But I had grown up watching the Batman Animated Series, where Bruce Wayne was kind, and Batman wasn't jaded, but hopeful, and the comics started pulling away from that.

That's when it happened, I noticed that the characters kept changing, kept evolving from writer to writer, moving further and further from the ones that I knew. Superheroes had been around a long time and couldn't stay the same. Writers had new ideas, new ways to represent the old. Batman was mean, condescending, and sometimes cruel. If they couldn't be updated, they were killed off. Superman lost his love of Lois. Spiderman killed someone. The characters I thought I knew, no longer looked like the ones I loved. So in 2008 I stopped reading them.

But I missed comics. Later, a friend of mine gave me some digital comics, probably illegally now that I'm old enough to know better, but one of them was Fables. I read over 30 comics in one day. I ate them up. And whichever one I read next, Hellblazer or House of Mystery, I read those too. And then, because of course, I read Sandman which opened me up to a world I was already falling in love with. And V for Vendetta, and the Watchmen, Preacher, American Vampire, Y:The Last Man, and The Books of Magic. These were stories that spoke to my very being.

Anything with a Vertigo Logo was gold. The stories beautiful, compelling, and mindbending. The characters were diverse, intriguing, and mysterious. It was like finding a pillar of magic in a sea of ever evolving stories that could never decide on a true identity for itself, Vertigo knew what it wanted to be. The stories haunted me.

SPOILERS:

From Dream besting Lucifer in the oldest game, to Constantine fighting his demon twin, to Bigby Wolf FINALLY marrying Snow White (And Prince Charming's grand return), to finding out who the REAL adversary was in motherlands, these stories never deviated or changed on whims, they always felt honest, sincere, and true to themselves.

:END OF SPOILERS~

There are many other non-DC/Marvel publishers that I love, from Dark Horse (Conan series and Hellboy), to Image (SAGA, Magdelena, and WANTED), to even smaller publishers like ASPEN and Zenescope. Yet, none of these, nor DC or Marvel will ever feel the same as as Vertigo in its heyday.

DC may have made Constantine a superhero, the Watchmen a series, and added all of the best magical parts of Vertigo into its official brand, but the things that made those stories special have stayed with those original books. Nothing against the writers at DC, they work hard and I have no doubt try to remain faithful to the originals... but contrary to what DC wants you to think with their magical league of superheroes, you can't capture magic in a bottle.

And VERTIGO had magic, in spades.

[aboutzatanna]

On Why I’m Still Firmly Anti-John Zee

I’ve mentioned in previous posts that I’m not a fan of the Zatanna/John Constantine pairing.  It’s not due to one reason but many and a lot of it boils down to erasing Zatanna’s own history, achievements and changing her character to fit her in to the mold of Constantine’s love interest rather than continuing to develop her as a hero in her own right.  

One point that I made that folks keep misinterpreting is the one about Constantine’s involvement in John Zatara’s death. This is not even the primary reason why I dislike the pairing so  I want to clear up any misconceptions regarding what I said.         

What I wrote was, both explicitly and implicitly that Constantine was indirectly responsible for his death. Yes, it was the Great Darkness that killed Zatara and the latter chose to sacrifice himself in Zatanna’s place but they were there because of Constantine in the first place. He put them in the line of fire which resulted in Zatara’s death.

Constantine is a conman and throughout Swamp Thing #49-50 he uses various overt and subtle tricks to get them all at the table. Look closely at his interactions with Mento in the issue for example.

By the end of this he’s driven insane and turned into a villain in subsequent appearances.   

 In the case of the Zatara’s, he used Zatanna’s residual feelings for him and Zatara’s protectiveness to lure them to the table.  He needed bodies to throw at the Darkness but at the same time he was also counting on Swamp Thing to succeed where others have failed which begs the question of what good the seance ultimately did. Anyway, don’t take my word for it, go read it yourself.     

I suppose that’s the problem with asshole protagonists, people equate protagonist with hero and subconsciously believe that the ends justify the means or the protagonists sympathetic backstory justifies their crapsack actions but once you start humanizing whom they’ve hurt or try to hold them accountable, it’s a different story all together.  

Anyway, I brought this story up amongst many others and it’s not even the worst offender (that would that dreadful JLD: Apokolips movie) or even an offender in any way.  On its own I don’t hate the Swamp Thing story, in fact it’s one of my favorite comics, what I dislike is the way the story has been followed up on.     

The thing is even though we got several stories set sometime after Zatara’s death none of them really addressed the immediate aftermath or trauma Zatanna experienced from it. Even the 1987 Zatanna Special was more about her searching for her identity. The Spectre story in Spectre Vol 2 #7 was a bizarre body horror story and her goodbye to her dad’s ghost at the end wasn’t really emotionally satisfying and it was more about tying up loose ends from her final arc in the JLA Vol 1. It was also a Spectre story and not a Zatanna story.      

So when  Books of Magic #2 came out and Zatanna jumped up and hugged Constantine I found it to be quite jarring.   

I’m pretty sure if I took my girlfriend and her Dad on a trip that resulted in her Dad getting killed and then I showed up at her doorstep a couple of years later asking her to babysit a kid for me I strongly suspect that her reaction wouldn’t be to give me hugs and kisses.       

This is not helped by the fact that after she agreed to babysit Tim Hunter she proceeds to endanger him by taking him to a bar full off seedy magical characters and when they inevitably gang up on her, she is too scared to fight back: 

All of this so John Constantine can look cool:  

Her reaction doesn’t make sense when you consider that Zatanna has been with the League for several years at this point and had seen  everything from alien invasions to multiversal threats and has survived situations with her powers gone or diminished. Can you imagine Superman, Batman, Aquaman or Green Lantern being written like that?      

And despite claiming to be over him:  

She is clearly not over him: 

The writer Neil Gaiman have said that Constantine was his favorite DC character to write so I’m not surprised that he wrote John more favorably than Zee.      

Books of Magic is a great book and I recommend reading it.  Also, there is no harm in criticizing the things you love. Literally, the only thing I didn’t like about the book was Zatanna’s characterization in it.  She had been traumatized by Constantine’s gambles in the past and I found her suddenly being over it (mostly for the sake of plot) and somehow still having feelings for the bad boy and unable to resist his pelvic sorcery to be distasteful. It didn’t feel like an earned moment.   

Other than that, it’s a great read. But like beautiful snowflakes that eventually causes an avalanche, it did start a trend.    

Like how in the otherwise excellent ‘Zatanna: Come Together’ mini series has Marsha claim that she chooses guys based on how different they are from John:   

Like, wtf? Her ON PANEL relationships, as in relationships we saw develop on panel in her published stories were with Jeff Sloan and Barry Allen. Constantine was retconned into her past for the sake of plot expediency in ST #50.

The comic also depicts her bemoaning how she wasn't as good as Constantine in one panel:

Which again, makes no sense in the greater context of her history. Zatanna was kicking ass for 20 years before Constantine was even conceived as a character yet the literal second she is associated with the fan favorite her entire character begins to revolve around him.   

Luckily, Dini's Zatanna: Everyday Magic one shot did a much better job at characterizing Zatanna. Her character, relationships and choices didn't orbit around Constantine, she is the one who saves him, she has a life of her own completely separate from him and it was believable that she held no grudge against him but wasn't pining for him either. Her kissing him on the cheek didn't feel weirdly out of place and felt earned within the context of the story.

Dini’s handling of magic isn’t perfect but his handling of Zatanna has always been on point. When John purposefully sabotages one of her relationships while she was out risking her life to help him, she gives him the response he deserves:

And kicks him out: 

“Spare you more of the same” what a jerk.  

Sadly, despite being an independent heroine for much of the 90's and 00's, the Nu52 rebooted the character and molded her into love interest for Constantine. The only stories that get referenced are the ones with John Constantine in it with ST #50 now serving as more of an origin story than Zatanna’s actual origin story ‘Zatanna’s Search’.        

The reason why I wrote posts like In Pictures: Zatannas Arc is in response to stories like JLD V1 #0 where she is treated as little more than a romantic pawn being passed between Constantine or Nick Necro.

Or how John lies to her to get her to join the team during Lemire’s run JLD and the constant cycles of John lying and keeping secrets from her but she has to keep coming back to him because she can’t save the day without him which is just...ugh.  

Or how despite defeating the Upside Down Man and declared leader of JLD, she still keeps taking a back seat to John who is written more like a leader than her whereas she is depicted as useless without her magical power and the unnecessary drama of her keeping her possession by the UDM a secret. It’s like they took her flawed characterizations in BoM and made it her default characterization.   

Or how in JLD Apokolips animated movie she was fridged to progress John's character arc and her entire purpose in the movie was for him to fulfill his destiny. Yuck!  

Maybe some folks enjoy this take but I don't. I would much rather she is portrayed as competent heroine in her own right with her own supporting cast, villains and lore.  We’ve only gotten little glimpses of that from the works of Conway, Paul Dini and Lee Mars.  

What DC is doing to Zatanna is no different compared to what they did  to Black Canary. They took a cool heroine,  tie them to a male hero then proceed to weed out everything not related to said male hero and define them entirely by their relation to the male hero and you rarely get to see the female hero portrayed as better than the male one. She exists to move forward the story arc of the male hero whether as antagonist, ally or reward and rarely get a story arc of her own. Even when the relationship has run its course and characters have believably separated DC still pathologically pairs them together again as if they are meant to be forever. Bleh. I say this as someone who likes Ollie and Dinah (separately but not as a couple). With possible adaptations on the way, the last thing I want to see is Zatanna being written the same way as Laurel on Arrow, Lana Lang on Smallville, Raimi’s Mary Jane in his Spider-Man trilogy or even Diana in WW84 (which is it’s own essay for it’s problematic tropes) and I’m already seeing seeds of that in how she’s been written since Nu52.      

Constantine isn't any more special than any other character in DC's roster. He's another asshole protagonist propped up by writer favoritism. Zatanna is not his true love. She only appeared once in his 300 issue Hellblazer run. The closest he ever came to having a true love in his own title was Kit Ryan. Likewise, Zatanna is not Constantine’s groupie. Her purpose isn't to comfort his man pain or make him look good and writers should stop making her look small just to make Constantine look good. She has her own world, supporting cast and love interests that she should be a part of.

Anyway, this got long, but I just thought I would clear this up. I started this blog for fun and to give lime light to lesser known stories, serve as a resource and maybe to get people read more comics. The last thing I want is for  this place into some hostile shipping battle ground. I’m too old for that shit.       

Evah a doog yad. 

[marireadshellblazer]

About the Author: Jamie Delano

Jamie Delano’s era of Hellblazer (issues #1-40) is iconic for many reasons. Not only did he write the first major arcs for the series, he was responsible for creating much of the major background and lore for John Constantine. From the details of the Newcastle incident, John’s family and his relationship with them, developing John’s morals and ethics, and of course the existence of the Golden Boy. These things continued on far beyond Delano’s era and come up as major plot points later on. Indeed, Delano took the enigmatic occultist of Alan Moore’s world and fleshed him out into the legend he is today. A working-class magician, John’s world was shown to be a crapsack one. Rather than Hogwarts or an apprenticeship with Merlin, John learned magic the hard way and, in many cases, is still paying for the negative effects that came with trial and error.

By incorporating the issues of the time, Delano often injected his own perspective and beliefs into the character. This really helped John to feel “real” in his thoughts and actions. It made him relatable. It gave him realistic and believable language. For many, this is the John that they think of when the hear the name John Constantine.

Starting his comic book writing career in 1986, he wrote for dozens of series including Animal Man, Swamp Thing, and Captain Britain. As for Hellblazer, after being the writer for the first era, he also wrote issue #84 and issue #250. He went on to write a few stand alone stories; The Horrorist, Hellblazer: Pandemonium, and Hellblazer Special: Bad Blood. (As a side note I REALLY recommend The Horrorist. Only two issues, but it's a great time). Jamie Delano is still active as a writer today, though in prose and not comic books.

Jamie Delano’s website

His twitter  His twitter is a goldmine, by the way. So much of what he says reminds me of John. Here are some gems

It’s worth mentioning that there are a couple of issues in this era where Delano is not the writer. These guest writers are-

Grant Morrison (Issues #25 and 26)

Neil Gaiman (Issue #27)

[sophia-sol]

Here's an incomplete roundup of books I DNFed over the course of 2021. I didn't bother to make note of every book I started without finishing, but I wanted to keep track of the ones that were either notable for some reason or ones that I'm likely to run across again and might not remember that I've already given it a try. The Gilded Ones, by Namina Forna - bad ya fantasy that badly needs an editor. Someone else confirmed for me that it does not improve. Gave up 20% in. Constantine's Sword: The Church and the Jews: A History, by James Carroll - it is just such a very Christian approach to the history of the relationship between the Christian church and Jewish people. It starts by taking a long time to explain why having a cross at Auschwitz is bad, and does so in a way where you're not actually sure which conclusion the author is going to come to! (He does eventually say unequivocally that it's bad, but it feels touch and go for too long.) And then moving on from that it still felt very much like the author is using Jewish suffering to help him understand his own (Christian) faith better. The cross at Auschwitz helps him truly understand the cross! Yikes. I gave up partway into chapter 2. It's possible the book improves from here? But I did not feel moved to give the author more of a chance. Axiom's End, by Lindsay Ellis - I got bored and stayed bored. After about 50 pages of that I started skimming forward, didn't see anything worth slowing down for, and gave up The Unspoken Name, by AK Larkwood - I was bored Riot Baby, by Tochi Onyebuchi - confusing and hard to follow, and I couldn't make myself focus on it Middlemarch, by George Eliot - https://sophia-sol.dreamwidth.org/388930.html well written but the author doesn't seem to like people. Six Crimson Cranes, by Elizabeth Lim - special princess with special magic and an evil stepmother, and she haaates embroidery, and there's lots of awkward infodumping via dialogue, I gave up 15% in. The Ruin of Kings, by Jenn Lyons - started out promising but just got so confusing and I had no motivation to try to figure things out. Bailed at page 64 of 559. A Psalm for the Wild Built, by Becky Chambers -  what chestnut-pod said: https://chestnut-pod.dreamwidth.org/117657.html. I gave it 60 or so pages, which is more than a third, but just found it irritating. The Last Human, by Zack Jordan - I love the webcomic, but the book didn't work for me nearly as well. It came across as a teen coming of age story where the comic is a kid's story, and I'm just more interested in the story of the bond between mother and daughter than I am in the story of a teenager's individualistic search for identity; and the point where the mother died (about 100 pages in) I abruptly lost interest in continuing to read. I heard from R who did finish the book that it gets really really dark, and in a way that's more an adult novel than a YA novel, but that also didn't sound interesting to me, tbh, so it didn't inspire me to try again. The Black Panther: The Young Prince, by Ronald L Smith - a middle grade novel about preteen T'Challa and M'Baku of the Black Panther being best friends seems promising, but then it turns out the main premise is "what if we send them to the USA" and I'm just not that interested in the USA, lol. can't they be preteen besties in Wakanda? I read a little bit of their introduction to Chicago and just gave up. Riding Rockets, by Mike Mullane - Read the first chapter, found the author obnoxious, and I've heard that how you feel about the first chapter is a good indication of how you'll feel about the book, so no thanks. Sorcerer of the Wildeeps, by Kai Ashante Wilson - googled the book for spoilers when I was still in the first chapter, discovered it does not have a happy ending, decided to abandon ship before I got invested

[kellshaw]

New Post has been published on https://kellshaw.com/786-2/

Magic: Transmission and Effect

Here’s what you should think about when developing your magic system.

Why do people use it? Viewing magic as a process, why do people want to use it? How do they use it to do something in your story that they couldn’t otherwise?

How does it work? This is the transmission layer. By what mechanism does the magic do the thing it does? It’s perfectly okay to say ‘by the blood of dead gods spilled into the ethereal seams of the world’ but I like it when there’s some thought behind it. Even if the characters don’t know, stick this thought in your 90% of worldbuilding that the reader will never see. It’ll help for background consistency.

What does it feel like to use magic? I love stories where people are exploring their powers (I enjoy superhero origin stories, except those we’ve seen repeatedly; looking at you Batman, Superman and Spiderman). How does it feel to channel and cast power? Anxiety of trying to memorise a difficult formula? Getting high from channelling raw energy from the gods? Is there a taste or sensation? Or even boredom, if magic is perfunctory?

Who can use it? Trained wizards? Anyone who gets the spell right?

Where does the magic fit into your world and society? Is it a secret? Only used by the elite?

Does your magic have an overall paradigm? Like a special esoteric programming code (spell) that can hack reality can if done right? Calling upon ancient gods for boons? The flavour is important to me. I read the first few pages of a book where the hero ‘magicked a barrier in front of the demon’ and while the scene was action-paced, the flavor of the magic didn’t grab me.

Let’s run my magic system through these questions:

Why do people use it? To do things they can’t do via ordinary mortal means. Because it requires making a pact, it’s all for personal gain or desperation. Maybe to help with revenge, or to return after death to deal with your unfinished business.

How does it work? Magic is a flow of energy from another dimension. A flow of extra-dimensional energy overwrites the localised reality, enabling supernatural effects when present. For example, to summon a zombie, you’ll need a source of spectral energy from the Underworld, the land of the dead.

What does it feel like to use? Each realm has a distinct flavour of energy. Infernal magic is painful, like barbwire running through your guts. Death magic is sad and regretful, like holding a party that no one shows up to.

Who can use it? After the Rending—the terrible event when the Age of Magic ended—all portals to other dimensions were abruptly sealed off. Demons, fae, nature spirits, angels are trapped in their home realms and have limited agency to influence the mortal world. However, if you make a pact with one, you gain their vestige—a shard of their soul—and this enables you to channel supernatural energy into the mortal world. This changes you—you’re not a normal mortal anymore. You’re now half an extradimensional entity. Someone who accepts a demon’s vestige becomes a cambion; another who makes a pact with a fae becomes a changeling.

Where does the magic fit into the world? It’s secret and hidden. You have to figure out that magic exists, who you want to make a pact with, and hopefully find a patron whose goals align with yours.

The overall vibe is if you want magic, you hustle for it, and cut deals with powerful extra-dimensional entities. It’s a grungy, noir occult world. You take on supernatural debt and have to weigh the bargain you’ve made against the power you gain. Sometimes you may not have a choice but to agree.

“So everyone’s a D&D warlock?” someone asked when I described this.

Yeah.

Or John Constantine, as you sit on a teetering mound of debts and favors that are gradually spiralling out of control…

How about you? How does your world’s magic work?