Work Text:
The first time Hob hears about Roderick Burgess is around 1910.
Since their encounter with Lady Johanna, Hob has been paying more attention to rumors about the supernatural. Most of the time, there’s nothing to worry about, only silly humans sharing overexaggerated stories. Roderick Burgess is a different case. The man has started a sort of cult about death. It’s not difficult to guess what they are after: immortality. All the more reason for Hob to stay away. He doesn’t wish to be interrogated, this time at gunpoint.
Hob makes sure to be outside Burgess’ radar, but he still keeps an eye open for any kind of danger. And so he hears about the cult's success. Hob knows better than to actually believe the devil is in Roderick Burgess' basement. However, as the years pass and the buzzing doesn’t die down, he decides it’s time to take a closer look.
His first approach is through gossip; not the most reliable source, yet it’s the most abundant right now. Hob selects his source carefully. He needs someone who has seen enough, but not too much to have stakes on the matter. Thankfully, it’s not that difficult to find it—so many people have been going to those extravagant parties.
It takes two drinks to make them talk.
“The devil, can you believe it, Robert?”
Hob smiles indulgently and shakes his head. The trick for this part is to just let them talk. Don’t dig for anything specific, lest they think you’re interested and they get defensive.
“Of course, he doesn’t let anyone enter the basement,” the other man continues, “so there’s no way to clear that mystery. But he displays the things that creature had when it was summoned. A weird helmet and the biggest ruby I have seen.”
“A ruby?” Hob asks.
“Yes, a beautiful thing. Got my Helen asking for one.”
The conversation takes another direction, and Hob lets it be. He already had one slip because he couldn’t contain his curiosity at the mention of the ruby. Hob shouldn’t attract more attention to himself, especially when it seems that the cult did trap someone.
Infiltrating the party is relatively easy, it’s just about having the right amount of money. Now, accessing the display room takes more skill, and he only can take a small peak. Hob’s gaze passes over the helmet quickly. It is weird and unfamiliar; the ruby, on the other hand, oh, that ruby, Hob knows it very well. He has seen it, century after century, around the neck of the same man. There’s no doubt who is in Roderick Burgess’ basement.
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, feeling a bit lost.
This is not right, the Stranger has always looked so above everything. Even before Hob had seen him do the trick with the sand, there was a commanding air around him that set him apart. But now he is being held prisoner. How is that possible?
Mind still reeling from all the information, Hob doesn’t realize he’s being followed. Once in his hotel room, he tries to order his thoughts. Getting the Stranger from that place is the priority. Before Hob can begin the planning, a black raven flies into the room. The bird lands in front of him, its beady eyes cast in his direction. As Hob moves to chase it away, the raven opens its beak and says:
“My Lord could use your help.”
Working alongside a raven (Jessamy, please) to save his friend (oh, and isn’t a fucking irony that he gets to learn the talking bird’s name first?) is not how Hob envisioned the rescue mission to go.
They decide to split up. Burgess’ staff is aware of Jessamy’s presence and has been trying to eliminate her. Hob expresses his concern but she insists on being the distraction, so he can access the basement. There, he must destroy the golden circle that, according to Jessamy, prevents the Stranger from escaping.
Hob hides in the mansion, waiting for Jessamy’s signal. When the cries of ‘fire’ are heard, he makes his way to the basement. There’s only one guard left. Hob pretends to be drunk to get close and then knocks him off.
He descends the stairs quickly, but once inside he stops dead in his tracks. In the middle of the basement, there’s a glass dome and inside of it the Stranger is trapped. He lies there completely naked, eyes closed. The sound of footsteps makes him raise his head. The stern expression is quickly replaced by confusion.
“How?”
“I should be the one asking that,” Hob remarks.
He bites back the other questions that want to spill from his mouth. Are you hurt? being at the top of his list, followed closely by Why does your raven talk? Instead of voicing those thoughts, Hob focuses on how to get the Stranger out of that prison. He places his hands against the glass, makes a fist and hits it. As expected the thing doesn’t budge.
“Shit, Jessamy didn’t say anything about a cage.”
“Jessamy?”
“Yes, I met your raven. She only–” His words are drowned out by a gunshot.
Pain explodes on Hob’s abdomen. He covers the wound with his left hand, but blood sweeps through his fingers. Hob is vaguely aware that the Burgess have arrived, he can hear them yelling. Hob’s legs fail to support his weight and he falls to his knees—blood loss is always such an inconvenience. What is going to happen when they realize he can’t die? The plan is falling apart.
Hob looks down and a brillant swirl catches his gaze. It’s the golden circle Jessamy mentioned! Hob drops on the floor, he reaches out with his bloodied hand and smudges the lines, breaking the pattern. The noise around him doubles down, there’s screaming and more gunshots.
Before falling unconscious, Hob can swear he is being covered by sand.
If there’s one thing about his immortality that Hob would like to improve it’s the healing process. While he doesn’t actually have to suffer through it, passing out in strange places isn’t the best way to protect his secret. Fortunately, this time the outcome is a positive one—the soft mattress and the itchy blanket tells him he is back at the hotel.
The first breath of air is always the hardest. He groans as he tries to sit up, a small weight presses his chest down. It’s Jessamy.
“Where’s. . .?” Hobs looks around the room.
“My Lord returned home,” Jessamy explains.
“Of course.”
Hob’s disappointment makes him sink into the bed. What was he expecting, honestly? For his friend to wait until he woke up. Both know Hob can’t die. And yes, getting shot is never a pleasant experience, but he’s not in danger.
“He asked me to watch over you,” Jessamy adds. Hob smiles slightly at her words. It’s obvious she sensed his discontent and is trying to make him feel better.
“Thank you, Jessamy, but I know how he is. I’m fine, you can leave now.”
“I can’t. Like I said, my Lord asked me to stay, at least, until his return.”
“Fine. We wait then.”
Hob makes the most of his time. He takes a bath and eagerly washes off the dirt and blood. The stained clothes are replaced with clean ones. After completing those actions, Hob returns to the bed and dozes off a bit. When he opens his eyes again the sun has gone down.
Jessamy is no longer perched in the chair, in her place there’s another figure.
“You look better,” Hob says. His friend is dressed once again in his black attire, he almost looks like his usual self. However, there’s a new vulnerability in his gaze. Hob dares to ask, “How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“That’s good. So, care to tell me how you ended up trapped in that fishbowl?” The Stranger’s lips twist at the mention of his prison. Hob decides to take another approach. “Or maybe, you can tell me why you have a talking raven.”
“That’s not relevant.”
“I beg to differ, but I guess we’ll make this your way as always. You want to say something, out with it.”
“You came to my aid.”
“I did.”
“Even after how our last meeting ended.”
“Yes, because that’s what friends do. They help each other even if they have a fight. And no matter what you say, you are my friend.”
Hob waits expectantly, hoping his offer of friendship will be met with less contempt this time.
“Morpheus.”
“What?”
“That’s my name. Friends should know that.”
“Morpheus.” Hob enunciates the word, marveling at the knowledge that has been granted to him. “Wait a moment, that time with the sand, are you telling me. . .? That’s why Jessamy keeps calling you my Lord!”
“I am the King of Dreams and Nightmares,” Morpheus replies, it’s obvious he finds Hob's surprise amusing.
“Lord Morpheus, is it then?”
“Hob.”
“I’m joking, there’s no need for titles between friends.” The smile on Hob’s face is unmistakable. “I’m glad you’re free, Morpheus.”