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Antenora (Sandman Fic)

Summary - Instead of unmaking the Corinthian, Dream sets out a punishment far more cruel and fitting for his betrayal.

Also posted to AO3

Tucked away on a jagged cliffside which overlooked the violently churning ink-black seas of Nightmare below, sat a tree. Its thick trunk anchored it to the shifting sands below, dry bark knotted and twisted as the harsh, winter-frozen winds slowly flayed away ragged strips to expose the bleeding wood below.

Its branches were gnarled and fierce, clawed into their form like a vicious beast desperately trying to escape its rooted position within the world. A brilliant, almost ethereal, shade of scarlet, it was a tree which radiated a terrible beauty that compelled the eye to behold it while also chastising the voyeur by inspiring a deep sense of dread as each stunning branch was surveyed in turn.

But the true allure of the tree was not its natural beauty, crafted personally by the merciless hand of the Nightmare King, but in the suffering nightmare which hung from its most central branch, his bare feet dangling several feet high from the safety of the cruel sand below.

Naked as a newborn babe, the only adornment which he was permitted to hold - aside from the pale noose which held him suspended like a marionette - was a simple wooden sign that hung around his neck to cover the upper part of his torso. The coarse, rusted metal chain looped around his nape delved into the chaffed skin there like a lovers caress, sparking a small yet never-ending thin rivulet of blood to run down his pale frame until it was swallowed by the sand below.

Upon there, inscribed on the sign by a sharp finger which scored across the wood like a glowing brand, lay a single scrawled word.

Traitor.

The latest in a long list of titles reserved for the once-feared arch nightmare of the Dream Lord, the Corinthian. A creature of narrative, he wore his assigned role like the finest of fabrics, even when said story condemned him and tore at his skin with all the regard of the coarsest sandpaper.

He cut a fine figure, even in such a sorry state. His naked frame hung gracelessly as his hands remained pinned to his side in a lifeless fashion. The Corinthain was a creature built for beauty, a natural magnetism which attracted prey as easily as it repulsed them on some primal level. Toned limbs paired with fine, strong features that refused to be anything but as pretty as a picture even as they strained against their fate.

For the Corinthian, time had long since lost all meaning as he served his sentence.

The first year of his punishment had sparked desperation, dull fingers clawing frantically at the soft noose as it held him suspended in the never-ending discomfort of near death. He panicked. He kicked. And still he swung, his movements almost a bastardised version of a game that children would play around such an old tree. In this state of desperation, the Corinthian’s nails had lacerated at his strained neck until his digits grew bloodied and painfully raw but it made no difference.

---

The Dream Lord had been clear in his punishment.

The Corinthian gazed at the long strips of cloth which lay in a messy spread across the obsidian table. Stripped of his finery and bolted in place by heavy chains which restricted his body and choked his bare flesh, the things he dared take pleasure in as he allowed Dream to be held captive had been torn from him in an instant and the shame of his forced nudity spread through his frame like a roiling sickness.

“He could unmake us.” His left eye whispered and the Corinthian snapped it shut with a rough blink. Fear, potent in its intensity, kept both his knees and his gaze rooted to the barbed floor regardless of how uncomfortable the position quickly grew. Dream wanted him punished and the very terrain would see to it that his will was met.

"Wants to hurt us instead." The right eye confirmed before quickly finding itself snapped shut with equal prejudice.

A sharp crack, almost like lightning, caused the Corinthian to flinch in place. His exposed spine shuddered against the sudden chill as Dream filled the space before him in an instant, blotting out everything but the dark table and shredded scraps of suit before him.

Weave them.

Falling into the subservience which threaded his very DNA, the Corinthian bowed his head once more and refused eye contact with his maker.

"I don't understand."

You were not created to understand. Your pride in assuming you are entitled to it is flawed.

Flawed.

A flash of rage curled low in the Corinthian's belly as his head snapped up. Subservient, yes, but he was not built to show belly.

"Fucking unmake me then. Do it. Just like Gault and the others. The void can't be any worse than this. These-" he paused to allow his thoughts to catch up with his rebellious tongue, "fucking guessing games."

The void would not suffice. An example must be made. By moving against me, you snared a noose around your own throat, and you will now see it to completion.

Glancing down at the cloth strips, the Corinthian's fate grew clearer before his eyes, the ending to his tale sinking its barbs deeper into his unwilling skin, and a fresh bubble of panic ignited deep within his core.

No.

The refusal came quickly, rising in his chest even as his lips refused to form around it. However, he could hide nothing of himself from Dream and the internal hesitation may as well have been a howled emotional display for all the good it would do him.

A sickening snap preceded the scream which tore free of the Corinthian's throat as his fingers moved of their own accord. The only exception being the pinkie which now bent at a right angle from the rest of the digits.

Weave.

Dream once again demanded without a voice.

And the Corinthian, red tracks of bloodied tears now flowing freely from his ocular teeth, obeyed.

The narrative demanded penance and the press of it against his being traitorously eroded away the blinding anger which sparked his betrayal. Unable to do much more, his fingers moved diligently of their own accord as they wove the strips of his former suit into a thick rope; every movement sparking fresh pain in the snapped pinkie.

Memories of Calliope, of all people, stirred within his frantic mind. She had taught him the intricacies of crafting, her fascination with his status as a nightmare of such power inspiring her to inspire him in turn, to see what a monster such as he could construct if so pressed. Her teachings were soft and under her command he had grown in both technique and innovation; his fingers defter and more artistic in his wicked trade as he passed his skills along to his day trade.

A howl brokered free of his throat as a deep gouge tore itself asunder from his thigh; the stench of blood arousing his hunger even as his body curled in on itself to avoid any further pains. To that end, the Corinthian, panting and writhing in discomfort, shook his head free of the memories as their presence was clearly not appreciated by his wrathful master.

Before too long, his clothing had been reluctantly reconstructed into a thick length of rope; each strand containing various shades of beige and white as they melted together to form something which filled the Corinthian with horror as he beheld it.

A noose.

Fit for an apostate.

---

After clawing at the noose provided no relief to his suffering frame, the Corinthian tried to plead.

He screamed for forgiveness, for a mercy which he knew was undeserved. The narrative painted him as a traitor and would see him punished as such. His betrayal had cost the Dream Lord a friend in the shape of his raven and that sting, no matter how slight it may grow over time, would be punished a millennia over. He howled through the noose, the sounds reduced to little more than choking coughs and unknown sibilance, until he thought his ears would burst from the noise which refused to leave his lips and his lungs burned red-hot from the effort.

Eventually, the screaming stopped, and the Corinthian found himself reduced to pitiful sobs. They often resembled the cries of a neglected child in pain, desperate for some attention, be it positive or negative from those who had abandoned it and the shame of each bloodied tear burned across his cheek. However, even these tears came to pass, and the Corinthian was left with nothing but the ache in his lungs from the limited oxygen he was permitted to receive.

The shores of Nightmare were not an area of pure isolation, rather, many nightmares and a few envoys of various realms found themselves caught in the thin, winding path which passed before the brilliant scarlet tree. The nightmares knew, because of course they did, of the fate of the Corinthian as he remained frozen in a living hell but to an unexpecting party it provided quite the harrowing sight.

Word of mouth proved itself a terrible thing and many within the Dreaming itself found themselves curious and, even in this innocent curiosity, the ingenuity of the Dream Lord would come into play.

Any who would dare to approach, who would dare to attempt to touch the guilty - regardless if it were to persecute or palliate - would find themselves gripped by a primal fear. It would pierce their heart in such a way that many fell to their knees, clutching at their chest like babes as ice ran through their veins and the whispers of a warning, carved into the very earth they stood, caressed their ears.

Leave him.

He is not to be disturbed.

Only observed.

The will of the Dream Lord. A brutal and relentless thing which defied mercy at every turn. To touch the Corinthian would provide him an anchor to latch onto other than the punishment he deserved and that could not be allowed. He was to suffer.

Alone.

Forgotten.

To suffer the fate he intended for his master.

Tucked away on a jagged cliffside which overlooked the violently churning ink-black seas of Nightmare below, hung a nightmare.

Perhaps one day his Lord would forgive him his slight and return him to his former glory as a member of the Major Arcana. Or, perhaps one day the Dream Lord would recall his favoured nightmare and the fate which befell him. He would recall the millennia of loyalty before the grapes turned sour, and finally grant him the mercy of the unfeeling void.

Until then, the Corinthian would remain; unintelligible, whispered pleas carrying on the frigid winds of Nightmare to strike unease in the heart of any unfortunate enough to hear them.

Based on this http://knowyourmeme.com/photos/1295039-thicc