Chapter Text
It’s raining again, and Hob huddles closer to the wall, trying to shield himself from the cold downpour. It doesn’t really work, it never does, but it’s the thought that counts, and it’s the faint clearing of the sky he can see at the horizon that makes him feel better.
At this point waiting for a better day is all Hob has left, desperately trying to hang on, even though he can’t die, not until 1689, until the Stranger asks. And even then, he’s not sure what his answer will be, since his life is terrible, and Hob wants to sob, but there’s a part of him that always wants to keep going, that pushes him further and further into the future, meeting each day with steel in his heart.
It’s a day like any other when you’re a beggar - scrapping for food, avoiding carriages and horses, trying not to get stabbed - sure, Hob can’t die, but he’s weakened now and he’s not sure how far he’d be able to run if his immortality was discovered.
“Most curious,” a woman’s voice says suddenly, making Hob jump.
His instincts kick in, and he reaches for a weapon he keeps staches at his waist. He may be weak, but he’s not defenceless, never again. But this woman doesn’t seem like a threat - dark-haired, with kind eyes, standing in the rain as if unbothered by it. She’s strange, in the same way that Hob is, and his heart jumps.
“Pardon?” he asks, for not many stop to talk to a beggar, especially not during a downpour.
“Where is you god, High Priest? It’s not often one sees someone in such a state…”
Hob frowns. “Apologies, but I think you must’ve mistaken me for someone, I’m no priest, just a simple man.”
She laughs, cocking her head to the side. “Why, you are anything but just a man. Aren’t you leaning against the wall of your temple, High Priest? Did your god abandon you?”
“I have no idea what on earth are you talking about, fair lady,” he admits.
“I’m no lady,” she grunts with a smile. “And tell me, is there no one in your life that could be…more than they pretend to be? It is not often gods hide, but it is not our place to question them, is it?”
Hob glances at the ground for a second, stunned and thrown out of balance, and when he looks up, the woman is gone as if she was never there in the first place. He’d think she was just a hallucination brought by starvation and sleep deprivation, if not for a warm, pink shawl draped over his dirty shoulders, shielding him from the rain.
And it’s a curious encounter that sticks with him, but Hob is surviving and survival doesn’t leave space for pointless wonderings about the bigger thing, mystical gods and vanishing women. He pushes the meeting from his brain, and it only comes back in 1689, when he’s sitting in front of his stranger, drowning in his eyes.
There’s some hidden kindness in his gaze now, something almost like worry, and Hob realises with a start that his Stranger cares, in his own strange way. The Stranger cares, for he feeds Hob, gives him a pouch of coins and a room for a few days, so that he at least has a warm bed to sleep in. And that’s when the questions start to tickle in.
Hob is a peasant from the 14th century, but he’s a well-educated man by now, so with an incentive of figuring out that encounter from almost 50 years ago, he manages to push himself through. He’s skilled in many things, and trade always came easily to Hob, so it only takes him 3 years to manage a comfortable flat in London, with some savings already on his new name.
Finally, he can start digging.
It’s not easy by any means, but Hob is used to hardships, and he’s determined now, If what that woman told him is true, he’s a High Priest, and his Stranger is his god - and to be fair, it’s a notion Hob considered before, right after a demon and a vampire. There’s just something about the man, something powerful and otherworldly, and Hob isn’t surprised to find out he's a god of all things.
He’s not the most approachable one, but he has the capacity for kindness. He's the only one who truly knows Hob.
The books are scarce in information, especially since the Church forbids all pagan mentions, and High Priests do come from pagan beliefs, but Hob still remembers his past, he knows where to dig. In the end, it takes him 10 years to finally find something that could be considered trustworthy in the slightest, and he reads the slim book at least 4 times.
Much of the information is contradictory, but Hob extrapolates what he can - every God has High Priests or Priestesses, every God has some form of a temple, a place of regular worship, and every god represents something meaningful to their worshippers.
In a weird way, it does fit.
There’s the White Horse, the place where they meet every 100 years for Hob to give his offering - stories of his life, his experiences and wonders, and in return, his Stranger offers immortality. Hob is the only one who seems to regularly pay attention to his Stranger (at least as far as he knows), and well…be as it might, his Stranger does represent something important to Hob.
Hope.
It may be funny, since his Stranger is so prickly and sceptical, so dark and brooding, but in Hob's eyes, he’s hope. Hope, when the days turn dark and old ghosts threaten to pull him under, when his belly is twisting in hunger and every day seems like torture. When Hob’s will to live isn’t enough, it’s the thought, the hope, of meeting his Stranger that keeps him going.
His Stranger, God of Hope. How ironic.
Not much changes with that revelation, as they only meet once every 100 years, but Hob makes sure to sometimes…think of his Stranger, with a fond memory, or while drinking particularly good wine. Sometimes he even spills it on the ground where he stands, in respect and some form of prayer, though Hob isn't religious,
Life goes by, because it always does, and Hob grasps it with both hands, trying everything he can. And as 1789 looms closer, he can feel in his heart that he’s not doing something that his Stranger approves of. Their meeting, finally, only confirms that, and Hob winces under the weight of his disapproval.
And when Lady Constantine comes with her goons and demands, Hob jumps to his Stranger’s defence, both because he cares, and because he is the High Priest and it's his job. His God can handle himself, clearly, but Hob has always been a protector at heart.
“I will see you again, right?” he asks just as they’re about to part, clenching his fist. “This didn’t…spook you?”
His Stranger almost smiles, and Hob’s insides melt - it should be forbidden for a man to be this stunning, this breathtaking, especially a man so brooding and peculiar.
“It shall take more than one incident for me to abandon our arrangement, Hob Gadling,” his Stranger assures. “This is, after all, a special place, and you are a special person.”
Hob ducks his head to hide his blush, heart hammering. This is the first time his Stranger has been so free with words and praise, and the assurance settles into his bones like a well-loved blanket. Hob knows his Stranger won’t outright confirm his thoughts, but this is as good as that.
Hob really is his High Priest.
That knowledge keeps him proud and happy for the next 100 years. Hob amasses a bigger collection of information and books on the subject, finally buys the White Horse, and starts making sure it’s sturdy and good, replacing the flooring, polishing the walls - only the best for his Stranger.
Many things Hob does with his own hands, a fond smile on his face as he narrates his actions, hoping that maybe, just maybe, his Stranger is listening, with a ghost of a fond smile on his lips. The inn looks better with his efforts, and people come flocking in, Hob watching from the sidelines most of the time. It’s not a lonely life, since there’s so much to see and experience, and he always has his Stranger, his Hope, waiting for him in 1889, as always.
Hob can’t explain it, but his Stranger draws him in, makes his heart pound and his palms sweat, and it’s wonderful and thrilling and scary, and he’s a High Priest with a responsibility of keeping the temple intact and proper. He doesn’t think his Stranger minds the variety of people that visit it, even those who are rejected by society - the man always seemed unconventional in the most wonderful (and annoying) ways.
He welcomes strangers in, two men discretely holding hands, a woman with her thin lips painted red to make her look more feminine (as she has not been blessed with the right body), those who are both and neither, those who are different. Hob is different too, and his Stranger takes the crown on that, mysterious and well-dressed, otherworldly in the middle of the same tavern, just more flea-ridden and crowded.
And then Hob makes a mistake.
Admittedly, he may have gotten too comfortable in his role, too presumptuous. Or maybe Hob looks at his Stranger, his Hope, and he knows, for he sees himself when the days turn dark and it’s hard to get up from the bed. There’s a part of him that fits with a part of his Stranger, one that the man guards so carefully, one that Hob catches glimpses of purely because of his familiarity with it.
He slips up, reveals too much, pushes too hard, and he’s left standing in the rain, watching as his God disappears into the darkness. The lights in the White Horse him, as if feeling that their God left them, and Hob curses, throwing his hat to the ground, fists clenched tightly.
“Fuck,” he growls, forcing anger to the surface so that he does not cry. “Stupid.”
He’s not sure who he's calling stupid - himself or his Stranger, but Hob has a feeling they’re just a couple of fools. He leans against a dirty wall, letting the cold rain wash his anger and grief away, and just breathes for a second, his heart hammering. This is not the end, it can’t be, because his Stranger is his Hope, and Hob needs him, needs that hope, that push sometimes.
It’s not the end, but the years that follow are tough.
Hob doesn’t give up, because he never does, and there’s always more to explore, to see, but it takes him 4 years before he toasts for his Stranger again, his heart now more settled. It hurts, of course it does, but Hob is too old to hold grudges, and what High Priest holds a grudge against his own God?
He continues to work on the White Horse, updating it to keep up with the times, adding little things that remind him of his Stranger - dark curtains here and there, dark wood for the tables, stained glass here and there (for some reason the image of his Stranger backlit by the stained glass windows won’t leave Hob’s mind). He continues to build up a temple for his God, patiently waiting for the meeting time to come.
And then his Stranger doesn’t show up.
Hob waits, and then waits some more, and then spills his voes (prayers) to the barman, clenching the glass in his hands. Something is tugging at his heart, like grief and despair and determination, and he huffs before slamming the drink down and heading out.
The night is cold and fresh, and Hob allows his legs to take him away from his car, away from the White Horse, from the place where his God didn’t show up, apparently determined to prove something to Hob, even after 100 years. It’s sad and infuriating, and Hob wants to scream and cry at the same time, so he ends up in a liqueur store, buying two bottles of whiskey.
It’s not the best idea, but Hob’s not known for those, so he wanders around some more, before plopping down on a lonely bench by the Thames, and opening the bottle. It burns on the way it, but no more than the fire in his heart, the nausea in his stomach. It hurts, it hurts so damn much because Hob dedicated so many years of his life, centuries of it, towards keeping the White Horse in good condition, he made sure to be a good Hugh Priest, as much as he could, and-
His Stranger didn’t show up.
Hob groans and drinks some more, squeezing his eyes shut.
“You fucking bastard,” he snarls. “I hope-”
He hopes. Gods damn it all the way to hell, Hob hopes still, because he doesn’t know how not to hope, how to just give up, even when it hurts. He drinks some more, until the bottle in his hand is almost empty, the amber liquid glimmering in the moonlight.
“You should be here,” Hob mutters, slurring words. “You’d fucking hate this whiskey, it sucks.”
Hob finishes it, and reaches for the second bottle (his tolerance is insanely high these days), opening it easily and taking a long swing. It doesn’t burn this time, and he sags on his seat, resting his elbows on his knees.
The water is black in the moonlight, and there’s an ache in his heart, and Hob is so so angry, but a part of him still hopes, still forgives, the same way it forgave his Stranger for walking out 100 years before.
“Here’s to you, old Stranger,” he whispers, tilting the bottle until the whiskey hits the sand of the river shores. “Wherever you are.”
This time, when Hob takes a long swing, warmth spreads in his chest and he sighs, relaxing. He tilts his head back, and it’s almost like he can hear a raven’s cry - there’s always a raven in the Tower, after all.
There’s always a raven on someone’s shoulder as well, or there should be.
He’s not exactly sure what pulls him up, but a thought strikes Hob, and his eyes snap open. There is a thing he can do, after all, one last desperate cry in this wretched night, one last bastion of hope.
It’s stupid, but sometimes it’s the stupidest ideas that end up working.
The way back to the White Horse passes in a daze, and Hob knows he’s really drunk now, but nothing happens, as if the universe itself wants him to reach his goal. The door is closed, but Hob has keys to the backdoor, since he is technically the owner, and he walks up the stairs shakily, until he reaches his goal.
There are 2 connected rooms that Hob always keeps for himself, locked and protected so that no one can get in, unless they break through the door. He doesn’t keep anything incriminating there, but they’re…special. They have what it takes (hopefully) to do what Hob wants to do.
It took Hob decades to find the manuscripts he’s opening, and he’s still not sure if it really works. But he’s drunk, angry, and desperate, and there’s something in his chest chanting ‘do it do it do it’, growing louder with every second. Hob has never been good at resisting such temptations, so he drinks some more whiskey and sets down to draw.
He’s drunk, he knows that much, and yet his lines are clear and perfect, as if someone is guiding his hand, the circle done in less than 2 minutes. The rest is easy, though Hob’s heart is galloping and his stomach is twisting in knots - what he’s doing is monumentally stupid, but there’s hope.
Maybe, just maybe, Hob will be able to summon his God to the temple.
There’s no proof this will actually work, but Hob doesn’t let it stop him. He pours the rest of the whiskey into the circle, breaks the bottle and uses a sharp shard to cut a long line on his palm. The alcohol stings when Hob smears the blood all over the circle, but he grits his teeth and just thinks about his Stranger.
His eyes, so clear and bright and mysterious, always grabbing Hob’s attention. His skin, perfectly pale no matter what, contrasting with his dark silky hair and black clothes. His smiles, so rare and small, yet more precious than all the gems in the world. And finally, the hope that he brings into Hob’s life, the hope of a meeting, the light in the darkest moments when just Hob isn’t enough to make himself keep going.
There's tugging in his belly, and the cut stings more, and Hob swears it’s as if lightning is gathering in the small room, making everything shake. Through it all, he’s steady and sure, his heart finally slowing down, the alcohol almost evaporating from his blood.
Because of all of this, Hob is perfectly present and sober when something pops, his ears ring, and a naked body falls into the circle with a thump, furious glowing eyes immediately snapping up to meet Hob’s.
It worked.
Hob doesn’t know what to do, his hands shaking, heart hammering again, but then instinct kicks in and he’s throwing a thin blanket around his Stranger’s bare shoulders, smearing the circle open. He takes a few steps back, allows the other man to get up, those eyes still pinned on him, full of anger and distrust.
“Robert Gadling,” he says, and his voice is rough, as if he hasn’t spoken in months, and fuck, that may as well be true Hob is realising.
“Old Stranger,” Hob whispers, shocked. “It…worked.”
The Stranger cocks his head to the side, and for a second, the air crackles with energy, as if the man is angry and preparing to blow up at him, but then he takes a good look around them, at the blood dripping from Hob’s palm, the smeared remnants of the summoning circle…
“So it did,” his Stranger whispers. “Do you know what you did, Hob Gadling?”
“I summoned my God to his temple,” Hob replies easily. “It’s my right as a High Priest, right?”
The other man smiles gently, something mysterious in his eyes. “It is.”
It’s the first time they’re outright confirming this, and Hob doesn’t know what to do. His Stranger, his God is standing here in front of him, covered in one of Hob’s old blankets, a haunted look in his eyes for all he’s smiling.
Something terrible must’ve happened.
“My friend,” Hob starts, hands trembling with the strength of keeping them by his sides, “how can I help?”
“You already did,” he whispers, eyes full of wonder now. “You have no idea how much you helped.”
Hob ducks his head and blushes, trying not to fidget. The last time they saw each other his Stranger stormed out on him because Hob dared to say he was lonely, but now… Now, his Stranger’s eyes are filled with strange warmth and kindness, almost awe, and he’s not running away, just standing there.
Completely naked under the blanket.
He yelps and scrambles to look around. “Clothes! You need clothes!”
His Stranger chuckles quietly, a sound that seems to shock both of them, and they stare at each other in wonder for a second, his Stranger’s eyes warm still, if a bit haunted.
“They won’t be necessary, Hob,” he says gently. “There is…much I have to do, now that I’m free, and I have a place to return to, rather urgently, but-”
“Don’t leave,” tears through Hob’s lips uncontrollably. “I mean-”
He doesn’t want to cause the other man to run away again, not after only just now getting him back, but it seems like something changed, as his Stranger is just standing there, head cocked to the side.
“You don’t look good,” Hob whispers. “I don’t want you to get more hurt.”
“It’ll only be better now, Hob, all thanks to you,” his Stranger soothes, coming a bit closer. “I shall return to my Kingdom, my realm, as is my duty - it’s a long overdue visit.”
“Come back then. You missed a meeting.”
“I did,” his Stranger agrees. “And I shall return, for we have a lot to talk about, Hob Gadling. You have no idea of the magnitude of what you did. Thank you, my friend.”
Between one blink and the next, his Stranger is gone, leaving only some sand and a messy summoning circle, Hob just standing there, shocked and elated and worried, all at once. His Stranger was here, Hob did manage to summon him. His Stranger called Hob his friend.
He’s not sure how, but Hob ends up sprawled on his old couch, the mess on the floor left alone for the night, as the day’s events and the alcohol catch up with him. He wakes up with a familiar blanket draped over his shoulders, now smelling faintly of ozone and ash. He smiles.
There is some residual fear, that his Stranger disappeared and will never return, but only 2 days later there’s a knock at his door, and Hob almost drops his book when he opens it - his Stranger is standing there, now dressed all in black, tight black jeans and an oversized jacket, strangely fashionable.
“Hello,” the other man says, his lips quirking up into a smile. “I believe I promised you something, my friend.”
“You did,” Hob says breathlessly. “Please, come in.”
His Stranger looks much better than he had when Hob saw him last time, but he’s visibly weaker - if Gods can even be weaker, if they can lose weight. His Stranger seems like that, thinner and more hesitant than before, and Hob hates it with passion. The other man should always be confident and strong, always smug as if laughing internally at a joke only he gets.
Though, maybe this time, Hob will finally be in on the joke as well.
“This is…a rather long story, I’m afraid,” his Stranger says once they’re sat in Hob’s living room, each nursing a glass of red wine.
“All I have is time, my friend.”
“Dream,” the man says. “Call me Dream, for this is my truest name.”
“Truest,” Hob echoes. “You have others?”
His heart is hammering now, his vision swimming a bit. After so many years, he finally has a name. And it’s Dream of all things, of course, it’s Dream. It makes perfect sense, for the other man is like a daydream and a nightmare, mysterious and bold, sometimes cruel, but overall kind, deep inside. His Dream.
“I have been called many things over the years. Morpheus, Oneiros, the Prince of Stories, King of Dreams… But Dream is the one I prefer, only given to those close to me.”
Hob swallows. He understands the unspoken weight of the words - Dream is allowing Hob in, not only confirming their friendship but allowing Hob even closer. It’s doing terrible things to his heart, his poor beaten heart that still yearns for the unattainable.
“Dream then,” he says, noticing how Dream smiles at the sound of his name from Hob's lips. “Nice to finally have a name to go with the face. I’ve been calling you ‘m-the Stranger’ those last few centuries.”
They both pretend he didn’t stumble over his words there, didn’t almost say what he clearly desires, in those deepest, most hidden moments. But Dream doesn't give him the mercy of overlooking another thing.
“And recently ‘my God’, correct?”
Hob shrugs sheepishly. “It was as plausible as any other thing. Though, to be honest, I didn’t put you down as the God of Dreams.”
“I’m no God, Hob Gadling, but now I am quite curious what I was the God of, in your eyes.”
He shakes his head with a smile. “That’s just for me to know, for now, okay, old friend? A man has to keep some secrets.”
Dream cocks his head to the side, hair falling into his eyes charmingly. He’s so effortlessly elegant here, so at home and relaxed, in a way Hob hasn’t seen ever before. Whatever happened in those 100 years, whatever Dream went through, it certainly did change something important in him. As much as Hob hates the idea of his stranger suffering, he’s glad to see the difference.
He’s more approachable now.
“How about I tell you some of my secrets, and you shall share yours?”
“Now that, my friend, is more like it,” Hob says with a smile.
The tale that Dream shares sends a shiver down Hob’s spine, and he has to get up to wave his sword around a few times, his blood boiling at the thought of someone caging this magnificent creature down, keeping him prisoner for so so long…
There’s a cool hand covering his, and Hob almost yerks away on instinct, only to pause when he looks up. Dream is standing in front of him, his palm laying on Hob’s where it’s griping the sword, gently lowering it down. Dream’s hands are pale and slender, with long thin fingers - the hands of an artist, a pianist even. Precious, and looking so strange resting on Hob’s weathered, cracked palms, rough from centuries of work. And yet, they fit together.
“I am quite honored you’re so moved on my behalf, Hob, but you must calm yourself down, for now. I can promise you something…better later.”
Hob frowns, but obediently puts the sword on the table, falling back down onto the armchair and finishing his wine. Dream just looks at him, but allows Hob to top off his glass as well, one bottle already empty. And they’re only beginning.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he interrupts somewhere 2 glasses later, leaning closer to Dream. “He stole your tools and then lost them?”
“So it seems,” Dream admits. “It is not ideal, as I will have to look for them in the Waking World, but they’re essential in rebuilding the Dreaming and getting me back to full strength. There are many things to fix, many stray Nightmares to catch…”
“The Corinthian, yeah,” Hob hums. “He’s sure one special Nightmare.”
“He was my masterpiece, but now…after so long, I can see why he turned out the way he did. A flawed master can only create flawed creations, can he not?”
There’s an edge of self-deprecation in Dream’s voice, and Hob frowns.
“We’re all flawed, my friends, even whatever the Endless are, apparently. I’d argue that the longer you live, the more fucked up you are.”
“How wise, Hob Gadling,” Dream muses. “Based on your own experiences?”
Hob shrugs. “That’s all I have, don’t I?”
“Now you have me as well.”
He hides his blush by drinking more wine, and Dream allows him that, going back to his story. It seems to be cathartic to Dream, sharing what happened during his imprisonment, and before that, how his sibling's function (or don’t), how the Dreaming works…
“I really want to storm that blasted estate,” Hob growls. “Isn’t he still trying to summon you?”
“Not that I can tell,” Dream says slowly. “Though his son wasn’t…he was a coward, yes, but he wasn’t that greedy, or at least not as much as his father was. I think he is…glad that I’m out of that cage.”
“A coward, yes,” Hob snarls. “I wish to-”
“I know,” his friend soothes. “He will pay for his crimes, for they impacted not only me, but humanity as a whole. The Sleeping Sickness struck many, and the Dreaming is in disarray. Much work needs to be done to bring it back to its former glory.”
“You’re gonna do it,” he says confidently. “Besides, you have me, right?”
Dream raises an eyebrow. “You wish to help?”
“Of course! I dragged you out of that damned cage, which is great, but this is far from the end. I may not be some Endless being, but-”
“You are so much more special than that, Hob Gadling,” Dream finishes. “I do not wish to endanger you, and I do not know where this journey may lead us.”
Hob allows his impulsiveness to shine through, and reaches out to grab Dream’s hand. The other man stiffens, just for a second, before relaxing and looking at Hob with those shining, otherworldly eyes.
“I wish to help you, my God,” Hob whispers, his voice dripping with fondness before he forcibly reels it in. “Besides, I watched you walk away once, I’m not allowing it again, mister.”
There’s awe on Dream’s face, as if he doesn’t know how to deal with this, with Hob’s devotion and determination, with having a friend (or more, maybe more, just not now). Hob holds firm, allowing the truth to shine in his eyes - he’s not ashamed of himself, not anymore, and Dream suffered way too much, all alone, for him to now show him everything.
Dream may not know it, but he’s loved, and Hob will do his best to remind him of that, one day at a time. Starting with retrieving the sand.