Chapter Text
“So, do you still wish to live?”
Hob looked down, blood rushing and heart beating. This was the moment he had been waiting for, for 80 years. He had spent hours, days, and months in the gutter and filth thinking about what he would say to the Stranger when asked this very question. What would he say to the man who cruelly took everything from him? And for what? A slight offense? Hob’s arrogance?
Was Hob not allowed to be proud of what he had achieved when he started from so low in life? Was he not meant to proudly say that he left a life of killing and plundering behind, and had made something of himself? In fact, why did it even matter to the Stranger? The otherworldly creature had made it clear that he was interested in Hob’s experience, not in making sure these experiences were particularly pleasing to him. What difference did it make if he made his living printing books that not many people wanted or had the ability to read, or by taking advantage of the so-called nobility?
Hob could only think of the offense the Stranger might have taken on Hob’s attitude and excessive wealth in order to explain his cruelty because the alternative made his blood boil even more. The alternative being that the Stranger took his loved ones away from him unnaturally and inhumanely early in order to entertain himself. Hob knew how common it was for women to die in childbirth, and he also knew how things had changed in the two centuries he had lived prior, but combined with his boy killed in a tavern brawl at a such early age, he could only assume that some higher power was at play. At first, he thought that maybe he was being punished for his sins, for having been a mercenary and a bandit. For sleeping his way through England and France. But the more he thought about it, he did not have any proof or sign of the supernatural and divine than his Stranger. And what if his Stranger was as cruel as he appeared to be when they first met? His smirk, his sarcastic words, his refusal to explain to Hob what happened to his own life, his soul. What if that was all indicative of a man who enjoyed inflicting pain on others?
No, he had to keep a clear head, in order to pull this off. He had had time to cry and shout in anger and blame and curse. And then he had even more time to think and plan; he would show the Stranger what cruelty is.
“Why, will you love me any less if I do not?”
The Stranger widened his eyes, a reaction akin to jumping 3 meters back in contrast to his reserved nature and ironclad control over his responses. Hob knew that what he had responded was certifiably insane. The Stranger and he had never talked of love, had never even steered close to discussing emotions other than Hob’s joy over his son Robyn and his pregnant Eleanor.
No, keep a clear head. Do not think about that, Hob.
What he did instead was to keep his ground, maintain eye contact with the black-dressed man opposite of him, and channel every ounce of mirth he could through his face. He had a couple of centuries worth of experience playing cards, having been there when they were created, and he had honed in his skills in suppressing his own responses when it was necessary.
There must have passed 1 minute of complete silence between them, barely hearing the sounds of the Inn around them. Eventually, the Stranger sighed in exasperation. “If I say I will never cease to be interested in your experiences, where does that leave us Hob Gadling?”
Hob had expected this fencing match between them, and he had made sure every step he would take, every move he would make to be calculated. It reminded him of sparring with an enemy, and that was to be the most important duel of his life. “I do not wish to exist in such misery, dear old Stranger. But I do wish to live. I guess that what I had dreamed of Heaven to be, all these years back, was wrong”. With that, the Stranger opened his mouth as if to say “oh”, and tilted his head slightly.
I guess that lit something in him, well done Hobsie.
“And what of those dreams, Hob? Would you live in a world of dreams, if only they promised to be what you had wanted your waking hours to be, all along? Would you accept to be a thrall to your dreams, your impulses, your heart’s desires?”
Now we are talking, Hob thought. As an experienced soldier of fortune, he could spot an enemy’s weak spots and tells with unnerving accuracy. He would not have survived the kind of life he lived until 1389 if he had not been so good at this game. And what his instincts told him at that point was that the Stranger seemed to latch onto the word “dreams”. Whatever it was that compelled the man to zero in on dreams, it had given Hob a way in that he had not anticipated. Oh, but this was going so marvelously, wasn’t it?
“Are you crazy? Death is a mug’s game, I have so many dreams to see come to life! Why… what are you offering?” Hob made his move and allowed his opponent to carefully choose his. For Hob was not a fool, and he knew he should be more cautious than to think that deceiving and destroying his Stranger would be a child’s game. No, it would be arduous, and treacherous, but he had made peace with the path he had chosen. If it meant the end of his long life, he would at least face the Reaper with dignity and claim that he had given the Devil his due.
The Stranger’s features momentarily softened, while he seemed to contemplate his next words. “I can offer you to live in the world of dreams, Hob Gadling. You will not be walking this waking world anymore, but you will not be given over to Death either. I will allow you to experience as many dreams and nightmares as you wish if only to ease your suffering. Maybe it will restore your faith and hope… Or it will teach you to appreciate what you have and not seek riches or love above your station”.
Hob did not miss how the Stranger uttered the word “love”; with some superficial derision, the kind that comes not from someone young who has never experienced love and is therefore mocking their elders who speak of it. No, this came from someone who suffered love, who had held love and lost it, and in the process dealt with his loss and pain by denouncing love at large. This gave him the final push that he needed for his plan; the plan to discover if the Stranger had a heart, and if he did to take it in his hands and destroy it. To make him feel the pain Hob felt, the pain for which Hob was sure the Stranger was responsible. And the Stranger had just inadvertently shown Hob that he had a heart, one capable of feeling what love and pain are.
My my, this will be delicious.