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The strings of fate are not always red.
It’s a common misconception that has become quite popular throughout the centuries. Something about the heart being red and the heart also being associated with love. For it’s the heart that feels, the heart that yearns, and it is the heart that will tell you exactly where you need to go – where you need to be.
What people don’t know is that the heart is merely the vessel that speaks for your soul.
It’s the soul that yearns for love either lost or not yet found. It’s the soul that feels – all the joy, sadness, pain, anger, and betrayal of life itself. It’s the soul that cries with grief after a terrible loss. It sings when the sunrise paints the skies pink and orange. It’s what makes your heart skip a beat when you meet the person you have been waiting for all your life.
Now, the Fates are wildly unpredictable. They play games with all the lifeforms of the universe because we are but small specks of dust in their periphery. Small specks of dust that they keep minute track of, however. They can brush you away without a second glance, but they could also smush you against the glass, smudge the reflection, and set you on a course you were entirely unprepared for.
That’s where the strings come in.
Morpheus is no stranger to the strings of fate weaving through the dreaming every night. For everyone dreams of someone to be their life partner in a variety of different ways.
One of the most common colors is red. It is often misconstrued as the romantic soulmate due to the color’s association with the heart. However, that couldn’t be further from the truth. When the string is red, it sings of clashing passion and rivalry . It symbolizes a soulmate that challenges you to do better, be better, and could sometimes be your own downfall. Not quite an enemy, not quite an equal. It is someone destined to tip the balance of your world drastically.
There’s another very common color — the silver string. It almost glows white beneath the endless stars of the dreaming. They’re little wisps of wonder that take you to someone who will nurture your growth. A soulmate that offers you camaraderie through mentorship as the deepest form of love. Millions of these strings shine bright in the dreaming. Morpheus often finds himself wading through the waters of a silver soulmate’s dream to watch them realize the stones they need to step on, the people they need to learn from, in order to become who they truly want to be.
The one that Morpheus sees less often than other colors is what the soul happens to yearn for the most. Companionship in the form of someone who understands you, deeply, truly, and completely. Friendship that doesn’t fade with time, but changes in expression as you grow up. Love that makes the soul hum gently, happily — content to be in this other soul’s presence for as long as it takes.
The golden string.
Morpheus has one.
The Endless are soulless beings but they are not exempt from the Fates’ game of life. In the grander scheme of things, they are toys in the cosmic sandbox. Dream is a chess piece, a pawn on the board that is the universe at the Fates’ disposal. When he was born eons ago, he also got strings in a plethora of colors. It’s no surprise he has plenty of red strings, a couple silver, some blue, some pink.
However, the golden string was the most curious thing. None of his other siblings have one. They have the family strings that connect them to each other but none are gold . Desire has hundreds of strings, a red one even connected to Dream himself, but even they don’t have the string that promised a soulmate that will forever feel like coming home.
Dream knew exactly who it was too.
It was the arrogant peasant across from him in the White Horse tavern, loudly proclaiming that death was stupid and that he has decided — without any thought to threat or consequence — that he will never die.
Dream’s golden string of fate pulls him in that direction.
He knows every single dreamer who enters his realm and Robert Gadling is one of them. He’s as ordinary as ordinary can be – plain as one may say but he dreams bigger than most people. He has about as many strings as the average man – a couple silver that died when his parents did, a few pink ones, and lots of reds. But he is the only one in this tavern to have the golden string and Dream follows it, like walking on a tightrope, until their string is pulled so taut that even a regular human like Robert Gadling could feel it in his soul.
When Hob looked at Dream for the first time, in the barely there light of an old rickety tavern, it was like he found the most precious thing placed upon this earth. Like Morpheus was a star that landed onto his lap, burning a mark into his skin, setting into his bones like the chill of wintertime, lighting the way in the darkness that he was all too familiar with in the throes of war. It almost caught Dream off guard looking into Hob’s eyes. They were filled with curiosity, wonder, and awe.
Many only ever looked at him in fear.
And when he asked Hob to meet him again in one hundred years, the wonder in his eyes only lit up brighter than a flame. He was a supernova and Dream was a lowly planet that got sucked into his orbit.
But no mortal in this universe has ever wanted to truly live forever. Surely, the next hundred years will take this golden string away from him. It’s another parlor trick for the Three-In-One’s enjoyment, a simple rule of the game that Dream has no choice but to partake in. If he were to tell Robert Gadling that he was no more special than a blade of grass in the eyes of the universe, would he still believe his sister’s gift to be something that is not worth receiving?
Would his hunger for life wither away?
These were the questions that Dream constantly thought of as he watched Hob go about his life. The golden string glowed bright even during some of Hob’s darker days. His dreams were of war, banditry, and crime. It intrigued Dream, kept him on his toes, and he waited eagerly for the day he and Hob were to meet again, if only to find out which of these dark days were the catalyst to Hob’s realization that eternal life is not a gift at all.
But woe is Dream to underestimate Hob Gadling. For the light in his eyes that reflected their golden string still shined as bright as the day they met. When Hob said “Oh, yes.” to his burning question, it was like a burst of wonder etched itself into Dream’s very being, in the heart that should be. What a fascinating human this is , Dream thought to himself. What fascinating things will he do in the next hundred years?
It was inevitable that Hob would feel the pulling of the strings tethered to him at some point in his very long life. In his words, there are so many sights to see, women to swive, and friends to drink ale with. Oh, how he took that all in stride. He lived the life of almost royalty, fell in love, and had a child. Dream nearly never saw him in his realm, and if he did, it’s mostly visions of Hob in his vast and luxurious home, replaying memories from his already “perfect” life.
Dream almost ignored him. Almost.
Dream knew that Hob would have more than one soulmate — that is the law of the universe. It is unwise to feel any tendencies of possessiveness and jealousy for a man who doesn’t even know his name. Yet, the golden string that tethered them to each other flickered and strained. It crooned songs of sorrow at Hob’s wedding with Eleanor — Hob’s one true romantic soulmate.
Romance soulmates are of a deep dark pink. Eleanor and Hob shared that string.
It’s not as rare as the golden string that he and Hob share, but not many have that string regardless. Many do not seek romance at all and instead have many soulmates of the platonic kind. It is no requirement to have a romantic soulmate and Hob Gadling isn’t exactly the pinnacle of a man who lives only for the tender embrace of a lover. Hob’s truest lover is life itself, far from Death’s grasp, and the countless minutes and hours he cherishes in merriment.
Aye, but Eleanor was beautiful — radiant as the sun that dispels the night. Her dreams were of the stage, of symphonies and ballrooms and dancing. She was a painter too. She would get lost painting portraits and landscapes on canvas, and spend hours getting the perfect shade of brown to fill in Hob’s eyes. Meticulous were the careful strokes of her paintbrush against the palette.
Her dreams were always filled with bursts of screaming color.
Many of her dreams had Hob, handsome and charming, holding her hand her down the staircase and leading her in a dance that replicated their wedding night. Morpheus himself crafted the dreams of the composer for their first dance waltz. All to make sure their special night was the stuff of legends — a fairytale wedding. Dream has the sheet music still in the Library.
Eleanor was also kind and gentle. She was the exact opposite of who Hob was at the time — boastful and flamboyantly exuberant. A touch from her would soothe Hob in an instant. Where his nightmares would seep into Hob’s brain, and give him flashbacks of war and blood and carnage, her words would reel him out of the dark and straight into her comforting embrace.
She was perfect for him, balanced him out in every way.
But for the Fates, all perfect things are not built to last forever.
He was not there when his sister went to pick up Eleanor, but she had one last fleeting dream. It was of her baby – where in the waking world she laid still, this time she was in her husband’s arms, laughing and smiling like they do not have a care left in the world. She dreamt of happiness that would soon evade Hob Gadling’s century of life after her untimely death.
Curiouser still that their golden string did not fray during Hob Gadling’s hundred years of suffering. Dream would touch it every so often just to feel where Hob is at the very moment. He sleeps much less often as a beggar on the street, even less so when he was drowned as a witch over and over again. But when he did sleep, Dream took care not to send him any nightmares. Only sweet dreams of his former paramour and of the family he could have had.
Perhaps those dreams were just as cruel as a nightmare would be. He is, after all, not a red string soulmate of Hob’s, bound by eternity to thwart him every which way possible. He is one of gold. The color that symbolizes deep companionship, irreplaceable friendship, and a love as Endless as he is.
But Dream is cautious. These strings merely make him a puppet to the Fates. He does not have to be what the strings tell him he is. He refuses to be defined by relationships that end, more often than not, in horrible catastrophic disasters. He does not want to care for Hob as a golden string would. He does not want to let Hob craft him a piece of a soul that was never there in the first place.
It is safer for the both of them.
To protect Hob from tragedy is the least he could do to honor the bond they’ve been given.
Still, it is difficult to keep a good distance from his immortal stranger. For he’s not truly a stranger, at least not to Dream, and Hob Gadling surprises him every single day. He’s resilient where others would simply give it all up. He’s fearless where many would lay down their swords and flee. He is also stubborn when the situation may or may not call for it.
He’s as human as a human can be and Dream could never truly be bored with him.
With eternal life comes an infinite amount of soulmates that will cross paths with Hob. Dream would be there when a new string is formed – would always check if they are golden like his is. But none ever are.
He’d have a couple more pink ones that were fleeting in comparison to the one he shared with Eleanor. And Hob in his time as a slave trader bound him in hundreds of red strings that will forever echo and haunt Hob’s mind.
None could make their golden string lose its light. No amount of strife and hardship could dim its glow, not even when Dream had met with him again in 1889 and proclaimed that he did not need Hob Gadling’s companionship. That the friendship of this immortal is beneath someone like him.
“Tell you what? I’ll be here in a hundred years’ time! If you’re here then too, it will be because we’re friends, and no other reason!”
The light of their golden tether did not dim, but it did flicker with each step Dream took away from Hob. He pretended not to hear Hob yell for him in the pouring rain, feigning nonchalance at the heavy burden placed upon his shoulders at denying his soulmate their purpose in Dream’s endless existence. He cannot and will not let Hob care for him like this. He must not doom Hob to the dire consequences of being loved by him.
For that’s what it is, isn’t it?
How cruel of the Fates to give him a soulmate, wrapped in golden light, and make loving him a calamity unto the universe itself. This was never a problem when he wed Calliope, where the tragedies that fell upon them then were of different circumstances. Neither was this a conundrum to unravel when he was once with the Queen of the Seelie. He learned of his lesson in loving mortals after Nada.
Hob simply cannot be collateral damage to Dream’s selfish wants. No matter if his golden string pulls taut against the space where his heart should be the longer he denies it, no matter how many nights he spends spying on the dreams of this ignorant immortal, and no matter if the dreaming only knows rainfall and hail for the next hundred years — he will not let Hob love him. And he will not love Hob.
He will not.
But he will watch Hob, as he’s done many times before.
He watched as Hob created a silver bond with a young girl who disguised herself as a sailor named Jim. Margaret, her true name was, loved hearing Hob tell stories when the ocean waves would lap against the Sea Witch. He shared her love of adventure and Hob treated her like she was his own daughter, but not once did he underestimate her own strength and prowess as a sailor.
Furthermore, the secrets they kept about each other strengthened their bond.
Secrets and truth, the foundation of many of Hob’s relationships in his very long life. His soulmates never knew he was immortal, not even Eleanor. No one but Dream and Margaret. The difference between them, however, is that Margaret never denounced her bond with Hob, never cast him to the side, and told him that he wasn’t a true companion.
Unlike Dream.
Guilt for that night in 1889 is what consumed him in his wretched time in Burgess’ basement. The binding circle could not cut him off from the strings tied unto him by the Fates. But they served as an aching reminder of all the people, beings, and things that know of him, that are bonded with him, who do not come to his aid. He thinks, perhaps, this is the consequence of his nature – where he pushes people away so that they will not suffer.
The strings pluck out a song of melancholy during the years of his imprisonment. Maybe his fated pairs are all searching for him, subconsciously, waiting for him to appear at the edges of their dreams that will not come for more than a century. Perhaps they mourn him, his absence, and his memory. Morpheus himself is mourning the simplest sight of a delicate sunrise – one he has not seen for years.
The sunrise in question is none other than the hopeful smile of one Hob Gadling.
It’s fitting for an Endless such as him to ruminate on the regretful moments in his time. He wonders day in and day out – whether or not he could measure how long the days have been – what he could have said to Hob the last time they saw each other. Cut off from the dreaming, he could not see him, could not cry for him even if he wanted to.
He got so used to always knowing where Hob was that it was devastating to pull on their golden string and feel nothing. A single touch once transported him to Hob’s dreams when he felt like it. A single touch could have assured him that Hob was safe. Unlike the centuries beforehand, Dream is now clutching their string, with tears he dare not shed in front of Burgess sliding off of its ethereal sheen, and he quietly hopes to see Hob. Just once. Just once would be more than enough.
How many soulmates has Hob met since he last saw him? How many Margarets has he mentored on the open seas and how many Eleanors has he loved and lost? How many people have looked at Hob and thought him to be beautiful , just as Dream once thought? There’s no room for lies and secrets in this glass prison. He let himself feel it — every emotion that has coursed through his veins, all the longing that he tried to ignore since he first learned of his soulmate.
Maybe he does have a soul. Maybe Hob Gadling gave it to him on that day in 1389, when his eyes reflected the stars that swirled and burned in the galaxy of Dream’s gaze. Maybe it hurts this much to be away from Hob because he has accepted that one way or another, the world has been doomed to suffer tragedy from the very beginning.
So why must Dream deny himself the happiness his golden string of fate promised him eons ago?
But when he stepped into the New Inn for the first time, it was like all the same doubts and fears settled in again. Hob hadn’t noticed him yet, too engrossed in his current task of grading papers. He was wearing glasses this time, with large geometric frames, and slipping down the bridge of his nose as he kept his head down, focused. His hair fell into his forehead too. Dream had the instinctual urge to fix it.
He’s well aware that he’s projecting his concerns on a stray strand of hair but he needs something small to start with. Something he can focus on that’s low-effort and near impossible to mess up. Because messing up and picking up the pieces before they turn into shards of glass that could hurt others is something Dream is all too familiar with. Unfortunately, he just never got used to double checking the floor for the scraps that got away.
But he’ll do it this time. He’ll sweep the floor of any wayward fragments of glass over and over again if he could. Just to make sure that when he finally lets Hob in, there will be a far lesser chance of him getting hurt. A lesser chance for Hob to find out what Dream is capable of.
There will always be that one piece that could prick Hob at any moment, and Dream would be a fool to believe that Hob would accept that he is a flawless being (he’s far from it), but 600 years of knowing this man taught him that life is always well worth the risk. That living is as much of a gift as dying is, maybe even moreso. Affliction is inevitable. Sorrow and darkness were part of the human experience.
Perhaps Dream could stand to be a little more human after all.
And when Hob looked up from his papers, that blasted strand of hair falling almost perfectly betwixt his furrowed brows, Dream could not ignore the way their golden string hummed and shimmered at their long-awaited reunion. If Dream had a heartbeat, it would have synced with Hob’s.
Hob took one look at him and Dream knew that despite it all, Hob forgave him.
Dream still, to this day, believes he should earn Hob’s forgiveness. But not once did he think now to deny Hob’s love. When Dream had warned Hob that to be loved by him – by an Endless – spelled doom to all, Hob merely said that there are a million things he is afraid of. There are thousands of instances where he was near death and conquered each challenge that had their fair share of setbacks.
“I think you’re forgetting how selfish I am, Dream.” Hob said that night, their golden string providing him with a near heavenly glow. Dream could not take his eyes off of him then. “If you really believe we’ll end in tragedy, wouldn’t it still be exciting to try anyway?”
So try they did.
Dream had tested fate more than once – in midnight kisses along Hob’s jawline, neck, and lips. He held onto Hob’s arm during the day, presenting himself as Robert Gadling’s beloved to anyone and everyone he met. And each day the ground beneath them has not caved in nor has the city of London been torn asunder by their tests.
Now he lays his head on Hob’s lap, constantly playing over and over again the catastrophes that may come by allowing Hob to play with his hair as he grades papers. A part of Dream still thinks the Fates would want to get their last laugh. A part of him still believes that he doesn’t deserve this tenderness. That the golden string that binds them together will be severed through one wrong move.
Those visions quiet when Hob starts humming an old forgotten tune – the waltz Dream had secretly commissioned for Hob’s wedding with Eleanor – and Dream sighs like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.
Dream doesn’t pray, has never prayed to anyone before, but this time he does.
He prays to the Fates, asks them just this once, to spare Hob the dire consequences of being the recipient of Dream’s love. He holds the string between them, wraps it around his fingers, clutches it to his chest, and prays prays prays for their love to survive. Prays for the aureate glow of their bond to never waver, never wane.
He prays for forgiveness, in whatever form that may be, for in his selfish need to have Hob beside him, he might cause ruin to all.
Dream doesn’t know if the Fates hear him. He doesn’t know if they’ll even listen. But their golden string of fate glows ever stronger after his prayer, and he allows himself to believe that it has been answered.
The golden string is the tether between the rarest form of soulmates. It symbolizes companionship in the form of someone who understands you, deeply, truly, and completely. Friendship that doesn’t fade with time. And Love that makes the soul hum gently, happily — content to be in this other soul’s presence for as long as it takes.
Dream of the Endless has one.
It leads to an apartment on a quiet street in London, where Hob Gadling waits for him, two mugs of tea in his hands, his smile reminding Dream of the warm glow of daylight. Dream sees all the strings that are bound to Hob’s soul, counts the plethora of colors that link him to all the people Hob loves, and he remembers .
That after weathering a terrible storm, there is the promise of a rainbow.