Chapter Text
Perhaps it was his obvious lack of humanity, his immortality, or simply an absence of social skills, but it had never really occurred to Dream that 100 years could be a damn long time.
Time, in general, wasn't really something he usually bothered with. In the Dreaming, time slung around itself, stretched out, compressed, curled and flowed, was anything but linear. If it hadn't been for his regular meetings with Hob Gadling, Dream would probably not even have been keeping precise track of the Waking World's time in the first place. As it was, though, Dream was keeping track.
He was keeping track right now, with every airless breath he took inside of his glass prison. He kept track of every rotation that the guards went through, every man and woman that stood watch inside the basement. He kept track of the days as best as he could, though there were no windows to show him the sky. He kept track of the weeks and months and years.
As he lay in his prison of glass, bound by metal and runes, aching for the Dreaming, longing to walk though Fiddler's Green, missing Lucienne, and imagining his revenge for Jessamy, it occurred to him for the first time that 100 years could feel like forever.
In 1889, Hob Gadling had waited for one hundred years to meet him. In contrast, Dream never had to wait as long as Hob had to. This had two reasons.
For one thing, as established, time moved differently in the Dreaming. A hundred years could pass by in a blink. For another, Hob was never really gone. In his sleep, the immortal man was just as close to the King of Dreams as any other dreamer was.
He would go there, sometimes. Dream. He would stand at the sidelines of Hob's nightmares. He would shine down on his sleepy fantasies as a moon in a dark sky. He would handcraft dreams just for him.
But he never dared to appear to him in his own realm. It was too dangerous, he told himself, too revealing.
He had kept his name and his identity to himself with great care for so long, why throw it all away in Hob's sleep?
At least, that was what he told himself. Perhaps another part of why he had never slipped into Hob's dreams in person was fear. He didn't like to admit it, but in the depths of his being, there was an inkling of fear.
What would Hob dream of? He dreamt of his dead wife, his child, he dreamt of elephants in too-small rooms, of bodies, of places, he had nightmares about loneliness and past wars, or sometimes about dying, truly dying, like a mortal man. But what would he dream of if Dream stood in front of him, an arm's length away?
Even just asking the question led him down a dangerous path.
Still, in all his efforts to keep his distance, Deam had seen Hob Gadling. Frequently, exceeding the number of their meetings in the Waking World. In the Dreaming, he watched over every dreamer, and just because this was a special man, he was no different in that regard. He was a dreamer, just like the human children in their little beds, just like the foxes in their dens, just like the birds and deer and lions and all other living, sleeping things.
Thus, while Hob spent a hundred years living, finding and losing friends, pretending to age, gathering or spending wealth, he had nothing but memories of Dream, nothing but memories and occasionally - when things weren't going well - the urge to make time pass more quickly. Hob would spend a hundred years, hoping that his dark stranger wouldn't forget him, while Dream, of course, didn't forget. He would never forget. He would watch as Hob sailed across oceans, fought nightmares of darkness and grew feathered wings.
Dream's imprisonment gave him too much time to think. To remember. He remembered Hob Gadling's smile. His hands. His changing hair and beard and that spark in his eyes that he couldn't seem to lose, not even in the worst of times.
Dream had made a mistake. In 1889, after another hundred years of absence from Hob's waking life, he had finally made a mistake.
It had always been bound to happen. Dream liked to think that he was never made to have good things, much less a thing as amazing as Hob Gadling's friendship. And of course, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, he had been the one to mess it up.
Maybe this cage was making him feral, but he could honestly bite himself for his actions. For storming out of that inn as if Hob hadn't seen right through him. For growling when all that Hob had done was peel back Dream's carefully put together persona to reveal the truth.
Lonely, he'd called Dream. And lonely he was. Lonely is how he felt now, with Jessamy dead, and a whole realm he abandoned. Lonely and enraged.
He would give anything to just walk through one of Hob Gadling's dreams again. Whether it be a nightmare, or a treasured memory, Hob's dreams always seemed bright, the colours rich and the shapes sharp. He had a great mind and all the time in the world to put it to use, quite literally. Sometimes Hob would dream of the million things in this world he still, in all his lifetime - still, hadn't tried.
Dream hadn't realised how frequent his visits to that part of the Dreaming had become. He hadn't realised how much he had come to enjoy sitting on the side of Hob's fantasies as an onlooker. He hadn't realised its comfort until it got brutally ripped away from him.
Now, having spent a little over a century in a glass sphere, robbed of his power, his tools, his Jessamy, and the ability to sneak into Hob's dreams unnoticed, it really sunk in that 100 years could be a damn long time.
He wondered at it now, as Paul looked back at him over his shoulder. Gravity seemed to grow stronger for a moment, and Paul's gaze dropped to the floor to take in the smudge he'd caused. Alex's wheelchair had broken the binding circle.
Dream could feel it. Not really a wind, but a hint of one, a breeze, a tiny, tiniest slit between two heavy doors.
He wondered whether, if things had ended differently that day in 1889, Hob would have come to rescue him. He wondered whether Hob would have gone looking for him after Dream had, for the first time in forever, missed a meeting. Would he have found his stranger? Would he have tried? Certainly. Perhaps not out of friendship, but out of curioustiy alone, Dream could imagine.
If only things had ended differently. As it was, Hob probably thought that Dream had abandoned him. Just like all of the Dreaming had been abandoned... But perhaps it was better this way. He wouldn't have wanted Hob to get entangled in the danger of this household. He wouldn't have wanted Hob to see him like this, locked up and helpless.
In a bizarre way, it was funny, wasn't it? That something as trivial as a wheelchair could free him. Nothing but a smudge would be enough to fight his way out.
Paul noticed it. And, against his better judgement, much to Dream's surprise, he didn't do anything about it. Perhaps he'd always felt bad for Dream. Perhaps he'd always pitied him - a thought that enraged Dream even further.
Paul turned his back on the glass sphere and rolled Alex Burgess, the murderer, out of the basement.
Minutes later, shots echoed through the house. Bullets hit the glass of his prison, cracking, cracking, cracking until it finally shattered. Dream had escaped into the guard's fantasies, guiding the man's hands.
Shards skittered across the floor.
He had waited years for this chance. Raw power, the kind that only an Endless could contain, burst out of the sphere, a swirl of blue and white light, whipping through the dimness of the basement. The two guards backed up agains the wall fearfully, raising their useless weapons.
All it took to defeat them was a handful of sand stolen from one of the guard's dreams. Turned into rag dolls, they collapsed. Asleep.
He felt it coursing through his vein; a power that was - though still incomplete - a relief to have gained back. The blue and white light gathered into a storm, pulling at his humanoid form, sucking him into the middle of it. The Dreaming reclaimed him, like a long lost father enclosed in his son's arms, or perhaps the other way around. Hard to tell.
The first dream he visited, he immediately turned into a nightmare. It belonged to Alex Burgess. He would let neither Jessamy's murder, nor his own imprisonment, go unpunished.
He made short work of it, freightening Alex until he broke out in cold sweat, twitching in his endless sleep. Revenge was a dish best served cold.
"Do you want me to heat it up for you?" asked Molly with a warm smile.
Hob was startled out of his own little world, blinking rapidly before finding his words again, "Uh, yeah. Sure, yes." He attempted a smile. "Thank you, Molly."
The barista nodded back at him, grabbed his mozarella sandwich and placed it in the oven for a few minutes.
It wasn't busy at this time of day. Only one other tired coffee drinker was gracing the new inn with their presence that morning, and a young couple had come to enjoy a lovey-dovey breakfast in a cozy corner. Safe for that, it was empty.
The weather outside was good, almost warm, hitting that sweet spot of autumn when a pair of jeans and a sweater are perfectly sufficient. A raven was perched on the little birch tree in front of Hob Gadling's inn, cawing at a black cat in the street.
"Are you okay, Mr. Gadot?" asked Molly out of a sudden. Richard Gadot was the name he had currently chosen form himself, not too far away from the real one. "You seem a little... all over the place."
Molly was a kind young woman, bright green eyes, brown curly hair, freckles on her round cheeks. She was one of his favourite employees (though he'd never admit to picking favourites), she made the best donuts in the whole world, and she was right. Hob really was a little all over the place.
His hair looked like he'd run his hands through it one too many times (which was true), there were shadows under his eyes, a bit of a stubble around his chin and the grey shirt beneath his brown cardigan had a toothpaste stain on it.
"Oh, I'm fine." He brushed off her concerns with a smile. "It's just that managing the inn and preparing my lectures, it all gets a bit busy sometimes. I'll just sleep in this weekend and then it's right back to my normal self."
It was a half lie. (His favourite kind of lie.) Because on one hand, he really was busy with the inn and his lectures, but on the other hand, he knew he wouldn't be sleeping in. Or at least it wouldn't be restful.
He's been having... strange dreams. It was, of course, in the nature of all dreams to be a bit strange, but he'd been having the same dream for three nights straight and it was kind of starting to freak him out.
It was always the same room. An empty, windowless room with stone walls. In the middle of it, a construct that looked like a ball made from metal struts. The floor was littered with thousands, millions of glass shards. They would crunch beneath his steps.
The most haunting thing about the dream, though, was the man. Pale, wild-eyed, dressed in black, unmistakable lips, a familiar stranger. He would stand right in front of the metal construct, bare feet submerged in glass shards. Every night, the same dream, in which the man he had once - so foolishly - called "friend" stood before him and stared.
Hob had tried talking to him, had tried screaming, had tried hugging, touching, boxing... His hands would glide though the figure of his dreams. His voice would get drowned out by silence, never to reach his stranger's ears. It was to no avail. Every night.
"Well, I hope you take some time to catch a break," said Molly in her usual caring tone. She then handed him his coffee and his sandwich and asked, "Interesting lecture today?"
"I hope so," he replied, taking the steaming cup and the warm paper bag from her. They both smelled amazing. Becoming an innkeeper had come with certain perks, he had to admit. "I'm going to talk about the Golden Twenties in Germany. Good time, fun stories, nothing too depressing this time." He winked.
"You sound like it's a fond memory," she jokes, "Don't worry, you don't look that old!"
"Why, thank you." He grinned, suppressing a yawn in the back of his throat. She had no idea!
"My Lord." Lucienne's soft voice rung though the throne hall. Her steps weren't sharp, but definite, as she made her way to the foot of his staircase. "We have a... situation."
In front of the three tall stained glass windows, Dream rose from his throne. "Lucienne," he greeted and began his descent down the stairs, "Tell me, what do you speak of?"
The librarian looked up at him over her round pair of glasses, opening her lips to respond, but just before the first words left her mouth, a croaky voice interrupted, "Oh, oh! Can I tell him?!"
Matthew the raven fluttered in from the back of the room.
Lucienne gave him a Look and then a small nod, because she did have a soft spot for the bird.
"There's a new dream," croaked Matthew, "A dream that looks just like you! Well, actually, he's more of a nightmare I suppose. Then again, on certain days, the same could be said for you..." That last part was more of a whispered caw.
"A dream that looks like me?" Dream frowned.
A million dreams were born each night. A million dreams died every morning. There were some, of course, like Fiddler's Green and the Corinthian and so on, some that he had handcrafted, had shaped personally for a certain purpose. Some that lived on even when their dreamers awoke.
Many other dreams, though, were fleeting creations of humanity themselves. It happened rarely that a dream that he didn't personally create would last longer than a nighttime.
But for someone to dream about him... to dream about him, Lord Morpheus, King of the Dreaming, without his knowing. It seemed impossible. Yet, there were dreamers who knew his face. Perhaps...
"Robert Gadling," said Lucienne, confirming Dream's unspoken theory, "has been dreaming about you ever since you've regained your tools."
"You know? The guy we've been stalking," cawed Matthew.
Dream shot him a dark glance. "I know who Robert Gadling is." His Hob. His immortal, relentless, life-loving Hob. "And we have not been stalking, we have been observing."
It was true. He had sought out the new inn, cat-shaped, sneaking around the back of the house and peeking in through the windows with yellow eyes. Matthew had, against his orders, followed. Of course.
"The dream has been persisting for several nights," said Lucienne, a hint of concern in her voice - wasn't there always?
"I will deal with this myself," said Dream decisively. He walked past the two of them towards the back of the throne hall and - ah, yes, he'd made a mental note to show his gratitude more often! - "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Lucienne."
The sound of wings arose behind him. "I'm coming with you!"
"No, you are not." Dream raised a hand and an invisible wall stacked itself between the raven and him. The Dreaming quivered slightly as it bent to his will. "I'm doing this alone."
Matthew ruffled his feathers indignantly. "Fine! Be your own doom, then!"
Dream vanished.
"Idiot," mumbled the raven. Rightfully so.