Chapter Text
House of the first brothers, The Dreaming - sometime between then and now
“Where is it?! Where have you put it ?!”
Cain grins to himself at the sound of his brother’s frantic searching. Even for him, killing the same person over and over gets boring eventually. He remembers vaguely having other interests once, but that was when he was still a man. Back when he lived in the Here instead of the There.
No one who lives in the Dreaming is really real, except for the Sandman himself of course, because in the Dreaming the minds of humans have too much power. They shape everything in it with their subconscious, and Cain is no exception. Generation after generation of humans heard his story, the story of the first murder, and it grew in the retelling as stories do, gaining power and weight and spreading through humans minds like a virus. And the more people knew the story - the more they believed - the more power they had to shape Cain in the image of their worst selves, their darkest impulses.
In the Here, he probably had hobbies, duties, a thousand mundane things to occupy his limited human time. In the Dreaming, with the weight of a thousand thousand human minds weighing down on him, he only cares about killing his brother, and even the most inventive mind couldn’t find ways to keep that fresh for all eternity.
So he’s branching out. Minor nastinesses. Pretty hurts. Death by a thousand cuts.
Even if he wasn’t Cain, the first sinner and the first condemned, he’d still hate his brother for what he isn’t. He isn’t a cultural and religious touch-stone. He isn’t part of the lore and history of Empires. He isn’t trapped in a mould too small to contain any real person. He gets to have hobbies .
Abel writes. When he’s not being murdered by Cain, it’s what he does. Not because he has to, but because he likes it. He doesn’t understand how lucky he is to have that. Something that is all his. Something no living human would ever know about him.
Cain reads his books sometimes, looking for new ideas for how to torment him, and he knows his brother is an eclectic scholar. There are diaries, and treatises on the nature of unreality. There are cookbooks for those who don’t eat and picture books for those who can’t see. Books of spells that do nothing, and limericks that contain terrible power.
The book Abel’s looking for is different. It’s special. The book Abel is looking for is a biography, the only truly accurate biography ever written of Samael, who is called Lucifer, First Star of the Morning. The work of a dozen lifetimes, containing secrets learned through all the sly and secret paths of the Dreaming. Truths told by fork-tongued demons, and lies told by saints and angels, and myths sung by distant stars.
It’s the most secret and dangerous thing Abel has ever owned. Even in the Dreaming, even for a man long dead or perhaps never alive in the first place, it is unimaginably risky to own such a thing. There are worse ways to spend eternity than as Cain’s victim, and for all his complaining, Abel knows that.
Cain has hidden the book where Abel will never think to look. He wants to know if the worry will drive his brother insane. That would be something new. It has been a long time since Cain saw something new.
“Where did you last have it?” he calls.
There’s a squawk of protest and his brother appears. His face is red with worry and anger, and he’s sweating. “What have you done with it?”
“With what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My book! The book.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down much, you’re always reading or writing something. What does it look like? I shall help you look.”
“You will? No, no, this is a trap. You have taken it. You must have taken it. Please brother, please . You don’t know what you’ve done! If the book is found....”
Cain gives up the pretence. “Oh, it’s already been found. The question is whether it’s going to be used . And how many pieces old Hobb will leave you in when he finds out.”
Abel’s florid face goes pale with fear. It’s an expression Cain knows well. “You… How could you? This is, even for you this is… bastardry. Knavery! Well don’t think you’re going to get around me that easily. I’ll tell. I’ll tell the Prince of Lies what you have done, and he’ll come for you too! He’ll put you on a rack right next to mine, and you’ll finally get what’s coming to you !”
Cain might be bored of killing the same person for all of time, but he is still what the humans make him, and he can’t allow that kind of insult to go unpunished. “Oh you will, will you?” He reaches out, picks a knife from a passing nightmare. “But how will you talk without a tongue?”
Abel starts to back away. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t… please, Cain, don’t, I’ll….” but whatever he was about to say is lost in a gargling scream.
Blood splashes Cain’s face, hot and wet and curiously odourless since the advent of cinema, and he grins. Maybe there’s something to be said for repetition after all. Watching his brother choke to death on the shredded pieces of his own tongue never really gets old.
Raeburn Street, Brixton, South London - 7 April 1982
“Are you sure we’re not forgetting something?”
“For the ‘undredth time, yes, I’m sure. What’d we forget, we’re goin’ to Soho norr’on fuckin’ ‘oliday!”
“I know, I just… I can’t shake this feeling that I’m forgetting something. Something important. Maybe someone? It feels like there should be someone else with us. You didn’t invite Chas did you?”
“I already told you, ‘e’s workin’ tonight.”
“Oh yeah, you did. Garry then? Or Ritchie?”
Johnny snorted. “Like you’d ever get Ritchie in the Marquee. You know how ‘e feels about crowds. And Gaz’s back ‘ome, visitin’ his mam.”
That’s ridiculous enough to distract Rupert from his worrying. “Garry doesn’t have a mum.”
“Everyone’s gorr’a mam. Maureen’s alright. Used to go there for our tea, when dad drank the dole, and she’d allus feed us. Proper scran too.”
“What happened to Garry then?”
“Gaz was born a tosser. I blame his da. Maureen allus did.”
They’re most of the way down the street, and Rupert can’t resist turning back to stare at the flat, in case that jogs his memory of what he’s forgotten.
“Will y’stop. You’re allus fussin’; it’s like goin’ on the lash with someone’s nan! What would we ‘ave forgotten? We don’t need anythin’ ‘cept cash and bifters. If anyone else were comin’ with, they’d’ve been ‘ere by now.”
“You’re probably right.”
“”I’m allus right.”
“Oh yeah? Remember when you told me Georgie was definitely into you, and she threw her drink in your face?” There’s something familiar about that, something that feels like it’s on the tip of this tongue, something about Georgie...
“She was just frontin’. I’ve got the scars to prove it.”
“Most people don’t count scars as a sign of sexual prowess.” It’s right there, if he could just remember .
“Most people are boring. Anyway, Georgie’s wound so tight, gettin’ ‘er to unwind was always go’na be a dangerous job.”
“Well the fact that you kept trying to use her to cheat on her… best… friend…” It hits him all at once, the memory of who’s missing, of who should be with them, and he can’t believe he forgot her. “Fuck.”
“Y’ all‘ight?” Johnny asks, not sounding particularly concerned.
“We forgot her again,” Rupert says, his eyes filling up with tears. “Shit, Johnny, we fucking forgot that Roni’s dead!”
Johnny looks offended. “I didn't.”
“Then why are you here?! Why are you okay?!”
Johnny shrugs, shoulders shifting inside his leather jacket. “She's been dead a while mate, and sittin’ at ‘ome twiddlin’ me thumbs won't bring ‘er back, so I might as well enjoy life. Anyway, she knew the risks.” He walks on a few steps and turns back, looking surprised to see that Rupert isn't following him. “Y’comin’ Ripper?”
Rupert feels sick. Ronni had died for John, died because of John, because just being around him was dangerous. Once upon a time Rupert had been attracted to that danger, had thought it was exciting, but now, looking at the honest confusion on John's face, the danger doesn't seem exciting anymore, just frightening.
“You know, I'm not really feeling it. I think I'll just go home.”
“Suit yerself. I'll see y’around.”
“Not if I see you first,” Rupert says, like he always does, only this time he means it. “Enjoy the gig.”
He stays standing in the road, watching John walk away, and vows to himself that whatever happens, he's not going to end up like Roni. He's not going die trapped in the gaps of the universe for the sake of a man who wouldn't even mourn him.