It was one of the rare nights that Nightmare decided to actually retire to his room for the night. He didn't need sleep, with enough flow of negativity he could easily survive without it, but sometimes it was nice to just lay down and rest.
He had a dream. They were rare too, if only because he slept so infrequently, but this particular one was common for him when he did. It was about killing Dream. The ongoing war between them was constant on his mind, so it made sense it would invade his unwaking hours as well. In it, he finally managed to crush the life from his twin, in the process gaining unwavering control over the entire multiverse as he watched the other's eyelights dim.
He sat up in his bed.
He was panting. His tendrils, slowly reforming from behind him, were trembling as they hung uncertainly in the air. He realised slowly as he returned to reality that he was gripping the sheets tightly with both hands.
Panic was an emotion Nightmare had rarely been on the other side of for centuries. It took him a few long moments to even identify it from within his own soul, rotten and imprisoned under the corruption. It took him even longer to identify the part of him that he had long assumed dead, which was crying out for nothing more than to cling to his brother for comfort.
For the first time in hundreds of years, Nightmare wasn't sure what he wanted anymore.
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