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He’s not…my Dream.
The words faded into an echo as Hob was pulled back to the waking, gasping and drenched in sweat. His chest quickly rose and fell, through bleary eyes, he glanced out his bedroom window. The streetlight beamed at him like a one-eyed glare, pulling him completely back. Hob wiped the sweat from his face, blinking his sleepy eyes. That was…certainly one of the strangest dreams he had. What was it even about? The remnants feebly clung to his mind, flashes of a scene all too familiar to him. It had been a wake, but for whom?
Something wet dripped onto his hand. Hob blinked, and more drops followed. Tears silently spilled down his cheeks. He knuckled his eyes, but it did nothing to stop the dam. Why? It wasn’t a bad dream. It certainly hadn’t scared him. Yet…the tight clenching in his chest said otherwise. The familiar taste of grief was on his tongue. Bitter, even with his extended lifespan he still hadn’t got used to the taste. How many more would he have to lose to do so?
Hob turned to the other side of the bed, already knowing he’d find it empty. His sheets were cold. The coldness was something that still annoyed him. Yes, death may be a part of life, the end of life, and he could accept it if he had to, but it was the absence that hurt. The missing presence. The lack of warmth.
Hob let out a wet chuckle. How ironic of him.
He lay back in his bed, staring into the darkness. Occasionally illuminated by the light of passing cars. Hob sighed, as much as he wanted to sink back into slumber, something stopped him. His eyes, now dried, felt the telltale itch of exhaustion, yet refused to close. Something was stopping him. The tugging was still in his chest, yanking him back whenever his eyes threatened to fall shut. It was almost like…something was telling him to be aware of something.
Hob thought of the dream again. The bittersweet tang of mourning hung in the air like a fog; he felt it even in his dream. All around him were dewy eyed strangers. Hob remembered reading that the human brain couldn’t conjure up new faces so people in dreams were someone they met in real life. That must have been a lie because he knew he hadn’t met a talking raven.
Lucienne.
The name came out of nowhere. He sat up, repeating it in his mind. An elven eared woman, kind but sad eyes, gazing at him from behind golden spectacles. Who was that?
Before he could muse on it anymore, something jerked him out of his reverie. A thump from downstairs, it was more like a crash. Hob jumped out of bed, centuries of battle training coursing through his body. He didn’t even notice when he grabbed a weapon, a short-edged sword he kept under the bed, and rushed down the stairs.
All traces of sleep were gone, replaced with adrenaline. He didn’t turn on the lights, he needed the element of surprise. He stopped before opening the kitchen door, slowing his breathing, and calming his racing heart. Clenching his teeth, he threw it open, brandishing the sword so it caught the moonlight. It gleamed in the darkness like an otherworldly weapon. Hob grinned at the thought of the intruder’s face.
No one was there.
The kitchen was empty. He checked behind the door, inside the cupboards, even under the sink. Nothing, just that same heavy coldness that leeched into his bones. It didn’t help that his bare feet padded on the tiled floor. It felt like walking on ice. Another crack outside made him gasp, followed by a roar of thunder.
The night sky suddenly erupted, unleashing a storm of biblical proportions. It was as if the heavens themselves were crying, but not with sadness, no, this felt like…frustration. Hob shook his head, maybe he was losing it? He was still hearing sounds. Like someone cracking their fingers, or pressure on a wooden floor. An uneasy thought grew in his mind, confirmed by the sound down the hall. Someone was at the door.
Still clutching the sword, it would taste blood before the sun rose. Striding to the door, the pounding of his feet mixed with the pounding of heavy rain. Rain that seemed set on creating a flood. The crackling increased as he neared, a tapping at his front door. A feeble little knock.
Before Hob could hesitate anymore, he threw the door open, his sword raised. Bombarded with rain, he was instantly soaked. With his hair plastered to his face, he looked around. There really was a storm outside. Had it dislodged a pipe and that was making the noise? He lowered the sword, let his guard down, and spotted the dark shape at his feet.
At first, he thought it was a bin bag, crumpled and windblown, then, it twitched. Its head lolled backwards, exposed their pale white neck.
Hob’s breath caught in his throat, “Stranger!”
His stranger didn’t react. The only sign of life was the bobbing of his Adam's apple. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. It looked as if he was simply asleep. Hob wasted no time. His sword fell to the ground with a metal clatter. Still, his stranger didn’t react. Bundling him in his arms, Hob retreated inside.
His stranger was weightless in his arms. His arm dangled over his side like a ragdoll’s, his head lolled alarmingly. Hob couldn’t believe he was here. In his arms.
“Forgive me, my friend.” He told him, knowing he’d hate to be seen in this state. His stranger was silent.
Thinking quickly, he was about to bring him upstairs to his bed, then stopped himself. How would he feel if he woke in someone else’s bed, even if it was Hob’s? Instead, he opted for the couch, placing him down carefully, and supporting his head with a nearby pillow. Once settled, Hob rushed around the flat, gathering blankets, turning the heat up full blast, and a first aid kit, just in case.
He wrapped his stranger in layers of blankets, each fluffier than the last. Not before towelling his hair and drying him off as best he could. He patted his cheeks, running the towel around his chin and neck. His skin was smooth like marble, and just as cold. It was only when his panic eased did he realise what he was doing. The towel dropped to the floor forgotten, and his empty hands were cradling that cold face. His hands encompassed his stranger’s face, his skin softer than he expected. Slowly, carefully, he ran his thumb along his cheekbone. It felt right.
Heat rose to his face when he realised,
“Sorry!” He blurted, yanking his hands back like they were burned.
Hob didn’t know what to expect, more silence, or even a grumble. Instead, his stranger, his cold, distant stranger who once stormed off at being called lonely, leaned into his touch. He turned his face, seeking out Hob’s warmth. Hob was in awe at the sight. The way his cheek squished slightly, the slight breath that escaped his parted lips. Hob’s chest tightened.
No, he scolded himself. None of that. Even as he thought that, his other hand, as if magnetically drawn, wove itself into his hair. Fluffy from the towel, it felt like silk against his fingers.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. He did it. He ran his fingers through his silken hair. Soothing it. The strands spilled against the pillow like ink. Again, another soft sigh. Hob didn’t stop. The repetitive motion helped stir up more remnants of the strange dream. The feeling of mourning, why it was so real. Because it was real. His stranger, his friend, had died. And yet, here he was, unconscious, looking like a drowned cat, but here.
He was alive.
Hob pressed his ear against the stranger’s chest, not even bothering to feel awkward. There, muffled by ten layers of blankets, was the steady thump of a heartbeat. A mortal heart. His stranger had returned to him alive.
Fresh tears sprung to eyes. He didn’t bother wiping them away. The tightness that had been in his chest released, and he dissolved into sobs. Heavy, heaving sobs that drowned out the heavy rain. His entire body shook from the force. The bitter taste of grief replaced with the salt of his tears, and maybe the sweet tinge of hope. It was a wonder his friend didn’t stir at the noise, but he was dead to the world.
Oop. Bad choice of words. Hob’s sobs morphed into a laugh. A wet, choking sound that wrenched its way of his throat. He laughed with joy, even as the tears continued to spill. Dropping his head onto his bundled friend’s chest, he found his hand. Limp, and cold, Hob held on as if he was an anchor. He wouldn’t let this dream fade away. As his sobs died down, with the rain pattering against the window pane, he was certain he heard something else. A gentle, oddly familiar, sound, not unlike the hushed breathing of his friend. It was almost like the sound of wings.
Warmth blossomed in his friend’s hand, his lithe fingers twitched around his, returning his grip.
“My…My dream…” Hob wept.
As if in answer, his friend’s eyelids fluttered.