Chapter Text
“Hob, would you care to join me in the waking this evening?” His darling Dream, asked with a light airy note that caught on the breeze, tickling his ears like a summer song. As if it were a meaningless inquiry, whose answer was just as inconsequential, but Hob knew his companion well, not as well as he would like, but well enough to discern the undercurrent of importance giving breadth to the benign words.
“Of course, duck!” He agreed readily, abandoning his vantage point where he was not so subtly admiring Dream go about tending his roses, his dark robes open to expose the sculpted expanse of chest and abdomen for Hob’s viewing pleasure, to join his friend. A pleased smile met his approach, and he returned the expression, gladly lowering his nose to the fragrant bloom held for inspection.
“Gorgeous, as all of your creations are.” Dream nodded, silently delighted by the compliment.
Their interactions had grown more weighted since Delirium’s departure, with the hint of more left unspoken between them, always lingering in the periphery. This attraction that bound them was growing louder, clearer in form and intent with each passing day. Hob often felt he was chasing a dream, a hint of heaven whispered in the wind. There were days he dared not hope for more, and others he could not imagine less.
“What’s the occasion? We were in London only a day ago.” He ventured when Dream did not elaborate.
It was not uncommon for them to visit the walking. As of late, they had taken many trips to sample the vast wonders of the world of his birth. From the many diversions of Europe, India, and Asia that he knew from his own travels, to never ending mountain tops, forests of red wooded trees that grew like giants toward the skies, white sand deserts, vast open prairies roamed by monstrous bison, tropical rain-forests alive with colorful birds and strange creatures, winter pine groves frosted in blinding white snow, breathing new air into his useless lungs. Each new site was as spectacular as any in the Dreaming, but lacking the divine touch of his companion, he felt in every aspect of the kingdom he called home.
Hob suspected their holidays were an effort to further their courtship on the part of his Dreaming Lord. Along with the vibrant arrangements of flowers, all hand-selected and arranged by Dream according to Lucienne, that often appeared in his chambers. There were decadent meals prepared to his tastes, fantastical dreamscapes authored in his name, bobbles to adorn his person and those for Iona, who enjoyed the garnet-encrusted harness Dream bestowed upon her immensely. All pointed to a wooing in progress.
He would find it amusing if he were not so damn smitten by the whole affair. As it were, he could hardly keep the dopey smile off his face. Lucienne teased him to no end, all in good humor and all tolerated with grace.
His only dilemma in the arrangement was his inability to return the favors to the same extent as his Lord. With limited power to shape the Dreaming to his will, and an even more limited knowledge as to what a man might do to court an Endless, he felt at a disadvantage.
Having no set notion of what to do or how to achieve his goals, he became a man of opportunity. Observation, his most rewarding friend, served him well. Dream did not eat, not as men do, but his companion enjoyed sweets on occasion, chocolate being his greatest weakness, especially when paired with fruits. With Lucienne’s help, he conjured exotic delicacies for Dream’s enjoyment whenever possible. Never allowing himself to watch the purs of his lips or rapturous expression when his companion bit into a particularly succulent treat. There was only so much control a man could be expected to have.
There was a night in the waking, walking the streets of Greece on a pleasantly warm evening, when they were caught in a summer shower that washed the crowds away, all diving to the safety of cover. Dream made to follow, grasping his hand, when he resisted. Pulling his friend back, he used the momentum to align them in a dance hold. Sputtering and waterlogged, wild hair plastered to his moon glow face, Hob mirrored Dream’s questioning look, grinning a mischievous grin, and led his beloved in a waltz step while the rhythm of the rain kept time with their feet.
The memory was golden, flawless in his mind, preserved for all time, and enough to distract him from his companion’s demure look of exasperation. “Did I lose you?”
He had the decency to look contrite at being caught wandering amongst the clouds. “Not at all. What do I owe the honor of your humble invitation for this evening?”
“A celebration.” Dream revealed brightly. “Today marks the 100-year anniversary of your entering the Dreaming.”
100 years…had it really been so long since he divorced his mortal shell for the Dreaming world, joining his stranger and dearest friend in his enchanted realm?
His pristine memory, preserved in exquisite detail in his new existence, sorted through every second to confirm the passage of time. Yes, Dream was correct, and what a beautiful century it had been, extraordinary and full of unparalleled joys.
Both grinning wider than was comfortable, they agreed to meet that evening. Dream made arrangements for them so that he wished to remain a surprise. With narrowed eyes, Hob agreed and bowed in mock deference as he left Dream to his tending with Iona lumbering at his side and Jessamy circling overhead, squawking her goodbye.
As he wandered towards the great orchards, Iona bouncing ahead, occasionally bumping his shoulder for pets, his mind went back to their last visit to the waking, not five days earlier.
Morpheus claimed a matter in need of tending, that was preceded by a lovely spot of tea and lavender biscuits at a quaint shop not a few blocks from Hyde Park. Not long after, Dream left him to his own devices at the entrances of the park. He considered going to a pub for a pint, but decided a walk in the park was in order. Watch the world and all its marvelous changes wander by for a bit.
“Good day, sir. Would you mind if I joined you?” A beautiful, dark-skinned woman in a handsome dress of dove grey and deep blue silk beamed down on him, her smile as infectiously radiant as it was. At her delicate neck, a flash of silver caught his eye. An ankh hung from a ribbon around her throat, a curious adornment for a lady, and in her hand, she held a wicker basket covered in gingham, fit for a picnic.
She made for a charming picture, one that was almost misplaced in this modern setting of decorum.
He blinked, momentarily confused by the impropriety of her request, but if the young woman wished to chance her reputation by associating with an unknown gentleman without the company of a chaperone, then who was he to stop her.
“By all means.” He motioned for her to sit with a polite tip of his hat. Her sunny smile grew, settling over him like a kiss of sunshine on an upturned cheek.
“Lovely day.” She observed, apparently perfectly at ease, engaging in polite discourse with a stranger. “Very mild for summer, perfect for a picnic in the park. Would you care to join me?”
The question caught him off guard. While her boldness was admirable, he had no desire to entertain her apparent lack of decorum and risk undue attention. Offering her a kind but reserved smile, he made to stand. “Forgive me, Miss, I’m waiting for someone.” With another tip of his hat, he turned to leave.
“He won’t mind, Robert.” She called to his back, halting his steps. With suspicious eyes and a hand at his belt where Raza was concealed, he faced her placid smile, so cunning and familiar, he felt his still chest tighten.
“My brother will know where to find us.”
“Your brother? Are you…”
Could this creature, the picture of unassuming serenity, be Dream’s eldest…“Death of the Endless.” She introduced. Rising, she covered the distance between them with the grace of a swan over a glass lake, her gloved hand outstretched for the taking. “I’m glad to finally meet you, Robert Gadling.”
Reeling, he followed her obediently to settle on a patch of sun-warmed earth. Once situated, they went about setting up a lovely spread of nibs to nosh on while they chatted. Death, an elegant example of a poised lady of high breeding, and he, a fidgeting fool, barely able to keep his mouth from flopping open, sat in companionable silence. He hardly dared to eat for fear of the morsel falling from his gaping mouth.
“I barely know what to say to you, other than thank you.” He managed.
Her perpetual smile, a stark contrast to her brother's near-constant frown, widened sweetly at his regard. “You are most welcome. My gift could not have fallen on a more worthy soul.”
“Hardly. I was worthy of nothing.” He scoffed, remembering all too well the vagabond he had been when first he lay eyes on her brother. “Not worthy of your notice and not your brothers, either.”
“I doubt he would agree with you.”
Snorting, he glanced up at her, finding a profound sense of wisdom and comfort in her dark eyes. Her gaze was not the hurtling galaxies of Morpheus, not as piercing, but there was a steadiness, a river, constant and persevering. In the depths, he caught a glimpse of his mother’s eyes, tired but smiling, so long ago he barely remembered the hints of amber that caught in the firelight as she sang to him and his siblings each night. The vision was sweet, soothing to his soul.
“Maybe not now, but then.” He conceded, feeling his worries evaporate like morning mist in the midday sun.
“Can I ask you a question?”
The keenness of her gaze sharpened on him with knowing. “You just did, but go on.” She teased, popping a grape in her mouth pleasantly.
“Did you mean for us, Dream and I, that is, to meet that day?” He asked, hardly able to look upon her while pandering to such self-indulgent musings. Death, the most feared concept in all of human existence, and he wanted to know if she intended him for her brother.
Five hundred years and so little personal growth to show for it. He should be ashamed. He would be, if she didn’t give the most captivating little chuckle, delicate shoulders jumping in pure delight.
It was impossible not to fall beside her, laughing and following her conspiratorial nod that beckoned him into her confidence.
“Truthfully? I took him to the White Horse to meet Chaucer.” She admitted, as if it were the greatest irony of all, and he supposed it was. His Dream was fated to meet a literary legend and had ended up with him instead. What greater cosmic jest could there be?
“I thought it might be a nice project for him.” She shrugged, as if she were speaking of the weather and not the arrival of fate's hand on his shoulder. “Then we overheard you. Saying that you knew Death, knew my face. I looked into your heart in that moment and saw more than I could have ever hoped for. Someone who could stare into the abyss, the very heart of darkness, and see the light beyond it all. You have an unfathomable capacity for hope, Robert Gadling. That is why I chose you.”
Baffled, he blinked in rapped succession. “I don’t know about that.” He said, with far more levity than he felt. “I did ask for you to end my life, as he wagered I would.”
“You asked for him, not I.” She corrected, gently. “For his touch, his grace to save you from my sister, Despair’s, clutches. Had you truly desired death, I would have come for you long before your centennial meeting.”
He considered that for a moment. Dream’s younger sibling had most assuredly been by his side those many years, but he remembered well what hand guided him to the White Horse that fateful night. “I suppose I did. Those last years, he was what kept me going. My light at the end, as you put it.”
Nodding, she watched him with consideration, her curls falling around her face in a halo, with her head cocked, like she was deciding if she should continue. Bird-like. Dream-like.
“Do you know why you were drawn to him that first day, and every day since?”
Was that not the burning question of his existence? One he had sought to answer in every meeting, in every flicker of a ghostly smile he longed to earn? In the teasing glances that have since turned to weighted stares, concealing a deep affection that was written in his marrow this day.
“Oh, I don’t know.” He mused. “Because he was the most beautiful, arrogant, self-possessed wanker I’d ever seen walk through those doors? And I, for one, was very interested to know how he was going to walk out with his ruby round his neck.”
He’d meant it as a jest, but the levity made it no less factual. He noticed Dream, and in retrospect, Death as well, from the first moment they entered the tavern. Even then, he knew the stranger was more than what he appeared. A lordling, perhaps, looking to test his luck amongst thieves and murderers. Men that would sooner bleed him dry than let him walk with such a precious bobble in hand. Hob thought he might have helped his fellow patrons for the right price.
Who was he kidding? He would have matched steel to any man who raised a hand against his stranger, even then, even before Dream condescended to notice him. Not that it would have mattered. Once he heard the velvet drawl of his voice and listened to his proposition with a queer smile, he knew Dream was other, a god among mortals.
“Perhaps… but I think it’s something else.” She began in the same tone as before, conspiratorial and knowing. “Hope is born in the Dreaming, Robert.” Her hand reached to cover his, waiting for him to meet her eyes. “You have touched all of our realms in your long life, walked beside me, reveled in Desire and Delirium, courted Destruction, been a pawn of Destiny, as we all are, and lost to Despair. But you are his creature, one made of imagination and eternal optimism. Hope personified.”
There was a ring of truth in her words that struck him center mass, one so profound he dared not look deeper than the complement of the surface. Destiny, they were all pawns to his writings, Dream had once told him. All players on the stage of life as old Will once wrote. To question his hand seemed a mug's game.
“Like calls to like.” She continued, drawing him back to her. “He needs you, Hob, as you need him.”
He wanted to argue with her, insist she was mistaken. He was not hope personified or any other amalgamation of qualities that would warrant such praise from an Endless. He was a man, one who had never known when to be quiet, one who lost at life far more than he won.
But a man, dead or immortal, did not argue with Death.
He needed Dream, needed him for more than his continued existence. The Endless thieved his heart and soul long before he noticed the absence. Whether the same could be said for his companion, only time would tell. But until then, he could accept her words as fact easily enough and toasted her for it, to her wisdom and the love he bore her brother. Leaving the rest as food for thought when his head wasn’t spinning.
The subject was left at that, laid to rest in favor of other, more diverting topics. Dream found them then, laughing at her recounting of Dream’s childhood antics. Truthfully, she was laughing; he was trying to wrap his head around the idea that Dream, stoic Morpheus, had ever been a child at all.
They embraced, coming together naturally, with an ease that was only recently commonplace in his own relationship with Dream, and it brought a smile to his face.
“Hello, my brother. How have you been keeping?” She asked, using their linked arms to pull him down to join their party.
“I am well.” He agreed, turning azure eyes to Hob with a bestowed smile. “As you can see.”
Matching grins regarded him, causing a blush to bloom over his cheeks, annoyingly. He had the ridiculous desire to bury his head in Dream’s shoulder to hide from the scrutiny.
“Yes…I was telling Hob how happy I am to have not been needed upon your last meeting at the White Horse.” She deflected, sipping at her wine to hide a grin.
Dream’s focus remained on him for a second longer, only dragging his eyes away to regard his sister with a raised brow, completely unconvinced. “Is that what you were speaking of? I thought you were talking about when we attempted to steal Father’s sundial?”
“I hadn’t gotten to that part yet, but you can help me finish, if you like. Or are you afraid your friend will see the impish side of you?”
No longer the center of attention, Hob was all too happy for a distraction. “I’ve already seen that side of him. It’s one of my favorites.” He replied with a cheeky wink aimed at his companion.
Head thrown back, Death laughed, unrestrained and delighted. Composed once more, she continued her story, with Dream adding in his own side of their sibling shenanigans. Throughout the exchange, Dream stayed close, leaning into his space, and he was happy to lean back. Glad to know Dream was so at ease expressing his affections in the company of his sibling.
Death left shortly after, saying she had ‘work’ to do, as she put it. They both stood to bid her farewell, and the eldest Endless embraced him, wrapping him in a tight hug, full-bodied and comforting in a way he had not known he needed. “Have faith, Hob. In him and yourself.” She whispered in the shell of his ear, a blessing, and a prayer he vowed to follow.
Stepping back, he shivered at the loss of her warmth and found his smile was watery around the edges but no less bright in the midday sun.
Dream pulled her aside for a quick word, and Hob drifted back to the blanket to give them some privacy. Silently, he watched brother and sister, different in every way, but the most basic, their capacity for love. As endless as their existence.
Death spared him a smile and a wave, and for the first time, he thought of his wife and son’s passing without the fear of the unknown.
“Do you think she was with them, Eleanor and Robyn, when they passed?” He asked offhandedly a while later, already knowing the answer but needing the confirmation from Dream’s lips.
“She was. They are at peace in the sunless lands. I know this for a fact, dearest.” The endearment fell from Dream’s lips beautifully, causing his beating heart to flutter in its current cage.
Completely beguiled, he took Dream’s hand and squeezed the willowy fingers in appreciation. It was a quick gesture, one he abandoned far sooner than he would have liked. Their surroundings would allow for no more. In the Dreaming, he might have held on, might have leaned into the dark shoulder, and buried his head in the pale expanse of throat on display without fear of the scene they would cause.
Here, in the waking, he could do nothing beyond retreat. He knew Dream could whisk them away before any harm could befall them for such untoward behavior, but he would not place that burden on Dream or distress the masses for his own benefit.
“She was not what I expected.” He commented, shaking his lamenting thoughts to the side.
Dream laughed, eyeing him sideways with an aristocratic tilt to his chin. “And what did you expect?” He asked, inspecting a morsel of cheese with a critical eye.
It was a fair question and one he considered while he stole the cheese from Dream’s fingers to pop in his mouth. “I spent most of my mortal life fearing death, fearing the cold hand at the end of it all. There was no good ending for a man like me, duck. Not after all I’d done and seen. Even knowing she was your sister, I still thought she would be distant, cold…” He paused and glanced at his friend meaningfully, the as you were was left unsaid, to which Dream stared right back, as haughty as ever. “But she was none of those things.”
“No, she is not.” Dream sighed, abandoning the pretense of arrogance for a tender half smile. “Mortals enter this world with a mother’s touch, warm and welcoming. When the end comes, she is there waiting with a smile and a hand to lead them into the unknown. It is her gift.”
The sentiment was as beautiful as his companion. Palming a grape, he leaned in to place the morsel at Dream’s pursed lips, waiting until he opened his mouth to receive his offering with a teasing scowl. “The greatest irony of all is that you, Dream of the Endless, are far more terrifying than Death.”
“Am I? Do I terrify you, Hob Gadling?” Dream almost purred, eyes alight and lips stained a kissable red from the grape.
Longing spiked, hot and prickly, burning at his insides, drying his throat in desperate want, but he resisted, swallowed it down and went back to watching the masses pass them by before he did something regrettable. Such as resend his earlier assertion that these repressed people be spared the full measure of his adoration for his Dreaming King.
Clearing his throat, he let a crooked grin curl his lips, “Yes. Though it’s your choice to be terrifying.” He concluded mildly, looking upon his intrigued friend. “The King of Dreams prefers to appear a nightmare. If any of these people saw you the way I do, or if you spared them a smile half as genuine as those you bestow on me, they wouldn’t think you are so fierce.”
“Then what would I save for you?” His voice dropped, hushed, silk soft. The air thickened, heating with the intensity of Dream’s favor.
Swallowing, his gaze dipped to Dream’s lips, temptation rising anew. “I can think of a few things, most of which are not appropriate for our current setting.”
Propriety be damned, he bridged the distance between their hands to draw Dream’s alabaster knuckle to his lips for a tender kiss. Ghosting his breath over the delicate skin, allowing it to warm the chilled flesh while he held Dream’s gaze, never wavering, his intent clear, unmistakable.
The hitch in Dream’s breath at his bold display of physical intimacy further convinced him that should he haul Dream in, kiss him as thoroughly as he’d been dreaming of for decades, the act alone would undoubtedly lead to his ruination in the best possible way. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It needed to be mutual, a conscious act of agreement, rather than a hasty fulfillment of desire. There would be time for reckless abandon; he would see it.
Carefully, and with a reluctance that soothed any possibility of preserved rejection, Dream extracted his hand and took a long swallow of his wine before falling into a more jovial countenance. “Are you not going to ask what my sister and I spoke of? You are usually more curious.”
Dream recovered far sooner than he, a long drag of his own near-empty goblet proved distraction enough to continue their repartee without losing what was left of his sanity. “If it were something you felt I should know, I trust that you would tell me.”
“You are correct, and I shall soon.”
Their picnic concluded with the setting of the sun, both departing light and giddy. The memory left an imprint on Hob’s mind that carried him through the rest of his day until he was to meet Dream for their date.
He half expected Dream to come to him to suggest his dress for the evening as he had so many times before, and he was not ashamed to admit he was almost disappointed to be left to his own devices. Lacking the imagination of his companion, Hob created a dark green and gold embroidered coat over black breeches, cream stockings, and shoes nowhere near as comfortable as the dragon hide boots he favored. Running his hands through his hair, he grew the strands long enough to tie at his neck as it had been upon their last visit to London.
The look was of a wealthy gentleman, a fitting companion for the royal bearings of Dream’s assumed countenance. Rightly chosen when he beheld his friend in all his black velvet finery, looking the part of a dark prince. His own ebony hair had been styled to match the current fashion for the outing. Though Hob admired the look, he much preferred Dream in his natural state with his wild hair and pale skin on display for his enjoyment.
“Come my friend, our evening awaits.”
Grinning, he followed as he always would.
________________________________________________________
“So this is what you ran off to do the other day, while I was picnicking with your sister.” Hob sipped at his tea, sharing a contented grin with his companion over the rim.
“I thought it fitting. This is where our acquaintance began. What better place to celebrate one hundred years in your company, dearest?”
Dream was romantic, it seemed. Not a new revelation, but a welcome reminder. He should also stop saying things like that, casually dropping endearments, procuring a private room at the White Horse, and a box at the theater, if they were going to make it through their dinner without Hob pulling him across the table and moving on to dessert prematurely.
Hob had his own plans for the evening; he fully intended to seduce the anthropomorphic personification of Dream, whom he called a friend. One hundred years was quite long enough; before this night was out, Hob would see that they had a long-overdue discussion. One that he needed, desperately, with a hunger greater than that of a year of starvation, to result in the freedom to love his companion as he had desired for centuries.
“None better I could think of—a play at The Grand and dinner at the White Horse. I feel positively spoiled. Though I can’t believe those idiots went and gave King Lear a happy ending.” It was madness that he was surprised Dream could even sit through.
Dream rolled his twinkling gaze heavenward, which was as close as he would get to outrage on the subject. “It will not last. The great stories always return to their original form.”
“Is that so? Planning to whisper in the director's ear this evening, are we?” He teased, knowing that might well be the case. That is, if Hob did not provide a more pleasurable distraction to keep the Dreaming King occupied this evening.
“Perhaps…”
He laughed heartily, shaking his finger at Dream’s little smirk. “Don’t play coy with me. I know you too well.”
“I would dare say you do.” Dream returned his laugh, more a chuckle on the pinkened lips, and rose him a leer that went straight to his cheeks, burning the flesh in a heady mixture of embarrassment and desire.
“Well, I like to think so, but I look forward to many more cen…”
“Many more centuries? Is that what you were going to say?” A light, ringing voice interrupted from the stairs above. “Good evening, Gentlemen. Please don’t trouble yourselves to rise on my account.”
A woman, beautiful, dark-haired, and with a countenance fat with satisfaction, descended to join them. Her air was familiar, one he recognized well from his own misbegotten youth. Self-made confidence, hard-won and deadly when provoked.
One glance at Dream confirmed that he was unbothered but attentive to their unwanted addition. Hob could not be so calm. Subtly, he arranged himself to face the woman, leaving himself open to move if needed. He crossed his hands in his lap to disguise Raza’s thin blade, shrunk down to a dagger, stashed up his sleeve.
If she took note of his actions, she did not indicate they concerned her. Nor should they, it seemed, as two large, scowling chaps flanked her sides. “These are my associates, Michael and Tobias. Smugglers by trade, but times are lean, and they are only too happy to earn extra coin slitting throats if needed. Specifically yours if you should move.”
Hob would almost admire her audacity if he did not want to slit her throat for the threat she was implying. There was no real concern for their safety in this, but it was a disturbance that did not align with his plans for the evening. He thought to get his blood pumping by other methods than violence.
“You have us captive, my lady. What can we do for you?” He kept his voice mild so as not to lean into the show of force.
“What indeed?” She drawled, eyes dancing between them, holding a moment longer than he liked on Dream. “Around these parts, there are tales of the Devil and the Wondering Jew who meet once a century in a tavern.”
So she knew, he could work with that. He had centuries of practice playing the dimwitted fool to draw on. “This tavern? You must be mistaken.”
Undeterred, she continued pulling a piece of parchment from her gown. “Some years back, sewn into the shirt of a dead man, I found this.”
Her trump card on display, she looked positively feral in delight, holding the truly disrespectful representation of their last visit to the White Horse in 1689, drawn moments before his death, he would guess.
“Is that meant to be me? I look terrible.” Hob said, not having to fake his offense, and glanced rhetorically at Dream. “You look worse, duck.”
She smiles, not put off at his flippancy in the least. “Once every hundred years, you return to this pub, it is said, striking bargains, sharing gifts, offering immortality. And now you will share the same with me.”
Her gaze was locked firmly on Dream, hungry for all she believed he could bestow upon her. All that Hob would sooner see her pretty head relieved from her fine figure before he allowed to transpire in this life or any other.
“Sorry, love. I’m rather selfish when it comes to this one, and I don’t share well, you see." He quipped with only a hint of steel leaking into the jest, attempting to lure her attention back to him.
“It is not you I ask it of, fool!" She hissed, showing the first crack in her carefully constructed facade. “You will share your secrets with me, devil!”
“I am no devil.” Dream countered dryly, giving no weight to her demands.
“And I’m not Jewish.”
Sharp eyes, dark and irritated, tuned on Hob. “No, you are dead. By all accounts, you died a hundred years ago.”
“Me? Dead? I feel alive. Don’t I look alive?” He made a show of patting himself down and looking to Dream, who nodded his assent, playing into his act so beautifully that Hob wanted to kiss him. The patting motion served to free Raza from his sleeve and slip the blade into his hand for easy access.
It would not be long now before she cracked, growing tired of his game. He would wait her out and trust that when the time was right, Dream would intervene. Until then, Dream would remain stoic, allowing him his fun.
“Fine, play as you will.” She sighed. “What manner of creatures are you then, if not what I seek?”
“Who wants to know?” Hob countered, desiring a name to match the pretty face he was about to cut down.
“The Lady Joanna Constantine at your service. You, gentleman, will follow me. My carriage awaits. I can see there is so much you can tell me, that I can learn from you both.” She smiled, deciding she was done waiting on them to cooperate, which fit Hob fine. He was hankering for a bit of fun.
“No. I think not.” He tisked, his own smile as serene as if she had invited them for tea and biscuits.
“No? Pity, I was hoping to do this the easy way.” She simpered with a pout and stepped back, motioning for her companions to advance. Michael and Tobias strode forward, hands already fisting in anticipation.
“Now, now, none of that.” Hob held up his bladeless hand to halt them. Effectively, catching them off guard momentarily. “My companion and I were going for a quiet evening. Something more intimate than a party of five, you understand. See, it’s a bit of an anniversary.”
Predictably, they did not halt their advances, instead splitting to take them both. From one breath to the next, Hob rose, drawing Raza to its full glory with a thought, the blade glowing a faint silver in the tavern lights, ethereal yet deadly. He stepped and parried, effortlessly disarming his attacker, before bringing Raza’s jewel-encrusted hilt down upon his head to render him unconscious. Dream’s attacker faltered, his blade lowering as he stared at his fallen comrade and Raza’s burning light in indecision. The man’s blade rose, unsteady but resolute, to Hob’s astonishment. Well, it was obvious; the Lady Constantine had hired for the pound and not an overabundance of intelligence.
“Do you not see the magic sword? He doesn’t see the magic sword.” Dream nodded, agreeing with a slight smile Hob knew to mean he was enjoying this little show more than he would ever admit to.
“Get out of my way!” The poor fool demanded.
“Oh, you would prefer to deal with him?” Hob asked, where Raza was held between the brute and his rousing companion. “He really wants to deal with you, duck. Well, I thought to keep this friendly, but if you insist. They’re all yours, my Lord.” He said with a bow and stepped aside.
Dream stood with an inhuman grace, a modicum of his mortal guise giving way to the Endless beneath, with flashing eyes full of untold power. His hand, fluid and perfect, rose toward the poor fool still advancing, sand already leaking from his fingers that was blown into their eyes in one breath.
They fell, hands clutched at their heads, eyes whited over, moaning, and withering in agony as every misdeed was visited on them in flawless, horrific detail by Dream’s most talented nightmares.
“It is true then, you are a devil.” Lady Constantine almost whimpered, falling to her knees in deference and abject fear. The first smart thing she had done this evening if you asked Hob.
“No, Joanna Constantine.” Dream moved to tower over the Lady, almost growing larger in the space, his voice dripping with restrained power. “I am no devil and be grateful I am not.”
Doe-eyes widened to an impossible degree, fixed unblinking on Dream, “What did you do to them?”
Dream smiled, both sad and with a hint of malevolence, he tipped her chin up with a delicate finger, allowing her to look into the abyss of stars at their core. “No less than what is deserved. Sleep…”
Like a doll, she sank to the ground, face and eyes whiting out as she was treated to the same punishment as her associates.
“What should we do with her?” Hob asked, impressed, and unexpectedly aroused by his companion’s actions.
“Leave her.” Dream instructed, prying the incriminating drawing from her spasming hand. “I may have use for her yet.”
“Use, love? She would have seen us locked away in a basement for the next century.” Baffled, Hob felt like shaking his friend, who ignored his perfectly reasonable assertion and took his hand, pulling him towards the back entrance.
“Come, Hob. She may have told others of our location. It is not safe to continue our evening.”
He followed, as he always will, wrapping his fingers more securely around Dream’s own. “Back home, it is.”
Dream pulled them to a stop in the alley, sand slipping in a cascade from his fingers. “Wait, I arranged for our way home.”
His cheeks flushed under Dream’s surprised look. Stepping back but not dropping Dream’s hand, he raised his hand to his lips to whistle.
“Hob…” Dream was silenced by the beating of wings as Iona landed with a graceful thump further down the alley, the large gargoyle practically danced in glee at finding herself in the waking world. Her dark hide flickered in and out, less substantial than it should be in the torchlight above, Hob noticed with concern. Almost as if she were a mirage rather than a sentient mass of bouncing gargoyle.
“Greetings old friend.” Dream spared him an amused smile, the likes of which settled in his chest in a warm glow, lightening his spirits as Dream moved to pet Iona’s bobbing head. Power seeped from his fingertips, lending substance to Iona’s form and stilling his erratic heart.
Hob felt foolish for a moment, having underestimated how much of Raza’s power it would take to keep Iona corporal in the waking.
“I thought it might be a nice surprise, since you’ve done most of the planning this evening. You’ve never ridden with me before.” Stepping to Iona’s right, he fiddled with the stirrups, preparing to hand Dream up when his companion shocked the hell out of him by vaulting onto Iona’s back using the pummel for support.
“Shall we then?” Dream purred, extending a hand to pull him up.
Shaking his head at himself, because he should have expected it, Hob took the hand and slid up behind Dream, wrapping his arms around the slim waist, finely muscled and hard under his hands.
Iona stretched her large head back, peering at them with one sparkling emerald eye that Hob could swear was laughing at him. Not that his trusty gargoyle steed would ever do such a thing, he thought with a not so sublet nudge to her side.
She huffed but remained still, waiting on her Lord it seemed. “You may go, dear Iona.”
Needing no more urging, she took a galloping start and leapt into the air with her small but mighty wings propelling them up into the vortex of sand leading back to the Dreaming realm. The motion jostled them, giving him ample cause to fit Dream’s slighter frame into the curve of his body, allowing him to hold on tighter for stability, obviously.
The transition from waking to Dreaming was effortless, like passing through a sheer veil of clouds. Reaching out, he skimmed his fingers in the air, allowing his troubles to flow from his fingertips, the lightness of the moment filling the space left behind.
Hope was what Death called him; he felt like hope; he felt like he was exactly where he belonged. With his arms wrapped around an ethereal being made of golden moonlight and glittering stardust. One he belonged with and to.
Squeezing his companion's waist softly, Iona began her descent over the lush grasses of Fiddler’s Green. Dismounting, Dream wandered, leaving Hob to remove Iona’s saddle and set the giddy gargoyle about her way. He didn’t mind; it gave Hob an open invitation to admire his friend unencumbered.
Away from the waking and all its rules of fashion and propriety, Dream had already shed his black on black ensemble for a robe of midnight over dark trousers, his ruby pulsing against the unbroken lines of corded muscle and skin of his chest. Breathing out a contented sigh, Dream fell to his knees in a graceful descent, his elegant fingers of bone white sinking into the wild grasses. Just feeling the long stems pass through his fingers, grounding himself in his home. His face, wind-kissed, pink-cheeked, and flawless in his realm, turned up to the winking night’s sky, as one would to the sun, basking in the milky glow. His raven hair and fathomless eyes seemed to blend with the inky blackness from Hob’s vantage, and he wondered not for the first time if Dream lassoed the night's sky and pulled it from the heavens to don his mother’s mantel to keep her close. It was a small comfort to think of Dream in such a sentimental cast, soothing and at once fortifying for what he hoped came next.
The peace of the night drew him forward into the light wind, kicking off the distant waterfall that ruffled his shortened hair affectionately. Smiling, his formal attire melted into loose-fitting trousers and a linen shirt of desert sand. He joined his friend, sinking into the cool grass, close but far enough that he could angle his body to watch the play of emotions pass like drifting clouds over Dream’s face.
“Thank you for this evening, love. It was certainly the most eventful trip into the Waking we’ve shared so far.”
To say the least. Normally, they went for dinner or sightseeing. Once they enjoyed an African safari, that was an adventure, coming face to face with a hungry lion, but not quite as exhilarating as facing down a woman bent on discovering and exploiting Dream’s vast power.
Dream chuckled at his side, chagrined but relaxed. More present in mind and body than Hob could remember enjoying his friend in a long while. “I admit that was not how I envisioned our evening progressing, though your efforts to come to my aid were most entertaining.”
“By aid, you mean rescue? I think I was rather valiant and heroic.” His puffed-up chest earned a hardy chuckle and a practiced eye roll. A habit that Dream had adopted some twenty years into their permanent relationship.
“You certainly made a spectacle of yourself, considering neither of us was in any real danger. I appreciate it all the same.”
“You’re welcome, duck. I’m at your service as I have been these last 100 years.” As he would be for the foreseeable eternity if he had any say.
Dream seemed to accept his words with a nod, drifting off, gaze fixed on far-off galaxies that were beyond Hob’s ability to perceive. “It has been brought to my attention that I am courting you.”
And there was a segway Hob was not expecting, nor was it unwelcome. Grinning, he bumped his shoulder into his companions, barely jostling the immovable Endless. “Ahh, is that what you were doing? And here I was thinking I was courting you.” He played it light, masking the thrill that shot up his spine with the verbal acknowledgement of the dance they had been engaging in for so long.
Eyes, bright like midnight stars, shown on him with such sweet adoration that Hob’s breath stole from his chest.
“What fools we be.”
“No, bring up Shaxberg, we are having a moment here.” He chided laughingly, not truly minding the reference to the now-revered playwright. How could he still harbor resentment for a stolen moment when the object of his desire was perched beside him? Regarding him with such earnest curiosity.
“Were we?” The ask was playful but overlaying an honest question that Hob quickly laid to rest.
“Yes, and besides, what better to be a fool for than for love.”
There it was. For all the endearments that had slipped past his lips, the touches and lingering looks over firelight and brimstone ash, for all that they had endured together, he had never laid the words out quite so honestly.
Dream held his gaze a moment, undoubtedly pleased by his admission, but there was a reserve about his posture that struck Hob as odd. He had not expected his companion to fall into his embrace, but he hoped for something other than retreat.
After a moment longer, Dream dropped his eyes, focusing once again on the far reaches of the sky. A place Hob could not follow. “One of the many attributes I admire about you is your boundless capacity for hope. You are the day to my perpetual night, Robert Gadling.”
“Then let me continue to walk by your side, and I will light your way for the rest of eternity.” If there was an air of pleading in his voice, he didn’t mind. Not when Dream seemed on the verge of letting him down gently.
“Are you sure that is truly what you wish?” Dream asked quietly, almost timidly. More vulnerable Hob would have expected. “I am no simple creature, as you well know. To love me is no easy task, as my sibling has taken great lengths to point out.”
“What do you mean? Which sibling?” Hob already knew and wanted to strangle them for even suggesting such a thing to Dream.
The laugh he received was humorless, echoes of another life, before he knew Dream as he did now. “You never asked what prompted my ‘tantrum’ as you put it, so many years ago.”
“Oh, you mean when you drowned the Dreaming for months and shunned me in the process? I always thought it would come up in your own time, and here we are.”
“Yes, you were right, Hob. My sibling, Desire, paid me a visit. Seems they were interested in you and your place within my realm. I offered little by way of explanation, as you can imagine.” And Hob could, Dream offered nothing unless he expressly wished to. “They said much that does not bear repeating, but the implication was that in time you would come to regret your decision to enter the Dreaming, come to regret me. That once you knew me and all of my faults, you would wish to leave as Calliope did.”
“Never!”
“I believe I know that now.” Dream smiled softly at his vehemence and sighed into the wind. “I realized, with your help, that my behavior would only lead to the realisation of my fears, as they had with Calliope. As they had with many others before her. I know that I did not have to lose her. The choice was mine to let her slip away… after Orpheus was lost to us.” He pauses, swallowing down his sorrow, and Hob can feel his heart fracturing all over again from the pain of losing his own son. “It was completely effortless on my part, and she would not stand against me as you did, demanding nothing of me. I knew as you stood before me, defiant, with passion in your eyes, that I could not lose you the same way. The Dreaming might crumble under the weight of such grief.”
At a loss in the wake of such unfettered honesty, Hob took Dream’s hand in a tight hold. Dream was cool to the touch, just another reminder that his companion was other. That was alright, though; Hob ran hot, so he could be warm enough for both of them. He could be strong enough for both of them.
He waited, waited until Dream’s fathomless eyes lit on him again, before drawing the hand he clutched to his lips. Wanting him to feel his next words as well as hear them. “I cannot speak to your past, I can only speak for the present and what we have, what we can have if you can trust in me as I trust in you.”
Galaxies were born and died in the seconds he waited for a response from his love. It did not come in words but in action. Dream leaned into him, their breaths fogging the air between them, foreheads resting against each other in a silent show of unity.
“You have my heart, Robert Gadling.” Bone white fingers pressed against his mouth, stilling the reciprocation that was a breath away from trembling from his lips. “But I would have you sure before you offer yours in return.” He cautioned with no small measure of sadness that Hob wanted to wipe off his ageless face. “I have not always been kind to those who bore the distinction."
Nada.
Hob remembered Lucifer’s parting comments and what little he had read in Morpheus’s history. There were others as well, all ending in ruin for those who dared love this being before him.
There must have been something in his face, the downcast slant of his eyes, because Dream was nodding along with his thoughts and reading between the lines of his furrowed brow. “I have released Nada.” Dream confesses quietly, almost shyly. “She now rests with her people in the sunless lands. My sister wishes you good tidings as well. She promises to visit soon.”
A huffing laugh escaped against snow white skin because, of course, Death wished him well. But as amusing as he found the comment, he was struck by the preceding statement and the implications of Dream’s decision, and when he would have requested such a boon from his sister.
“What made you change your mind about Nada?” He asked, already suspecting he had been told the reason but wanting to hear it confirmed.
“Change comes slowly to all things, but it does come. I wish to set my wrongs right. Nada is the first step. The second is this evening, my confession, one I should have made long ago. I love you, Hob.” And there was no sweeter sound in all the Dreaming or Waking alike.
Twining his fingers into the strands of raven soft hair as he had longed to do since first he laid eyes on Dream, he pulled his lover close, stopping only when their noses bumped, and their lips brushed in the beginnings of a kiss.
“For your confession, I freely offer my own. I love you, Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, without reservation or fear. I swore myself to you 100 years ago, and I do the same now. You have my heart as you always have.”
The kiss that followed was a slow affair, tentative and sweet. Like lingering glances, shared adventures and grief, buttered pastries melting on his tongue, words whispered in the dark, teasing flirts and softer touches in a crowded hall. He would remember later, much later, that it was the kind of kiss to be cherished. That the lips moving, smiling under his, were as soft as he imagined, ripe and tart to the taste. Cool hands, made warm by his own touch, smoothed over his face, neck, down his shoulders to splay against his pounding heart in a possessive press. In blinding detail, imprinted across his mind’s eye would be the stark, inescapable knowledge that the being he held knew him. Completely. All his secrets, his many faces and names, his joys, and deepest sorrows, and when the universe burned out, he would know him still. For all that Hob was and all that he would become.
What he wouldn’t remember, would never recall, was when passion seeped in, took root, and ignited into an inferno. When the black, winking night sky was replaced with fire glow, or the cool grass became silken sheets under bare, overheated skin. Because such things were immaterial, what came after was exquisite and would be repeated every day for the rest of his existence if he could make it so. The draw of flesh would be his one true resting place, his death and rebirth. But what mattered, what truly mattered was that it was Dream, Morpheus, his Endless anthropomorphic personification of dreams that lay beside him, walked beside him. As long as Dream deemed him worthy of his love…eternity was theirs to be had.
The End