Ink sighed as he gazed upon the fallen remains of Dreamtale.

Sometimes, he wondered if his interference led it to this state.

The villagers were long gone; Nightmare had ordered his crew to get rid of them a long time ago. 

There was a distinct imprint in the dead grass where Dream had stayed petrified for nearly 500 years, where Ink had found him and showed him his purpose to the multiverse.

He always assumed that his tampering with the AU had contributed to its demise. Maybe if he was just a bit less forgetful...

His eyes wandered over to the battered crown that laid on the floor. Not even magic could affect the state of the crown; it stayed as gleamingly bright and golden throughout the centuries. He picked it up and sat down, leaning against the dead tree that he so remembered Nightmare calling it his "mother", whatever that meant.

Ink sighed once more in regret, holding the headpiece of his corrupted, former friend, a friend that wasn't even alive, barely held together by liquid negativity.

He never even got to say his farewells to him...