Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

- 1926 - 

Hob Gadling was not by nature a cautious man. In his 570 years of life he had been a soldier, a highwayman, and had been accused of witchcraft - back when that had still meant something. Yet even he knew the value of remaining vigilant on those who would be too… intrigued by his condition. Over a hundred years had passed and he could still hear The Stranger's words as clearly as if they had just been uttered: "But you can be hurt, or captured." 

It used to be simple enough to do so, back in the days when the Malleus Maleficarum ruled supreme. One barely had to step outside before being bombarded with decrees from the pulpit, town criers advertising the latest trial, and a pompous, local witch finder strutting through whichever village he found himself in. 

Now, however, now society was ruled by logic and modernity. The occult was just so uncivilized and the British Empire was the very definition of civilization. And so all discussions of things unexplainable had been banished to the shadows. But that did not mean that they had gone. No, Hob was not about to make that mistaken assumption. Instead it meant that keeping tabs on them had become a much harder and more delicate task.

And thus he found himself sitting alone in a dodgy pub, in a dodgy part of London, nursing an even dodgier pint of ale, ears peeled to the drunken conversations around him. He had chosen this pub for its prime location near multiple of the occultist lodges that he had found throughout the decades and it wasn't uncommon for the initiated to pop in for a drink after a meeting. Then - like the generations before them - one drink turned to two, then three, and eventually their lips turned loose, spilling out secrets and stories that they would later deny to their dying breath having ever spoken. 

It was a good system. In one night he could easily gain the information that would take an initiate years to acquire, all while remaining anonymous. Throw in the haze from the alcohol and a non-descript coat and Hob might as well have been invisible to the rest of the pub goers. 

"Have you heard that that scum Aleister Crowley is trying to return to London?"

Fraud. 

"The Lodge now wants to include an invocation to the Great Architect of the Universe at every single meeting into our constitution."

Old news.

"Jack Moore finally got his hands on some radium. He thinks that he's finally got his alchemical potion completed, although if that slop is what'll provide everlasting life, I'd rather die tonight."

Hob winced. Doomed to fail painfully. 

That’s the problem, he thought. Everyone is obsessed with immortality. Not that he could blame them. He'd had it granted to him and he definitely wouldn’t go back. But finding out if these people were merely playing at denying Death or if they had actually found Something was a process that was murkier than he'd like, especially since he still wasn't sure which method still kept him alive.

Oh, you know. A voice broke through his thoughts. The Stranger did this. 

And then you went and pissed him off. 

Hob took a deep drink of his ale, the lukewarm, bitter liquid coating his tongue and throat in a wonderful pairing to the nauseous fear and guilt that swept up and through his body.

He could honestly say that he had spent everyday for the first ten years after that disastrous dinner waiting to wake up dead. And how could he not? He could still see the fury in The Stranger's face, the way that the shadows called to him, his eyes darkening to an inky black with blazing stars shining out an unnatural light. He had always known that The Stranger was something Other - especially after their encounter with Constantine - but he had never really felt it until that moment. If The Stranger could give everlasting life, then he could just as easily take it away.

And then you went and chased after him. 

Hob felt an overwhelming urge to bang his head repeatedly onto the nearest hard surface, but the disturbingly sticky texture of his table quickly convinced him otherwise. It wasn’t that he regretted his actions per-say. After all, he truly did think that The Stranger and he were friends - of a sort. What else would you call the only other being that you could be 100% honest with about your life and not end up in an insane asylum? Hob certainly had no one else like that in his life and he would bet that The Stranger didn’t either.

Not that he really tells you anything. What kind of friend won’t even share his name, hmm?

He quickly shook that thought away. No, he knew that they were friends, he had just made the mistake of wounding The Stranger’s pride. After all, one of the few things that Hob knew about The Stranger was that he was a proud creature. Proud, but not cruel. In 63 years time they would meet back up at the White Horse, Hob would apologize for calling him lonely, and then they would continue on as they had for centuries past, with all of this mess firmly behind them.

“Hey Eddy! Did Old Burgess finally get that demon of his to talk?” 

A loud laugh erupted throughout the pub. Edward Davies was a member of a new order that had recently popped up, the Order of Ancient Something-or-other. Roderick Burgess (or the Magus as he insisted on being called) was rumored to have a demon of his own trapped in his basement, ready to give gifts to his Order’s devout followers. The Old Demon King, as he was mockingly known in London, was a dime-a-dozen these days and his claims had yet to show any more proof than the myriad of other frauds. Hob personally believed that he had some random vagrant trapped down in his basement, and was selling off tickets for a glimpse of the “demon” to his brainwashed lackeys. Poor sod.

“The Magus speaks the truth!” Edward cried out in drunken distress. “I’ve seen the Demon, it’s real!”

“Sure Eddy! And I just got back from dinner with the King.” Another loud laugh ran through the bar. 

Hob watched as Edward dejectedly made his way over to the bar to grab another pint. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity. Delusional or not, Hob had certainly been in the other man’s shoes enough times and being the joke of the entire pub was always miserable, no matter the century. He glanced down at his now empty drink.

Ah, what the hell.

“Sorry about those guys.” Hob said as he made his way over to the bar and motioned to the bartender for two new drinks.  

“Thanks.” Edward replied, gratefully taking the offered pint.

“To your demon.” Hob toasted, and then grimaced at the taste. “Fuck, that really is awful.”

Edward broke a small smile. “True, but at least it’s cheap.”

Hob toasted again to the sentiment, but quickly thought better of taking another sip. “So, you’ve really seen it then? Your demon?”

The other man’s face closed off. “Yeah.”

“How do you know? How do you know that it’s real?” He knew he shouldn’t ask, but the urge to understand how someone could be so easily fooled by such a clear charlatan was uncontrollable. 

Edward scoffed. “If you could see it you’d know. They say that he’s been locked in his cage for ten years now, no food, no water. He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t talk, he just sits there and watches you.” 

Hob felt a deep sense of unease creep over him as the other man took a deep drink of his ale. 

“He looked at me once, just once. I’ll never forget it. It was like he was looking into my soul. Like he was seeing my whole life, my hopes, my dreams, and he found them wanting.

And his eyes.

Fuck, I don’t think I can ever describe them. It was like looking into the ocean at night. Pure black. Darker and deeper than anything that I’ve ever seen. 

Except. 

Well, they also shone. And not in that cheesy, reflecting off of the lamp kind of way. But like a cold sun, barely restrained in its cold, burning fury. There’s not a single damn thing that was natural about him, for all that he looked like a regular man.”

With each word, Hob felt the sense of foreboding until his whole body was chilled to the core. 

There’s no way. 

But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, the description of the eyes were just too detailed, too exact to have been anyone else.

He’s the most powerful being that you’ve ever known. There’s no way that it could be The Stranger.

But for all that he tried to convince himself otherwise, The Stranger’s warning would not leave his mind.

"But you can be hurt, or captured."

If it truly was The Stranger that Burgess had captured and not some coincidence, then the smart thing, the prudent thing, would be for Hob Gadling to run as far away as he could. If Burgess had already proved himself more than capable of capturing one all powerful, immortal being then a simple man like Hob (he was old, yes, but he was still just a man), would stand no chance against him.

But Hob Gadling was not by nature a cautious man. 

“I’d love to see this demon for myself.”

Chapter Text

It would take many more drinks and many more hours to convince Edward Davies that he was serious, but eventually Hob secured an invitation to one of Roderick Burgess’s upcoming parties. Strict instructions on dress codes and location were provided to him before Edward stumbled off into the night. 

Three weeks and one two-hour train ride later found Hob waiting nervously at the East Grinstead railway station to meet up with Edward and make their way to Wych Cross and Fawny Rig together. If he was honest with himself, a not insignificant part of Hob wondered if Edward even remembered their plan to meetup. Afterall, by the time that they had parted ways, Edward was extremely drunk. Not that Hob required Edward to get him into the party, but he did know that it would be much easier with him. 

Not that he knew exactly what he was getting into. It made him uneasy, going into this situation completely blind and defenseless. Edward had made it very clear that this was to be a white tie party, complete with aristocrats and actors, so Hob had to dress and act the part. Unbeknownst to Edward, this meant leaving behind any potential weapons or tools, or hell even any extra disguises to sneak The Stranger out in. He had no clue how he was going to get access to his friend, not to mention release and free him - all without being detected. 

Fuck, this is going to be a shitshow.

Still, Edward had promised Hob the chance to see the demon and there was no way that he could turn down any potential opportunity to help his friend, even if he still wasn’t 100% sure that The Stranger was even in trouble in the first place. The Stranger had gifted him his life and Hob figured that it would be a very poor way to repay him by leaving him to rot in some old man’s cellar out of fear of his own discovery.

“Rob! Rob Glading!” A voice cried out from across the platform and a well-dressed Edward Davies elbowed his way through the equally well-dressed crowd. Hob waived at him, recognizing the most recent name that he'd been using for the last ten years.

“It’s good to see you, Davies. I wasn’t sure that you were going to make it.” He said, shaking the other man’s hand.

Edward laughed. “I never miss these parties. There’s a betting pool going on when we’ll get our first royal to show, and there is no way in hell that I want to miss that.” 

He lowered his voice. “Besides, it’ll be nice to have someone in the London crowd who’ll actually believe me for a change.”

“You're still planning on taking me to see it?" Hob asked, slightly surprised.

"I promised you, didn't I?"

Hob laughed. "I've learned to be skeptical of promises made while wasted."

"Fair enough."

"So is everyone here also going to see it?" Hob asked, looking around the overcrowded platform.

"Oh god no." Edward replied. "Most of the people here wouldn't know the supernatural if it bit them on the ass. No, most of them are just trying to get into a very exclusive party of a very eccentric man. It's only the select few of us who really understand what is going on, here in the darkness." 

Edward paused significantly, as if he were waiting for a response from Hob. Unable to think of something else, Hob nodded solemnly at the man. It was apparently enough because Edward continued on. "Anyways, it makes grabbing a cab a bloody nightmare."

"If that's the case, then shall we try and grab one?"

"Let's!" And together they made their way over to join the fray for one of the idling cars.

The ride itself to Fawny Rig was dark and largely uneventful. Much sooner than he had expected, the large copse of trees gave way to a stately, manor house. The jewels and finery of the gathered crowd glistened in the light of the large pillars of flames that illuminated the path to the entrance. 

"I'm guessing that this is it then?" Hob asked as he climbed out of the car, motioning towards the crowd.

"Not unless you want to wait in line." Hob looked at Edward questioningly as he was led away from the bright lights towards a non-descript door on the side of the manor. 

"After these parties started getting popular, a bunch of us Followers got tired of waiting in line just to be turned away because 'they were already full'." Edward explained, as he knocked on the door in front of them.

"Oh! Hi Edward." The man behind the door greeted them. "Who's your friend here?"

"Hello Horace. This is Robert Glading. He's of a… similar mind as us."

The other man's eyebrows shot up. "Oh really?"

Hob stepped forward, trying desperately to remember Edward's drunken coaching. "Yes sir. I can't wait to discover what resides here in the darkness."

Horace stared at Hob, before shrugging. "It's nice to meet you Robert. You two have fun tonight."

Hob let out a sigh of relief.

"Will do, Horace. How much longer do you have to watch the door?" Edward asked as they stepped inside.

"Not much longer thankfully. Gordon's gonna be taking over for me soon. But keep your eyes peeled for any royals for me." 

Edward laughed and clapped Horace's arm. "Sure thing Horace." 

Together they made their way through some back hallways towards the noise coming from the rest of the house. Hob tried desperately to memorize their route, though each hallway was as similar as the last.

"You're going to want to leave your coat in here." Edward said as they stopped by a random room. "You can pick it up at the end of the night."

Hob complied and soon they were making their way back towards the main part of the house again.

"That really should've been Alex's job. He's a sweet kid but he's absolutely useless. We would've been waiting for ages and it's honestly just faster to do it ourselves."

Hob wasn't sure how to reply but before he could think of something, they stepped out into the main hallway.

"Jesus Christ."

Hob gazed around him at the room that was dripping in finery. The high ceilings, dark woods, and rich tapestries would've been the envy of any palace back in the 1500's. The crystal in the chandelier and the fine silver shone in the light from the hundreds of electric lights that were stationed all around the rooms. Multiple gramophones were stationed around the house and over the din of conversations, he thought he could even make out the sound of a live band. Hob honestly couldn't decide if he was impressed or disgusted by the garish and flagrant display of wealth around them.

"I know, it's amazing right?" Edward said excitedly as he handed Hob a crystal glass of champagne.

"So Burgess got all of this," he motioned around himself, "from the demon?"

Edward took a sip from his glass. "Not exactly? I know that he had money before, but the presence of his 'guest' certainly didn't hurt things. Here, let me show you around."

Hob bit his tongue as Edward shepherded him around the manor party, pointing out the rare artifacts and famous attendees as they went. He honestly couldn't care less about the Follies star that was currently being violently sick in a potted plant, but he didn't want to offend Edward, no matter how restless he was to see if the demon really was The Stranger. After all, patience was a virtue that he had been forced to learn over his long life.

"So would you like to go see the demon now?" Edward asked.

Fucking finally. "Yeah, that would be great." 

"Okay, follow me." Edward looked around the crowd to see if anyone was watching them before slipping into a side hallway and then stopping before a wooden door. 

"Alright, I'm going to go down and switch with the guards. I think that John and Lawrence are on duty tonight, and those two are already mad about pulling the short straw and missing the party. If I offer to give them a break, they'll take it, no questions asked."

"I can't just go down with you?"

"No!" Edward said quickly. "No. No one's actually supposed to see the demon without the Magus approving them first. But, you're like us right? You already know all about this stuff, so it's not like it really counts."

Hob felt his stomach sink. 

Aw, kid. 

This was probably going to get Edward killed. Most cult leaders generally weren't very forgiving to those who spread their deepest secrets around to strangers. After all, secret societies had to stay secret somehow.

You can still back out. It's not too late.

But the idea of The Stranger in chains was too strong and Hob knew that his choice had already been made centuries ago.

Sorry kid.

"That makes sense. Should I just wait here or...?"

"Yeah, just wait around the corner and when you see those two leave, you can come down."

Hob nodded in agreement and dashed around the corner and into a darkened doorway. He was beginning to feel sick with anticipation. In a few moments he would either be face-to-face with The Stranger six decades ahead of schedule, or he'd be meeting some other random unfortunate being who had managed to get caught by Burgess. And no matter the outcome, he still didn't have any plan on how to free whoever was down there. 

Nonetheless, when Hob watched two men (presumably the aforementioned John and Lawrence) excitedly walk past, he slipped out quietly from his hiding spot and quickly made his way over to the heavy wooden door that Edward had already gone through.

This is it. He thought and let out a deep breath. Steeling himself, he pushed against the door and entered into the stone passageway within. 

The dark and the chill were the first things that he noticed. The contrast from the brightly lit party blinded him and he grabbed onto the stone wall for guidance. However eventually that stone wall turned into slick, metal bars and as his eyes finally adjusted to the dim, yellow light, Hob stumbled his way down the steps.

“Rob! Over here!” Edward called out, but as soon as Hob turned the corner everything else was forgotten.

At first Hob struggled to make sense of what his eyes were seeing. A giant glass globe cradled in steel arches hung suspended in the center of the dark cavernous room. Inside it, illuminated by a cold, white light, sat an inhuman creature bathed in shadow. 

Hob took another step forward, transfixed. It can’t be.

At the sound of his step, the beings head snapped up into the light. 

There was no mistaking it. Hob had spent centuries memorizing that face. His sharp nose. His plush lips. The way that his dark eyes and hair served to make his already pale skin turn to the color of snow. On any normal human it would have been corpse-like, but on him it only served to underline the alien quality of the man. It had been enough to cut through the fuzzy-haze of their first meeting and that memory had stayed for those first long one hundred years, back when he had had no clue what was happening to him. By all rights, he should’ve forgotten that random, drunken evening long before he had noticed any lack of change, but The Stranger’s presence had made that impossible. And here it was now, staring back at him.

Hob wasn’t aware of himself moving forward, the sensation of water an inconsequential detail easily forgotten. So too was the distant sound of yelling. All that mattered was the feeling of the cold, smooth glass underneath his hands and the dark eyes staring back at him in shock.

“It is you.” He whispered to The Stranger, who placed a trembling hand next to his as if trying to reach through the glass.

Up close Hob could see the way that his flesh was stretched taut across his emaciated frame, the way that his sinewy muscles clung to his bones, much too grotesquely close to the surface. He could count his ribs, his collarbones, the sharp jutting protrusions of his hips, the knobs of his spine. Even his hands had changed, now boney with sharpened nails, a contrast to those from his memories. He had always been dressed in the finest of cloths, in the highest of fashions. To see his friend like this, striped bare, was wrong.

“What did they do to you?” He gasped. Hob was aware that they were alone now, the yelling having since ceased.

Instead of answering Hob, The Stranger locked eyes with him, desperation shining through.

“Run.” 

Hob stumbled back, as if struck. “What are you talking about? I’m not going to leave you here like this.”

“Run, Hob Gadling.” The being pleaded again.

“Not without you!” Hob cried. He was distantly aware of the sound of running footsteps, and he frantically ran his hand over the glass prison, hoping desperately for some kind of lock or release. “Just tell me how to open this! I’m not leaving you!”

Suddenly a sharp pain raced down his arm as he was violently torn away from the cage and thrown down onto his knees.

“And just who the hell do you think you are?” A furious voice snarled.

He felt a hand in his hair force his head back, and Hob Gadling met the eyes of one enraged Roderick Burgess. 

Chapter Text

He felt a hand in his hair force his head back, and Hob Gadling met the eyes of one enraged Roderick Burgess.

Fuck. 

The hand in his hair tightened again and he was shaken violently until he saw stars across his vision.

"I said, who the fuck are you?!" Roderick Burgess roared, eyes wild.

Panic and pain overwhelmed all of Hob's senses as his mind struggled to find purchase amidst the dizziness and disorientation. He doesn't know, he doesn't know. He reminded himself, as both a reminder and a prayer.

"Robert Glading." Hob gasped out. Please please please please.

"Are you one of his?!" 

Relief flooded through his body ( he bought it ) replaced quickly by confusion. "What?"

Burgess threw him forward, Hob's shoulder crashing painfully onto the slick, stone floor. He risked a look around the room.

Fuck.

Between Burgess and the door was a distressed looking Edward, the previously missing guards, a young man about Edwards's age, and at least three other men - most of whom were aiming guns in his direction. 

Hob's stomach sank. There was no way that he could fight past them, even if he managed to evade Burgess.

The man kicked at his stomach and Hob scrambled backwards in an attempt to avoid him.

"Answer me!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" He cried.

Burgess laughed coldly. "Oh I think you do. You're like Jessamy aren't you? You've come down to save your master." The man turned to look at The Stranger. "Isn't that right, Dream? You tell me that he's one of yours and I might even let it live."

Burgess paused contemplating. "Or no, perhaps he's not one of yours after all. Maybe you're one of his siblings'. But which one? Despair? Destiny?" His eyes sharpened. "Death?"

The look in the man’s cold, calculating eyes was somehow even more chilling than the wild look from earlier. They pinned him in place and promised something, a something that Hob didn’t know and didn’t want to imagine. 

“What are you talking about? I just wanted to see the demon!” He mixed truth and lies, hoping that his desperation would enhance the former and hide the latter.

“Demon?” Curiosity swept across Burgess’s eyes and Hob felt a dim flicker of hope as the look from earlier dissipated.

“Yes.” He explained. “I heard that there was a demon who could make you rich and I wanted to see it.”

“And just what were you going to do with my ‘demon’?”

Ice flooded his veins as he realized the trap that he had just walked into. “I… I…”

“The Endless is mine.” Burgess hissed, stepping closer to Hob. “I captured it. I control it. AND YOU THINK YOU WERE JUST GOING TO STEAL IT?!”

Suddenly, he brought the clubbed handle of his cane back and then struck it down onto Hob with all of his might. Hob curled up into a ball, bringing his hands up over his head in a desperate attempt to protect himself from the sudden onslaught.

“You were, weren't you?!” He dealt another blow, the crack of the cane on the bone of his shoulder echoed throughout the room.

“Answer me!” This time the cane hit his head, jarring the world out of focus. Hob curled up tighter.

“It -” Whack.

“Is -” Whack.

“Mine!” Whack.

The blows continued to rain down upon Hob. He’s really trying to kill you, isn’t he? A distant part of him thought. How many more of these can a normal person take?  

“-ather! Stop!” The beating stopped as the sound of footsteps approached. At this point Hob hardly cared as the pain blossomed across his body, deep and sharp, threatening to pull his entire world down to that singular sensation. “You are killing him!”

“Why thank you for informing me of that fact, Alex.” Burgess sneered at the young man. “Interrupt me again and I’ll do the same to you.” He lifted the cane above his head again.

“But Father, look!” Alex yelled. 

There was a pause and then Hob heard the sound of the cane coming back to rest onto the stone floor. Dazedly, he rolled his head over to look at what had been compelling enough to stop Roderick Burgess in the middle of his rage.

The Stranger was on both feet now, hands fisted against the glass. Hob had never seen such rage on the man before, not even when Hob had insulted him. His muscles strained with tension, knuckles stark white. His mouth was twisted into snarl. And his eyes blazed with open hatred at Burgess, who stared curiously back at The Stranger. If anything he looked amused by his reaction.

Burgess then looked back down at Hob, contemplatively.

“Did he speak to you?” He asked, walking back over to his huddled figure on the floor.

Hob moaned, not understanding what was happening, unsure of how to answer.

“I said, did he speak to you?” Burgess took his cane and jabbed it unerringly into one of the burning knots of pain in his shoulder that that cane had already created.

The world turned white, pure agony washing over and erasing every other sensation, even the notion of pain itself. Distantly he was aware of the sound of someone screaming, and even more distantly he was aware that it was him who was screaming. Far too soon though, the world and all its sensations rushed back to him, and with it came back the immediacy of the fire spiraling out from his shoulder. His sobs grated at his raw throat as he struggled for air.

“Well?” Burgess asked again and raised his cane, ready to jab him once again.

“Yes.” Hob gasped, his answer torn unwillingly from him.

“And what did he say to you?” He watched Hob with hungry eyes. Hob looked back at him, loathing the man with every ounce of his bruised body. 

“He told me to run.”

There was a pause and then Burgess let out a laugh. “As well he should have.”

The man turned and snapped in the direction of the crowd behind them. “Lawrence. John. Get over here and bring the chains and the cuffs.”

He then turned around to face the glass prison. “Well Lord of Dreams, I guess I will let your little pet live tonight, since he’s been most informative. I assume that next time I come down here, you will be feeling a bit more talkative, so we can avoid all of this… unpleasantness.” 

Hob heard the sound of footsteps accompanying the clanging of metal. 

“Cuff him.” Burgess ordered. “Then I want him tied to that pillar there. Make sure that our ‘guest’ can see him. We don’t want him to forget what might happen should he prove to be difficult. And for god's sake, make sure that he can’t reach the damn circle.”

Tight metal was fastened around both his wrists and then he was being dragged across the wet floor, his now thoroughly ruined waistcoat and tailcoat doing nothing to protect his injured ribs from the biting edges of the stones. Each jolt sent a wave of rippling pain through his body, and Hob couldn’t prevent the groan that he released. Eventually he was deposited at the base of an ornately carved column. The cold marble would have felt wonderful against his battered body, had the expertly crafted leaves and vines not dug in roughly against his bones. 

Then, a thick length of chain was snaked between his handcuffed hands and then around the pillar multiple times before being secured with a large lock. The weight of the chain pulled on his wrists, forcing him off of his - admittedly uncomfortable - resting place on the pillar and back onto the ground. He could have fought against it but any resting place, ground or not, was looking more and more appealing with each labored breath that he took.

Burgess came over once the lock was secured and kicked at the thing. Apparently it passed whatever test he had in mind because he simply nodded and said, “I suppose it’ll do for now.”

He looked then up at John and Lawrence who were nervously waiting on their Magus. “Sir?”

“Now this time do you think that you can do your fucking job and stay at your damn posts?” He asked them, sneering. Both men quickly nodded, realizing that they had probably gotten off lighter than they had any right to, and if they hadn’t, well then it wouldn’t hurt to suck up to Burgess in the meantime.

“And Edward… Davies, was it?” The young man in question jolted at his name. 

“Yes, sir.” He said, eagerly coming over to Burgess like a puppy waiting for an expected treat.

“It was you who found our new guest, correct?” Burgess’s voice was calming, encouraging. Hob felt his stomach begin to sink.

“Yes, sir.” Edward nodded excitedly. “He told me that he was interested in seeing our demon. And when I saw how it reacted to him, I knew that I had to come tell you.”

“I see.” Burgess said calmly. “You did the correct thing in coming to get me, Edward Davies.” The young man beamed at the praise. 

“I have a few things left to do down here, but why don’t you go wait for me up in my office? I’d love to continue this conversation with you there.”

Hob didn’t think that it was possible, but somehow Edward managed to smile even wider. “Of course, Magus! It would be an honor!”

The young man gave a quick bow and then hurried his way back towards the metal gate and up the stairs, only barely containing a visible urge to run. Burgess waited for a moment in the quiet of the room until the sound of the door opening and closing echoed back to them. Instantly, the warm mask dropped from his face.

“You three.” He motioned to three men in the group that had come down with Burgess. “Go take care of him.” His voice was cold and absolute. “I want everyone to know what happens to those who defy my will.”

There was no pause or hesitation. 

“Yes, sir.” Hob watched in horror as the three men bowed and left. Oh kid, I am so, so sorry. 

“Alex.” The man snapped.

The dark haired young man hurried over to Burgess, stopping a deferential distance away. “Yes, Magus?” He asked, his head bowed, not making eye contact.

“This Robert Glading is your responsibility now. Keep him alive for me until I come to speak with him again.”

Alex Burgess locked eyes with Hob, and for an instant Hob couldn’t decide who was more horrified by the prospect. But Alex said nothing except to nod out another, “Yes sir.”

Roderick waved him away and turned away from the group, making his way back towards the stairs. With each echoing step, Hob Gadling felt the enormity of what was happening finally hit him. 

“You can’t do this to me!” He screamed at the man’s back. The metal cuffs dug sharply into his wrists as he pulled desperately on the chains. 

“I have family!” Lie. 

“Friends!” Lie.  

“People will come for me!” Lie.

The man stopped in his tracks and looked back at Hob. “I think that you will find, Mr. Glading, that I can - as a matter of fact - do this. Now if you don’t mind, I have a party to return to.”

And Hob could do nothing more than hollowly watch the man turn away from him and ascend the stairs, taking his hopes for freedom with him. 

Chapter Text

Time moved strangely in that basement. Maybe it was the head trauma, maybe it was the lack of sleep from the pain, or maybe it was simply what happens when you force an immortal man into a small area with nothing to mark the passing of time except the random changing of the guards. 

Whatever it was, time seemed to slip for Hob. One moment he was curled on the ground feeling his bruises bloom like galaxies across his skin, the next he was lying in a field with his Eleanor and Robyn, where everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. But then Robyn's laughing face turned worried, and the fields turned cold, and his son begged him, "Please don't die."

Hob tried to reassure him that he couldn't, that he was safe, but his words would not come and he watched as his sweet Robyn's face shifted into that of Alex Burgess, terrified and determined, holding bread and a glass of water as if they were a sword and shield that he could fight off Death with if he just willed it hard enough. 

Hob drank the offered water and then as he ate the bread turned into pastries in his mouth, taste exploding across his tongue, his first filling meal in eighty years. The disgusted glares from the pub's patrons (guards, he thought) should've been more off-putting, but it was only the eyes of The Stranger (Dream) that were enough to pull him away from the food in front of him. The light from the fireplace flickered in the man's eyes, but no it was the light from the lamp reflecting off the glass prison. But there was no glass prison in 1689, was there? Hob tried desperately to hold onto that thought, but the pain and confusion dragged it away from him, like a leaf down a raging river.

("Shit, do you think it's a concussion? I don't think he should be sleeping.")

The centuries began to mix together faster and faster, a swirling vortex of colors and sounds. It was too much, too many sensations, and Hob wished desperately for anything solid to anchor him through this storm. 

Suddenly the world stilled, settling into the visage of the White Horse. The warmth of the pub was accentuated by the countless candles stationed around the walls, which sparkled merrily in the stained glass and the large mirror behind the bar. Kit Marlowe laughed heartily at Geoffrey Chaucer in a corner booth. A goat wandered by, nibbling at a top hat that an unfortunately drunk, young Shakespeare had left on a bench. 

Hob’s hair was no longer short, the errant strands tickling his cheeks. His favorite overcoat fit comfortably over a lusciously embroidered doublet that he remembered. He could feel the silk stockings underneath the pair of soft leather boots that he had lost during the Cornish rebellion back in 1497. All of it should have been too warm in the heat of the room, but instead it felt cozy, like a hug welcoming him home. 

"You should not have come for me, Hob Gadling." 

Hob spun around to find his Stranger sitting in a booth by the same fireplace that Hob had waxed poetic about back in 1489. He however did not recognize the black cloak that the man wore, nor had he ever seen the man's hair so wild, as if he had decided that gravity was optional for him and gravity had obeyed.

Hob took a seat at the bare table with a smile. 

"And you should have known that I will do whatever it is I chose to do, especially if it's in aid of a friend."

A slight smile crept across The Stranger's mouth. Hob grinned in victory and reached down to grab a sip from a flagon of ale that definitely hadn't been there before.

His grin dimmed. 

"This isn't real, is it? I'm dreaming." He asked, looking over for confirmation.

The man looked back at him, strangely disappointed. "Just because something is a dream, does not mean that it's not real."

They both fell back into silence, only the sound of the crackling fireplace accompanying their thoughts.

"Burgess called you that, you know. Dream." He waited for a response but when none came he pushed on. "Is that your name?"

The man beside him went still.

"I had not wished for you to learn my identity from the likes of Roderick Burgess." He said reluctantly, bitterness glittering in his eyes.

Hob could understand what he meant. It felt like they had been robbed of something that they had been building towards for over half a millennia.

Perhaps it was being back in this same booth or perhaps it was Roderick Burgess’s poisonous words in his ears, but an old fear, one that he had never entirely settled, arose within him. The crushing weight of why me? What cost does immortality have? And who do I owe it to?

“Was he right about me, Burgess?” Hob asked hesitantly. “Am I one of yours? One of Death’s?” 

The other man stared at him for a while. Slowly, as though Hob would bolt at the slightest provocation, he reached over and grabbed a hand that Hob had resting on the table. His skin was cool to the touch and Hob realized with a start that this might be the first time that the other man had ever purposefully touched him.

“You belong to no one but yourself Hob Gadling. You owe no one nothing." He said softly but with surety. 

The feeling of relief was dizzying, and Hob was certain that he would have fallen apart without The Stranger's Dream's hand holding him together. While Dream had certainly implied it enough over the years, to hear it reiterated so clearly was something that he hadn't known that he'd needed. And if he shed a few tears at this, well he trusted that his friend wouldn't tell.

"Yeah, well tell that to my pub tab." He said, trying to laugh off the moment. He was rewarded with a slight grin at the edge of Dream's mouth in return. He regretfully removed his hand from the other man's to swipe at his eyes.

"I know that I don't owe it to you, but I would like to help you leave this damn place. Me too, while we are at it. Do you have any clue how?"

Dream looked at the old pub around them with a dry grin. "If you truly don't like this choice of venue, you may change it at any time."

Hob scoffed. Little shit. "You know that's not what I mean."

The man's grin faded and Hob felt a momentary pang of guilt for being the cause of it. "No, I suppose not." 

Hob forced himself to stay silent as he waited for Dream.

"The circle binds myself and my power. The glass, my physical form. If you were to break both, then I would be freed."

Hob frowned. "I don't understand. If the circle binds your power, then how are we talking?"

"I am the Dreaming, Hob. The circle may prevent me from utilizing it, but it cannot prevent me from seeing the dreams of others, for I am those dreams." He paused, as if uncertain of how to continue. "But it takes power to do so, power that the circle has stripped from me, and power that I have been denied since I came here. I used to be able to visit the dreams of any creature in the world on a whim, and now I can't even visit those of the men who sleep a floor above me. Yours are the closest that I've been to in ten years, and even that was harder than I believed possible."

"Shit, if I'm hurting you-"

"No." Dream reassured him. "It is… good for me to be in the Dreaming, even if I am as limited as this."

Hob nodded, grateful for that fact. "And what about the glass? I've seen you control sand before and isn't glass just another form of sand?"

"That is precisely why it works. My sand is a part of me. By using sand, it is as though it is myself that is holding me here, not a simple substance. The lack of true access to the Dreaming does not help in these matters." 

Hob nodded. So break the circle and break the glass. His stomach sank as he struggled to think of a way that he could access either.

"Why don't you speak to him? It would be easy enough to come up with a lie that would make it easier to escape."

Dream looked at Hob as if he had struck him.

"You would have me so easily relinquish my last piece of agency?"

Immediately guilt hit Hob. "No, I-"

"Do you truly believe that a man like Roderick Burgess would ever honor his promises? That he would ever risk the security of his prize?" Dream hissed, helpless anger and shame shaking his whole frame.

Hob reached out across the table, taking Dream's hand into his own. The man looked up, startled at the touch and gazed back at Hob questioningly.

"I would never ask you to do something that you are uncomfortable with. That man is a monster and deserves to be put down like one.” Hob said firmly. “I want to get you out of this fucking place, but not if it means doing it in a way that will make things worse for you than they already are."

Dream was silent and for a second Hob was terrified that he had pushed him too far again.

"I do not deserve your friendship, Robert Gadling." Dream said, dropping eye contact.

Hob gave the hand in his a squeeze. "Well it's a good thing that it's not up to you, isn't it?"

"Indeed." His lips quirked up in the beginning of a smile. It however faded and Dream reluctantly withdrew his hand.

"It is not safe for you to stay here this long with your injury."

Hob sighed. "You're right. I'm just not looking forward to whatever's waiting for me when I wake up."

"Do not further injure yourself on my behalf." Dream ordered.

"No promises." Dream shot him a glare. "I'm joking! Mostly. Honestly, I'm just glad that Burgess stopped when he did. I don't know how many more hits it would've taken for my survival to have gone from 'lucky' to 'suspicious'."

"There shouldn't have been any." Dream said darkly, his voice promising endless pain.

"You're right." He replied placatingly, not wanting to encourage Dream's protective anger any further than he already had. He let out a sigh, his eyes roaming longingly across the pub. "I really don't want to leave this place."

"You can always return here."

"With you?" Hob asked, suddenly feeling uncertain.

"If I am able." Hob nodded. That was probably as good as he was going to get. 

Dream stood smoothly up from his chair and reached out to help Hob, who gratefully took the help standing.

"It's time." 

Hob nodded and braced himself. "I know."

"Then awake." Dream ordered.

And Hob awoke with a gasp.

Chapter Text

"He’s awake!" A voice cried out.

Hob looked around the room, trying desperately to figure out what was reality and what had been just an extremely vivid dream.

Did that really happen?

He looked up at the glass cage suspended over him and met the eyes of Dream. There was a pause and then the man nodded minutely at him.

Okay, so I didn't just make all of that up. Hob thought, grateful for the confirmation.

“Are you alright? Please, can you understand me?” Alex Burgess said, kneeling in between Dream and Hob, breaking their eye contact. The boy reached out to touch Hob, who flinched away harshly from his hand.

“Shit! Yes, yes I can understand you.” He said, regretting the quick movement as Alex’s voice throbbed around his head. He could swear that he could feel the pain beating in time with his heart and the already dim lights seemed like stage lights.

“Oh thank god.” Alex said, collapsing to the ground as relief visibly spread throughout his entire body. “You’re not supposed to sleep with a concussion, but I couldn’t keep you awake and then you wouldn’t wake up, and it’s been days now, and…” The young man trailed off into silence as he noticed Hob staring at him, not responding.

“What do you want from me?” Hob croaked, his voice raw from pain and disuse. 

“I uhh… the Magus says that I’m supposed to ask how you know ‘it’.”

“It?” Hob asked, trying to keep the anger at the casual disrespect out of his voice.

“Well yeah. I’ve never seen him react like that to anyone before. Not even when I first met him. It’s obvious that he knows you.”

“I don’t know him.” Hob said, hollowly. “I told you, I just wanted to see the demon.”

Alex smiled. “Come on. Everyone knows that that’s not true. He didn’t move for years but you come along, and he’s fighting to try and break the glass. He didn’t even do that when they first caught him.”

Hob looked away. Damn it, Dream. While it was nice to know that he actually meant something to the other man, he really had the worst timing to show it.

“And how long ago was this?” He deflected, refusing to acknowledge Alex’s point.

“If you answer a question for me, I’ll answer a question for you?” He offered hopefully. 

Hob stared at his earnest face, and bit back a swear. Maybe it was Robyn’s face so close to the surface of his memories, but it struck him that Alex Burgess was just a boy still, no older than than his own son had been when he died.

“Deal.”

The boy perked up. “Oh! Uh…” He clearly hadn’t been expecting Hob to accept. “Your name’s not really Robert Glading, is it? I went down to London after that first day and while there were people who knew of you, no one could tell me anything about your family or your past.”

Hob felt a sharp spike in anger. “What were you hoping to do, console my weeping wife while you kept me chained up in your basement?”

The boy looked horrified. “No! I just… I just needed to make sure that you actually were who you said you were.” He tried desperately to explain himself. “And that’s not an answer.”

Hob nodded.

“You’re right.” He thought for a second, but couldn’t see the harm in giving the boy his name. Robert Gadling was a name that had last been used over five hundred years ago. He wasn’t even sure if it had ever been written down. “My true name is Robert Gadling.”

Alex’s face scrunched up in confusion. “But that’s basically the same thing. Why’d you change it?”

“I needed a fresh start.” He answered. Technically he had had hundreds of fresh starts by now, but there was no need to tell the boy that. “And that was two questions.”

The boy flushed. “Go ahead.”  

“How long has he been here?” Hob repeated.

“About ten years now?” 

All this time. Hob felt sick. 

“Like this?” He gestured vaguely towards the contraption hanging over them. “No food. No water. No air?”

Alex looked uncomfortable. “Why? He’s not human.”

“So?” Hob snapped.

Alex looked down at his hands, shame marring his features. 

“What does Burgess want from him?” Hob asked, feeling every one of his 570 years of life.

“My brother.” Alex answered. “Randall. He died in the Great War.”

“Kid.” Hob said softly. “He can’t do that.”

“I know… and, and I think my father knows it too.” He admitted reluctantly.

“So why hasn’t he let him go?” 

“He wants immortality.” Alex explained as Hob's heart skipped a beat. “Or wealth. Or anything really. Just to be spoken to. But he doesn’t. He’s been sitting here in silence, for ten years.”

Hob scoffed. “So I’m just supposed to sit here until an immortal being gets bored or your father gives up?”

Alex’s face twisted in sympathy. “Listen, I’m… I’m sorry about all of this. He’s not a bad man, my father, he… he just…”

“Your father is not a good man.” Hob snapped. “He just beat me, has been torturing my friend for a decade, and ordered the death of a boy less than a week ago. What good man would do that?”

“He just wants my brother back!” 

“And I want my son back!” Hob yelled. “But I don’t go around murdering people, because it doesn’t fucking work like that!”

The boy looked as though he’d been hit. “I…I…”

“Alex!” A loud but muffled voice yelled out through the door. Burgess. Both Hob and Alex stopped and stared at the direction of the voice. 

“Alex! I won’t fucking ask again!”

“I’ve got to go.” Alex said apologetically and fled, leaving Hob and Dream behind in the cold damp of the dungeon.

Hob leaned back against the uncomfortable column. “Well that went well.”

One of the guards behind him laughed and then silence descended upon the room again.

Hours passed. 

Hob tried to keep himself entertained by talking to the guards, who resolutely refused to respond to him, even as they walked by them during their routine check of the binding circle. He toyed with the idea of speaking with Dream, but quickly discarded that knowing that he would not answer and it would do nothing more than to annoy the other man. Could be some nice payback for ditching you for that playwright. A part of him was tempted, but one look at Dream in the sterile glass ball instantly evaporated that thought.

So instead he tried to pass the time by creating constellations in the painted stars on the ceiling. The bright gold seemed to mockingly glow at him as if reminding him that he wouldn't be seeing the real versions again for a long time - if ever . Still, it was better than staring at the plain slate floor or looking too closely at the green film that was growing on the bottom of the moat. 

Those four together look like a bird. He thought idly. And that group there could be a boat.  

In all honesty, only a very generous person would agree with his assessment, but Hob figured that his constellations made about as much sense as those in the real sky. If a bunch of ancient people could delude everyone else into seeing their hallucinations in a bunch of random pin pricks flickering in the dark, then Hob was certainly entitled to his own imaginings on the ceiling.

Hob saw Dream move out of the corner of his eyes. The man was gazing at the ceiling with curiosity.

See, he thought, filled with vindication, it’s not such a stupid way to pass time after all. Hob wondered what kind of unimaginable images Dream was able to see in the painted designs. They were probably infinitely more beautiful than the limited ideas that his comparatively young mind could think of.

He went back to looking at the paintings. The rich color of blue was rather gorgeous, the deep color of the evening sky as it trips over from golden afternoon into comfortable night. Hob had known many such skies. Could almost see the twinkling of the early, brightest stars emerge from its depths, the moon rising luminously on the horizon. Could hear the sounds of crickets in the air, the smell of fresh, green life fragrant on the breeze. The few wispy clouds that drifted in front of the lights weren’t enough to dim the peacefulness of the sight, even as they became thicker.

Hob blinked and shook himself free of his daydream. Those weren’t clouds and they certainly weren’t going away.

Fuck, is that smoke?

“Hey guys!” Hob shouted at the guards who were both deep into their own reading materials of choice. “Are you seeing this?”

The men both looked at Hob, irritated, but then swore as realization hit them. Together they ran up the stairs leaving Hob and Dream behind.

“Don’t leave us here!” Hob yelled at them, pulling uselessly at the chains. He hadn’t experienced being burned to not-death yet and he had no desire to change that fact. He could too clearly imagine the flames eating away at his flesh and he could only imagine how long it would take to heal from that. On the plus side, you would finally be able to slip out of the cuffs. 

He thought about poor Dream, locked in the glass cage. Hopefully the heat would be enough to crack the glass or destroy the painted circle. He turned around to yell at him, ask him what to do, when the noise died in his throat. Dream was staring straight ahead, stock-still, a look of hope on his face. 

Hob looked for what had Dream so transfixed and there, barely visible in the dim light, was a dark bird, its white chest a beacon drawing his eyes to it. He watched spellbound as it squeezed its way through the metal bars, pushing through the clear discomfort in a way that Hob had never before seen in an animal. Once free, it soared its way across the room, unerringly straight for Dream and landed on the chains at the top of the glass globe. 

Hob had never before seen the look that spread across Dream’s face. It was achingly soft, a disbelieving smile, so open and fragile that Hob held his breath out of fear that he might break it. 

It flew up off of its perch and started attacking the glass of the prison, the sound of its beak tapping futilely echoing around the room. Hob’s heart broke when he realized what it was so clearly trying to do, but there was no way that that little bird alone would be enough to shatter the glass. He looked desperately around the room for something to help it with when he felt his heart stop in his chest.

There, by the guard station, stood Alex Burgess holding a gun aimed straight at them. A horrible moment of realization hit, freezing the very blood in his veins.

“STOP!” He was screaming with every ounce of fear in his body.

The moment broke. The boy startled, dropping the gun. Dream looked over, horrified understanding flooding his face. And the little bird fled, diving straight into Hob. 

Hob’s hands instinctively came up, holding the body to his chest. The bird fought to scramble as close to Hob as possible, its claws digging into his shirt desperately. Its wings were still flapping frantically, poking him with the sharp edges of its feathers. Hob wrapped his arms around it in an attempt to calm it, holding the trembling, warm weight against him. In doing so he could feel its panicked breaths and fluttering heartbeat beneath his hands.

Hob looked up in dismay at Alex. “What were you doing?” He cried.

Alex looked distraught, although Hob couldn’t decide if it was at himself or at the fact that he had failed. 

“The Magus told me that I had to shoot her. Jessamy.” His voice was quiet, almost childlike. “He told me to shoot the fucking bird.”

Jessamy pressed herself closer into Hob’s body, hiding her little head underneath his chin. Hob’s skin crawled in revulsion, knowing what had almost transpired.

“And you would have done it?” He cried in disbelief. He wanted to believe that this boy - so young like Robyn had been - wouldn’t have followed through but he couldn’t, not when the gun was lying at the boy’s feet.

“I had to!” Alex cried back. “I have to do what he tells me!”

“Even if you know it’s wrong? This is wrong Alex.” Hob implored, trying desperately to get through to the boy.

“He will kill me!” Alex pleaded. “There’s nothing that I can do.” 

Hob felt like he had been slapped. How many times had he heard that over the course of his life, explaining away the atrocities of mankind? 

“Then what’s the point of living if you’re going to do nothing with it?” Hob asked coldly.

“At least I’ll be alive.” Alex begged for understanding.  

“I’d rather be dead.” Hob spat, disgusted with the boy in front of him.

Alex stood there not responding, letting Hob’s words ring out throughout the room. Hob could feel Dream’s eyes on him, but he didn’t dare look away from the figure in front of him. The boy’s shoulders were shaking and he could hear his gasping breaths from where he was. Slowly the boy reached down and picked up the gun at his feet. 

Hob froze, his grip tightening on Jessamy in his arms. He knew that he couldn’t protect her, not chained like this. 

“The guards are coming back.” The boy said, his voice dead and Hob stared at him in disbelief. “They’re going to be looking for her and checking the circle. Don’t let them spot her.”

A moment passed and then Hob dropped to the ground. He leaned against the column, gingerly placing a still shaking Jessamy between him and the stone. He then took the edges of the thoroughly wrinkled tailcoat that he was still wearing and draped them over her, praying that the long black fabric and the shadows would camouflage her black feathers.

He then looked up at the boy who was still staring at the gun in his hands.

“Thank you, Alex.” Hob said, his voice as gentle as possible.

The boy looked up at him, his empty eyes staring into Hob. And when the promised guards finally returned, he left the dungeon, not once looking back.

Chapter Text

Sleep came slowly to Hob that night. He was constantly aware of the nearness of the guards, of Dream’s eyes on him, of the precious presence tucked between him and the stone and how little it would take for everything to fall even further apart. 

Hob laid down and curled up around the column on his side, ensuring that his coat remained shielding Jessamy. In response, Jessamy shuffled up and laid alongside Hob’s chest, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. Hob gently laid his arm over her, cradling her closely to him, still unsure if it would be welcome. He heard her let out a little huff but she didn’t move and he felt the delicate rise and fall of her chest gently slow and even out into rest. The soft warmth of air on his face was hypnotic, soothing and comforting, reminding him that he wasn’t alone in this place. He could feel his own lungs slow, unconsciously matching Jessamy’s, and it finally pulled him over into sleep.

The first thing he was aware of was light and warmth. He slowly opened his eyes, feeling no need for fear or pain. There was no need to rush, not here. All around him, as far as the eye could see, grew long blades of the softest, greenest grass blowing in waves with the wind. A lone tree that he was currently lying under was the only thing that broke up the otherwise perfectly blue sky, although he distantly knew that if he concentrated hard enough he could manifest large, fluffy white clouds in whichever shape he so desired. 

He recognized this place, although it had easily been 350 years since he had last seen it. He wasn't even sure if it was still in existence anymore or if it had been lost to time like so many other places. He had last been here with his Eleanor - heavily pregnant at the time - and his young Robyn. The three of them had taken a picnic in one of the more idyllic fields of their country manor. It had been one of the moments in his long life where he realized that he was living his version of heaven and not even the pain and death that had come in the following months was enough to taint the memory.

There was a rustling in the leaves above his head and Hob looked up, spotting Jessamy on one of the overhead branches, preening her feathers.

“Jessamy?” Hob asked, delighted.

The bird stopped in her ministrations at the sound of his voice and looked down at him. 

“Hello sweetheart.” She tilted her head at that but then suddenly looked away towards the field.

“Jessamy!” A voice cried out. Standing out starkly against the bright green surroundings, was Dream. He raced over towards the both of them, the long grass parting before him as if the very land was loath to impede his progress.

It wasn’t fast enough for the raven though, as she leapt off the branch, soaring over to Dream.

“My Lord!”

Hob stared.

What. 

Dream caught the little bird as she collided with him, no sign that the talking bird was in any way unusual for him. He brought his forehead to hers, eyes closing at the contact.

“I almost lost you, little one.” His voice was wrecked, anguish and fear fighting with overwhelming relief. “And there was nothing that I could do.”

Her head drooped in shame. “I’m so sorry that I let you down.”

“No.” His objection was immediate and absolute. “It is I who’ve let you down. It is my job to protect you Jessamy and it is one that I have failed miserably at. You should’ve never been in this position and I will never forgive myself for what might have happened.”

Jessamy puffed up, clearly upset at his self-blame. Hob stepped forward, lest he allow the conversation descend into a never ending spiral of unnecessary guilt.

“Or we could blame the actual person who is holding us captive?” Hob suggested. 

Dream’s head snapped up towards him.

“Hob.” The man gasped. Suddenly Hob found his arms full as the other man desperately hugged him. “Thank you.”

Hob stood in shock, unsure if he was allowed to return the hug or not.

“I am forever in your debt.” Dream continued. “Whatever boon you wish, tell me and you shall have it.”

Hob pulled out of the hug, looking Dream in the eyes. “Yeah, no. That’s not how this works. You will never have to thank me, not for this.”  

Dream met his eyes, watery blue searching his face. 

“Did you mean what you said to the young Burgess?”

Hob startled. “To Alex?”

“When you said that you’d rather die than allow evil to go unchallenged, did you mean it?”

“You caught that didn’t you?” Hob said, acutely aware that he was talking to the one person that could ensure that he actually followed through on that statement. “I mean, yeah. I’ve already done that once and it will haunt me for the rest of my life. I can’t survive doing that again.”

Dream stared at him but said nothing.

“So, do birds usually talk around you?” Hob said, desperate to move on in the conversation.

Dream smiled, but allowed Hob the shift. “Not usually, no, but Jessamy is my Raven. She is my eyes and ears in the waking world and it would be entirely inconvenient if she couldn’t communicate with me. I believe that she would have spoken with you before now, but as a being partially of the Dreaming and my connection to the Dreaming nearly severed by the binding circle, I can hardly sense her this near to me, much less facilitate her conversations with others.”

“Can I break the circle now, my Lord?” Jessamy asked from her perch in the tree.

“Absolutely not.” Dream snapped, taking Hob aback. “The risk is far too high. The guards are still watching and they check the integrity of the binding multiple times a day.  And we still do not have a way of breaking the glass.”

Jessamy puffed up in indignation and Hob couldn’t blame her. “Now hold on. Breaking the circle would at least accomplish something. It would give us more options and at least you would have access to your power again.”

“I said no Hob. Even with access to my power, I have been weakened and there is no guarantee that I would be able to free myself - not and guarantee both of your safety.”

“It could still be worth the risk!” Hob argued.

Dream looked incensed. “No, it is not. I forbid it.”

“Well, that’s not just for you to decide.”

“No.”

“Come on-”

“Enough.” Dream thundered. “This dream is over.”

Hob startled awake. 

He lifted his head up to find Dream glaring at him through the glass. As much as he wanted to continue the argument, he knew that it was a lost cause - at least for the moment - and laid back down.

The tension in the room was oppressive for the rest of the day. Not only could Hob feel that Dream was still mad with him, but Hob and the guards could hear Roderick Burgess yelling through the stone ceiling and everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before the enraged man would make his way downstairs. The only question was just exactly how furious he would be by the time that he joined them and how badly they would all be made to pay for it. Yet to their surprise, Roderick Burgess did not make an appearance. Instead Alex did, bringing down food and water for Hob multiple times a day. 

On the first day, Alex handed the bread and water to Hob in silence, studiously avoiding eye contact with him. 

On the second day, he brought the bread and water, but there was also a small cube of cooked meat hidden with the bundle. Alex met Hob’s eyes for the briefest of seconds, before skittering away again, pausing only momentarily on the lump of black feathers hiding behind Hob. He then fled the room, leaving behind a befuddled Hob. After cautiously taking a bite of the cube himself ( poison is never a fun experience ) and feeling no strange effects, he passed the meat over to Jessamy, who ate it with a ravenous hunger.

On the third day, Alex stopped by the guards desk and Hob watched with amused interest as the boy pulled his shoulders back in a clear attempt at copying the arrogant confidence that came so naturally to Roderick Burgess.

“Leave us.” Alex commanded. “I will speak with the prisoner alone.”

Oh kid. The authoritative tone was not one that Alex could pull off.

One of the guards snorted. “No way in hell, Alex.”

“You dare to go against the wishes of the Magus?” Alex questioned, still attempting to hold onto the facade of control. 

“No, I don’t, which is why we won’t be leaving.” The other guard replied.

“But the Magus said-”

“The Magus said for us to stay here.” The guard interrupted. “I won’t end up like Edward Davies, Alex.”

The young man deflated. “I understand, Lawrence.”

He walked over to Hob and handed him the parcel of bread, water, and a slightly larger slice of meat, which Hob slipped to a very excited Jessamy. He then walked towards the exit but before he could leave, one of the guards grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“You aren’t the Magus yet, Alex. Don’t do anything stupid.” 

Alex stared at the other man for a second and then nodded, slowly trudging his way up the stairs.

On the fourth day, Alex did not stop at the guard’s desk. He did however hand only the bread and water to Hob. It’s to Jessamy herself that he handed a larger, rawer slice of meat, the bird hidden between the two of them from the prying eyes of the guards. Hob watched as Alex held his breath while Jessamy tilted her head from side to side, contemplating the food. The smile and shine in Alex’s eyes when Jessamy took the meat from his hand was breathtaking, and achingly reminded Hob of another boy that he had once known.

On the fifth day, Alex did not come down alone. A thunderous Roderick Burgess stormed down the stairs with his son trailing down behind him, hands empty. The man spared no glances for the guards or Hob, but instead made his way directly to Dream.

“Where’s the bird?” He ordered at Dream. Hob was instantly aware of the body right behind him, shrouded underneath the black fabric, her body heat searing against his side. Dream remained motionless, not showing any sign that Roderick was in the room at all.

“Where’s Jessamy?” He asked again, his voice rising. Hob risked a look over at Alex, who looked about as terrified as Hob himself felt. Still, Dream did nothing.

“I think that you’ve forgotten that you are not alone down here anymore.” Burgess said, looking over towards Hob, who felt his whole body freeze at the dark look of promise on his face. “I’ll give you one more chance, where is the fucking bird?”

Still, Dream remained silent.

“Fine then.” He addressed the glass prison. “What happens next, is on you.”

Burgess turned around slowly, and walked over towards Hob, his cane dragging languishingly slow on the stone behind him. The sound echoed throughout the room, causing Hob’s heart to rabbit out of his chest. He could still feel the deep ache from the last beating, could still see the dark blue bruises marring his skin. 

“Don’t.” The plea ripped itself out of his mouth before he could stop it. He wasn’t even sure who he was begging, Roderick to hold off his fury, or Dream to remain silent and keep Jessamy safe. 

A nasty smile spread across the man's face. “I’m truly sorry Mr. Glading. It’s not me you need to convince, if you don’t want this. This is nothing personal.”

“Well it feels fucking personal.” Hob spat.

White exploded across his vision, as his body was thrown backwards. Sharp pain swept through his head, but so did fear. Is she still hidden?  

Hob forced his eyes open. He found Burgess, looking over at Dream who was studiously ignoring the scene on the floor in front of him. Relief flooded Hob, Jessamy was still hidden from Burgess. He slowly pushed his body backwards, further wedging her into the stone column.

“Are you ready to talk yet, Lord of Dreams?” Burgess taunted.

Don’t you dare do it, Dream. He thought furiously.

“No? Fine then.” 

The next hit was to the bone of his shoulder. The next, to his hip. This time, each swing of the cane felt more calculated, more purposeful. He aimed at the bony areas, the places where each connection would echo throughout the room, would cause the most visible injuries. And with each hit, Hob tried desperately to stay aware of his position and where Jessamy was. Don’t hurt her. Don’t let her be seen. He had given up on holding back his cries and instead focused on not crushing the small hidden body as he instinctively tried to minimize the pain from each hit.

Eventually the blows began to slow and finally came to a stop.

“Well Mr. Glading, aren’t you glad to know that he cares more about a bird than you?” 

Hob looked up, fury in his eyes even as he gasped in pain. The other man simply looked back disinterestedly at him before turning and addressing Dream who was still in the same position that he had been in when Burgess had first come down. His face was blank, but Hob could make out the way that his nails were dug into his legs, turning his knuckles white. 

“Can’t let myself get too carried away, now can I?” He paused, as if giving Dream a moment to respond. “I’ll be back down tomorrow and every day until I find that damn bird. Let’s just hope that Mr. Glading here can last as long as your petty spite can.”

He then walked away, but not before delivering a hard kick to Hob’s stomach, driving all of the air from his lungs. 

“Come along, Alex. You can bring Mr. Glading his dinner later.”

Hob wearily looked up at Alex who looked horrified at the scene in front of him. The boy opened his mouth as if to say something, but seemed to think better of it and then fled out of the room after his father.

Once he was certain that Burgess had left the area, Hob looked back over towards Dream. The man was finally looking at him, stormy eyes furiously taking in his crumpled form. His nails were still dug into the meat of his legs and he could make out the fine tremors of tension running through his whole body. 

The intensity was too much for Hob. He rolled and curled towards the stone column, placing his back to the glass ball. Jessamy slowly crawled up towards his chest, allowing him to bracket her in a dark cave of safety and warmth. She laid down next to him and rested her head on his arm, the light warm weight comforting in spite of the pain that bloomed from there. 

It broke something in him, something that the beating had yet to do and Hob found himself crying silently, the tears falling onto the soft black, silken feathers beneath him. He half expected her to pull away but she only nestled herself closer. In return he folded his arms gently over her, cradling her to him. He allowed himself to float, anchored only by the little puffs of warm air from her breath against his skin and the rapid but steady heartbeat underneath his hands.

“-ert? Robert?” A worried voice and gentle hands shook Hob out of the meditative, floating trance and brought him back to the conscious world.

“Hmm?” He managed to croak as Alex’s face slowly came into focus before him. The boy looked wrecked, his face as pale as the white cardboard box that he had brought down with him.

“Oh thank god.” The boy breathed and Hob could see unshed tears forming in his eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He asked.

“What’s wrong?” The boy let out a slightly manic laugh. “I just watched my father almost beat you to death. Again.”

“Yeah, he does that.” Hob was too tired for this and he laid his head back down onto the cool stone floors.

Alex didn't respond to that. 

“So what’s in the box anyways?” He asked.

“Food. Medicine.” Alex responded. “The Magus wanted to make sure that you were… lucid enough to participate in your meeting with him tomorrow.”

Hob grimmaced. “How thoughtful of him.”

“Here’s some ibuprofen. It should prevent any fevers and help with the pain.” The boy handed him two small tablets, along with the bread and water that he had become accustomed to. However, missing from this little bundle was the chunk of meat. Hob lifted his eyebrows in askance and watched as a thousand thoughts flickered across the boy's face until finally landing on determination.

"Let me help." Alex said, voice quiet but strong for the first time since Hob had met him.

“Why?” Hob asked, skeptical, but he matched the volume of the Alex who clearly didn’t want the guards to overhear them.

Alex looked down at the ground, shame coloring his features. “You were right. I know that what my father - what the Magus - is doing is wrong. And I don’t… I don’t want to be that. I don’t want to be him.”

Hob stared at him for a moment looking for any sign of lying, but all he found was chagrined honesty. He softened. "Okay Alex, how can you help?" 

Alex looked up at him, grateful joy lighting up his face.

“Let me take Jessamy out of here.” He said motioning to the box next to him. “She kept herself safe for years outside of the manor, and if the Magus sees her outside, then he’ll stop asking you about it.”

Hob felt shocked. “I’m not just going to abandon her.” He hissed.

“It’s not abandoning her, it’s freeing her.” Alex said frustratedly. He ran his hands over his face. “I saw her, Robert. When the Magus was attacking you, there was a moment where she was visible and it’s a fucking miracle that he was too busy beating the shit out of you to notice.”

Hob felt the blood drain from his face.

“You can’t handle another beating like that, Robert.” The boy's voice was gentler now. “I can keep both her and you safe. Let me help.”

Hob didn’t like it, at all. The idea of not knowing where Jessamy was, not knowing if she was safe , made his skin crawl. And - if he was being perfectly honest - he didn’t want to give away one of the only sources of comfort and companionship that he had in this horrible place. But Alex was still right. And Hob wasn’t willing to risk Jessamy’s life for his own selfish desires. He looked down at Jessamy, who looked at them both and then slowly but deliberately nodded. He then looked over at Dream, who gave the slightest nod in return. Hob then turned back to Alex. 

“It’s Hob.” He said finally.

“What?”

“My name. I go by Hob.” Alex looked at him, confused. “I am trusting you, Alex. Please, keep her safe.”

Understanding bloomed warmly across the boy’s face. “I promise, Hob. I will keep her safe”

Hob nodded and then checked to make sure that the guards were sufficiently distracted. He then picked up Jessamy, handing her gently over to Alex. The boy looked awed for a second, hugging her closely to himself, and then softly - if reluctantly - lowered her into the box. He then carefully picked up the box and made his way slowly out 

“Be safe.” Hob whispered to himself.

That night was horrible. Without Jessamy, the cold of the floor felt colder, the pain from his body felt deeper, and he felt more alone than he had at any other time since he’d been there. He missed her warm little breaths on his neck as she slept, the way she snuggled into him, the little staccato of her heart beating out a reminder that Hob wasn’t alone.

She’s free. She’s free. She’s free. Hob repeated to himself like a mantra, hoping that it would be enough to push back his fear and misery.

Yet the next morning, Roderick Burgess rejoined them. It was much earlier than Hob had expected which he knew could not be good. Alex followed behind his father, sporting a bruised eye and a swollen, split lip that hadn’t been there the night before. Hob stared at Alex, but the boy refused to meet Hob’s eye, sending acidic fear pouring through his body like a wave.

Burgess made his way towards Dream, an unholy glee lighting his face. 

“Look at what my son brought to me this morning.” The man threw a black lump that landed on the floor with a wet thud.

No.

It was covered in soaked, black feathers. (No.) White fragments of bones and tendons shone a bright contrast in the stark light. (No.) The water underneath it turned a damning red. (nonononono.)

Jessamy.

Hob’s world broke. Sound disappeared. His lungs no longer obeyed him. He no longer felt the hand cuffs on his wrists as he tore at the chains, although he wasn’t sure if he was trying to get closer or run away. Everything narrowed down to that little broken body lying in front of him on the floor.

I was supposed to keep her safe. 

It didn’t even look like her anymore. How could this mangled sack of viscera be the same vibrant, loyal girl who had been comforting him just hours ago? How could she just be gone?

Hob tore his eyes away from the sight, although it was seared in his mind, and landed on Dream. He was staring at the floor, eyes gazing uncomprehendingly at the heap, tears streaming freely down his face. Hob could almost hear Dream’s anguished voice: “I almost lost you, little one.”

You did this. This is your fault. 

Guilt and shame hit him like a physical blow. The limited control that he had regained over his lungs abandoned him and he curled in on himself, unable to breathe. He had suffocated before, but at least then it had only been him who had suffered. 

You gave her away. She would still be alive if not for you.

He was distantly aware that he was sobbing, although how he could make noise when his lungs wouldn’t inflate was a mystery that he couldn’t care to solve. The salt from his tears stung the cuts on his face and felt like deserved retribution for his failure. 

“Maybe next time you’ll be a bit more cooperative, lest your friend here ends up like Jessamy.” Burgess nudged at the body with his shoe. An overwhelming urge to scream at the man overtook Hob, but his voice refused to respond. It was wrongwrongwrong for that monster to be touching her, to desecrate her even more than she had already been.

“You.” Burgess said, pointing at one of the guards. “Clean that mess up.” 

One of the men ran over and scooped up the mass, trying futilely to hold together the broken body and askew feathers. Hob watched in horror as he dropped her into a small trash bin, the sound of her body hitting the metal echoing throughout the room.

Roderick Burgess then turned around and placed his hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Well done, son.” Alex looked up in shock. “Your brother would’ve been proud of you.”

Roderick Burgess turned to head back upstairs, his hand still resting on Alex’s shoulder. Something about the sight of the young Burgess with his father caused a feral rage to awaken within Hob.

“You murdering bastard!” Hob snarled at Alex. “I fucking trusted you!”

The older Burgess kept walking and so did the younger one, despite a small hitch in his step. They left together, leaving Hob to stare brokenly at the bloody puddle left behind on the floor.

Chapter Text

Hob sat in the darkness, the muted world buzzing around him. Grief, pain, and exhaustion pulled at him, trying to lure him into the blissful oblivion of sleep. 

But Hob didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t want to meet with Dream, didn’t want to hear just how badly he had failed. He knew that once they were free - if they ever were free - he would never see Dream again. After all, if a mistaken overture of friendship was enough to put an end to their meetings, what would the murder of a beloved familiar get him?

So no, Hob avoided sleeping with every ounce of strength that he had. But despite not sleeping, the nightmares found him anyway.

He couldn’t help but imagine how Jessamy died. Every scenario, every thought was poured over in his mind, until he could see it all like a violent movie that he could not escape from. 

Hob had gone hunting before. Had shot birds before. It was all too easy for him to imagine taking aim, the target switching to black in his memory, and firing, the pain from the beating close enough to mimic the pain from the recoil. 

Did she get to see the sky one last time before she was shot, or was she murdered without having ever felt fresh air in her lungs again?  

He tortured himself with it over and over and over again. A distant logical part of him knew that it wasn’t healthy, that it wouldn’t help him and Dream. But that tiny distant voice was overruled. Hob knew that he deserved to suffer, because even if he hadn't pulled the trigger personally, he might as well have.

Hob could barely look over at Dream and every time he did, the wave of suffocating guilt crashed down upon him again. Dream had curled himself up into a small ball on the floor of the cage. From his angle, Hob could make out the stream of tears coming from unseeing eyes and it hit him all over again that he had caused this, forcing him to look away in shame and spiraling back down into his own pool of grief.

Around them, the guards came and went. Some taunted them both, others ignored them, sending vague looks of pity in their direction. Everyone seemed to know that something had happened however. Something that was enough to break not only Hob, but the stoic, granite wall that had been Dream.

Eventually though, the parade of guards slowed down and Hob was stuck with two of his least favorite guards - Murphy and Morris. Morris was an annoying imbecile. He had the habit of constantly fiddling with his pocket watch, the sound of the clasp opening and shutting over and over again was like fingernails on a chalkboard to Hob and whenever Morris tired of that, he would switch over to singing radio tunes under his breath - with all of the words wrong. 

Murphy however, set off every alarm in Hob’s mind. The way that his eyes roamed hungrily over Dream’s exposed form, the way that a cruel smirk appeared every time that Hob winced from pain, all of it sent Hob’s skin crawling. Murphy was the type of man who took this type of job not for the ample paycheck, but for the love of the work. The two of them on one shift together had Hob on high alert, desperately trying to push his overwhelming grief aside out of necessity.

The first sign that something was off was that Morris took longer to come back from his smoke break than usual. Five minutes passed. Then ten. By fifteen minutes Murphy had not only realized that something was up, but was now looking anxiously at the clock. For a moment Hob thought that Murphy might actually be worried for Morris, but one look at the silver cigarette case in his hand made Hob think otherwise and that the man was simply anxious for his chance at his nicotine.   

Hob held his breath, hopeful anticipation growing without his permission. What’s stronger, his fear of Burgess or his craving for that cigarette?

Finally, the man stood up. Having clearly made up his mind.

“Don’t fucking move.” Murphy snapped curtly at Hob. “I’ll know if you have.”

“Scouts honor.” Hob said with a shit-eating grin.

The man scowled in response, but then looked back longingly at the stairs. He ran over to the column and tugged on the chains, checking both the lock and the cuffs. Satisfied that they weren’t going anywhere, he then turned and ran up the stairs, leaving Hob alone with Dream for the first time in a week. 

Hob started pulling desperately at the chains. In all honesty he knew that there was no likelihood that they were going to give - especially not since Murphy had just checked their integrity - but this was the first time that they had been left unguarded and Hob planned to use every second of it. 

Once that attempt failed, achieving only sore wrists and a newfound hatred for the improvement in modern lock-making craftsmanship, Hob then tried stretching towards the binding circle, praying that he could possibly reach the edges with his shoes. He actually hadn’t had the chance to try this yet since the last time that he had been unguarded down here he had been distracted by the appearance of Je-

Hob shook his head. Not even allowing himself to finish her name.

You don’t have time to fall apart again, Hobsie. They could be back at any moment.

So he went back to trying desperately to reach the edge of the circle. The cuffs dug sharply into his already raw wrists, promising new bruises and he pulled at the chains, trying frantically to get any additional length out of them. The golden paint tantalizingly close. A part of him regretted that he had only been threatened with the rack back during his trial for witchcraft. I could definitely use an extra inch or two right about now, he thought darkly.

He gave up with a sigh. There was no way that he was reaching the circle, not while he was still in the cuffs. He eyed the cuffs warily. While he had heard a rumor that dislocating or breaking your thumbs would let you slip out of them, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to attempt that just yet. He wasn’t completely sure about the outcome and knowing his luck, they’d probably heal wrong. Besides, there’s always the chance that Burgess will do it for you. So thoughtful, that man.

Hob heard the sound of the upstairs door opening, pulling him out of his thoughts. 

Fuck. Time’s up. He had hoped to accomplish more than give himself some new bruises. But instead of a balding Morris, a young man that he had never seen before, made his way down the stairs and opened up the barred gates.

He walked forward, eyes wide in shock. “Oh my god.” 

Hob sat up. None of the guards or any of the other people that he had seen down here had ever reacted like that. Hob’s movement must’ve cut through whatever haze the other man had been feeling because his eyes zeroed in to Hob.

“Are you Hob Gadling?” He asked, gently putting down a lumpy burlap bag that he carried.

Hob froze. The only person outside of this room who knew that name was responsible for Jessamy’s murder.

“Why?” Hob snarled, his voice ice.

The young man took a step back, eyes wide in shock. “Alex… Alex said that you needed help.”

Burning fury rose within Hob. “The last time that I let him help me, someone wound up dead.” 

He looked confused for a second, before it melted away into realization.

“Oh.” He breathed. Hob watched with distrust as he then reached down into the bag at his feet and pulled out -

“Jessamy?” He croaked in disbelief.

It’s not possible.  

He’d seen her body himself. The damp, rusty stain was still there, just feet to his left. But so too was the disgruntled looking black and white raven sitting in the man’s hands. 

She shook herself, re-righting the few mislaid feathers and then leapt out of the man’s grasp, soaring across the room and landing on the chain of the glass cage, right at Dream’s eye level.

The man looked absolutely wrecked. Tears were flowing freely down his face and Dream looked at her like she was a wish made solid. Hob had certainly had enough dreams like that after both  Eleanor and Robyn died, ones where they would appear to him, happy and whole, even as he knew that they were gone. He was not entirely convinced that that wasn’t what was happening now.

“Jessamy?” Dream’s voice was a soft and fragile thing, almost childlike, and so unlike the man that Hob had known for the last five centuries that it was enough to send Hob over the edge.

“How?” He sobbed, asking the man as he came over to where Hob was chained.

The man shrugged and looked distinctly uncomfortable. “A lot of birds are black.”

Hob looked back at the glass globe. Dream had pressed his forehead against the glass and the little bird mirrored him.

“My name’s Paul by the way.” The curly haired man reached out his hand for a handshake. Hob looked down at his own chained hands.

“It is really nice to meet you, Paul. I’d shake your hands but…” He jangled the chains meaningfully.

Paul laughed. “I think that I can help with that.”

He reached down into the burlap sack and rummaged around. The sound of metal clanking together had Hob trying to peer into the bag, his curiosity piqued. 

“Yes!” He said, holding two keys aloft in victory. “These things always fall to the bottom of stuff.” He took the metal into his calloused hands and Hob watched riveted as the small delicate key was inserted into lock, and watched with wonder as the metal fell away from his wrists, leaving him free for the first time in weeks.

The feeling of the air over his exposed skin sent shivers throughout his body and his arms felt buoyant without the heavy metal pulling them down. Hob went to stand, but fell forward onto his knees, his bloodless legs confused after so long in confinement. Paul reached over and helped him up and Hob stumbled to his feet. Despite the sharp pain that shot through his legs, it felt incredible to be standing on his own for the first time in so long.

“Why are you helping us?” Hob couldn’t help but ask. He knew that he should be grateful, shouldn’t question anything, but he just couldn’t understand it.

“Because Alex asked me to.” Paul said as if that explained everything, although given the love-sick look that crossed the man’s face when he said Alex’s name, Hob supposed that it did explain everything.

“So if Alex wanted to help us so much, why the hell did he torture us like that, making us think that Jessamy was dead?” Hob struggled to get the last word out, the residual fear and grief strangling his throat.

Paul straightened up defensively. “How else do you think that I could’ve gotten access to your keys?” Paul deflated. “Listen, I understand that you are rightfully upset. I can’t imagine how you felt. But the Magus wanted her dead and he also wanted a son who wanted her dead. Alex and I realized that if we could give him what he wanted, not just Jessamy’s death but a son who would follow in his footsteps, then he would freely give us the information that we needed to get everyone out of here.”

The young man’s eyes darkened. “The Magus is currently under the impression that his latest beating finally ‘set Alex straight’.”

Hob winced, but the memory of the overwhelming fear and grief refused to leave him. “So what, you just manipulated us, knowing exactly how badly we’d react.”

Paul shrugged. “You sold it better than we ever could.”  

Hob hated it. He hated that Paul was right. Hated that he had played exactly into the role that they had needed him to. And he hated that he was still hurt and angry.

“So where the hell is Alex now?”

Paul’s face clouded with worry. “He’s with the Magus, getting the grimoire and his other things.” Paul said, motioning towards Dream.

“Does he really think that Roderick Burgess will just hand them over to him?”

“No.” The young man whispered, looking down at the ground. He took a second of silence but then steeled himself, putting back on a false smile. “But I promised him that I’d help free both of you, so here I am.”

Hob wanted so badly to hold onto his anger at the two young men. Let them face the fallout of their choices alone as payment for their treatment of Hob and of Dream. But then he looked at Jessamy, so vibrantly and so impossibly alive, and he couldn't.

“Well, we can’t let Alex have all of the fun, now can we?” Hob said. Paul looked up, joyful disbelief chasing away the fear. 

“No we can’t.” He said firmly. He then reached down into his bag and brought out two crowbars, shyly holding one out to Hob. “I figured that you might want to help me with this part.”

The metal was cold and heavy in his hands. Hob hadn’t slept in over 24 hours, hadn’t had anything except bread and water for over a week, and he was riddled with bruises and most likely fractured bones. But oh, how he would always have enough strength for this.

A destructive grin crossed his face. “You figured correctly.”

Together they walked over to the globe, Dream watching them with hungry anticipation. Hob swung the crowbar back, ready to take the first hit, when a thought stopped him. 

“Wait.” Dream looked at Hob with confused betrayal. 

“Jessamy,” he said, addressing the little bird sitting on top of the cage. “I believe that there was something that you told me that you wished to do.”

She let out a croaking, warbling note and then swooped down onto the stone, landing before the golden circle. She tilted her head at it and then bent down, scraping her beak repeatedly across the stone. The noise set Hob’s teeth on edge yet with each pass and each golden flake that was lifted away, it quickly became the sweetest sound that he had ever heard. Soon enough, there was a clear, clean break through the gold, intricate lettering.

“...is that it?” He asked. He had been expecting something to happen once the binding circle had been broken. “Did it work?”

“Yes, it did.” Dream said breathlessly, sitting forward.

Hob looked over at Paul. “My turn then.”

The first impact was jarring, the force vibrating up his arms. Hob was disappointed to find only a small scratch marring the otherwise smooth surface. He knew that he wouldn’t have shattered it on the first swing, but he had hoped to at least have made a larger difference.

He felt Paul pull him back and Paul took his own turn, slamming the crowbar into glass at full strength, leaving a similar mark on the globe. Together, they fell into a rhythm, trading off blows until at last, a fine crack appeared in the scratched surface. Hob watched with bated-breath as the crack splintered outwards, creating a spider web of fine fractures.

“Dream, move away from the edge.” Hob said, anticipation building like a wave about to crest. The man moved instantly and looked up at Hob, his blue eyes shimmering with hope, excitement, and so many other emotions that it stole the breath from Hob's lungs. 

He shook his head, breaking the connection. Stay focused.

Hob picked the crowbar back up and brought it back, his burning muscles screaming at him for their overuse. 

Last one.  

He let loose the swing, pouring every moment of fear, every sensation of pain, every ounce of anger into it. A guttural yell erupted from his throat, further fueling him on.

Metal hit glass. For one heart-stopping second nothing happened. And then, like water returning after a drought, the glass shattered. Fine, sharp, shreds rained down around him and Hob instinctively ducked, trying to avoid the worst of the deluge. 

But all of that was quickly forgotten as a bright, blue light formed within the formerly impenetrable sphere. Tendrils of radiance whipped out from the churning ball, and a wind from nowhere swept up, blowing dust and sand around them.

Dream pulled himself up and through the iron cradle that had held him for ten years, his body parting the luminous vapors like fog, and landed softly on the stone floor, no care heeded for the shards of glass underneath his feet, glittering in the icy glare. Over the howling wind, Hob could hear him take his first fresh breath of air in a decade, the thought enough to bring tears to Hob's eyes. The beautiful, blinding sun cast Dream’s face into shadow and he was wreathed in an ethereal glow. It struck Hob once again that his friend, this being, was so much more than human.

Dream’s eyes locked onto Hob, staring down into his very soul.

“Thank you, Hob Gadling.” His voice reverberated throughout the room and down into Hob’s bones. 

But before Hob could respond, Dream was turning, looking backwards as the wind changed directions. The ball floated up and out of the iron, becoming the center of the vortex as the wind and sand were swept up and inwards towards the increasingly blinding star. Dream faced the onslaught head-on and Hob watched in amazement as he was lifted upwards and pulled into the eye of the storm. The light became painfully blinding, forcing Hob to look away. 

And just as suddenly as it started, it was over. The light, the wind, Dream - gone, leaving behind a deafening stillness and a fine layer of sand coating every surface. 

Hob and Paul stood in shock, neither able to comprehend what had happened. But Jessamy let out a loud caw, shattering the silence. Both men turned to stare at her and she leapt up into the air, flying up and out of the basement.

For a beat no one else moved, and then Hob was running after her, following without thought or hesitation. He could hear Paul right behind him, as his dress shoes slipped on the sand-covered glass. 

He sprinted up the stairs and out into the hallway. It would’ve felt surreal being in such a new place after so long, but Hob was far too focused on locating the sound of flapping wings to let such a thought distract him. He similarly dismissed the sights of Murphy and Morris, their motionless bodies meaningless as he raced down the labyrinthine hallways. He took each twist and turn as fast as he could, knocking roughly into the walls rather than slow down by a millisecond. 

He was gaining on Jessamy. He could make out her dark wings as she flew ahead of him, leading the way.  She soared through an open mahogany door and Hob skidded in after her, finding themselves in Roderick Burgess’s study. 

The man in question was lying catatonic on the ground. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, drool dribbled from his lax mouth, and every few seconds he let out a moan or a violent twitch. 

Standing over him was Alex and Dream, once again draped in a resplendent, heavy, black coat. A rich, red ruby sat in the pronounced hollow of his throat, and in one hand he held a ghastly looking helm, like the combination of a gas mask and the spine of an animal. With the other, he reached out and grabbed the thick book that Alex was holding out in offering. He brought it into the folds of his coat, and when he removed his hand, the book was gone.

Jessamy landed on Dream’s shoulder and rubbed her head affectionately on his cheek. In response, Dream brought his hand up and lovingly ran his fingers over her feathers. 

The man looked around them, deep blue, serious eyes taking in everything. He then reached deep into his coat and when he brought his hand out, sand was streaming smoothly and endlessly from between his fingers. 

Without warning, Dream threw it up into the air and then both he and Jessamy were gone, disappearing into a swirl of sand that left them all behind.

Chapter Text

Two weeks later found Hob sitting by himself drinking in the White Horse tavern, as he had every day since he had returned to London from Fawny Rig. For the last fourteen days, he had sat in the same seat, nursing the same pour of whiskey, and staring at the same graying rat as it nibbled at the same forgotten chip in the shadowed corner by his booth. He knew that he was most likely wasting his time, arriving here for a meeting that was still scheduled sixty years away with a man who might never come.

But in all honesty, he had no clue what else to do with himself. After one of the most awkward car rides of his life where Alex drove Hob back to his house, Hob had floundered, struggling to reacquaint himself with his day-to-day life. Hob’s current job at an apothecary had only needed one look at his still bruised and swollen face to believe his tale about being beaten and robbed while out of town to explain his weeklong absence. The kindly, old owner had told Hob to take as much time as he needed to heal before returning to work, although the cynical side of Hob couldn’t help but wonder if he was just scared that Hob’s mangled face would scare off potential customers. 

Thus Hob was left with a lot of free time with nothing to fill it - except brood. It was a dangerous thing, to be given the chance to focus solely on his time in captivity. To go over every dismissive, hate-filled look from Roderick Burgess. To examine every failure that he had made that had led to his capture and the death of Edward Davies. To fully soak in how close he had come to having had his condition revealed and imagine in vivid detail what Roderick Burgess would have done with that information. 

But one thought consumed his mind most of all.

Why did he leave me?

It was a childish thought, born of loss and insecurity, but it was one that he couldn’t escape. The fear of abandonment that had been planted in 1889 had been renewed when he had thought that Jessamy was dead. While logically he knew that Jessamy was fine, the feelings that had been brought up during her “death” were much harder to dispel. And given that Dream had abandoned him at Fawny Rig, leaving him behind with his former captors in a swirl of sand, Hob had a sinking feeling that this was the case for Dream as well.

The image of a broken, bloody body once again rose up and threatened to consume him and he shook his head roughly, as though the movement would be enough to erase the memory from his brain.

Jessamy isn’t even your friend. You have no right to still be as upset as you are.

He tightened his hand around the ice-filled glass, letting the cold sink into his skin and allowing the near painful sensation tether him to the present.

Dreaming wasn’t even available as an escape for him. While he had not been plagued by the nightmares that he had been fearing, neither had he been allowed to find solace in his dreams. A naïve part of him had hoped that even if Dream had left him in the waking world, that the man would have found him in his dreams, like they had back in the basement. But every night since leaving Fawny Rig, he had not dreamed. Not a memory, not even sensations. Nothing. He bitterly wondered if Dream had been so eager to completely rid himself of Hob that he would never dream again. 

Alone and bruised, Hob stared into his amber drink and contemplated leaving and starting over with a new identity. He knew that realistically he could probably squeeze another ten years out of his current one, but the temptation to start over was alluring. Robert Glading felt tainted now, an unremarkable ten years capped off with torture and permanently destroying the most important relationship in his life. And so many normal people gave themselves a fresh start all the time. After all, wasn’t that what each New Year’s was? Why shouldn’t he indulge himself and start over in a far distant land, one filled with warmth and bright skies, where the name Burgess had never before been heard? 

He was deep in the middle of contemplating if his Spanish was good enough to head for Cuba or if he should opt for California instead, when a figure approached his table. Hob startled at the sudden intrusion and looked up.

In front of him stood Dream, hovering anxiously in front of Hob. He wore the same overcoat that he had worn during his departure from Fawny Rig, but he was also clad in a woolen suit, the boxy fit hiding his gaunt frame. He had stuck to his usual black, despite it being out of style for the suit and unthinkable for the shirt. In his hands he held a black felt hat, which he gripped at tightly without any care for misshaping it. His blue worried eyes tracked Hob’s face, waiting for a reaction. 

“You’re… you’re here.” Hob whispered, terrified to disturb the illusion.

“Yes.” Dream said. There was a long pause, an awkward uncertainty that choked any hopes for an easy conversation. 

“May I sit?” Dream finally said, guestering to the open chair at Hob’s table.

“Of course!” Hob frantically moved his stuff, clearing a spot for Dream. The man gingerly took the offered spot, placing his hat next to Hob’s gray, woolen cap.

“How… have you been?” Dream asked haltingly. The hesitation was something that Hob had never before seen on the man, and he wasn’t sure that he liked it.

Hob pondered over how to answer that question. Most people asked it as a mere formality, nothing more than a thoughtless nicety to ease the way into conversation. But Dream was not most people, and to provide an answer of “fine” would have been a glaring falsehood after what they had been through together.

“I’ve been… adjusting.” Hob said, picking his words carefully. “My boss thankfully bought my story about having been mugged, so I still have a job. Turns out that that last beating had some benefit after all.” Hob shot a sarcastic grin towards Dream, but dropped it as the other man’s face darkened.

“Alex’s been trying to keep in touch. He keeps trying to send me money. Can’t tell if he’s trying to buy me off, or if he just feels bad.” He scoffed. “Even after everything, I still feel sorry for the kid. His father was a murderous, unfeeling bastard, but it was still his father.”

He looked down into the golden liquid in his hands. It was easier than looking Dream in the eyes. “After everything was done - after you and Jessamy had left - we still had to figure out what to do. We were left with multiple unconscious bodies, a torture basement, a house full of magic items, and a cult who would immediately know that their leader was missing. I don’t remember who suggested it - it doesn’t matter really - but there was a moment there when we considered the possibility that perhaps a devastating house fire could hit. The whole house, from attic to basement, would be a complete loss. And -" Hob lowered his voice, “tragically the owner of the house wouldn’t wake up in time to escape to safety.” 

He paused, waiting for Dream to comment but the man stayed silent. “I’m glad that we didn’t. I think that it would’ve broken something in Alex, something that is better kept whole. Besides,” he took the chance and smiled up towards Dream, “we figured that whatever you did to Roderick Burgess is probably more of a punishment than anything we could think of.”

He took a deep drink, relishing in the cleansing, fire that burned down his throat. “They ended up calling the local doctor after I left. The doctors are calling it an outbreak of the Sleepy Sickness. Paul and Alex had to quarantine, but they were able to get Burgess and the guards taken to a hospital for long-term care.” 

Hob quirked his eyebrow at Dream. “Of course this all would’ve been much less suspicious had the rest of the guards and cult members not also come down with Sleepy Sickness at the exact same time that all of the other sufferers woke up. On the plus side, Paul says that people are terrified to visit Fawny Rig now, and are leaving him and Alex in peace.” 

Hob shot back the last of his drink. “But enough about me. How are you?”

Dream started at Hob for a moment, as though deliberating how to answer.

“I too am… adjusting.” The man said measuredly. “My realm has been greatly damaged in my absence and my subjects have suffered for it. I have begun to try and repair the damage, but I am finding it much more difficult than I could have foreseen. Jessamy and Lucienne - my Librarian - have been unwavering in their support, but I believe that they - and the rest of my subjects - are becoming restless for the complete restoration that I have been as of yet unable to provide them.”

Hob frowned, noting the smooth avoidance of anything personal. “You didn’t answer my question. I didn’t ask about the Dreaming. I asked ‘how are you?’”

Dream stiffened. “I have merely answered the same way that you have. You have not answered my question either.”

Hob looked away, chagrined. “No, I suppose not.”

He took a deep breath, regretting that he had already finished his drink. “I’m… I’m not great. I’m relieved that it’s over, but it doesn’t truly feel over yet, not really. I’m sitting here in this bar and a part of me feels like I’m still down in that basement.

And, I feel like the worst kind of friend - if you still even want to call me that - because you were there with Roderick Burgess for so much longer than me, and here I am complaining about my experience, when I was only there for a fucking week.”

He let out a wet laugh. “God, I don’t deserve to call myself your friend. You were right last time, to dissuade me of that notion.”

Dream looked furious.

“How dare you say that?” Hob looked up in shock and with not a small amount of fear. “Do you know that for the last ten years, not a single entity has come for me - except you and Jessamy? My entire kingdom, my most trusted subjects, they all thought that I had abandoned them. For eons I have served them, protected them, given them life, and they still thought so little of me.

And my siblings? They all knew what had happened to me. And not a single one came to my aid.”

His voice dropped. “And I fear… I fear that some may have had a hand in my imprisonment. The summoning, the cage, none of it is knowledge that any mortal should have rightfully had.

So no, you are not ‘the worst kind of friend’, and I hesitate to even call you that. You had no obligation to me, especially not after I was so cruel to you, and yet you alone came for me. 

No, mere friends would not do what you have done for me.”

Hob let out a dark laugh. 

“And what have I done for you? I got captured. I put Jessamy’s life at risk. I gave them a way to hurt you Dream, a way that they didn’t have before. I should have done so much more and instead I only made things worse for you. 

I couldn’t free you.

I was too weak.” Hob whispered, ashamed.

Dream stared at him. Outrage colored his pale face. “You were too weak? No. It is I who am weak. I am Endless and I was trapped by an amateur on accident. None of this should have ever happened and it’s all because I was 'too weak'.

And even now, I am failing you again. I should’ve been stronger and stayed away from you, yet I let my weakness overcome me again and I came here anyway.” 

“What are you talking about?” Hob asked, bewildered.

“It was my fault that you were hurt.” Dream snapped. “Roderick Burgess hurt you because I care about you. I couldn’t stop it, and even worse, I couldn’t even react.

It’s because of you that Jessamy is alive. It’s because of you that we are free.

And I sat there - multiple times - and listened to them beat you. Listened to your cries, to the cracks of your bones, and I did nothing . Acted like it meant nothing to me. And for what? My pride?" He sneered.  

"I told myself to stay away from you, give you space to heal. I have brought you nothing but pain, and I couldn’t even give you the decency of acknowledging it, much less stopping it. I don’t understand how you can bare to look at me, let alone still call me your friend. And then you try to tell me how you’ve failed me?

No.”

Dream’s breath was heaving and Hob could see the angry tears gathering in his eyes. Hob reached out across the table and grabbed his hand, desperate to ground him, to remind him that he wasn’t alone. The other man’s hand was cool beneath his and he rubbed his thumb over the back of Dream’s hand in an attempt to both soothe and warm him.

“I have watched those that I love die before, Hob.” Dream’s voice was calmer, but hollow. “And I felt that same helplessness when Roderick Burgess looked at you. That same anger, that same fear. I had promised myself that I would never feel that again and then you went and made a liar out of me.”

Dream turned his hand over and grabbed onto Hob’s, pressing their palms together. 

“And the worst part, the most selfish part, is that I can’t bring myself to regret that you came for me.” Dream confessed. Unable to look Hob in the eyes, he kept his eyes on their entwined hands.

Horrible, wonderful, disorienting understanding washed over Hob. It was the sweetest agony, to know that the ones you loved were hurting over your hurts. There was no magic balm to soothe the ache, none except time and the frustrating understanding that such pain is the cost of connection - one gladly paid and all the more precious for that fact.

“Hey,” he said softly, forcing Dream to look up at him. “I don’t regret it either. All of that pain, all of that fear, all of it was worth it to have you safe and here with me.”

Dream’s eyes were wide, searching Hob’s with an intensity that reached into his very soul. Whatever he was looking for, he found. A soft, relieved smile crept across his face and the tension drained from his body. Dream dropped their hands and leaned back in his chair, his body relaxed for the first time that night.

“So what are you planning to do now?” Hob asked, eager to bring the conversation onto more familiar grounds.

“I must still retrieve those of my subjects who have yet to return to my kingdom. Nightmares and Dreams have no place in the Waking World, and it is my duty to ensure their prompt return.” 

“Do you think they’ll give you any trouble?” Hob asked, excited to be hearing about this side of Dream’s life. 

“Most of them won’t, no. The majority are too weak to survive here for too long anyway. If their sovereign calls, I know they will answer. The rest though… the rest may take more time. A few of my stronger beings, my Major Arcana, are still missing. Some, like Fiddler’s Green, have always been so reliable, so their continued absence is one that I hope will be easily remedied. Others, like the Corinthian, will not come easily and will require force to bring to heel.”

Dream paused and looked at Hob, consideration and calculation flickering across his face. 

“I can't promise that it will be easy. I can't even promise that it will be safe. But this is a task of the utmost importance and there is no one else that I would trust more to have by my side. Would you join me?”

Hob looked at the other man, Dream’s hand reaching out to his. He knew that he shouldn’t take it. He was still healing, not yet recovered from the kind ministrations of Roderick Burgess. He had responsibilities as Robert Glading, or if he decided to relinquish those, then he had a new identity to forge. 

And if this quest was enough of a challenge that even Dream - his once mysterious, all-powerful Stranger - would require help, then what good could Hob do?

But Dream was looking back at him, hope sparkling like newly-born galaxies in his eyes. And suddenly, all of the danger, all of his insecurity, all of the thousands of reasons why he should decline no longer mattered anymore. For Hob Gadling was not by nature a cautious man - not when his Stranger was looking at him, asking him to be by his side.

Hob reached over, taking Dream's hand into his.

“It would be my honor.” He said, trying to imbue every word with the reverence and sincerity that he felt in that moment.

A supernova of stars erupted in those blue eyes, as brilliant as the night sky from Hob’s youth and a smile, unfettered and free lit up his face. “Then shall we?”

Hob was powerless to do anything more than nod when faced with the full might of Dream’s delight. In tandem, they gathered their belongings and made their way out of the White Horse, leaving the bright, loud, warm tavern behind them. 

And together, they disappeared into the London fog, like dreams into the night.