Chapter Text
“When a human is at the center of The Dreaming, is it not to remind us that we exist because humans dream, not the other away around? The miracle of humanity itself should always be more vivid to us than any marvels of power.”
-Fiddlers Green
Destruction of the Endless stood in his toolshed, arms crossed, head bowed. Below, the bubbling waters he called his alarm system kept circling, as if a frenzy of sharks were battling just beneath the surface. There were no sharks, of course.
Barnabas was taking a nap in the shade outside, so there was no one to watch him mourn. Not that he was doing so outwardly, of course. He’d learned long ago that even his tears were capable of killing – if he allowed them to fall, the acidic water would seep into the ground and poison every living creature within a twenty-meter radius.
No use in tempting Death, was there?
Well, more of her.
Destruction inhaled a shaky breath. Bernard was gone, a man who had once been his most devout priest, an honorable warrior. They had scoured the Earth countless times together, swords in hand, voices sore from screaming.
Maybe they hadn’t always brought good things with them – his was not an inherently good function – but they’d tried. Bernard especially. He spent eons striving to bring ruin to those who were causing it in turn, to the evil and wicked and deranged. Bernard spent his every lifetime trying to save the world.
Now he was gone.
And… And Ishtar.
Destruction had not spoken to her for centuries, though it tore at his heart to know of her troubles in this modern world, the ways she had been stripped and degraded and transformed into nothing but a pretty fucking face. He did it to protect her. If she knew nothing, surely his siblings would leave her alone?
She used to be a Goddess of renown. She used to command armies. She had more beautiful eyes than the sun on a cloudy day, and a body which brought healing to many. She was holy, and he’d been forced to kill her in a maelstrom of fire.
All because Dream and Delirium couldn’t follow the simplest fucking instruction.
Destruction kicked a can of paint nearby, and it clattered against the wall with a sickening squelch. Like the sound of a man’s head being crushed. Maroon paint dripped down the walls, which were now trembling, and it looked so much like a million battlefields that Destruction turned away before he was sick.
The commotion signaled to Barnabas.
His faithful companion approached with the silence of his wolf ancestors, dark eyes wary. “You ok here?” he asked.
Destruction made it a point not to worry Barnabas. The dog was getting older. He deserved a peaceful retirement.
So did Bernard. So did Ishtar.
“I told them,” Destruction growled. “I warned them not to look for me.”
“Who?”
He began pacing, ignoring the way the wooden slats turned black under his feet, scorched. The furious energy in him needed to go somewhere. Barnabas cocked his head and sat in the doorway. He knew better than to approach Destruction when he was in such a sour mood, but he wouldn’t leave him either. He was loyal. An asshole, for sure, but loyal.
“There has to be a way to get it through their thick, stubborn skulls,” he murmured to himself. The deaths of Bernard and Ishtar would probably sidetrack them for a bit. Delirium was easily distracted, but Dream…
He was, perhaps, the stubbornest one in the whole damn family. Once his curiosity – or ego – was rattled, he wouldn’t give up. All the powers of Night and Time could stand against him, and he would persevere. Death used to say it was his greatest strength, and most damning weakness.
Destruction looked up, past the simple walls of his toolshed, the mist-shrouded bay, to the small cottage settled there. Hidden. Quiet.
Destruction had chosen this spot -near Orpheus, the abandoned son - in hopes of staving off this very situation. It wouldn’t be enough anymore. He could feel that keenly. Even secluded as he was, he was privy to the universe’s subtle ripples. Dream had been absent for more than a century, and now he was different.
He would come.
Destruction couldn’t allow Bernard and Ishtar’s deaths to go in vain.
“Barnabas,” he snapped, mind made up. “Go back to the house. Wait for me there. Do not come back outside until I give the all-clear.”
Barnabas, as expected, didn’t move a muscle. “Why?”
Destruction tried to summon a casual smile. He was sure it must have looked forced, because Barnabas whined anxiously. “Destruction, what are you…?”
“There is something I must do,” he knelt in front of his friend, and placed a hand on his fuzzy head. “Its alright. I know what I’m doing.”
“You never know what you’re doing,” Barnabas sniped. When Destruction only tightened his fingers in the poor animal’s coat, he lowered his gaze. It was something his wolf ancestors would have done before an alpha, but Barnabas did not see him that way. He was acquiescing but not surrendering.
There was a reason Destruction loved this dog.
“Fine, I’ll go to the house, but please do not do anything stupid without me, alright?”
This time, the smile came a little easier. “You’re a good boy, you know that?”
Barnabas stood. “Well, one of us has to be,” with that, and a playful smack on Destruction’s nose with his tail, he trotted back to the house.
Destruction waited until he no longer heard the crunch of gravel. He stood and walked over to the sigils on the far wall. The book. The Ankh. The insect-ish helm, impractical and ugly. Only Dream, with his flair for drama and the bizarre, could love such a repugnant thing.
Destruction stopped just in front of the helm, studied its dust-covered surface. He’d kept the sigils in case of emergency, though he’d never imagined the emergency might be this. Hesitance stayed his hand for a moment. He didn’t know why they were looking for him…
Ishtar’s smile danced in his memory.
He grabbed the helm.
Destruction didn’t care why they wanted to see him.
He was going to make them pay for it.
Instantly, the glossy nose began to glow. Had he said the words, it would have contacted Dream directly, but that wasn’t what he wanted. Destruction only needed a window into The Dreaming.
It opened up for him, as everything did. His siblings had never truly understood the depth of his power, how he could command even the tiniest flower to bloom for him. It was easy. If you had the ability to destroy anything that stood in your way, then the world was your oyster, open and willing and wanting.
Still, he sent a tendril of his power through the gap tentatively. If Dream felt his presence, then it was all for nought. He closed his eyes and allowed the tentacle to be his eyes as it slunk through the palace.
Damn, but there were so many rooms. So much opulence. What business did Dream have, possessing all this marvelous splendor when Ishtar had gone to her grave, penniless and powerless? When Bernard had saved humanity more times than Dream could imagine, and would never get a single mention in the history books?
Destruction kept low to the ground, to the corners and shadows of the palace. The further he traveled the more he realized how beautiful The Dreaming had become. Luscious. Creative.
Had he not been so utterly furious, he might have turned back.
Instead, Destruction pushed his power deeper. As it twined through unending halls, he upended all that he brushed. Tables suddenly collapsed, legs cut out from beneath them. Paintings melted into puddles of goo. Curtains were shred to ribbons.
It was all very tiny acts of devastation, because contrary to popular belief, his was not an ability that only existed in the barrel of a gun or base of a bomb. No. Destruction could be small. He could be miniscule and still devastate. That was why he was so insidious. By the time anyone noticed that something was amiss, it was too late. The damage would be done and the consequences well on their way.
After some time causing general mayhem, he found his way to Dream’s chambers. Destruction knew it was his chambers because it was sparse, and his brother’s essence clung to the furniture like cat hair to dryer lint.
Where are you? He wondered as embers leapt from the fireplace, attracted to his power, to the delicious promise of devouring. He ignored the flames. They were not his objective, after all.
Shouts were beginning to sound from down the hall. Shock. Outrage. That meant he didn’t have much time left. Destruction hurried to the cabinet, and sitting just behind the ornate glass, there it was. The chest. A gift from Destruction himself, millennia ago.
“For your treasures,” he’d told his brother, with a conspiratorial wink. Dream had scoffed but accepted the box carefully.
Any other day, Destruction would have felt a surge of warmth to know that Dream kept it. Whatever fondness he had for his brother was stowed behind rage, though, so he flung open the chest’s lid.
There were any number of objects inside that could have felled entire planets, but if he truly wanted to decimate The Dreaming, there were easier ways. No. This would act as a more… concrete message to his foolish brother.
Mess with mine.
Destruction spotted a glass vial. Inside, blackness swelled and wriggled. It was hated given body, fear compressed into form. A demon.
And I’ll mess with yours.
“Well then, brother,” he muttered, smiling grimly as he wrapped tendrils of be dust, be gone, be uncontained around the vial. “Let this be my final warning to you: take your nosy, self-centered ass and fuck off.”
The glass prison cracked, then shattered, and just like that the demon Azazel was free. He swelled back to full size with a deafening roar, mouths snapping at thin air. Destruction didn’t know why he was so pissed, or how he’d come to be in Dream’s possession in the first place, but that was none of his business now, was it? His work was done.
Destruction retreated back the way he’d come until his mind and power returned to his form with a satisfied crack. Whistling, he took his hands off the sigil and stretched his arms above his head. It had been a long time since he’d used up so much energy. He was certainly past due for some lunch, maybe a nap.
Later, guilt would come. It would eat away at his insides, but for now, he felt only satisfaction. There had only ever been one thing Dream cared about, and that was his realm, and in service to that self-interest, he had made many enemies.
Now one of the worst was free, and in The Dreaming.
Destruction had no doubt that it would burn.