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Hob Gadling has lived a long life, longer than most, long enough to learn that immortality is less a boon than a curse. Unlike most of those who have sought eternal life, he has survived because he is willing to change. To reinvent himself, to learn, to grown and most of all to dream. It is his dreams, both waking and sleeping that keep him going, that let him turn down Death’s kind offer, which let him understand that her offer was a kindness.
With Morpheus’ passing Hob lost more than a friend. His dreams have lost a certain something, a darkness and a whimsy that he’d always associated with the Dream he’d known and drunk with over the centuries. There’s a new fellow now on the throne, a new prince of stories but whether he will come to meet Hob in an East London pub in 2089, remains to be seen. Hob is curious but patient, he can wait, give the new fellow time to settle into the role and figure out who he is now. Time enough for them to figure out if they’re still friends and what that means for them now. Goodness knows, Hob’s not the same man who first met Dream and Death all those centuries before.
Sometimes he dreams of wings. The beating of mighty wings in a dark night haunts him these days. He’s not sure why, he’s pretty certain that he and Death are on pretty good terms these days, she seems more amused than annoyed by his continued persistence of existence. He remembers the last time he met Morpheus properly, and the tale he’d told of his seventy-year imprisonment, a cage like glass meant for another. Hob had been more interested in Morpheus’ search for revenge and the toll it had taken on him at the time, but its something else in the story that has remained with him, that still occasionally haunts his dreams. The cage was built for Death, and in between the lines of Dream’s light sketches of the damage caused by his own absence, Hob can imagine all too well the horrors removing Death from the world for seventy years might cause. Dream’s eyes were fathomless and sometimes unreadable, but Hob knows fear and horror when he sees it. He’s seen a lot of terrible thing – done some of them too – but he can’t shift the memory of Morpheus’ expression. The shadow of a grief that was for more than the absence of a sister. Hob may be content in his lot but he knows that most people who seek immortality and get it live to regret it. That is a gift that Death gives as a punishment. Over the years he’s grown accustomed to her, to recognise the signs of her imminent arrival, to brace himself for her work and her following compassion. He’s not the man he once was, and he’s seen enough life and illness in his time to recognise the relief that she brings to so many, even if that’s a path he never wishes to take himself. A journey he can’t imagine ever want to embark upon. But he knows that if he ever changes his mind she’ll be waiting, with that smile of hers and the sound of unseen wings.
He wakes to the sound of wings. It takes him a while to realise that they aren’t an echo of his dream but do in fact exist in the waking world. There is in fact a large black bird in his room, perched on the top of the open door to his room and looking almost disgruntled. There’s a far better perch on the bookshelves across the room, but Hob sees that his cat has taken up residence there, looking equally put out and the sound of wings had undoubtedly been caused by the bird making a sharp exit away from the cat.
The bird, a raven he realises, and that rings a distant bell in his memory, rearranges itself carefully on the top of the door. For all the world as if he were gathering his composure and dignity. Hob sits up and the raven comments, “Caw. Caw, caw.” In an unconvincing and almost sarcastic tone. Suspicion dawns on Hob, he seems to recall Morpheus having Raven companions at one point.
“Lucien?” Hob asks, feeling carefully for the long ago memories.
“Matthew. Lucien hasn’t been a raven in centuries, he’s a librarian these days.” The raven manages to imbue his response with both relief and disdain. “So, we have a mutual friend. One who needs your help.”
“Morpheus…? No, the new guy - I presume the new incarnation of Dream has a name of his own? – Dream wants my help with something?” asks Hob.
“Daniel. And wants your help is a bit strong. He’s having…a bit of a time, and well, its times like these when you really need your friends, even the ones who knew you when you were someone else. And some things are easier to take from humans than ravens.” Hedges the Raven.
“Matthew: are you staging an intervention? I’m not sure I’m qualified for one of those.” Says Hob dubiously.
“Nah, he’s got siblings for that nonsense. I’m worried, I’m not, lets call in Death worried. I reckon between us we can handle this one. He’s just…being stubborn. Apparently that aspect of him hasn’t changed.” Says Matthew dismissively.
“So not urgent enough that I can’t have a shower and some breakfast before we set off then?” Hob confirms.
“As long as there’ll be some breakfast for me too, have at it.” Concurs Matthew.
“That I can arrange.”
~
Hob lets the cat out and makes his breakfast while Matthew regales him with tales from the Library that Lucien cares for, the books that were only dreamed and never made it into the real world, for reasons fair or foul. There is a quest ahead of them, and though it is long and weary since Hob undertook such a thing, he finds himself longing for it.