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Chapter Text

It was Robyn’s face that tipped Hob off. 

His son’s beautiful face on the body of a corpse with stumps for legs, expression twisted in agony, as the ground exploded in muddy clumps around them from the endless shells raining down on them from enemy fire.

Hob was screaming, howling out his wordless grief as he clutched his darling boy to him. 

Trembling hands framed Robyn’s face, stroking his cheeks pleadingly, beseeching him to open his eyes.

Hob could distantly make out the sounds of men screaming and dying all around him, but it was background noise.  He was too focused on the face of his son.

That face shifted very slightly under his hand, the nose lengthening barely an eighth of an inch, the mouth narrowing by a fraction.  If Hob hadn't been so intent on begging his only son to open his beautiful green eyes, he’d have missed it.

Hob froze, startled.  Then watched as the face of his son shifted again.  Ears moving up the side of his head by a minuscule amount.  

The immortal mortal sat back, frowning, hands still on Robyn’s face.  

He forgot about the chaos of the trenches and, in his confusion, the death and destruction around him slipped away.  Green meadows from the time before the Great War took their place.  Hob had been there in 1903, on holiday, and he’d mourned the loss of the beautiful countryside when he’d first seen the desolation that had replaced it.

Hob was paying no attention to the countryside now.  

He studied the face before him, his confusion giving way to doubt as he suddenly realised he couldn’t remember his son’s face properly.  It had been too long, and the human mind, even an immortal one, forgets.  Time had blurred the details and left only a hazy recollection in its place.

Hob remembered that his son had inherited his mother’s enchanting green eyes and mousy brown curls, but he couldn’t properly recall the shape of his cheeks, or how wide his eyes were, or the length of his nose.

Had he got Hob’s nose?  His chin?  For the life of him, Hob couldn’t remember.

The body before him, most definitely not his son, coughed in embarrassment and sat up.  Legs grew out of stumps, while clothes melted into skin that became dark and translucent, lines of dark blue and green flashing like lightning beneath it.

“I’m really sorry,” she said, extracting her face from Hob’s hands.  “This has never happened to me before.  Can we start again?”

“I’d really rather we didn’t,” Hob told her guardedly, scooting back and looking around at the green fields.  A picnic blanket appeared on the ground with a wicker basket on top.

Hob clambered clumsily to his feet and stumbled over to it.  He was dimly aware of his uniform shifting into his favourite shirt, waistcoat and trousers.  

There was a full picnic inside the basket, two champagne glasses and the requisite champagne.  There was also Hob’s much loved pocket watch, the one he’d misplaced in 1876 and mourned for a good decade before finding a suitable replacement.  

He picked up the watch, popped open the champagne and poured it straight into his mouth, ignoring the glasses.  It tasted strange.  Like the memory of champagne, more than the drink itself.  

He offered the bottle to the creature next to him, who sipped it politely before handing it back.

She watched him warily, knees pulled up to her chin, head resting on them.

“This,” Hob took another gulp and swirled the fizzy liquid around his mouth consideringly, “is a dream.”

“Yes,” the creature confirmed.  

“I’m dreaming.  Robyn is dead.  Long, long dead.”

The creature politely turned her head away as Hob fished out a silk handkerchief his wife had embroidered for him so many centuries ago, and wiped his eyes.  How was it that he couldn’t remember his wife’s smile, but he could remember every stitch of this hanky? 

“And you are?” Hob asked.

“A Nightmare.”  The Nightmare sounded resigned.  Completely fed up, and Hob could relate.  He’d been in more than a few professions that had made him feel that way.  He would do a great many things before willingly becoming a waiter again.

“I figured that.  I was more angling for a name.”

She looked at him in shock.

“You want to know my name?” 

“Don’t see anyone else about, do you?  Besides, I’ve already got one mysterious stranger in my life.  I don’t need two.  Otherwise I’d have to start numbering you, and I don’t think the other guy would like it if he got demoted from ‘the Stranger’ to ‘Stranger One’.”

He certainly hadn’t liked Hob implying they were friends.  The reminder of his last meeting with his Stranger caused a familiar pang in his chest, but Hob was an expert at brushing it away by now.  He would apologise in 1989 and everything would go back to normal.  At least, that is what he told himself and he’d always been an over optimistic fool.

“I am called Gault.”  

Hob held out his hand and shook the Nightmare’s.  It was cool to the touch, the brush of the Nightmare’s fingers against his palm surprisingly delicate.  Almost skittish.

“Well Gault.  It’s not exactly nice to meet you, given …”  He struggled to articulate his thoughts, unable to say ‘you were impersonating the dead body of my son’ with any kind of levity.  He settled on waving his hand in the air as he swallowed down the painful lump in his throat.

“Still,” he rallied.  “I’ve never met a nightmare properly before.  So that’s something, I suppose.  What happens now?”

“I don’t know,” Gault admitted.  “I’m not sure what the protocol is when the dreamer realises they are dreaming.”  She looked hopeful.  “I don’t suppose you could wake up and we both try and forget about this.  My Lord will be angry that I’ve failed in my duty, but I don’t know what went wrong.  Maybe we could just not tell him?”

“Your Lord?  Bit of a slave driver is he?”  Hob bit back a wince at his choice of words.  He’d made so many mistakes in his long life.  Some small, some large.  But that one was a mistake he would never be able to atone for, though he would spend the rest of his life, however many more centuries it might be, trying.  There was nothing else he could do but try.  

To take the infinite cruelty he had seen, the infinite cruelty he had inflicted, and try to fill up the world with just as much kindness.  He had barely begun, but he would keep trying.  He would try until the universe breathed its last breath and it was just Death and himself left.

“He is demanding.  Much depends upon him and mistakes can be costly.  We depend on him, and he on us.”

“Well, I won’t tell him,” Hob agreed.  “And if we find ourselves in a situation like this again, I’ll try and play along until I wake up.  If I’ve got to have a nightmare, it would be nice to see you again.”

Gault smiled at him in disbelief.  She’d probably never had anyone tell her it would be nice to see her, Hob reflected.  Must be a lonely business, nightmaring.  Hob could fix that.  One more little act of kindness to add to his small hill of good deeds.

“So… How do I wake up?”  He tried to concentrate on waking.  If he remembered correctly, he was currently hunched up in a cold, damp trench, trying to catch forty winks with one of his mates huddled by his side for warmth while they waited for orders or the Krauts’ next attack.

You’d think it’d be easy to wake, given the conditions he was sleeping in, but he was categorically still in the green meadow.

Gault took pity on him.

“May I?” she asked, stretching out a hand towards him.

He nodded, and she touched her palm gently to his head.

Nothing happened. 

She frowned, and did it again.  With a great deal more force, it had to be said.

Hob caught her wrist before she could manage a third, harder attempt. 

“I don’t think it’s working,” he told her, using his other hand to rub the sore spot on his head.

“Something is wrong,” she agreed, frowning.  “Wait here.”

She vanished, leaving Hob no choice but to wait.  Not that he could go anywhere.

He idly wished he had a book and a copy of Pride and Prejudice that he’d finally got around to reading, despite the ribbing from his mates, appeared at his side.

He flicked through it until he found the page where he’d left off, with Lizzy being embarrassed by her family at the Netherfield ball, but everything after that page was blank.

Hob supposed that if he hadn’t read it yet, it wasn’t there in his head for the dream to make it appear.

Could one take a nap in a dream, he wondered, putting the book down.  Probably not.  He picked up the book again.  Nothing wrong with starting from the beginning.  To his surprise, when he got to the Netherfield ball, the book continued.  He read on and on as Lizzy was kidnapped by Wickham, who Hob had suspected was up to no good, then escaped him only to have to dress up as a man to disguise herself before accidentally joining the British army.  

Hob had just reached the part where Lizzy had taken over from Wellington and ensured the British victory at Waterloo, after which Darcy had turned up to declare his undying love (having tirelessly searched for her) when Gault returned.

“I never realised Jane Austen knew so much about military manoeuvres,” Hob told her.  “This is really accurate.”

Gault stared at him in astonishment, before her lips twitched upwards and she broke out into a loud guffaw that turned into uncontrollable laughter.

“She didn’t!  Your mind has been creating the story for you.  That’s all you.”

Hob sheepishly put the book down as Gault fought to check her mirth.  When she crouched down next to him, it was with the same expression as the nurse had had the previous week.  The pity and sadness she’d shown when she’d told him that Paul Baerbridge, Hob’s most recent best friend, hadn’t made it.  

“Something’s wrong.”  Hob didn’t need Gault’s involuntary nod to confirm it.  “Oh my god!  Am I finally dead?”

He didn’t want to die.  He still had so much to do.  So much to see.  So much to live for.  

Yes, the current decade was a bit shit and Hob felt that some days he would go mad from the horror of it all, but he’d felt the same after Agincourt and he’d eventually recovered from that.  

It would take a while, but Hob knew he would recover from this war as well.  It was just who he was.  He got knocked down, life kicked the stuffing out of him and then he picked himself back up, brushed himself down and moved on.  He always had.  It was what he was best at.

“No,” Gault assured him quickly.  “You’re not dead, I promise.”  She took his hand in both her own and Hob watched the flashes of blue and green spark beneath her skin.  He thought he could feel them like little pin pricks against his flesh, but that might have been his imagination.

“Robert.”  Her voice was kind, so very, very kind.  How did she know his name?  He’d not told her.  “Robert, can you tell me when you went to sleep?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, feeling very confused.  He couldn’t look away from her flashing hands, mesmerised by the colours.  “I… forty minutes ago… maybe?”

“Do you have a date?  A month?  A year?  Anything?”

“June… June the year of our Lord 1916.”  That was right, wasn’t it?

“Robert, I’ve just checked.  It’s January 1917.  You’re in hospital.  You’re sick.  It’s a new disease.  The doctors are calling it Encephalitis Lethargica.  You’re not the only one to catch it.  Almost a million people have gone to sleep and not woken up.”

“What?”  Hob finally pulled his gaze upwards, away from Gault’s gentle hands to look into her eyes.  “No…. That can’t be right!  I’ve been asleep for hardly any time at all.”

“Time passes differently in the Dreaming.  I’m so sorry Robert.  I don’t know how to wake you up.”

Hob was beginning to panic.  He could feel his heart pounding beneath his shirt and he struggled to breathe as fear started to clog up his throat.

This couldn’t be happening to him.  He’d not been sick a day in his life since that fateful meeting in The White Horse tavern in 1389.  And now this?  A sleeping sickness?  

No!  

This was Hob’s worst nightmare.  He was meant to live!  He was built for it.  What was the purpose of his immortality if he was doomed to sleep eternity away? 

“But someone knows how, right?  I know you don’t want to get into trouble with your boss, but he must be able to wake me up, right?  Please ,” he begged, getting on his knees.  “I have so much to live for.”

“I’m sorry,” Gault repeated softly.  “No one can find him.  None of the Dreams or Nightmares knows where he is.”

Hob couldn’t help it.  He collapsed to the ground in sobs.  

What would happen to him in the waking world?  He couldn’t starve to death; the 17th century had proved that.  But when would the doctors realise he didn’t age?  When would they realise he wasn’t fully human anymore?  He’d guarded his gift so well since his and his Stranger’s run-in with Lady Johanna Constantine, and now it would all be revealed.  All because he’d be unable to do anything but sleep the decades away.

If he ever did wake up, it would be in a cell.  He was sure of it.

“Come on, Robert.”  Gault pulled him up and helped him to his feet.  “Let’s get you out of here.  There’s someone who wants to meet you.”

Chapter Text

Travelling in the Dreaming was a disorienting experience.  

Gault guided Hob over a bridge across a river that had not been there a moment before.  One step across and they suddenly faced a huge set of double doors that had been a field of grass only a second before.  Hob fought the urge to be sick as his mind tried to process the sudden, dizzying changes in environment.  

An immense castle loomed before him, all fairytale domes and spires with massive statues towering over high walls.

Above the massive doors perched a pegasus, a dragon and a creature Hob suspected might be a gryphon.  All three eyed him beadily as Gault escorted him towards them with a firm, unyielding grip on his arm.

Hob had no choice but to move forward and try his best not to look like lunch.

They let him pass, though Hob thought he could feel the disbelief in their gaze.

To his surprise, while the doors opened onto the type of grand entrance hall Hob would expect from a palace such as this, when he stepped over the threshold he found himself on a narrow wooden platform surrounded by bookshelves.

He really did have to stop then, and lean heavily against the railing until his head stopped spinning.

“Robert Gadling?” A brisk, no–nonsense voice enquired.  

He nodded, trying not to retch, unable to look up at whoever had spoken.

“Good.  Thank you for escorting him here, Gault.  I can take it from here.  You may return to your duties.”

Hob missed Gault’s reassuring touch the moment she obeyed.  He forced himself to look up to give her what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

“I’ll see you soon, with any luck.”

She nodded, an unsure smile spreading across her face, before she turned on her heel and walked away.

Hob pushed himself off the railing, managing to steady himself on his feet, and finally took a look at the other person in the room.  

She was dark skinned, with pointy ears and was dressed in an immaculate frock coat.  She wore it better than Hob had ever worn such things.  

She was eying him through a pair of round spectacles perched on her nose with as much interest as he was eying her.

“I never thought I’d welcome a human into my library, but your ability to see through Gault’s nightmare has come at a rather fortuitous time.  It is good to have a friend of my king here.  Hopefully, you will be able to shed some light on the current situation.”

Hob very much doubted it.

For one thing, he was pretty sure he was no friend of any king.  The last king he’d met had been good old George IV, and that had been at a drunken party when he’d still been Prince George.  It had been a wild night, Hob remembered fondly.  He’d woken up wearing the Prince’s coat and had no idea what had happened to his own.

“Sorry,” he offered ruefully.  “I’m afraid I don’t know any kings.  Let alone a king of a place like this.”

The woman looked startled.  “You are the correct Robert Galdling?  Could there be more than one?”

There were probably a few out there.  Gadling couldn’t be that unusual a surname and Robert was still popular.  

“I’m definitely a Robert Gadling,” he promised her.  “Though I’ve gone by a few names in my time.  What may I call you?”

“Lucienne,” Lucienne replied, striding off down the walkway and around the corner, frowning to herself.

With nothing better to do, Hob followed.  She was standing by a desk, flicking through a truly massive tome. 

“You are Robert Gadling, more commonly known as Hob, born 12th September 1355?

“Er… yes.”  

The book was closed with a reverberating thump.

“Then you are the correct Robert Gadling.  You know Lord Morpheus.”

Contrary to popular belief, Hob was not lacking in intelligence.  He may have begun life as a peasant farmer/soldier with all the lack of educational opportunities that entailed.  But he’d always been a bright bugger and when opportunities came knocking, he took them.  

He’d learnt to read long before he got into the printing business with old Billy Caxton.  He had discovered he had a head for numbers when he began investing his hard earned wealth in Henry Tudor’s shipyards.  

His beloved Eleanor had taught him to speak French perfectly (a huge improvement on the little bits of Norman French he’d picked up here and there from the various noblemen he’d served), all the better to please old Queen Bess, who had a fondness for the language, when she came to stay.  

He’d shared a pot of tea with Sir Isaac Newton when the scientist was in the middle of writing the Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica.  

He’d worked for Robert Owen as a teacher in New Lanark, when the man was testing out his theories on utopian socialism. 

The point of it all being, Hob was no idiot.

There was only one person this Lord Morpheus could be.  His Stranger.  

Hob had lived through the Renaissance.  He’d gone on several Grand Tours.  He knew what the name Morpheus meant.  

His Stranger was the King of Dreams.

It might have been harder to swallow, if he hadn’t just had a chat with a Nightmare and stepped into a clearly magical palace.

All in all, Hob thought he was taking the revelation that his friend was the bloody Sandman rather well.

He stubbornly ignored the disappointment he felt welling up in his heart.  There was no point to it, he told himself sternly.  He had a name, one he had wanted for over five hundred years.  It shouldn’t matter that it came from Lucienne’s lips instead of his friend’s.

Not-friend, a cruel part of his brain whispered to him snidely.  Why would the King of Dreams need a friend like you?

“Hmmm…” he hummed out loud, not entirely sure what to say, but desperate to drown out that cruel little voice.

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat and tried again.  “Yes, I know your boss.  We’ve… met up for drinks a few times.  Er…. You don’t happen to know where he is?  Only I’m having a bit of trouble waking up, and if he’s the King of Dreams then surely he’ll be able to help.”

“That’s why I’ve asked you here, Robert Gadling.”  Lucienne removed her glasses from her nose and cleaned them fastidiously on her frock coat.  “You see, Lord Morpheus is missing.”

Come again?  

“What?” he asked dumbly, sitting down on a chair that had appeared behind him out of thin air.  “Missing?  How?”

“If I knew, I would not have needed to bring you here,” Lucienne said brusquely.  “A dreamer in the palace is unheard of, but the Dreams and Nightmares are getting restless and the realm is already starting to decay in his absence.

“To put it bluntly, Robert Gadling, I am desperate for any clue or help I can find.  You breaking free of Gault’s nightmare feels like the work of Destiny.  I have to believe you can help me.  Us.”

No pressure then.

Hob was not sure how he could help.  But he’d always been up for trying, so there was that going for him at the very least.  

He’d save his existential crisis for later.  His Stranger, Morpheus , was missing and his realm was suffering without him.  It was time for Hob to step up and do what he could.  Hob was his friend, after all, even if he was too lowly to be Morpheus’.

“Alright,” he rubbed his hands together.  “First off, call me Hob.  We’re going to be working together and that’s what Morpheus-”

“ Lord Morpheus,” Lucienne cut in with stern disapproval.

“Yeah him,” Hob waved the admonishment away.  Over five hundred years and the Stranger had never indicated that Hob should call him ‘Lord’; it would take a bit of getting used to if he was supposed to start now.  “He calls me Hob.  Used to be a fairly common name, but it’s fallen out of fashion.  Such is the way of these things.

“Secondly,” he continued quickly when Lucienne started to look annoyed at his impromptu digression on the dwindling popularity of his nickname.  “I’m going to need to know everything that happened right before he disappeared, and probably a lot more besides.  

“I,” he faltered.  “I always knew he wasn’t human.  That he was supernatural, but he never told me what.  I just knew he had to be powerful, seeing as it was thanks to him I didn’t age or die.”

“It was not him who granted you this boon,” Lucienne corrected.  “It was his sister, Death.” 

There were a thousand different things he could have said to that, so of course all he managed was a stupid, “Morpheus has a sister?”

Lucienne looked like she was regretting bringing him in.

What followed was a succinct crash course on the Endless, of which Morpheus ( Dream ) was a part.  Lucienne had to go and fetch Hob a glass of whisky once she was done, giving him a brief moment alone to allow the fourteenth century peasant part of his brain to have a minor meltdown and run around screaming inside his head.

“Here,” Lucienne thrust a crystal glass filled to the brim with amber liquid into his hand.  “I have been reliably informed that humans use this as an aid for shock.”

It was clear she’d never actually seen a glass of whisky in her life, given that she’d poured what had to be a quarter of a bottle into the glass.

It tasted like every sip of whisky Hob had ever had rolled into one.  It also failed spectacularly to get him drunk.  He drained the entire glass in a couple of ill-advised gulps, and while he could feel his throat burning with a familiar sensation, he remained stone-cold sober.

“How does someone as powerful as… as… as him go missing?”  

Lucienne sighed, head in her hands as she pored over another book.

“I don’t know.  To be honest I was hoping that you might have noticed something in your world before you fell asleep.

“I felt that something was wrong before he left, but he dismissed my concerns.  He insisted on entering the Waking World, where he is at his weakest, in search of a rogue Nightmare,  the Corinthian.  He never returned.”

“Lucienne,” Hob softened his voice.  He hated what he was about to suggest, but he had to.  Even though the very idea was abhorrent.  “Could he be dead?  Could the Corinthian have killed him?”

Lucienne reacted as though he had struck her, reeling back from the table with a look of horror.  

“No!” she denied vehemently.  “He lives.  All this,” she gestured around her at the palace.  “It wouldn’t be here if he were dead.  I’m sure of it.”

Hob let out a shaky breath of relief.  Good.  That was good.

“Right.  And we both know he wouldn’t stay away if he could help it.”  

Of course he wouldn’t.  Hob’s friend was many things.  Distant, untouchable, mysterious.  But he was dedicated, loyal and he cared.  Hob was sure of it.  Hadn’t it been his Stranger who had warned him back in 1789, when Hob was the worst version of himself that he’d ever been, to be careful.

“But you can be hurt.  Or captured.”

“So that means he's been captured.  If he’s not dead, the only reason he would stay away would be because he couldn’t return.”

“I agree,” Lucienne confirmed.  “But what to do next.  That is the question.”

“I guess,” Hob frowned, mulling the entire, fantastical situation over in his head. “We need to break it down.  What are the main problems?  And how can we solve them?”

“Lord Morpheus is missing,” Lucienne tapped her fingers on the desk in contemplation.  “Most likely trapped in the Waking World.”

“Can we send out a search party?”

Lucienne shook her head.  “Dreams and Nightmares do not belong in the Waking World.  That’s why Lord Morpheus left in the first place. 

“Which brings us to our second problem.  The denizens of the Dreaming are panicking.  Some have already left and I fear more will follow.  They are afraid our Lord has abandoned them.  It would not be the first time one of the Endless abandoned their realm.”

Hob decided not to voice his opinion that if he’d been the - what had Lucienne called it? - the anthropomorphic personification of Destruction, he’d have packed it all in and disappeared too.  

It was not a helpful thought.  Not now.

“Thirdly,” Lucienne continued.  “Without Lord Morpheus here, the Dreaming is beginning to decay.  This is his realm.  He is the Dreaming.  He is its heart.”

Those were mighty big problems, Hob thought, rubbing his eyes wearily. 

“Alright,” he said eventually.  “If none of us can leave the Dreaming, I don’t know how we go about finding Morpheus.”

“Lord Morpheus.”

“I’ll get the hang of it eventually.  Let’s just shelve that problem.  Temporarily, ” he insisted when Lucienne opened her mouth to object.

Hob would have liked to object himself.  The very thought of his friend captured and possibly tortured was enough to cause him to start shaking.  He fought to get himself back under control.  He’d pieced his fractured psyche back together many times before.  He was an old hand at it by now.

“And I have no idea what we can do about the decay,” Hob admitted.  “So let’s focus on the one thing we can do. 

“How do we stop everyone from leaving?  How do we convince them that they’ve not been abandoned?”

They sat in contemplative silence, pondering the problem.  Or rather, Lucienne did.  Hob was fully prepared to admit he had no clue how to solve this problem either.

“You!” Lucienne exclaimed, startling Hob out of his feelings of inadequacy.  “The answer is you!”

Chapter Text

Hob sat in a meeting room that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Buckingham Palace, and tried very hard not to break out in a nervous sweat.  

Everyone was looking at him.  

Normally he was a man who thrived on attention, but he’d never heard such a heap of complete bollocks in all his long life.  Not even when he’d drunkenly boasted to his mates that he thought death was stupid and that he didn’t  plan on going along with it.

He was going to have to find some way of getting Morpheus to pass along Hob’s apologies to his sister when the Dream King returned.  Hob hated the idea that she’d heard him call her stupid.

In his defence, the current situation was all Lucienne’s idea.  That was his story and he was sticking to it.  How she’d been able to get through her little spiel with a straight face and not an ounce of guilt was beyond him.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” a large, genial looking man broke the awkward silence.  Lucienne had introduced him as Fiddler’s Green.  “But you’re saying that Lord Morpheus appointed this man as Regent before he disappeared?”

What a load of utter shite.  However, Lucienne’s sharp kick under the table had him nodding along.  

“I’m not sure ‘appointed’ really covers it.”  That at least was the truth.  “He just appeared in my dream, looking… not his usual self, and told me I needed to look after his realm.  I didn’t even realise the dream was real until I broke out of a nightmare and Gault brought me to Lucienne here.”

No one round the table looked terribly convinced, yet Hob was certain they were willing, desperate enough, to be talked round.

“Our Lord wished to put a human in charge?” an elderly voice in the body of a beautiful young woman with eyes that sparkled silver questioned doubtfully.  Hob thought she’d been introduced as Suadela.  “Why you?”

“Robert Gadling has been our Lord’s human companion for over half a millennium,” Lucienne cut in smoothly.  “If he only had the chance to reach out to one human, who else would he appoint?”

“Half a millennium?” Fiddler’s Green examined him more closely.  “Why, of course!  You’re Hob.  You’ve been in my fields and glades many a time.  Why, I remember when Lord Morpheus instructed me to shepherd you into my sphere of the Dreaming and watch over you. Ensure you had a pleasant night’s rest.  It must have been… Oh… about two hundred years ago.  Give or take a few decades.”

Just over two hundred years ago, Hob had been living on the streets of London, slowly not starving to death.   Now he thought about it, before the meeting with his friend in 1689, his dreams had been filled with the faces of his wife, son and stillborn daughter.  Afterwards, he’d dreamed of green meadows, burbling brooks and glorious sunshine warming his freezing bones.

It was what had encouraged him to leave London and head to the countryside.  A decade as an honest hard-working farm labourer had got him back on his feet.  

Had Morpheus done that for him?  Had he given Hob good dreams until his waking life took shape once more?

“Thank you,” Hob told the Dream with as much honest sincerity as he’d ever shown in his life.

“Oh,” Fiddler’s Green actually blushed.  “Don’t mention it.  Just doing my job, you know.  It’s lovely to see you looking so well, my boy.”

It was a good thing lice and trench foot didn’t carry over into the Dreaming or that would have been a blatant lie.  

Lucienne had conjured him a respectable looking suit, out of god knows where, for this meeting.  It was the kind he might have worn sixty years previously but she insisted Hob had to look his best.  Had to look as kingly as possible.

Even when he’d been Sir Robert Gadlen, Hob didn’t think he’d ever looked kingly.  It simply wasn’t him.  He wasn’t a kingly kind of bloke.  Even when he’d been a nobleman, he’d been the type of nobleman that higher ranking noblemen liked to make fun of and sneer at.  Hob hadn’t cared because Eleanor hadn’t cared.  She had liked his rougher manners and his crude charm.  Hob hadn’t cared because he’d laughed secretly at the stuck-up snobs who didn’t realise they were sharing a table with a man who’d started life as a peasant under the rule of a much diminished Edward III. 

Half a millennium gave one time to figure out one’s strengths, and Hob knew his didn't involve being aloof and mysterious.  He liked to get in the middle of everything.  He liked to get stuck in.  He liked people and, more importantly, people liked him .

“Look,” he spread his hands across the table, voice brisk and businesslike.  “I’m not going to sit here and pretend I’m anything more than a desperate, last minute choice.  I think, at the time, I was the only choice.  But the important thing is, I am here .

“Lord Morpheus,” the title felt awkward rolling off his tongue but he got it out without stumbling, “didn’t abandon you.  I’m not sure what exactly happened to him, but he cared enough to send me to you so that I could help until he got back.

“I’m not going to pretend it’s going to be easy.  It’s not.  I’m human and all I know about this realm is what I’ve seen in dreams.  I can’t be the kind of ruler Lord Morpheus is.  But that’s why I’ve called all of you in.”

He looked around at the assembled guests.  Eight in total, not including Lucienne and himself.

They’d all been introduced at the start of the meeting and Hob knew the two dark haired men huddled together on his left were Cain and Abel.  It was not hard to guess which was which.  Abel looked at him with undisguised hope, while Cain seemed unsure whether he wanted to strangle his brother or Hob.  His hands twitched, inching at first across the table towards Hob, before darting up behind his brother, ready to grip, bruise and choke.

It was strange how the pair of them drew his attention more than the creature with, literally, a pumpkin for a head.  Hob was never going to forget Mervyn Pumpkinhead’s name, not only because it fit him perfectly, but because he was a talking pumpkin .  

A brave talking pumpkin at that, seeing as he was ignoring the speculative, hungry look of Dioka next to him.  A cheetah with dark fur and white spots who seemed unable to focus her reflective eyes on anything but the orange head next her.  Her tongue kept lolling out of her mouth as she licked her chops with undisguised relish.

Hob had been very glad not to be sat next to the Nightmare, much preferring the murderous Cain over the predatory Dioka.

The final pair at the table had stayed mostly silent, and it would have been easy to forget they were there, if Hob’s stomach hadn’t experienced a jarring, swooping sensation every time his eyes passed over them.  

Aeras and Icarus took the vague shape of winged, twin boys.  Vague being the operative word.  Unless Hob squinted, it was almost impossible to make them out.  They were completely translucent, only a shimmer in the air, their small stature and childish giggles belying their age.  Hob had no doubt the boys were much, much, much older than him.

“Lucienne says you’re the most prominent citizens of this realm.  I’m going to need your help.  I can’t run this kingdom without you.

“I’m proposing that until Lord Morpheus gets back, we form a council.”

“A council?” Dioka asked sceptically in her deep, slow voice.  It was the kind of voice that convinced you there was no need to flee.  Dioka was far too tired to chase you.  She just needed a good stretch to work out the kinks, nothing to fear…

Then she would pounce.

“Aye,” Hob nodded.  “We’d come together, look at the difficulties the realm is facing and work together to decide how to solve them and who to delegate what tasks to.”

“Lord Morpheus never had a council,” Suadela chimed in, her voice now young though her appearance had changed to that of an old and haggard crone.  “He did everything himself.  If he asked you to replace him, why do you need us?”

“Yes, why?” Cain agreed contemptuously.

“I’d be happy to help,” Abel chimed in before his face was smashed into the table by his brother.

“Because I’m not Lord Morpheus,” Hob explained.  “None of us are, but we all have different skills and strengths we can contribute to make up for his absence.

“I’m not going to lie.  I’m no king.  Never wanted to be one.  Don’t think I could ever be one, but I’ve sat on a few Boards in my time.  Did a lot of charity work in the 1800s, and I think, at the very least, I’m a competent chairman.  

“I’m proposing we meet back here in…” he fumbled for a suitable time frame.  

“Three nights,” Lucienne cut in swiftly from his right.

“Yes, three nights.  That gives you time to talk to the other Dreams and Nightmares and let them know what’s happening, and then we can start to tackle some of our more urgent problems.” 

With some reluctance, as if hoping Hob would announce he was only joking and give them more definitive instructions, everyone slowly shuffled out the room until it was just Lucienne and Hob left.

“Well done,” she told him kindly as Hob let his head hit the table with a groan.  

“What the fuck have we just done?” Hob asked the wood beneath him.

“What we had to,” Lucienne assured him, scraping her chair back as she stood up.  “Some Dreams may still leave for the Waking World, but hopefully we’ll have put enough doubt in most of their minds to keep them here, supporting the realm.”

“Why do I have to be the figurehead?”  Hob forced his head off the table so he could glare at Morpheus’ librarian.  “You know this realm.  I don’t.  The most I can do is sit here and talk a load of old cobblers.”

“No one would believe that Lord Morpheus left me in charge.  You’re just outrageous enough to be believable.  Now come on.  We only have three nights until they return and I need to get you caught up on the inner workings of the Dreaming before then.”

That didn’t motivate Hob to get up one bit.  

“Can I…  Would you mind giving me a minute?  By myself.  Please?”

He must have looked truly pathetic because her face was full of kind pity as she reached over and squeezed his shoulder.  

“Of course.  Only a minute, mind.  I’ll meet you back in the library.”

The door closed and Hob didn’t know whether he wanted to run screaming round the room or to crawl under the table and curl up into a ball.  He settled for putting his head back on the table and groaning to himself.

This was all too much.  When he’d gone to sleep he hadn’t even thought of his Stranger, too busy trying to block out how cold and wet his feet were and how his head itched something fierce.  Now his Stranger was Morpheus and Hob was going to be running his bloody kingdom!

He’d had many theories over what his Stranger might be.  Devil, initially.  Saint, God, Fae.  Incubus, one embarrassing night when he’d woken up to sticky sheets and a feeling of awkward arousal.  Luckily, it had been another ten years before he was due to meet his mysterious benefactor again and he’d mainly managed to shove the dream to the back of his mind.

Except, his friend turned out to be Dream of all things.  So did that mean he knew about Hob’s rebellious imagination?  If he’d witnessed Hob rolling around on a bed with a copy of himself then Hob was going to find some way to die of embarrassment, whether Death granted him her gift or not. 

Hob had a horrible feeling that Suadela might have had a hand in that particular dream.  When he was introduced she’d given him a smug, knowing smirk.  

“Are you alright?”  

Hob jumped.  He’d not heard anyone come in, but Gault was standing by the open door, looking at him with concern.

“I don’t know,” he told her honestly.

She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.  “Dioka told me why you’re here.  It’s a great responsibility Lord Morpheus has given you.  He must trust you a lot.  I’m sure you will succeed.”

“He doesn’t,” Hob told her miserably, head in his hands.  “Trust me, I mean.  I didn’t even know his name until Lucienne told me.  

“Last time we met… we had a fight.  If you can call it a fight.  I told him I thought he was lonely.  That he kept meeting with me every one hundred years because he wanted a friend.  I was wrong.  He made sure to inform me of that in no uncertain terms.  He probably wasn’t going to turn up to our next meeting.”

Gault was silent, and that silence encouraged him to go on.

“And now he’s going to despise me when he gets back.  When he finds out I used our not-friendship to take charge.  When he realises what Lucienne and I have done.”

“What have you two done?” Gault’s voice was soft as she knelt by his chair, a hesitant hand rubbing his back.

“We’ve convinced everyone that Morpheus wants me to take over.  That he commanded it before he vanished.  But the truth is, I haven’t seen him since 1889 and that was when he told me he’d take his leave of me and prove me wrong.”

A moment of damning silence, but the hand on his back kept up its smooth, circular motion.

“Why have you done this?”

“Because Lucienne wants to keep the realm running until Morpheus gets back.  Because she doesn’t think anyone will listen to her if she puts herself in charge.  Because if he has been captured, I have no idea how to find him or get him out.  Not when I’m stuck asleep.  So if all I can do is destroy what little regard he has left for me by going along with this farce, I’ve got to try.  So that there is still a realm left for him to come back to.”

“I think you’re a good friend to our Lord,” Gault told him, wrapping him in a hug.  It was cold, but there was a comforting strength in her arms and, despite the chill, Hob leaned into her.  “It is a lot, what Lucienne has asked of you.  

“I cannot promise Lord Morpheus will be pleased, but I know that this is a gesture from the heart.  And I will do my utmost to ensure Lord Morpheus sees your good intentions for what they are when he returns.”

“You’re good at this comforting thing,” Hob muttered into her shoulder.  He took a deep, calming breath then pushed himself up.  “I guess there’s nothing left for me to do, but try.  God help me.  You… um… won’t tell the others about this little scheme, will you?”

“Tell them what, my Lord?” Gault asked innocently.

“Eugh, that sounds wrong.  It’s just Hob.”

“I couldn’t possibly refer to my Lord’s chosen Regent so informally.”  She was laughing at him.  He could tell by the mischievous sparkle in her eye.  Blue and green light was zipping jauntily across her skin, occasionally chased by a spark of pink.  

“Well could you show me the way back to the library then?  I’m liable to get lost and it’s been well over the minute Lucienne promised me.  I’m surprised she’s not come to track me down.”

“Of course.  Follow me, Lord Hob.”

“Good grief!  Is everyone going to start calling me that?”

Chapter Text

“What is your opinion, Lord Hob?”

Hob’s opinion was that he had a bloody headache from talking round in circles for the last two bloody hours.  

“Sorry,” he massaged his temples.  “What was the question again?”

“It was whether you believed it was time to rein Tsuchigumo in, Lord Hob?” Cain filled him in.  Hob had accidentally won his respect on his first proper day in the Dreaming.  

Lucienne had taken him for a short tour that had culminated in front of Cain and Abel’s neighbouring houses.  Abel, bless him, had immediately invited them in for tea, only for Cain to declare that they would be having tea at his house instead.

Hob had been ready to object - Abel had asked first - but Abel had deferentially given way to his brother and Lucienne had murmured that they should go along with it.  

With much bowing and scraping, Abel had made them all tea in Cain’s kitchen, blabbering all the while as his brother seethed silently, always one step behind him.  Hob had seen the exact moment Abel’s nervous chatter had caused Cain to snap, and he had reacted without thinking.

Before Cain could skewer Abel with the fireplace poker, Hob had swung a frying pan at his head.  Hard.

Cain had gone down with a large thump and lain motionless on the floor.

Abel had not taken it well.

The nervously cheerful man had screamed blue murder and attempted to stab Hob with the poker that had been about to be his own doom.  Lucienne had blocked it with the frying pan she’d wrestled from Hob’s grasp before hustling a shocked and dumbfounded Hob out the door before he could even say sorry.

“Don’t worry,” she had assured him over Abel’s wailing lamentations.  “He’ll be up and about again by tomorrow.”

And Cain was, much to Hob’s astonishment and no small amount of relief.

Funnily enough, while Hob’s accidental manslaughter had endeared him to Cain, he’d made a lifelong enemy of the man he’d been trying to defend.  Abel refused to speak to him and at council meetings, if he had anything to say, he said it to Cain who told the table.

Cain seemed to enjoy this arrangement and it was another point in Hob’s favour in his eyes.

But apart from Abel’s sullen glares, the meetings were going surprisingly well.

Hob’s presence seemed to have assured the residents of the realm that Morpheus had not abandoned them.  Not if he’d appointed someone to stand in for him.  Hob made an acceptable substitute but it was widely believed that Morpheus wouldn’t have appointed a human to be a permanent replacement.  Therefore, he must be planning to return.  Even if he’d been captured, the Dreams whispered, what human could possibly hold the Dream Lord forever?  And until then, they had Lord Hob.

Hob considered that Gault was entirely to blame for the new title.  He’d punished her by making her his personal assistant.  She didn’t seem to mind.  She was the one to remind Lucienne that Hob, as a human, needed breaks to mentally recharge.  

Hob appreciated it.  It had taken him what had seemed like days to realise that he didn’t need to eat or drink or sleep in the Dreaming, though occasionally he felt in need of a stiff drink.  Time also eluded him, and Gault’s main task was to make sure Hob turned up where he was supposed to be at the right time.   Days and nights were weird here.  What he thought was a day had turned out to be a week in the Waking World, and once he had been convinced at least a month had passed only to be informed it had been a mere three days by human time.

Without Gault he would have been horrendously late or embarrassingly early to everything.  

When the mental strain of it all got too much, it was Gault who invented an imaginary appointment and whisked Hob away to Morpheus’ observatory, shutting everyone out and letting Hob contemplate the cosmos, and his place in it, alone.

He’d sit, back against the wall, chin resting on his knees and contemplate the swirling galaxies above him, thinking of both everything and nothing, until he felt able to pick himself up and go on.

“Which one is Tsuchigumo again?” Hob asked Dioka, who knew and had the respect of all the Nightmares in the realm.

“He’s one of the Spiders,” Dioka informed him, tail lazily swishing around the legs of the chair she was perched on.  “He specialises in swarms.  Hundreds of tiny versions of himself bursting out of nowhere and crawling all over the dreamer.”

Hob, very deliberately, refused to shudder.  He'd definitely come across Tsuchigumo in his own dreams more than once.

His first instinct was to order Tsuchigumo to leave whatever poor mortal he’d become fixated on alone, but he’d learned the hard way that while some Nightmares tormented dreamers for the fun of it, most did so for a reason.  To suggest that they enjoyed the terror they caused for terror’s sake was a tremendous insult.  

They were teachers and navigators, Dioka had lectured him sternly.  A warning of things left unfaced or a dress rehearsal for the hard times ahead.  They were horrifying experiences not given closure or creepy reminders of things best not forgotten.  

This was after Hob had refused to let the Nightmares target the soldiers from the Front.  They had seen enough horrors in their waking lives, he’d argued.  They didn’t need to see it in their dreams.  They didn’t need to relive their friends and comrades dying around them.

It was the first time he’d used all the authority the council thought had been invested in him and put his foot down.

The consequences had been dire.  Nightmares, he’d learnt, could help reduce anxiety and fear in real life by providing an emotional trial run.  By facing the horrors of the war in dreams, soldiers became better at handling the fear they felt in their waking lives.  Hob had prevented that and the toll was immense: soldiers stuck in a never-ending, fearful wakefulness, driven mad with terror until their bodies gave out.  That had all been down to Hob, no matter how tactfully Lucienne and Gault had tried to break to him the consequences of his decision.

He’d locked himself in the observatory for three weeks, driving himself mad with his own memories of the war until Dioka had come to drag him out with her teeth.  

“You cannot run from your mistakes,” she had reminded him, curling around his prone form.  She’d licked a conciliatory stripe up his face and across his hair with a rough, burning hot tongue.  “You can only remember to listen to us and do better in the future.”

Icarus had been more sympathetic than Dioka.  The fresh-faced Nightmare of Falling had apologised for not making himself clearer when he’d tried to counsel Hob against his calamitous decision.

“Lord Morpheus always knew what was best and we just did it.  When we did something wrong, pushed too hard, stepped out of line… He stopped us and that was that.  We did not have to fully consider where the lines were.  We will have to do better now.  All of us.”

After that, there’d been a concerted effort from all members of the council not to leave big decisions to Hob alone.

Morpheus, it seemed, had been an autocratic ruler.  The kind Hob was used to during the early half of his life.  But Hob had seen how power had slowly been syphoned away from the crown and into parliament over the centuries.  Morpheus’ way of ruling no longer fit into Hob’s ever changing mental schema of kingship.

He’d seen how Henry VIII’s uncurtailed spending had crippled his children, leaving them frequently at the mercy of parliament.  He’d fought for the royalists during that miserable century where he’d lost everything but his head (which put him one better than poor King Charles) and a brief Commonwealth had emerged.

And he’d seen how parliament had been developing over the centuries as political parties came and went, boundaries changed, and more people were given the right to vote.

Most recently he’d been donating generously to the Women’s Social and Political Union and the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies.  If a woman could cross the Channel and unflinchingly sew a man back together or hold a delirious soldier’s hand while he was dying, then she deserved the right to vote as far as Hob was concerned.

Hob, for better or worse, was a far more democratic leader than his strange friend.  And now that his advisors had found their voices and were willing to speak up when they felt they knew more than him, running the realm was going a lot more smoothly.

He drummed his fingers on the table as he considered the current problem.

“Why does Tsuchigumo believe he needs to stay with this dreamer?”

Lucienne flipped through the notes she had prepared for the meeting with her usual efficiency.  “The young lady in question has recently started seeing a man, whom I can tell from his dream journal spends most nights dreaming of the violence he wishes to inflict on those he feels deserves it.  His paramour being amongst them.

“Tsuchigumo has been trying to force her to see the warning signs in front of her.”

“But she’s still hiding from them?”

Lucienne nodded.

“We cannot force her to confront them.  Tsuchigumo has tried,” Suadela cut in.  “It is up to her now.  He could make better use of his time elsewhere.”

But what about the woman’s life?  

“Cain…” Hob turned to the First Murderer.  “Could you help Tsuchigumo out?  Work together to give it one last try?  Perhaps you could help as well, Abel?  If you appeared afterwards.”

“We can give it a shot,” Cain spoke for both himself and his brother.

“Excellent,” Hob looked down at the agenda Lucienne had given him before the meeting.  “Mervyn, you wanted to discuss some maintenance issues?”

“Yeah,” the talking pumpkin piped up, slamming his hands down on the table to emphasise his upcoming point.  “The issue is - it's not possible to keep up with the maintenance. 

“Look,” he addressed Hob.  “You’ve done great work sorting out the Dreams and Nightmares.  But that doesn’t change the fact that without Lord Morpheus, the realm is decaying around us.  A slap of paint, or some nails and a hammer ain’t going to fix that.  Something else needs to be done, or this palace is going to fall down around our heads before we know it.  Probably with us sitting round this table discussing it.”

“Lord Morpheus’ presence was what fed this realm.  He is the Dreaming’s heart,” Aeras whispered from beside his twin.  “What can replace that?”  He sounded so forlorn, so young, that Hob wanted to gather the boy up in his arms and offer some words of comfort.  The way he’d used to when Robyn was but a boy who didn’t yet reach his hip and something had upset him.

He’d used to hoist Robyn onto his shoulders when his son had been upset, and run round the house, pretending he was the wind that kept him aloft as he ‘flew’ towards his laughing mother.  Much like Aeras wrapped his skinny arms around the dreamers and let them soar through the skies of the Dreaming.

No one else had any magical solutions either, and the topic was shelved for next time, just as it had been at the previous meeting.  

Mervyn was right though.  This couldn’t go on.  Something had to be done.

“That concludes our business for today,” Lucienne declared.  “Unless anyone has anything else they wish to bring up?”

Hob’s legs were stiff and his back ached from sitting for too long.  Even dream chairs could be uncomfortable if you sat on them long enough. 

“Actually,” he spoke up himself.  “There is something.

“I’m going to need someone to go into the Waking World.”

“Lord Hob, we’ve discussed this-” Lucienne cut in, but Hob held up a hand.

“I know Dreams don’t belong living in my world, but my body is still there.  Lying in hospital, not ageing.  It’s already been three years; eventually doctors are going to notice, and then when Morpheus comes back I’ll wake up in some cellar, probably with scientists bending over me doing some godawful experiment.

“I need someone to go and get me and keep my body safe until I can wake up in it.”

“I agree,” Fiddler’s Green piped up.  “How could we live with ourselves if, when Lord Morpheus returns, we lose Lord Hob to some gruesome fate.  Especially when we could have prevented it.  I trust you have a plan, my Lord?”

“Look, I know how to reinvent myself every couple of decades.  I know how to spin a believable life for myself to keep others from guessing what I am.

“Distant family is always good.  It shows people that you come from somewhere, but no one questions why they’ve never met them.

“On my enlistment forms, I said my only living relatives are an Aunt Marie and Uncle Gilbert.  All I need is someone to walk in and claim me.  Get me out of there.

“And then what?” Lucienne sniffed.  Hob didn’t take it personally.  It was the thought of a Dream leaving the realm that upset her, not anger at Hob’s inconvenient situation.

“Then whoever it is needs to keep my body safe in the Waking World.  They need to learn how to adopt a new identity and move us about every decade or so.  Just like I’ve always done.

“But I can’t do it anymore.  I need one of you.”

“I’ll do it.”

The offer came before Hob had even finished his sentence.  

Startled, all eyes turned to a sheepish-looking Fiddler’s Green.  “I mean…  I’m willing.”

“You?” Cain expressed the disbelief of everyone in the room.  

“Well, why not?  We can’t send just anyone.  It’s an important task.  It needs to be someone Lord Hob trusts.  And… Well… I’ve always been curious.  Humans sleep and they walk in my meadows and green glades.  They rest beneath my trees.  And I long to know what it’s like to be one of them.

“I don’t mean that I want to abandon my post.  I only want to experience something new, so that when I return I can better serve the dreamers under my care.”

Murmurs had broken out around the table, each member of the group expressing their opinion at once.  Hob was vaguely aware that most were doubtful about losing Fiddler’s Green to the Waking World for however long it took to get Morpheus back, but he only paid it half a mind.

He was remembering again the bright warm sun against the emerald green grass and the fragrant scent of apple blossom that had permeated the air.  He was remembering how wonderful, how helpful those dreams were.  How crucial Fiddler’s Green was during one of the darkest times in his life.  

He looked into the kind eyes of the Dream’s chosen human form and made his decision.

“You can go,” he decided.  There was no other Dream he trusted more to keep his body safe.

Chapter Text

At first Hob thought he was back in the Tavern of the White Horse and his heart gave a pang of longing.

He’d gone for a drink in his favourite pub right before he’d been shipped to France to fight for his country, yet again.  He’d raised a toast to his Stranger and promised to be back in time for a drink in 1989, still convinced that his Stranger would appear, despite the harsh words that had been said when they’d last parted.

But although the smell of beer and the cosiness of the room were familiar, this wasn’t the White Horse .  Hob wasn’t even sure it was an actual pub.  

It was possible that this was a real pub from Luke’s memory, but it was equally likely that it was just what Luke’s mind conjured up when he thought of a pub.

His friend was sitting at a table, playing cards with a crocodile wearing a monocle and top hat.

“Hey Chrome,” Hob addressed the crocodile.  “Mind if I take over?”

Chrome set down his cards with a huff.  “He wants to open his own pub but is scared of losing his savings if it all goes badly.  I’m trying to teach him there is no gain without risk.  Could you not come back tomorrow night?”

“Sorry mate, this is pretty urgent.  I’ll try and make him see things your way once I’m done.”

Partially mollified, Chrome slid off the chair, down onto all fours, and shuffled across the room and out the door.

Hob took his seat, eying up his friend.  Luke didn’t seem surprised to see him, his sleeping mind easily accepting that Hob had replaced the talking crocodile.

“Rab!  Come for a wee dram and a blether?  Get that intae ye.”  He handed Hob a glass of whisky that hadn’t been there a second ago.

“Cheers,” Hob clinked glasses with his companion.  “How’ve you been Luke?”

Luke Gillespie was a large Glaswegian who might have faced more ridicule for his shock of red curls and thick accent if he hadn’t been built like a fucking tank.  Most people thought twice before messing with Luke.  

His broad shoulders and bulging muscles easily hid the fact that Luke was one of the kindest, gentlest men Hob had ever met.  He abhorred violence, having lost first his father and then his two older brothers to gang warfare in the Gorbals.

His mother, Maggie, had moved them to London when he was sixteen to stay with her brother and his wife.  Their flat had been directly across from Hob’s.

Hob had taken the gangly, self-conscious youth under his wing.  He’d been a cobbler at the time, enjoying working with his hands once more after a decade of being a solicitor.  He’d taken Luke on as his apprentice, teaching the boy not only how to re-heel a shoe but also some of the old lullabies of Hob’s own youth that he sang so he wouldn’t forget them.

When war had broken out two years later, both Luke and Hob had been called up and Hob had promised a tearful Maggie that he’d look after her only remaining child.

Hob had failed to keep that promise.  Not only had he fallen prey to the sleeping sickness, but Luke had staunchly refused to even touch a gun, no matter how much his superiors had threatened him.  

He would do what he could for his country, but he wouldn’t carry a gun.  Luke had been adamant about that.

They’d made him a stretcher-bearer instead.  They’d sent Luke, undefended, into No Man’s Land to retrieve whoever he could bring back.  Hob’s heart had sunk every time he saw his young friend disappear over the top of the trench, and he’d only felt he could breathe properly again when Luke was back next to him, safe and sound.

Despite Hob failing to keep his promise to Maggie, though through no fault of his own, Luke had made it home.  He’d taken over Hob’s old shop and married the sweetheart who had waited dutifully for his return.  They’d had a wee girl, Roberta, and despite Luke’s nightmares and the austerity the whole country faced, they’d been happy.  

The Spanish Flu had put an end to that, taking first his wife, then in quick succession his mother, aunt and child.  Luke was left alone with his uncle who’d hanged himself less than a year later.  

It would have ruined many other men, but Luke had been built from the same stuff as Hob, and he’d carried on.  Picked himself up, brushed himself down, moved back to Glasgow and started afresh.

He’d opened a series of cobbler’s shops across the East End.  Thrived despite the bombs the Germans had dropped on the city during the Second World War, only one of his shops being hit.  

He’d never remarried, but he was good friends with a war widow called Annie in the tenement flat across the landing from his own, and he’d been the one to teach her wee boy how to play football and mend a shoe, much as Hob had done for him.  When they were both lonely, he and Annie found comfort in each other, an arrangement they didn’t elaborate on or speak of.  Neither felt the need.

Hob had learnt all this from Lucienne and her books before he’d set out on his task.

Luke was fifty-one now, red curls streaked liberally with grey, but as he drank his dram, he slowly transformed into the young man Hob had last seen disappearing into the darkness above the trenches.  

“How’ve ye been Rab?  Death treatin’ ye well?”

Officially, Robert Gadling had died in his sleep when Fiddler’s Green had been unable to explain his ‘nephew’s’ astonishing youthfulness any longer.  He’d packed Hob off to Paris, then to Brussels, before returning across the Channel to Edinburgh.  Hob was fairly certain his body was currently somewhere in New York.  Fiddler’s Green was making the most of his chance to see the Waking World.

“Not too bad, Luke,” Hob told his friend amiably.  He’d missed the Scottish patter.  Maybe he could convince Luke to sing him a song before this dream ended?  In another life, with more opportunities, he was sure Luke could have become a singer.

“Whit’ve ye been up to?  Givin’ the De’il the run around?”

“Not quite.  Been filling in for a friend while he’s been away.  I think he’s got himself into a bit of a pickle.”

“Oh aye?”

“Yeah.  Been missing since 1916.”

Luke whistled and a faceless bartender placed two pints on the table.  “That’s an awfie long time to go missing, Rab.”

“True enough,” Hob agreed.  “It’s a shame I can’t go out and look for him.  Hate to think of what might be being done to him to keep him away.”

Luke frowned; the idea of anyone suffering disturbed him, even a friend of a friend who he believed long dead.

“S’naw right,” he muttered.

“It’s not, but there’s little I can do while I’m stuck here.  Just like I can’t go dig up the gold I buried in Princes Street Gardens in the 1830s.  Lived in Edinburgh for a time then, made a healthy bit of gold and I’ve learnt the hard way that it's good to have some insurance planted around the place.”

Fiddler’s Green, at Hob’s instruction, had dug up a few of these secret caches to fund his travels around the world.

Luke nodded, like it was perfectly reasonable for Hob to bury a chest full of gold coins and some jewellery in Princes Street Gardens long before Hob should have been born.  Dream logic did save on tedious explanations.

“You should go and look for it, Luke.  Here, hand me that napkin.  I’ll draw you a map.  You can use it to open that pub you’ve been thinking about.  Got a name for it yet?”

By the time Hob left the dream, the surroundings around him beginning to dissolve as Luke woke up, he’d convinced Luke to sing him all his old favourites.

“Ilka lassie has her laddie

Nane, they say, hae I.”

He sang tunelessly as he meandered across the bridge to the palace, throwing up a salute at the three sentries who did no more than huff at him now.

“Yet a' the lads they smile at me

When comin' thro' the- FUCKING HELL!”

He clutched at his chest, heart pounding a mile a minute as Suadela emerged from the shadows the moment he’d crossed the threshold.  She was a he today, taking the form of a strapping young lad with gloriously tanned skin and dark brown curls.  The silver eyes were the only constant thing about him.

“Did it go well?” he asked, voice disconcertingly that of a young girl.  “You’re butchering that song by the way.”

“Your complaint has been noted.  Warn a guy next time you plan to jump out at him.

The Dream smiled that knowing smile of his.  That almost smirk that told Hob Suadela knew more about him than he would like.  

A tanned arm wrapped itself around Hob’s shoulders as Suadela guided them into the entrance hall and up the grand marble staircase.

“You know,” he told Hob sweetly in his childish voice.  “Most people fear Dioka far more than me.  Yet with you it seems to be the other way around.”

Dioka, Hob was pretty sure, had adopted him as an honorary cub.  Whenever she got him alone, she’d bully him down onto the floor and curl up around him, smoothing out his hair with a burning hot tongue.  When she was done, she’d bat playfully at his head, giant man-eating teeth shaking his arm carefully while she tried to encourage him to tussle with her.  Trying to teach him how to wrestle his prey into submission.

Suadela, on the other hand, was a trickster through and through.  It was a toss up whether he’d give dreamers a sensual dream about making love to the person they desired, or an awkward nightmare about fucking their boss.  The poor dreamer would wake up confused and embarrassed, and unable to look their boss in the eye.  

Hob was almost entirely convinced that Suadela was behind the mortifying sex dream of Morpheus he’d had sometime in 1879.  His only consolation was that Morpheus most definitely did not know about it.  If ‘friends’ was too much for him, knowing he’d starred in some unimaginative erotica in Hob’s brain would have ensured he never turned up in 1889.

Hob was positive Suadela always had a trick up his sleeve, ready to pull out the moment he required a new amusement.

His point was proven when Suadela forced him to pause outside the throne room.

Hob had only been in there once, when Lucienne had first given him a tour of the palace, but he’d avoided it since.  He found it too unsettling, the large, empty, pillared hall, with the ever-moving, constantly changing stained glass windows that seemed to both call to him and mock him.  Most intimidating of all were the winding steps that led up to Morpheus’ throne. Somehow, that played on Hob’s worst fears.  That he was only an amusing distraction for his one true and constant friend.  Nothing more than a vaguely amusing diversion.

He avoided the room at all costs and had never stepped foot in it since.

Now, over three decades later, the room stank of stale air and disuse.  Dust hung in the air, and the pillars and arches above him had started to crumble.  The only bright thing left in the room was that shifting coloured glass in the windows behind that damned throne.

“Such a shame to see it like this,” Suadela whispered in his ear, voice changing until it was slow and deep.  So familiar.

Hob turned sharply to face him and jerked back as he took in unnaturally pale skin and ink black hair that hung down until it reached a familiar defined jaw, just like it had when they’d first met.  His lips broke into a wide smile that Hob had never seen on the original owner’s face.  

“Stop that!” he recoiled away from the Dream, anger quickly replacing the flash of hope and fear he’d originally experienced.  “This isn’t funny!  Cut it out!”

He wrenched his arm free from Suadela’s grasp and stormed away, nausea roiling in his belly, sweat beading on his forehead and upper lip.  To his utter horror, he felt tears beginning to form and he couldn’t figure out if he was sad or angry.

All he knew was that he had to get away from this mockery of his friend.  His Stranger.  

He shut himself in the first available room he came across and almost walked straight back out.

While Luke’s dream could have been almost any pub across Britain, this room was most definitely a replica of the White Horse .

The chimney, first built in the 1400s was unmistakable.  It mismatched with the giant table, laden with the feast which had mostly gone to waste in 1589.  The small table they’d sat at in both 1689 and 1889 couldn’t make up its mind over which era it belonged to, switching between the octagonal table it had been in 1689 and the small, circular one they’d drunk at two hundred years later.

“This is extraordinary,” Suadela’s little girl voice spoke softly behind him.  “You’ve created a room!”

He turned angrily.  Suadela had switched forms again, very deliberately looking as much unlike a certain Dream Lord as possible.  She was now a small, plump, middle-aged blonde woman with a wealth of wrinkles creasing the corners of her mouth and eyes.  

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but get out,” he snapped at her.

Suadela considered him, not offended but contemplative.  “I pushed too far, too soon.  I’m sorry, Lord Hob.  I shall do as you ask.”

As she left, Mervyn Pumpkinhead stuck said orange head through the door.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” he grouched.  “We barely have enough magic left in this place to keep all the rooms we already have, and you go and create a new one!  Existing rooms are falling apart; now is not the time to be building an extension.”

He walked off in a huff before Hob could reply.  He barely had a minute to take in the new room he’d apparently created (and how the hell had he managed that?), when Lucienne burst through the door.

“How did it go?”  She didn’t even blink at the new surroundings, completely unfazed.

“First contact was good.”  

Hob decided, what the hell, and hopped behind the bar which was exactly the same as the one he’d drunk at before being shipped off to the Western Front.  He expertly pulled pints for himself and Lucienne. 

It was refreshing, even if it came with that unsettling realisation that it wouldn’t get him drunk.

Lucienne sipped hers consideringly, then chugged the rest like a pro when she decided she liked it.  Hob fetched her another one.

“Do you think he’ll look for the gold?”

“Probably not after one dream, but I’ll keep appearing in them and we’ll see if he gets curious enough to find it.  Once he discovers it’s really where I said it is, we’ll try and convince him to be our eyes and ears on the ground.”

“And you’re absolutely sure he’s trustworthy.  He won’t be tempted?”

Lucienne was still not entirely on board with Hob’s plan, but she’d refused to consider any others.

The council had decided that with Fiddler’s Green already out in the Waking World looking after Hob’s unconscious body, they weren’t willing to send anyone else to join him there to search for their Lord.

If the King of Dreams and Nightmares could be trapped, what chance did a mere Dream have?  At best, they’d be captured along with him.  At worst, they’d be destroyed.

Hob had put forward the idea of convincing a human to search for Morpheus, but the response had been lukewarm at best.

Humans had captured their Lord after all.  

“If humans imprisoned him, then surely another human could free him,” Hob had argued, uncomfortably aware that he was representing his entire species in that moment.

“But why would they?” Cain had been quick to poke holes in his plan.  “Any human who comes across him will want to keep him for his power.”

“I wouldn’t.  If I found him, I’d free him.”

“But you're his friend,” Cain had waved his retort away with a dismissive hand.

“There… uh… there must be some nice humans,” Abel had piped up.  It had been the first time he’d willingly spoken to the group as a whole since Hob had accidentally killed his brother.  “Not all humans want power.”

“Of course they do!” Cain had snapped, annoyed that his role of being his brother’s speaker had ended.  “All humans want power!”

“I… I never did.  I just wanted everyone to… to… to get on,” Abel had stuttered, looking hopefully at his brother.

His hope, as always, had been misplaced.  Cain had looked murderous.

No matter how hard Hob had tried to break the hopeful, murderous cycle the two brothers were caught in, even he had been forced to admit defeat eventually.  Their story was too entrenched, too strong to break.

But Abel’s support had convinced the group to at least consider Hob’s proposition, provided of course, he could come up with a suitably trustworthy figure.  One whom they were certain would not be tempted by thoughts of power.

Luke had been the only sure bet Hob could think of.  His friend and protege had turned away from exacting violent retribution when his father and brothers had been killed.  He’d turned away from revenge.  He’d fought to break the cycle.

“I could’ve killed the lads that did in ma dad and our Toby and Frank, but then their sons and brothers wid’ve come for me and then my cousin, Johnny, he wid’ve had to go after them.”

It had been profound reasoning from the sixteen-year old whom Hob had taken under his wing, striking home the fact that, despite his youth, Luke had already been a better and wiser man than his mentor.  When Hob had been sixteen, he’d been alone and angry.  He’d already lost almost his entire village to the plague and had been keen for a fight with anyone who would give him one.

Luke had stuck to his convictions during the War, despite the dangerous role he’d been given as a result of his pacifism.  Hob had been sure, even decades later, his friend would still be the same kind, gentle man who’d only wanted to help those he could.  Who’d seen the worst of the world and not let it permanently scar him.

Who, if he came across an imprisoned supernatural entity, would free it without asking for anything in return.

Lucienne, after dissecting all the books that involved Luke in the library, had reluctantly agreed to let Hob try and contact his friend through Luke’s dreams.  By then, she’d been desperate enough.

Hob searched behind the newly formed bar for a decent bottle of red wine, pouring himself and Lucienne a small glass each.

“The Devil himself-”

“Themself,” the librarian corrected swiftly.

“Alright. The Devil themself couldn’t tempt Luke.  He’ll come through for us.”

Chapter Text

It took six recurrent dreams overall to coax Luke to take the train to Edinburgh, buy a shovel and wait until darkness provided enough cover for him to dig up Hob’s long buried hoard.

“Bloody hell, Rab.  That’s a small fortune ye’ve got there.  Why’d ye blab about it tae me?  Ah’m no one special.” 

Luke sat at the bar in the now familiar pub and Hob, who found he liked being on this side of the bar just as much as the other, slid a drink over to him.

“Who else am I going to leave it to, Luke.  Don’t have any living sons of my own, and you always were a decent lad.  Can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.

“Besides, how else was I going to convince you this is more than a dream?  That I’m really here.”

“But yer deid, Rab.  It broke ma heart when yer uncle wrote to me.  I went tae yer funeral.”

Hob hadn’t even been aware that Fiddler’s Green had given him a funeral.  He felt both oddly touched and horrified at the notion.  Funerals were things he attended.  He was never meant to be the star of one.  Not ever. 

Now came the hard part.  Mervyn was going to complain endlessly about this.  This was about to use even more of the precious magic that Mervyn insisted he needed to keep the palace from crumbling even further.  The large head of a muse which had towered over the right side of the palace had slid into the sea surrounding it that morning.  Mervyn had taken it very badly. 

Hob, as a human, wasn’t meant to control dreams.  He was going to do it anyway.

He realised he probably looked constipated as he focused solely on bending Luke’s dream to his will.  He’d practised changing some minor things in the dreams of others, but this was on a different scale entirely.  This was forcing his own memories into Luke’s subconscious with all the subtlety and finesse of a sledgehammer. 

No doubt Morpheus would have been much more elegant about it, if he’d ever have done it at all.  This whole business had a whiff of the unethical about it, but Hob had never claimed to be a good person.  He was a desperate one.  

The floor of the pub disappeared beneath them and they dropped like a stone, landing in a heap on the dirty, straw-strewn floor of Hob’s memory.  

“Whaur are we, Rab?”  

“The Tavern of the White Horse, 1389,” Hob wheezed from underneath his friend’s massive bulk.  Luke had landed on top of him.  “Look,” he pointed at a group of boisterous young men, drinking away their meagre earnings on a particularly cool summer night in June.  “There I am.”

And there he was, bearded and shaggier than he was now, but not as smelly as most would expect nowadays.  Like any good medieval peasant, he’d started his morning by washing himself with a cloth and a basin of water.  While physicians of the time had cautioned that overwashing could weaken the body and make it vulnerable to disease, they’d also stressed that regular bathing was required to maintain good health.  When he and his mates had been able to afford it, they’d popped down to the local bath house once or twice a week.  In the summer they used to bathe in the river.  

The point of Hob’s mind's rather unnecessary detour regarding his fourteenth century bathing practices, was that he was pleased to note that he looked almost respectable on what was to be the first day of the rest of his life.  Maybe slightly sweaty from a hard day's work, but there was nothing shameful about that.

“Ye look younger, Rab,” Luke commented, scrutinising the laughing Hob.  

Hob guessed that he did.  He hadn’t physically aged a day since that night, but there was definitely something about this younger Hob that betrayed his youth.  Hob couldn’t put his finger on what.

“It’s yer eyes,” Luke decided.  “Yer laugh’s the same though.  Ye always had a guid laugh, Rab.  Ye always tried to mak me laugh wi ye.”

Thankfully he’d clambered off Hob now and pulled him to his feet.

“Well, listen up, ‘because I’m about to say something hilarious.”

“Nobody has to die!” young Hob burst out, grasping his tankard of ale.  Hob missed that terrible ale.  “The only reason people die is… is ‘cause everyone does it.  You all just go along with it.  But not me.”

The scenery and patrons around the table young Hob shared with his mates were fuzzy.  Hob hadn’t been paying them any attention, too focused on his impassioned spiel to his friends.  Somewhere among the blurred patrons was Hob’s Stranger, but he hadn’t clocked him yet.  Hadn’t known he was in the tavern, listening in.  As much as Hob would have liked to claim he’d noticed his mysterious benefactor straight away, the truth was he’d only paid him any attention when Morpheus came over to speak to him.

“I’ve made up my mind,” young Hob took a moment to consider his upcoming heartfelt declaration.  “I’m not going to die.”

Luke laughed along with the men around him.  “That’s typical o’ you, Rab!'' he guffawed.  

Neither of the Hobs, past or present, joined in.  They were the only ones who knew how serious that statement had been.  Hob had seen death by then.  Gruesome, horrifying, disfiguring death, and he’d wanted no part of it.  But more than that, he’d wanted to see what the world would surprise him with.

Earlier that year, Hob had watched in amazement as an elderly well-to-do lord, pulled out a metal frame holding two lenses of glass and read the sign above a local shop.  He’d been curious enough to risk asking what it was.

If someone had invented magic glass that could restore one’s eyesight, what would the world come up with next?  Hob had desperately wanted to find out.

“Hobs, death comes for every man,” one of his pals reasoned with young Hob.

“You don’t know that.  I might get lucky.  There’s always a first time.  There’s so much to do, so many things to see.  Women to swive.  Ale to drink.  People to drink with.”  He clinked tankards with the others at the table as they broke out into good-natured teasing.

“And what will you do with all that life?” his old friend John asked his younger self.

“I’ll find better friends than you, I can tell you that.”

“Did ye?” Luke asked, amused.

“Other friends, yeah.  Better?  Who's to say?  How do you judge your fourteenth century friends against your twentieth century ones?”

“So yer wish came true?”  

“This is a memory from 1389.  What do you think?”

“How?” Luke asked, not as baffled as he would have been had this not been a dream. 

Hob nodded at the dark clad stranger approaching, his heart swelling with nostalgic fondness.  

What a numpty.  Coming into an inn in this part of town, blatantly wearing a ruby that could feed the average person in this establishment and their family for years.  If he hadn’t been a powerful supernatural entity with an unworldly presence that warned most people away, he’d have been mugged before the end of the night.  Possibly, it had to be said, by Hob and his friends.

“Did I hear you say you have no intention of ever dying?”  Morpheus’ simple presence had startled young Hob and his mates into silence.  Hob vaguely remembered how he’d been surprised that someone so obviously well bred would deign to enter the inn, let alone talk to Hob and his rough crew.

“Uh, yeah.  Yeah, that’s right.”  Young Hob was clearly uncomfortable at being called out so blatantly on his banter by a complete stranger.

“Then you must tell me what it is like,” Morpheus told Hob’s younger self.  Hob had briefly thought, back then, that the statement might have been an obscure message to meet the stranger out back later that night.  Not that he would have.  Hob had done many things by his thirty-fourth year, but he’d not yet discovered how men could be just as appealing as women.  That had taken another couple of decades.

“Let us meet here again, Robert Gadling,” Morpheus continued.  “In this Tavern of the White Horse, in one hundred years.”

His friends burst into laughter around him, but Hob, young Hob and Luke did not.

“He knew yer name,” Luke pointed out.  Something which Hob had also noticed back then, even if his companions had not, too busy cracking more jokes.

“Yeah, and it’s not like anyone then ever called me ‘Robert’.  That spooked me, it did.”

They watched as Morpheus walked away and out through the door, young Hob turning back to his mates.

“Tha’s’all?”  Luke seemed disappointed.  “There wisnae any spell or enchantment or anything?  Ye just agreed to meet him in a hundred years time.”

“Yup.  Just said the right thing, in the right place, at the right time, with the right person listening in.  Sorry it’s not more exciting for you.”

“And was he there, a hundred years later.”

“Yup,” Hob said again, popping the last letter.  “We met in 1489, 1589, 1689 and, well, you get the idea.”  Hob, if he could have, would have shown Luke all his meetings with Morpheus, but it was taking a lot out of him just to share this memory.  He could feel his fingers and toes beginning to go numb and he had the makings of what promised to be a truly epic migraine.  

Gratefully, he let the memory go and the White Horse dissolved around them until they found themselves back in Luke’s own dream pub.  Hob slumped bonelessly into a chair.

Luke looked morose.  “Ah probably winnae make it tae 1989.  I winnae get tae meet him.”  Bless Luke, Hob thought fondly.  He didn’t think to ask if he could be made immortal too.  He just mourned that his own natural lifespan would not allow him to meet Hob’s otherworldly benefactor.

“Nor will I.  Nor will anyone.  That’s why I’ve been trying to reach out to you Luke.  Because that man… He’s gone missing.”

Luke fixed sharp blue eyes on Hob.  “Missing?  But he made ye immortal.  How can he go missing?”

“Well, technically, he didn’t make me immortal.  His sister did.  She’s Death, and he is Dream.”

Hob was aware that he didn’t have long left.  Eventually Luke’s alarm would go off and he would wake up.  He only had time to give him the bare bones of the situation.  Luckily, Luke was as sharp as a whip.

“Ye need someone down on the ground tae search fer him.  Ah can dae it, Rab.  Not gonna let yer friend suffer doon here if ah can help it.”

“You’ve got to be careful,” Hob insisted.  “It could be dangerous.”

“Ah’ve survived two wars, Rab.  And the last yin… Ah’m glad ye weren’t awake fer it.  Whit humanity is capable of… Ah’m no leaving yer friend tae that.  Ye know me, Rab.  Cannae turn away if someone needs a helping hand.”

Hob did know this.  He was taking shameless advantage of it and forcefully pushing away any guilt.  The Dreaming didn’t have time for Hob to feel guilty.

He barely had time to give Luke some hints as to where to start looking before his friend faded from the dream, finally waking up.

By the time Hob made it back to the palace, his migraine had fully taken hold.  He willingly delivered himself into Gault’s overprotective clutches and shut his eyes, letting her guide him.  

For a palace of the King of Dreams, there was a surprising lack of beds, the occupants of the palace not needing sleep.  Ideally, Hob would have liked to have had a lie down on a firm mattress with a soft pillow, alone in the dark until his head stopped pounding and his stomach stopped rolling.  

He made do with a chaise longue that Gault had unearthed from somewhere and installed in the observatory for him.  She wrapped a blanket firmly around his middle and quietly bade him rest, promising to keep anyone looking for him away.  

Bless her, Hob thought groggily.  She was too good to him.

Chapter Text

Hob’s unintentional creation of a pub within Morpheus’ palace had gone down surprisingly well with the inhabitants of the Dreaming.  

At first it was only Hob and the members of the council who frequented it, enjoying the more informal atmosphere to chat about things other than running the kingdom.  But gradually other Major Arcana (as Lucienne informed him the most important Dreams were called) stopped by for a visit.  Before long, nearly all the residents of the realm had popped their heads round the door and, when not immediately shooed away, stayed for a chat.

Now it was rare for the place not to be bustling with activity.  Chrome had started a rather contentious poker club.  Hob had been forced to break up more than one fight between the crocodile and Martin Tenbones, a giant bear/dog like creature with massive tusks, when accusations of cheating on both sides got taken too far.

Aeras and Icarus absolutely were cheating, but they’d not been caught yet.

Mervyn, for all that he complained about how much extra work the new room caused, kept the bar fully stocked with liquor purloined from unsuspecting dreamers' dreams.  He was known to drag Lucienne away from her library every so often to enjoy a cup of whatever new concoction he’d brought back.  

Maybe, when Morpheus returned and Hob woke up, he could get a job as a bartender?  Surely the profession couldn’t have changed that much since Hob was last awake?  Though according to Lucienne, he’d already been asleep for thirty six years and there seemed to be no end in sight.

Luke’s quest was progressing at a snail’s pace.

It was to be expected.  Hob had done his best to keep abreast of the latest big players among the occultists when he’d been awake, but he’d never taken any real interest in them.

The world he was in was what interested him, not the possibilities that lay beyond it.

But given he was someone the occultists would be especially keen on, he’d always tried to stay on the fringes of their society.  One step ahead.  He didn’t want to be caught off guard.  Not after that run in with Lady Johanna and Morpheus’ warning.  

But that meant that Hob’s knowledge and contacts were extremely out of date and Luke pretty much had to start from scratch.

He couldn’t just walk into a bar known to be frequented by occultists and ask if any of them knew where the Lord of Dreams, King of Nightmares was being held.  They would clam up, close ranks and arrange a blind date for Luke with some lead shoes in the local river.

Luke needed to be subtle.  Find his way into the right pub, on the right evening, and buy the right person a drink, while seeming interested, but not too interested, in their hobbies.  He had to play the exact right mix of keen and hard to get.  

It had taken two years but he’d worked his way through the various occult divisions in Scotland and determined that Morpheus wasn’t with any of them.  He was heading to London next.  

He’d sold his business, claiming he needed a change of scenery, and seeing as a distant aunt (Hob) had left him some money, he planned to move back down south, possibly to open that pub he’d been dreaming about.

Annie and her son, Murray, were going with him.

Still, Luke could spend years searching London but there was no guarantee Morpheus was there or anywhere else in the British Isles.

It was a depressingly big world for one man to cover, Hob thought morosely one evening as he wiped down the bar. 

He wasn’t alone in his sulking.  Gault sat slumped over the countertop, glaring at it as though it had personally offended her.  

“Penny for your thoughts?”  Hob decided to distract himself by worrying about his favourite Nightmare instead.

“Dioka,” she muttered glumly.

Figured.

The two Nightmares had been at each other’s throats lately (figuratively speaking, for the moment anyway).  Neither would tell Hob what they were arguing about, but Dioka had been touchier and more vicious than usual and Gault was sullen.  

“One of you is eventually going to have to tell me what this is about, you know.  It can’t go on indefinitely.”

“Is that an order, Lord Hob ,” Gault snarled, baring her teeth at him.  “On whose authority.”

Ooh.  So that’s how she was going to play it. 

“Lucienne’s, of course,” he commented mildly, telling the truth while playing it off as a joke to any of the crowd who might be listening in.  “Everyone knows she’s the real boss of this place.”

Gault sagged, the wind taken out of her sails.

“Come on.  We’ll let Mervyn man the bar.”  Hob offered a hand to Gault.

He ended up dragging her to his… Morpheus’ observatory.  Though truth to tell, it was more Hob’s room now. 

As well as the chaise longue, he’d scrounged up a kettle.  Mervyn had somehow managed to set up a small stove against a wall, an eyesore Hob adored.  There was nothing quite like retreating here after a long day, putting the kettle on and then settling down with a cup of tea to watch the ever changing night sky.

Lucienne had been persuaded to copy a few books from her library of all the stories ever told; he kept his favourites in a small bookcase he’d built himself out of a table and a couple of chairs that Cain had broken in The Almost White Horse, as Hob had taken to calling his conjured pub.  

Suadela had gifted him a thick quilted blanket she (at the time) claimed to have made herself, and it was like wrapping himself in a lover’s warm embrace.

The observatory walls were now covered in drawings Aeras and Icarus had made him, each lovingly framed and hung to best advantage.  

It couldn’t now be further from the stately room Morpheus had left and Hob did worry his friend would be rather miffed by the changes - though when he thought about it, probably not as much as by the whole Regency thing.

However, no time to worry about that now; he had a job to do.  He bullied Gault into taking a seat and set about making her and himself a cup of tea.  He settled down on the floor beside her legs and handed up her tea.

“The sky keeps changing, but sometimes I notice the same pattern of stars come round.  That group, over there, I call them The Platypus. ”

“ The Platypus ?” Gault asked incredulously.

“I know!  But look, there’s its bill and its broad tail at the other end.  It’s a ridiculous creature!  I remember seeing the first pelt and sketch Captain John Hunter sent back from New South Wales.  We all thought he was having us on.  We were convinced he’d sewn a duck’s beak onto a beaver’s body.”

He continued on in this way, pointing out The Teacup, The Overflowing Stein and The Wonky Donkey.

Gault, over the course of his ramblings, slid down next to him, wrapped in Suadela’s blanket.

A comfortable silence descended, broken only by quiet sips of tea.

Eventually…

“I don’t want to be a Nightmare.”

Hob waited patiently for her to elaborate.

“I don’t enjoy it.  I don’t enjoy frightening people.  I get no fulfilment from forcing them to face their fears.  I want… I want to be a Dream.  I want to comfort those who suffer.  I want to inspire them to be brave, to break free.

“I know I was created a Nightmare, but it doesn’t feel like me.  It’s not who I am.  I don’t have the heart for it.  I can’t bear it any longer.”

And kind, steadfast, loyal Gault, curled into Hob’s open arms and started to sob.

“It’s alright,” Hob whispered into the top of her head.  “I’ll fix it,” he swore.

Though he had no idea how.

In the end, he decided to corner Dioka and Lucienne alone in the library to raise the possibility of Gault becoming a Dream instead of a Nightmare.

Dioka’s fur stood up on end and she snarled at even the suggestion of it.

“It is not a matter of choice ,” her voice reverberated around the room in a low growl.  “She was made a Nightmare.  She is a Nightmare.  That is not something that can change just because she wills it.”

Hob wasn’t so sure.  He’d seen many things over the centuries, met many people.  A few times he’d come across a man born a woman and a woman born a man.  He’d even met a few people who were neither and some who changed depending on the day.  Why could a creature created a Nightmare not actually be a Dream?

“But she’s miserable being a Nightmare,” Hob argued, ignoring Dioka’s bristle of indignation.  He understood why this upset Dioka so much.  She took great pride in being a Nightmare.  In her ability to chase down her prey and make them realise they couldn’t run from their problems forever.  She considered herself a helper, not a terror.

“She’s sick with anxiety at the prospect of having to spend the rest of her existence doing a job she hates,” Hob ploughed on, refusing to back down.  “That’s no way to live!  So, why can’t she try doing what she wants?  What she thinks she’ll be good at.”

“This isn’t a job !” Dioka howled, stalking towards him, eyes flashing red in warning.  “This is who we are .  It can’t be changed.”

Yeah right.

Hob was a master of change.  “I started life as an illiterate peasant.  By your logic, I should have stayed that way.  Always bowing and scraping to some lord and master.  But I changed .  

“I’ve been a knight.  I’ve been a beggar.  I’ve been a farmer, a banker, a cobbler, a lawyer, a ratcatcher, a lamplighter, a thief, a soldier, a butcher, a baker, and yes, a bloody candlestick maker.  I’ve been rich, I’ve been poor.  I’ve been kind and I’ve been cruel.  

“The only way I’ve been able to live six centuries, to make sure Death won that stupid bet she made with her brother, is because I’ve changed. ”

He was panting by the end, nose to snout with Dioka, neither willing to give in.

“Were you always this poised, deadly creature, Matriarch of Nightmares?”  Hob threw out Dioka’s unofficial title, the one everyone knew.  “Were you created this way?  Or did you grow into it?  Did you change?”

Dioka turned her back and flounced away from him, tail cuffing Hob’s head with haughty indignation.

“I think,” Lucienne broke their stalemate, speaking up for the first time since Hob brought up the notion of allowing Gault to be a Dream.  “That we should let Gault try.”

Dioka looked at the librarian in betrayal.

“Lucienne,” she growled, but Lucienne shook her head.

“She’s already trying, Dioka.  I’ve had a look at the dream journals of the last few dreamers she’s visited, and she’s been trying to bring them comfort.  To ease their distress over problems too big for them to face alone.  

“She’s a shapechanger.  If any of us have the ability to change, then it’s her.”

But Dioka wasn’t beaten yet.  She still had one card left to play.

“Lord Morpheus would not allow it.”

She knew how to aim for the jugular.

Hob had always capitulated when this had been said before.  Uncomfortably aware that this was Morpheus’ realm and, despite what the general populace believed, he had not actually been granted any authority over it.  Big decisions were always made by the council as a collective.  Hob contributed ideas and had the deciding vote if they needed a tiebreaker, but apart from that he was more of a figurehead.

His main purpose was to be seen .  To visit the various Dreams and Nightmares and see how they worked and listen to them boast about their skills.  That was often enough.

So, whenever he’d put a suggestion forward that the council informed him Morpheus would not approve of, he had backed down.

But this was Gault .  

His first friend in the Dreaming.  The one who looked after him and kept him sane.  Who knew the whole truth of everything but followed him anyway.

He couldn’t let her down now.  Not even for Morpheus.

“Morpheus isn’t here.”  It was a miracle his voice didn’t shake.  He thought he might throw up any second, his stomach was twisted in so many knots.  “He left me in charge, and I say we let Gault be a Dream.”

Dioka’s claws flashed out.  Hob took half a step back, convinced she was about to swing at him, honorary pup or no, but she forcibly collected herself and stalked out the room.

Lucienne let out a shaky breath and she and Hob collapsed onto the same seat, squishing up together.  He could feel her shaking next to him.  Or was that him?  

“She’s right.”  Lucienne was most definitely trembling.  “Lord Morpheus will not be pleased.”

“Why did you take my side then?”  Hob definitely didn’t sound quite like himself.  He brushed a sweaty strand of hair off his face and confirmed that he was undeniably shaking too.

“Gault’s my friend.  And you’re right.  She’s miserable.”

Lucienne took a few deep breaths and stood up.  Her legs stayed steady.  Hob required a few extra moments before he could join her.  His bones felt like jelly.

“I’ll ask Suadela to watch over Gault,” Lucienne’s voice was brisk as she returned to business.

“Good idea.”  

Suadela inhabited that space in between Dream and Nightmare.  Able to be either depending on how they chose to present themself to the Dreamer.

“I’ll let you pass on the good news to Gault.”

Hob took that as the cue it was to leave Lucienne alone to reestablish her equilibrium in her library in peace.

He knew one thing though.  Gault’s smile of pure happiness when he told her was worth any retribution Morpheus might seek.

Chapter Text

Some days, when the urge to wander got too much and his feet positively itched, Hob would announce to Lucienne he was taking the day off (or the Dreaming equivalent thereof) and go for a walk.

He’d head out the door and across the bridge and see where the Dreaming would take him.  

He’d scaled mountains, sailed seas, crossed frozen tundras and scorching deserts.

He saw dreamers as he went, and he would stop for an often nonsensical conversation with them, becoming nothing more than a vague recollection when they awoke.  A friendly man who chatted with them on their journey.  A minor player in their story.

Gault had thrown a fit when he’d first gone walkabout.  She’d had to come and fish him out of a swamp after Mervyn, the only person he’d told of his planned outing, realised he’d been gone too long.  He’d been submerged up to his neck, having misjudged what he thought was a sure foothold.  He’d found himself swiftly sinking, mud squeezing round his legs and pulling him down, refusing to let go.

That’s where he’d met Neferu, a very chatty crocodile who was delighted to show off her work.  She lurked beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to reveal herself, sometimes attacking, sometimes just letting herself be seen ominously in the background, an ever-present threat.

She’d revelled in Hob’s appreciation and enjoyed talking his ear off about the differences she found in the dreams of people now compared to the dreams of people of the long distant past.  Whoever invented shotguns, she declared, ought to be shot with their own invention.  It was worse than when humans invented spears.  

Neferu had been rather reluctant to see him go, once Gault had freed him.  Mervyn teased that she fancied him.  Hob had to admit he might have been right when Neferu turned up on her first visit to The Almost White Horse in the form of a stunning woman.  Hob was ignoring that problem until it went away.  He was flattered, but he felt getting involved romantically with anyone from the Dreaming would be a very bad idea.

After his mishap in the swamp, Gault had insisted on trailing him every time he went out on a jaunt, preventing him from running afoul of some of the truly dark and terrifying aspects of the kingdom.

Hob, on reflection, was glad she had.  There were places in Morpheus’ realm that could wipe a man of every memory.  Fields where whispers of the long-dead could remind one of every wrong decision, every regret.  Wastelands that could make Hob feel utterly insignificant and alone, an inconsequential speck in a vast universe, were it not for Gault’s steadying hand on his elbow.

There was also a place Gault refused to take him.  Where even ferocious Dioka seemed afraid to tread.  A great, encompassing Darkness.  Hob had only caught a glimpse of it, once, out of the corner of his eye, and that was more than enough.  It was like what the priest in his village used to say hell was like, but worse .  So much worse.  He hadn’t needed Gault’s warning to know never to step foot there.

Nowadays though, Gault was too busy to trail him.  Her training to be a Dream was over and, now that she enjoyed her work, she spent less time assisting Hob and more time with the dreamers.

The first time he’d ventured out without Gault there to rescue him if he got in over his head, Hob had stuck to familiar paths.  He spent the morning in the jungle with Dioka’s cubs, their mother finally speaking to him again, tussling and laughing as they chased him through the humid heat.  The sharp pricks of their teeth reminded him that they were tiny terrors waiting to be unleashed on human minds.  But their affection for him was evident from the rumbling in their chests when they rubbed against him.  

Nothing made one relax quite like wrestling with giant, nightmarish cheetah cubs.

So it was a surprise when Gault appeared only a few hours after he left the palace.  She fluttered down from the sky on delicate butterfly wings that had come as quite a shock when they’d first appeared.  

Hob would never forget the panic he’d felt when Gault burst into the observatory while he was enjoying a well earned cup of tea and a good book, scratching at her shoulders and back, shrieking that something was wrong.

Hob had almost fainted when he saw the bulging, writhing mass trapped beneath the skin of Gault’s back.

He’d screamed for Lucienne, screamed for Mervyn, for Cain, for Abel, for anyone to come and help.

But by the time anyone had made it up to them, Gault’s new wings had exploded from her back, covering Hob in some sort of thick glittery blue sludge.  He was convinced he still had a residual sparkly sheen, no matter how much he had tried to scrub it off.

Gault had recovered surprisingly quickly once she realised she wasn’t dying.  Her new wings had delighted her, and it was all Lucienne and Hob could do to get her to stay still long enough to assure themselves that their friend was fine.  The moment they had reluctantly let her go, she was off and flying, loud peals of laughter echoing around the palace when Aeras joined her and they raced among the buttresses and turrets.

Dioka, for the first time ever, had been struck speechless.  For here was irrefutable proof that a Nightmare could become a Dream.  It wasn’t just the wings; the dark blue and green flashes of light that had lit up Gault’s skin had changed to pink and purple.  Further evidence of the former Nightmare’s transformation.

The proud cheetah had retreated into her jungle for several days and when she had finally emerged, it was with one of her cubs hanging from her teeth by the scruff of its neck.  She had dropped the cub into a startled Gault’s arms and leapt up regally onto her chair as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

“That one has more of the makings of a Dream than a Nightmare,” was all she’d said.  And just like that, peace between Dioka and Gault had been restored.

The cheetah cubs were mercilessly tickling Hob with their scratchy tongues when Savannah, the Dream cub, leapt out of the pile of her siblings to greet her favourite Dream.  She wound fondly around Gault’s legs as Hob struggled to sit up, abdominal muscles weak from laughter.

The laughter quickly died when he saw the serious, heartbroken expression on Gault’s face.

“What is it?”  He scrambled to his feet, mind going a mile a minute as he tried to think what could be so bad as to make her look at him like that.   “Morpheus?” he gasped, for what else could it be?  “Is he…”  He couldn’t complete the sentence.  Icy cold fingers of dread gripped his heart in a vice-like grip.  His vision narrowed, blocking out everything but Gault’s distraught face.

It changed into a look of brief confusion, before the pity returned.  “No,” she told him softly, voice as quiet and kind as it had ever been.  The same voice she used to comfort devastated dreamers.  “We’ve heard nothing new about Lord Morpheus.  But Hob, you need to come back to the palace.”

Hob stared blankly, not quite believing her.  What else could it be?  Why else would she look at him like that?  If Morpheus was gone then…

A warm, wriggling weight leapt into his arms.  Hob caught it instinctively.  The heavy weight of Savannah’s head nudging his chin broke Hob out of his temporary stupor.

“Why?” he demanded shakily.  “What is it?  Just tell me.”

“I…  Lucienne needs to speak to you.  Come on Hob, please come with me.  Lucienne can explain.”  Never once, since she’d first bestowed upon him the appellation of ‘Lord Hob’ had she ever referred to him without the title.  While others used it as a mark of respect, from her it was their little in-joke, a mark of their friendship.

For her to use his name so informally…  Hob clutched Savannah tightly to him, trying to ground himself in the feel of her steady breaths beneath his palms.

“Come back with me,” Gault implored again.  “Please.”

Numbly, Hob followed her, Savannah purring reassurances into his chest.

It was just Lucienne in the library; none of the rest of the council were there.  It made the anxiety grow and threaten to consume him.  

What could be so bad that they’d decided to spare him an audience?

“Hob.”  Lucienne’s tone did nothing to reassure him.  It was brisk, but he could sense that her composure was hanging by a thread.  Her hands were clasped deliberately in front of her, in an effort to appear calm.  Her twitching fingers gave the game away as she shuffled, barely visibly, from one foot to the other.

“I think you should sit down.”  

Hob briefly considered remaining standing, just to be contrary and retain some minuscule amount of control over the situation.  But he’d learnt throughout his almost six centuries that when someone told you to sit down, there was usually a very good reason.

He sat.

“Hob,” Lucienne repeated, but she wasn’t looking at him.  She was staring fixedly at Gault, as though begging her to relieve her of this duty.

“Just tell me,” he croaked, though part of him wondered if it would be better to live in ignorance forever.

“Luke’s dream journal ended last night.”

Hob was glad he’d decided to sit.  As it was, he had to reach out and grasp the table in front of him to try and stop the room from wobbling.  

There was only one reason a dream journal ended, and that was because the owner would never dream again.

This was his fault.

He’d set Luke on this path.  Asked him to help, knowing Luke wouldn’t say ‘no’.

He’d been in Luke’s dream only last night.  

They’d sung bawdy tunes together while hammering tunelessly on a piano.  They’d decided to run up a re-creation of the Royal Mile in Edinburgh to storm the castle.  They’d been giggling like naughty schoolboys as they loaded themselves into a catapult that just happened to be there and launched themselves over the castle walls.  They’d smuggled their way into a feast, a lot more historically accurate than most dreamers managed, thanks largely to Hob.

They’d eventually been ejected by knights in heavy plate mail whom they’d led on a merry chase along the battlements before diving off the walls and into a moat filled with pillows.

His last image of Luke, was of his friend grinning madly at him, feathers in his hair and unrestrained joy, unrestrained life , radiating through him.  

And for what?

They’d barely mentioned Morpheus at all.  Luke had mentioned at the beginning of the night that he had an invitation to attend a seance from some occultists he was slowly wooing, but there’d been no big breakthroughs, no major revelations to suggest he was any closer to finding Morpheus than when he’d moved to London three years ago.

And now he was dead.  

Just like that.

And it was Hob’s fault.  

Had anyone told Annie yet?  Would they tell Annie?  She and Luke weren’t married, so would anyone think to tell her?  To treat her as the grieving widow she was, again.  And Murray had now lost the only father figure he’d ever known.

Hob had thoughtlessly and selfishly ripped Luke from them.  He’d caused them irreparable harm.

There was something wet on his face that he was slowly becoming aware of.  He didn’t think it was tears.  He felt too numb to cry.  Too disconnected from everything.

Savannah was licking his face, rough tongue scraping over his cheeks as she perched on his lap, large cub paws pushing down on his shoulders, trying to tether him to reality.  Gault and Lucienne were crouched on either side of his chair, watching him anxiously and that was what caused his numb, shocked exterior to crack.

He didn’t deserve their pity.  He didn’t deserve their kindness or compassion.  

He’d killed Luke.

He buried his face in Savannah’s neck, wrapped his arms tightly  around her, and started to sob.  Big, ugly, heaving sobs that forced the air out of his lungs as if he’d been punched.  The sobs were followed by a wail, the strangled, snotty kind that was muffled by and wiped on warm, soft fur.  

“Hob,” Lucienne repeated helplessly.  “I’m so sorry.”

All he could do was keen forlornly in her direction. 

Why should she be sorry?  She hadn’t sent Luke to do the impossible.  She hadn’t sent him to hunt down whatever depraved human would capture and hold an entity like Morpheus, even as almost a million people worldwide were forced into a never-ending sleep.

That had been Hob.  Lucienne had argued against it.

They let him cry until he could cry no more.  

“You’re sure?” he gasped through short, shuddering breaths, already knowing that Lucienne wouldn’t have had Gault bring him in here unless she was absolutely sure.

“I am,” she confirmed gently.  “I’ve checked.  You see, Hob,” she clutched his arm when he made to stand, needing to leave.  To be alone.  “Sometimes,” the grip on his arm was unyielding, refusing to let him go,  “when a human dies they are given a choice of where they wish to go next.  And you see, it’s most irregular, but…”

Why was Lucienne so flustered?  Hob got his breathing back under control as he watched the unflappable librarian clearly flapping.  He peeked at her over Savannah’s neck as the cub nuzzled into him.  

“Well,” Lucienne strode across to the window and opened it.  A large black raven with a couple of white feathers on either side of its head flew in and landed on the desk in front of Hob.  “Luke chose this.”

What?

“Hey Rab,” the raven lifted a wing and tried to scratch sheepishly at the back of its head as it spoke in Luke’s voice.  “Sorry, pal.  Ah let ye doon.”

Chapter Text

“This can’t go on any longer! You’ve got to do something!”

Hob rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if that would release the tension building there and save him from what were becoming frequent headaches.

“The Courtyard of Solitude has a massive bloody crack through it!  Massive, ” Mervyn stressed, as though Hob was deliberately missing the point.  “And the Neverending River is drying up!  What are you going to do about it?”  

“I don’t know,” Hob snapped back.  Mervyn had been ranting for the past half hour.  It was a repeat performance from the last meeting, and the meeting before that, and the meeting before that, and so on. 

But no one knew how to fix the ever-worsening decay and so the issue was repeatedly shelved and Mervyn was left to do his best to fix what he could.  It wasn’t fair on the poor pumpkin; Hob knew this.  But he was sick and tired of the way Mervyn’s diatribes had gone from being addressed to the council generally to being aimed at him specifically.

“I don’t actually know how to fix magical decay.  Why the fuck do you think I can do anything about all this?”

“Don’t know magic my arse!  You’re the one who installed a brand new room in the palace on a whim.  You’re the one with your own Dream Raven.  You’re the one Lord Morpheus left in charge.  It’s up to you to bloody well fix this!”

“Right,” Hob bit out, wanting nothing more than to dismiss everyone and go and hide for the foreseeable future.  “I’ll get right on to it.”

Mervyn ignored his sarcasm.

“Good.”

Suadela tried to waylay him after the meeting, but Hob stubbornly ignored his attempts and fled for the observatory.  

Unfortunately, Fiddler’s Green followed him, surprisingly fast given the size he was currently favouring.  

“Are you quite well?” he asked Hob solicitously.

The Dream had popped back into the Dreaming to give Hob a short report on the Waking World.  

He had brought the heartbreaking news that not only had Morpheus not shown up for their centennial meeting - not that Hob had realistically thought he would, but he had hoped - but that the White Horse , the only other constant in his life, apart from his Stranger, was closing.  

Fiddler’s Green had hesitantly informed Hob of this right before the council meeting.

“I turned up on the seventh, just as you told me to.  And I understand why you like the place so.  It has a rustic charm to it that makes one reminisce about bygone days.  I had a lovely chat with some students who were organising a protest against the poll tax and there was one amusing gentleman who told me an excellent joke about a vicar and a rabbit which I’ll have to tell you about later.  

“But, alas, no sign of Lord Morpheus.  I did stay until closing time, just in case, and I did enjoy a wonderful conversation with the barman about whisky.  He really knew his stuff.  Then when I mentioned that the person I was waiting for hadn’t shown up, but there was always some other time, he warned me that the place was due to be demolished.  Apparently some billionaire has bought the land and plans to construct a block of ghastly modern flats. 

“I told him: ‘This can’t be allowed to happen.  This is a historic landmark.  It’s been here for over six centuries.  Shakespeare and Marlowe once shared a drink here.  Chaucer used to drink here.’

“But of course, when he asked how I knew this, I could hardly say my source was my immortal friend cursed with a sleeping sickness, so I’m afraid I was of no help.”

Hob was devastated, to say the least.  He was also angry.  Furious at how unfair it all was.  Here he was, asleep for seventy-three years with no end in sight.  Running a fucking kingdom that he had no business running.  And it wasn’t fair . 

Hob was built for living life and, as fantastical and as brilliant as the Dreaming could be, he wasn’t living.   He was treading water, trying to stay afloat.  He was running on the spot, going nowhere.

The world was moving on - Fiddler’s Green often had to stop when he made his reports to explain some new invention - and Hob wasn’t moving with it.  He was stuck, stagnating.  

What would happen if Morpheus never came back?  Was this all Hob had left for all eternity?  Trying to keep a crumbling realm from disintegrating into sand?  

And if Morpheus did return, how would Hob fit back into the world he’d so long been apart from?

The people he’d known were all dead and he had no one new to lean on.  He would be alone.  No anchor to ground him, no rudder to steer him.  No friend to guide him.

So no, he was not quite well, if he was being perfectly honest.  But he didn’t fancy discussing it at any length with Fiddler’s Green, no matter how well meant the enquiry was.  As much as the Dream might try, he wouldn’t, couldn’t, understand.

“I’m fine,” he dismissed.  “Just got a lot to do.  Grab yourself a drink, Fiddler’s Green.  We can talk more later.”

Solitude was clearly not meant for him that day because Luke was waiting for him in the observatory.

“Ye a’right, Rab?”

“I… Not now Luke.”

The raven ignored the clear dismissal and hopped closer to where Hob had sunk against the wall until he was pressed up against Hob’s side.  

Luke knew that Hob was unable to send him away.  Ever.  

The guilt over Luke’s death had never dissipated.  Not after Luke had been persuaded, reluctantly, to share his final moments as a human.

“It a’ happened sae fast, Rab.  Ah wis just walkin’ back frae the seance (complete load o’ shite, ah could see whaur she wis operatin’ the table rappers) an’ then ah wis grabbed and dragged intae an alley.  Didnae see the bastard; just felt his thumbs diggin’ intae ma eyes.  An’ ah wis strugglin’ tae get free.  But the next thing ah knew, ah wis lyin’ on the ground an’ this bonny wee lassie was offerin’ me a hand up an’ ah knew everything wis goin’ tae be a’right.  

“She asked me whaur ah wanted tae go next an’ ah asked her whit ma options were.  She said ah could continue tae help ye keep things goin’ while her brother wis awa.  An’ so ah said a’right.  And then, poof , feathers.”

So Luke could ask anything of Hob and Hob would do it.  He’d have popped out his own eyes and offered them to Luke on a silver platter if the raven had asked.

Of course, as far as Luke was concerned, Hob bore none of the blame at all.  He’d warned Luke to be careful and Luke had let his guard down.  Worse, he’d not even accomplished anything before he died.  If it was anyone’s fault, it was his .

Gault wanted to bash both their heads together and be done with it.  

Hob scooped up the raven, finding reassurance in the feel of warm feathers and the thud of a fragile heartbeat.  Luke let himself be held for a moment before clearing his throat as manfully as a raven could and adjusting himself so that he was perched on Hob’s drawn-up knees.  

“Ye a’right, Rab?” he asked again.  “Only ye dinnae look it.  Whit’s goin’ on in that big brain o’ yours?”

Hob sighed, but he couldn’t resist a request from Luke.  He told him.

“Sorry, Rab, that’s a tough one mate.  Anything ah can dae?”

“Don’t think so, but thanks for offering.”

Luke soared off Hob’s knees and over to the stove, tapping it pointedly.  “Ye pit that on an’ make us a brew.  Three sugars in mine, mind.  An’ after a cuppa ye can get back tae work.  Ah’ll sort oot yer pub problem.”

Hob obediently got up to light the stove and put the kettle on to boil.  

“You got another pub to recommend as my new local?” he teased, ignoring the pang of hurt that thought brought.  

“Nah, ah’ll think o’ something else.  Three sugars!” Luke squawked indignantly when Hob tried to pour some milky tea into a saucer for him without the required sugar.

“It’s not good for you.”

“Ah’m a’ready deid.  Ah can hae as much bloody sugar as ah want in ma tea.”

Hob put the sugar in the tea.  

It was afterwards, when he was alone again and walking to the library in search of Lucienne so they could at least say they’d discussed Mervyn’s complaints at the next meeting, that the lights went out.

He was suddenly plunged into darkness.

It was pitch black.  No light came through the windows.  

“Hello?” he called out hesitantly.  What was happening?  Was this what Mervyn had been warning him about?  Was the Dreaming collapsing? 

“Lucienne?” he tried again. 

Fear was beginning to creep in, crawling up his spine and raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

He tried to stumble towards a wall, needing something to ground him, to connect with.  But his hands met only air.

His heart was pounding; beating a bruising rhythm against his ribs as his breath grew shorter and hoarser.

“Mervyn?  Cain?  Abel?  Anyone?”

Silence.

Unbidden, the Darkness crept into his mind.  He’d been so careful never to go there.  Never to step near it, lest it suck him in and devour him from the inside out.  But what if it had spread?  What if he had heeded Meryn’s warnings too late and it had consumed the Dreaming, taking everything and everyone with it?

What if he had failed Morpheus and destroyed his kingdom?

“Help!” he croaked, voice made feeble with fear.  “Anyone?  Help!”

Red eyes broke through the darkness, a low growl echoing loudly in the silence.

Hob trembled.  There was something in here with him.

Something hungry.

A vicious snarl and the menacing sound of snapping, ravenous jaws broke him out of his terrified stupor.

Hob bolted.

He didn’t know where he was going.  Wouldn’t have seen his own hand in front of his face if he’d spared the time to try, but it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was the growling and the red eyes that followed him as his hunter silently stalked him through the palace.

He was too scared to notice that no stairs or walls barred his flight.  He had a clear run forward and he hurtled onwards.

His heart was pounding, his breathing was getting heavier.  He could feel himself slowing down even though he desperately needed to keep going.  He had to get to safety.  He had to.

But it was dark.  So very, very dark.  

And he didn’t know where he was running or what lay ahead and the creature was still following him.

All he could do was keep running, his footsteps echoing loudly, giving his position away.

Light appeared in the distance and he sprinted towards it.

Coming closer was a doorway and through that doorway was safety.  Hob didn’t know how he knew this, but he did, and he put on a final desperate burst of speed.

A single solitary figure could be seen silhouetted against the light.  Tall, clothed in black and with a shock of dark hair.  They would help, Hob thought.  They would know what to do.

He skidded through the doorway and into the room and collapsed in a heap on the floor in front of the figure.

He was shaking, all his muscles trembling from the unaccustomed exertion, heart trying to make an exit out of his throat.

“ Hob. ”

That deep, slow voice.  A voice that offered sanctuary.  Hope .

He looked up.

Black polished shoes, pressed black trousers, smart black jacket over black waistcoat and shirt.  Pale skin, unruly black hair, silver eyes.

Hob was pulled from his fear-filled stupor so fast that he physically reared back, bashing his skull against the stone floor.  Far from dazing him, it brought everything into sharp focus.

The fuzzy outline of the room cleared until he could make out crumbling columns and broken archways.  Light shone brightly through shifting coloured glass, a perfect backdrop to that intimidating, accusatory throne.

Suadela stood before him, looking like an exact copy of Morpheus the last time Hob had seen him, except for the unchanging silver eyes staring unapologetically at Hob.  

When Hob looked behind him he could see no darkness.  Only Dioka loping leisurely into the throne room, red eyes fading back to reflective orbs showing a distorted version of Hob’s sweaty and livid face.

“What the hell are you two playing at,” he snarled.

Neither looked at all contrite.

Dioka sat primly next to him, warm fur brushing against his arm.  He pulled it harshly away and forced his shaking legs to support him as he stood and moved back.

“Suadela pointed out to me that you had issues you were avoiding,” Dioka replied, unconcerned by Hob’s anger and distance from her.  She stretched lazily, before fixing him with her piercing gaze.  “You’ve not dreamed as you should in so long.  I’m sorry we did not take better care of you.  We’ve let you walk among us and do your best to help our realm continue, forgetting that you’re not one of us.  Of the purpose we’re meant to play in your life.  

“It was neglectful of me.  I am sorry, Lord Hob.”

It was an apology, but not for the reason Hob wanted one.  

“So you decided to chase me down and scare me half to death?  That was your apology?  Please, don’t ever bother me when you want to thank me.  You’d probably take me flying with Icarus.”

He looked solely at Dioka, refusing to turn and face Suadela wearing that form like an ill-fitting suit.  Morpheus would never have allowed his shoulders to slouch.  He wouldn’t have smiled at Hob as Suadela was.

“You have not faced your fears in seventy-three years.  You have not allowed your subconscious to ponder on that you wish to ignore,” Dioka continued, voice mild and infuriatingly reasonable.

But what did she mean?  Hob had not actively dreamt since he broke out of Gault’s nightmare such a long time ago.  So what?  He didn’t need to.  He was in the Dreaming itself, trying to keep everything from falling apart.  He didn’t need to actually dream .

“Why do you avoid this room, Hob?” Suadela had crept up behind him.  Close enough that his breath tickled the hairs on the back of Hob’s neck as he spoke in his best imitation of Morpheus’ voice.  “It’s his throne room.  The closest thing you’ll get to the heart of the Dreaming in his absence.  If there are answers to be found anywhere about how to stop the ever-spreading decay, it’ll be here.  So why do you stay away?  What are you afraid to face?”

“Suadela,” Hob was very pleased with how his voice didn’t crack.  “If I turn around and you look anything like Morpheus, your nose will be introduced to my fist.”

Dioka stepped forward before he could turn and carry out his threat.  She gently nudged his chest with her head and rubbed her face against his shirt.

“You do not have to tell us why you fear him,” she assured, voice low and soothing.  “You only have to accept this is something you need to face.  For yourself, as well as the realm.”  She turned in a neat circle and strolled out of the room, making sure to tickle Hob playfully with her tail as she left.  

Suadela still stood behind him.  A small, unwrinkled, feminine hand rested on his shoulder and for once her voice matched her appearance.  “You fear that when I take his form, I know of your desire for him.  But I do not see why you need to fear your attraction to him.  Not when it is borne out of love.

“You have so much love to give.  I can feel it in your mind.  It makes me envious of our king.  How wonderful it would be to be the focus of such love.  Such devotion.  Stop fearing your heart, Lord Hob.  Stop fearing your own worth.

“Accept you feel what you feel and let the rest of us be grateful that it inspired such steadfast service.  The realm would have collapsed long ago and the Dreams and Nightmares would have fled or been destroyed were it not for your steady hand at the helm.”

“Suadela,” Hob repeated again, more firmly this time.  “Get out.”

She slipped out from behind him in a form reminiscent of a Roman goddess of old, and sashayed out the door.

Hob almost left too.

He desperately wanted to forget his mad chase into the throne room and whatever point Suadela was trying to make and just go.

An archway above him groaned ominously in warning.

He shut his eyes, dug his nails into his thighs, sharp pin pricks tethering him to his dwindling sanity, and took three deep breaths.

When he opened his eyes again, he turned to face the long flight of steps that led up to the throne.

It was just a chair, he tried to tell himself.  Not even a particularly impressive one.  There was no gold, no luxurious velvet.  Just plain carved stone.

His foot touched the bottom step of the winding staircase.

Just a chair. 

Except it wasn’t.  It was a symbol of Morpheus’ position and power.  The stark proof of why Hob was wrong to suggest they were friends that night.

Kings were not friends with farmers turned soldiers turned accidental immortals.

He was at the top of the staircase, the throne right in front of him.

He didn’t know if it was his mind playing tricks or if the throne really was thrumming with power.

It’s a chair , he repeated to himself.  A really nice chair, but still just an oddly daunting, symbolically rich chair .

He turned to face the hall, trying very hard not to imagine a sea of people gathered round to watch him make a fool of himself.  He was alone.  No one could see what he was about to do.

Everything about this felt wrong.  Hob wasn’t meant for chairs like this.  This was sacrilegious.

His hands hesitantly touched the cool, smooth stone arms of the throne.

He waited a moment, for a lightning bolt to crash through the dilapidated roof and smite him for his insolence.

It didn’t.

He sat down.

Chapter Text

Hob wasn’t sure what he had expected to happen.  But he had expected something .

An event, a profound realisation, a strange feeling…  Anything.

All he felt was silly.  A peasant playing at being a king while no one could see. 

He didn’t look the part; he was aware of this, in his sensible brown trousers, matching braces and a white shirt.

Morpheus would look the part.  Had always looked the part.  And how had Hob never guessed he was a king?

It was so bloody obvious now he looked back.

He forced his mind back into the present.  Now was not the time to reminisce.  He had a purpose here.

Suadela thought the answer to the decay of the Dreaming lay here, so Hob had to figure it out.  Even if he felt like a prize fool.

“Any hints?” he asked the empty room.

Silence.

“Fuck,” he sighed.  He had no idea what to do.

“You know what, Morpheus,” he snapped, overcome with a flash of intense anger.  “I don’t care that you didn’t appoint me your Regent.  You’d damn well better appreciate what I’m doing.  Your subjects are still here, still doing their jobs, and yeah, the place isn’t as shiny as when you left it, but I’m doing my fucking best .”

As quick as it came, the anger vanished and he slumped into the throne.  

He shouldn’t be here.

He should be in the White Horse chatting the ear off his Stranger.  They were supposed to have met yesterday.  Hob was supposed to have apologised for spooking his friend.  Morpheus was supposed to have accepted and then they would have been as they always were.  Except, he could admit it to himself now, who was he kidding?.  

He’d hoped for something more.  For Morpheus to admit they were friends.  To reciprocate. For the Dream Lord to share a part of himself with Hob the way Hob shared parts of himself with him.  For there to be the possibility of something more .

“I didn’t always love you,” he admitted, a feeling he’d never put into words before.  Never dared to face.  Here there was no choice.  It was being drawn out of him by some invisible force.

“When I first saw you in 1389 you were… strange.  A strange stranger.

“I didn’t know what to make of you.  You just popped up at my table, looking so utterly out of place that I was amazed I hadn’t noticed you earlier.  And you went along with the complete tripe I had just spouted.  Said you’d meet me in a hundred years time.  

“Didn’t think anything of it after that.  Got on with my life.  Always a war somewhere back then.  Or nearly always.  Plenty of work for a soldier.  Gave me a chance to see more of the world than my own little part of it.  Had a few close calls, but scraped by.  What wounds I did get healed pretty quickly.  I’d always been as healthy as an ox, so nothing unusual about that.  

“But my friends got older, and I didn’t.  And when you can pass for your mate’s son, you start to realise something’s… happened.  I thought I’d accidentally made a deal with the Devil.  Scared myself witless.  Ran straight to a monastery and begged for shelter.  Became a monk, if you can believe it.  It’s how I learnt to read.

“And when, after nine years, I hadn’t been smote by the Almighty and I still wasn’t ageing, I thought maybe you weren’t the Devil and I left.  Went back to soldiering.  Wasn’t going to be cooped up in a monastery forever.  If I wasn’t about to die, or be damned, there was a world out there waiting to be seen.

“Almost didn’t turn up to our second meeting,” he admitted, chin now clasped in his hand, elbow propped on the armrest of the throne as he slouched sideways in an effort to shift the weight on his swiftly numbing backside.  Maybe he should get Morpheus a cushion?

“I was afraid.  Of what you might be.  Of what you might take from me in return for all this extra life.  And it turned out all you wanted to know was what my life had been like.

“You weren’t impressed.  You think I didn’t notice, but you weren’t as subtle as you thought.  I knew you were laughing at me when I told you about how brilliant chimneys and hankies were.  It may not have seemed that remarkable to you, Mister High and Mighty, but at the time it was a lot more useful than the printing press you actually took an interest in, oh great and glorious Prince of Stories.  The common man and woman couldn’t read.  What use did they have for the books I laboured over?  But chimneys!  Hankies!  They mattered to them.  

“If I’d given my neighbour a book back then, he’d have sold it or used it for kindling in his brand new, state-of-the-art fireplace, complete with chimney .  Bloody brilliant, chimneys.

“Still, I wanted to do better at our next meeting.  Wanted to impress you.  You were my mysterious benefactor.  As far as I knew, you were the source of my gift.  So I worked hard, made some wise investments, created a perfect life for myself. 

“And you weren’t bloody impressed by any of it, you arrogant git.  Didn’t touch a morsel of the food I’d had prepared for you.  Not even a polite congratulations on my gorgeous wife and child.  And I thought you snobbish types were supposed to have manners.  

“You sat down for barely five minutes and then you swanned off with bloody Will Shaxberd.  Will couldn’t write a good rhyme to save his life, and I was trying to tell you that not only had I hosted the queen of England, but that she’d liked me enough not to bankrupt me by overstaying her welcome.  

“I’d pulled myself up out of the mud, climbed my way to the very top.  Was living the best life I could imagine, and you treated it as if it were nothing .   Do you know how much that stung?  If chimneys weren’t good enough and a knighthood wasn’t good enough, what did I have to do to impress you?

“Overthrow the monarchy?  Sacrifice a newborn babe under the light of a full moon?  Dance naked round the fire singing ‘Be Thou My Vision’?

“I swore I wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction of turning up next century, but…”

Hob swallowed painfully, recalling the faded faces of his wife, son and daughter.  Time had erased their features, but not his grief.  No parent should have to bury their child.  He knew that now.  He’d made sure never to knowingly have another one.  Even if they lived until they were ninety and left a plethora of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren behind, it would have been too painful when the time finally came.

“I was desperate to see you by then,” he confessed.  “You were my one absolute.  My one constant.  And I was hungry .  You owed me a meal after abandoning me the previous time and I was desperate to collect.

“And you know what?  For the first time since I met you, you were kind to me.

“You didn’t sneer at my pathetic state.  You were concerned for me.  I saw your eyes when you asked me if I still wished to live.  You were afraid I’d say no.  

“You looked after me.”  Hob had to stop and attempt to swallow the hot, salty lump that had taken up residence in his throat.  He wished he had a hanky now; his eyes were threatening to leak.

“You saw me fed.  You escorted me out and bought me a new coat.  You said you’d see me in a hundred years with such certainty that I knew I’d be alright.  I’d climb my way out of the hole I’d fallen into.  

“You made sure I had good dreams, you big softie, though I didn’t know that then.

“That meeting was the first time I thought of you as a friend.  No, not just thought.  You were a friend to me back then, no matter how much you might have resented that if I’d said it out loud.  You can’t change your actions, my friend.  Yours spoke loud and clear.

“Didn’t start to fancy you until the next meeting though.  1789 was a good look on you.  That ponytail, those stockings.  You looked like you’d painted ash around your bloody eyes, love.”  The endearment slipped out before he could stop it.

“And you flirted with me.  You did ,” he stressed to the accusing silence of the room.

“Don’t get me wrong.  I was flirting with you as well.  I could have throttled Lady Johanna when she interrupted us; I was so sure you were finally about to tell me your name.  But I couldn’t resist playing knight in shining armour when the opportunity arose.  You made such an adorable damsel, love.  Notice how I deliberately took out the guy coming towards you first?  

“I knew you were immortal, like me, but I didn’t know if you’d heal the same way I did if you got shanked.  So, no choice really.  Couldn’t risk a dagger messing up that pretty face.  Except you ended up saving me from Lady Johanna’s knife.  Still, you did look impressed by my heroics, and you gave me the onceover, I saw that, you sly bastard.  You liked what you saw; don’t think I didn’t notice.

“And I swear you almost smiled .  I swear it.

“I thought that meant you might take me up on my offer to continue our night at a different pub.  I was already planning on how to lure you back to my townhouse afterwards.

“Instead you left.”  Hob sighed, slouching further down the throne until his backside was almost completely hanging off it.  “Wish you’d taken your own damn advice, love,” he muttered.  “I wish you’d never got captured.  You see…”  He took a deep breath and screwed his eyes shut.  He needed to keep going.  He had to get it all out.

“I fell in love with you between that meeting and the next.  

“The next time I sailed to Africa, I took a good hard look at the people being rounded up to be forced onto my ship, and they were people .  They were husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters.  And I was trying to strip them of that.  Trying to make them less than human.  And it made me sick.

“I’ll never forgive myself for that.

“I got out.  Like you told me to.  And when I was trying to find a way to make up for what I’d done, in any way, I’d go to church and thank God for you.  For opening my eyes.  You shouldn’t have had to.  I should have seen what I was doing sooner, but you stopped me from continuing to be blind and I loved you for it.

“I didn’t dare tell you in 1889.  Even though you were flirting with me that last time.  Didn’t feel I deserved it.  But you’d taken care of me in 1689 and you’d given me the best advice of my life in 1789, so I thought…

“Well… I thought I’d broach the subject of me being more than just a curiosity.  I was starting to feel too much like an experiment to keep going how we were.”  Hob gave a hollow, mirthless laugh.  “Of course, now I know that’s exactly what I was.  And do you know how shit that is?  To find out you thought the world of someone but they only saw you as a vaguely amusing anecdote to tell their sister about the next time they saw her?

“Between the two of you, I gained immortality, and I’m grateful for that.  But you’ve played with me for five hundred years, and you only ever saw me as something lesser.  Something not worthy of you.  Not fit to stand beside you and call you friend.

“And you know the worst part?”  He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.  Why had he forgotten his blasted hanky?

“The worst part is that I still think I was right.  I think you were lonely.

“Because I’ve been in your bloody shoes now, my friend.  And it’s fucking lonely at the top.

“And I let other people help me.  I lean on them when I need to.  I don’t think… no… I know you didn’t do the same.  You shouldered the whole sorry burden alone.

“And that’s both mighty impressive and the single most idiotic thing I’ve ever come across.  I don’t care if you’re more powerful than a god.  You don’t need to be alone.  You don’t need to carry the responsibility all by yourself.  

“OK, I can’t know someone’s life story just by looking at them.  I can’t knock anyone out with a gust of sand.  I can’t create new Dreams or Nightmares or stop your stupid kingdom from falling apart.  But I can still be there.  For you.  Next to you.  

“Ready to listen or offer a different opinion.  Or just give you a damn hug when you need one.  

“But you’ll never let me do that because friendship is still beneath you.

“We were supposed to meet yesterday.  You were supposed to have shown up and admitted we were friends. 

“But I’ll never know now if you would have turned up.  Even if I see you after all this is over, I’ll never know if you’d have decided on your own, without any extenuating circumstances, that we were friends.

“So, I’m telling you now.  Don’t come back and decide to be my friend out of fucking gratitude.  I deserve better than that.

“But who am I kidding?  You’re going to be downright furious that I’ve ‘dared’ again.  You’re not going to be grateful.

“Well, you can just take your anger and shove it up your arse, because you can’t stop me from caring about you, you emotionally stunted, stubborn, stupid… donkey !  

“That’s right.  You heard me.  I called you a donkey.  And I’m not sorry.

“I love you!  And that’s my right.  That’s my choice .  And you don’t have to choose to love me back.  Just… Please don’t deny that I mean something to you.  Please .”

He had nothing more to say.  No more pleas to make. 

He got off the throne.  

Hob didn’t discern any noticeable difference, but it would have to suffice.  He didn’t know what else he could do.

He couldn’t replace Morpheus as the heart of the Dreaming, so he’d spilled his heart to the Dreaming about its master.  Thoughts he’d never shared with anyone.  Some that he hadn’t even acknowledged to himself before that day.

Wasn’t he supposed to feel lighter?  Unburdened?

Instead he simply felt bone-tired. 

He made his way out of the throne room.  He was going to bully Suadela into running him a hot bath.  He’d done what she’d asked, faced what she’d wanted him to.  She owed him a shoulder rub.

Before he stepped through the massive doorway, he turned, taking one last look at the room.

The coloured glass behind the throne had stopped shifting, finally forming a picture.

On the left was a familiar, pale-skinned, dark-haired figure.  On the right was Hob, not as straight backed as Morpheus, but with a friendly openness about him.  Both of them had one hand reaching into the middle window, to rest on a table displayed there.

They looked happy, Hob thought, before leaving the room.

Chapter Text

Things were going more smoothly in the Dreaming now that Hob had spent some time in the throne room.  Or at least as smoothly as they could with Morpheus away.

The decay had ceased.  Mervyn was practically skipping through the halls, delighted to find that his fixes stayed fixed and some visible improvement could be seen as the result of his hard work.  

Hob was feeling restless.  It was now over a century since he’d last been in the Waking World, and his jaunts in the Dreaming weren’t cutting it anymore.

He still went to council meetings.  He still tended the bar in The Almost White Horse , chatting with whoever popped in.  He still hung out with Gault whenever she had free time.  But he was… not depressed, he told himself, but definitely feeling rather down.

Luke had been busy with some secret project he refused to tell Hob about, but he’d sensed Hob’s mood and was doing his best to lift it.

He insisted on dragging Hob out on long walks around the Dreaming.  He badgered Hob into letting Aeras take them flying, Hob holding tightly onto Aeras’ hand while Luke shrieked and swooped beside them.  

He chased Hob into the pub if he thought Hob had spent too long secluding himself in the observatory and it was quite a sight to see a raven drunkenly jumping up and down on piano keys and bellowing out a surprisingly tuneful rendition of ‘Loch Lomond’.

Still, he really wasn’t in the mood when Luke flew into the observatory to interrupt his gloomy  introspection.  

Lucienne, when it became clear that Hob was going to be here for longer than they had hoped, had started trying to recommend books to him from her library to keep him up to date on developments in the Waking World.  It was an extremely kind and thoughtful gesture, and initially Hob had devoured the stories she lent him.  He’d started creating a list of all the new things he wanted to see and try when he woke up.

But as the decades dragged on, Hob had struggled to keep up.  The real world was developing too fast and, without being there in person to see it, he struggled to comprehend what he was reading.

Now, he flicked casually through his latest library book and wondered what on earth an ‘instagram’ was and would he be expected to have one when he woke up?  Would it even still be a thing when he woke up?

He’d enjoyed going to the pictures when he’d been awake.  And the subsequent invention first of ‘talkies’, then of televisions, man’s own private cinema (who could have imagined it?), and then of video cassettes had delighted him.  Except when he’d tried to ask Fiddler’s Green about how much video cassettes cost, and did Fiddler’s Green have any recommendations as to the best ones, he was informed video cassettes were a thing of the past and had been replaced by ‘DVDs’.  

Hob, who had only just discovered video cassettes, was alarmed at this proof that he was so out-of-touch despite his valiant efforts to keep up-to-date.

So, who knew if instagram was even worth bothering with.  It would probably have been replaced by something else at this rate, and Hob would look like a prize idiot mentioning it.

“Rab.  Ye got a minute?”

“Can it wait?”

“Why?  Ye got somewhere urgent tae be?”  Luke knew he didn’t.  “Cause it looks like yer just sittin’ here mopin’.”

“I’m moping urgently.”

“Nice try.  Ah need tae pop intae the Waking World.”

That got Hob’s undivided attention.

“What for?” He tried not to sound as alarmed as he felt, but his voice was an octave higher than it should have been.

Call him paranoid, but he didn’t like sending Luke out into the Waking World.

The Waking World was what had killed him.

Here, in the Dreaming, where Hob could keep an eye on him, he was safe.  

Lucienne had been the one to help Luke leave the first time, and Hob had been furious.  She’d borne his anger with calm patience and listened with only half an ear while sorting books back onto their proper shelves.

“Luke’s now a raven of the Dreaming.  He’s meant to go between the two worlds.  It’s not up to you to stop him,” she’d informed him when he’d finally run out of steam.

“Why?” he had whined.

“Because Lord Morpheus has always had a raven to be his eyes in the Waking World.  He can see through his raven’s eyes when he needs to.”

“So he can see through Luke’s?”  For some reason, the thought of Morpheus peering out of Luke’s eyes had disturbed him.

“I don’t know,” Lucienne had frowned.  “There is usually only one raven at a time, and Lord Morpheus already has Jessamy.  I had hoped she might have found her way back to the Dreaming, but if Lord Morpheus’ power has been cut off, he might not be able to send her back.”

“Then how has Luke managed to get to the Waking World?” 

Lucienne had given him an unimpressed look over the top of her glasses.  Clearly he had missed something bleeding obvious.

“Luke’s your raven.  He was only able to leave because you told him he could go wherever he wished when he asked.”

“I thought he meant in the Dreaming,” Hob had replied stupidly, brain tripping up over the first part of that revelation.  “Wait!  What do you mean he’s mine?”

Lucienne had sighed and put down her books, foreseeing a trying afternoon ahead of her as she tried to explain dream ravens to Hob.

Hob had left the library with his mind blown.

Who knew Lucienne had once been a raven?  

It was a good thing she had been with him the first time he’d accidentally managed to see through Luke’s eyes.  She had stopped him bashing his head against a bookcase if nothing else.

They’d been in the library having one of their private ‘meetings’ (which was really just an excuse to hang out and chat these days) when Hob had, out of the blue, felt a sudden rush of panic.

He’d stumbled backwards in shock and would have cracked his head against the bookcase behind him if Lucienne hadn’t caught his arm and pulled him forwards.

“What is it?” she had demanded in alarm as he slid to the floor.  His head had been spinning.  Or was it the world?  It had swirled around him and it had been impossible to stay upright as colours had merged together and rushed past him.

When the world had reformed, his stomach had lurched as he realised there was nothing beneath him.  He was soaring through the air and shouts and loud bangs were coming from the ground below him.

For a moment, Hob’s mind had taken him back to the trenches, flashes of his friends screaming and dying around him in the mud.  But the vision had quickly faded when a bullet had narrowly missed him, ruffling his feathers but not connecting.

Down below, he had been able to make out a sprawling country estate and an old man in a wheelchair hollering hysterically and waving his hands wildly up at him as another old man had tried to calm him.  A group of guards (and who had guards these days?) had shot at him.  Not well, it had to be said, but all they needed was a lucky shot.

He had to get away.  Get back to the Dreaming.  Hob would never forgive him if he died again.  He had searched out a rift between the two realms and slid into it, away from the gunfire and back into the Dreaming.

As Luke had shifted back into the Dreaming, Hob had shifted back into his own body with a sickening thud.

When he had felt brave enough to open his eyes, he had found himself flat on his back with his head cushioned in Lucienne’s lap, looking up into her worried eyes.  

“What happened?” she had demanded.  Hob hadn’t been able to speak without risking throwing up on her lap, so he’d just mutely shook his head.

Luke had swooped through the window and landed on the back of a chair, raising a wing to mimic rubbing sheepishly at the back of his head.  

“Sorry, Rab.  Ah think ah accidentally took ye along fer the ride.”

It hadn’t seemed to have surprised Lucienne that Hob could see through Luke’s eyes, but she’d made damned sure that they’d practised after that.  Now Hob could slide into Luke’s mind and keep their two consciousnesses separate, seeing through the raven’s eyes but not mixing up their thoughts.

Hob had also withdrawn his permission for Luke to go into the Waking World whenever he pleased.  He wasn’t being caught out like that again.  He wasn’t losing Luke a second time.  He didn’t care if Luke, Gault and Lucienne thought he was being irrational.  

“It’s nothin’ tae be alarmed aboot Rab.  I jus’ have a wee surprise fer you.  Somethin’ tae cheer ye up.  Stop ye mopin’ aboot up here like the world is endin’.  

“Come on.  Lie doon on the couch, close yer eyes an’ hop in.  Got a treat in store fer ye.”

Luke hopped impatiently up and down on the spot until Hob did as he was bid.  

“Ye warm enough?” the raven checked, attempting to drag the quilt from the back of the chaise longue over Hob.

“Yes, stop fussing and let’s get this over with.”

Luke swooped out of the window and Hob got himself comfortable and closed his eyes.  It had taken a lot of practice to do this consciously, but he could now pinpoint and grasp the tiny fluttery feeling in the back of his mind that was Luke. 

He slipped, much more elegantly than the first time, into the back of Luke’s mind and watched as they soared over London.  

The city had changed so much since he was last there.  It took him an embarrassingly long time to orient himself and he cried out loud back in the Dreaming when he saw the dilapidated form of the White Horse coming sharply into focus as they flew over the river.

It was all boarded up, graffiti scrawled over the boards and Hob could have wept at the desolation surrounding it.

It would have been better if it hadn’t been there at all.  Knocked down and replaced with the flats that were supposed to have been built in its place.  At least that way Hob wouldn’t have had to see his favourite place in the entire world be reduced to a mere shell of its former self.

How was this supposed to cheer him up?

But Luke kept flying.  He swerved round to the right and across a small grassy area and through the open window of a red brick building, landing on a dark wood bar.  He shuffled round, deliberately letting Hob have a good look at the whole room.  Cream patterned wallpaper contrasted with the dark blue carpet.  Old fashioned light fittings, like the type Hob remembered from when he was awake so long ago (though they wouldn’t run off gas anymore), were installed on the walls and the handsome polished bar.

Behind the bar was Fiddler’s Green with a half drunk pint in front of him.

“Is Lord Hob with you, Luke?” 

“Yeah, Rab’s here.”

“Excellent!  I do hope you like it, Lord Hob.  I did try and drum up enough public support to save the old place, but to no avail.”

“Made himself a local hero, he did.  Had a’ the older single ladies poppin’ round wi pies.  Few of the older single lads too,” Luke snickered as Fiddler’s Green turned crimson.

“As I was saying,” he pointedly tried to move the topic along.  “I tried my best.  But when that failed, Luke persuaded me to get in touch with young Luke.  That’s Luke’s Murray’s son,” he elaborated.  Luke’s grandson in all but blood was hardly young anymore, but to Fiddler’s Green even Hob must seem barely grown.  “And with the funds you had given Luke and he’d left to Murray which he’d left to his son, and some more of your own hidden money, we were able to acquire and refurbish this place.

“I do hope we haven’t overstepped.”

Overstepped?  Hob was lost for words.

They’d built him a pub!  A replacement bloody pub, a hop, skip and a jump away from his old one.  A place where, when this was all over, he and Morpheus could meet and have a drink.  Or, well, Hob could at the very least.

His heart felt so full he thought it might burst with gratitude.

How had he ever got so lucky as to know these two?  

“Lord Hob?” Fiddler’s Green looked at Luke anxiously.

“He likes it,” the raven assured.  “Can feel him almost cryin’ wi happiness inside ma heid.  It’s makin’ me want tae greet.  Cut it oot Rab.  Ah got a reputation tae maintain.”

“Oh good!  I’m so glad you like it.  It’s almost done.  We should be open for business in a few weeks.  I, on your behalf, am a silent partner.  Young Luke’s son, young Robert, will run the pub.

“The only important thing left to decide upon is a name.  I was thinking The Chesterton. ”

“How’s that gonnae let Rab’s friend know this is the new White Horse Tavern wi a name like that?” Luke shook his feathered head dismissively.

“Well we can’t very well call it The New White Horse , can we?  What sort of a name is that?”

“A daft one.  Ah telt ye The New Inn is perfect.”

“It’s not exactly subtle,” Fiddler’s Green complained, pulling himself another pint and then dripping some into a shallow bowl for Luke.  

“We’re no aimin’ tae be subtle.”

“How about The Everlasting Man ?  That should be pretty obvious to Lord Morpheus if he manages to make it here before being able to get to the Dreaming.”

“An’ it’ll bring every bloody occultist tae oor doorstep tae have a sniff around!  Name like that, we’ll be beatin’ them off wi sticks.  We want it obvious, but no ‘look over here mister supernatural entity’ obvious.”

Hob thought Luke was right about that.  He had no interest in attracting every occultist and their grandmother into his new sanctuary.

“Rab agrees wi me,” Luke told a put-out Fiddler’s Green smugly.

“But surely they would understand that it’s a literacy reference!”

“Aww, bless ye mate.  Don’t ever change.”

Yeah, Hob agreed silently in the back of Luke’s head.  He hoped neither of them ever changed. 

He slipped out of Luke’s mind and back into his own body, cheeks suspiciously damp.

He threw himself back into work with a renewed hope and he knew the improvement in his mood had been noticed.  

He hummed happily to himself over the next few weeks, delighted with the knowledge that his pub would be opening soon.  Ready to welcome him and Morpheus when everything returned to how it should.

He was in such good spirits that one evening he agreed to a round of cards with Chrome, Martin Tenbones and the twins.  

He had what he thought was a pretty good hand and was trying not to look over-confident when he noticed that the others were frowning at him.

“What?”

“Are you alright?” Chrome asked, peering at Hob through his monocle.  “Only… you’re looking a bit blurry?”

Hob glanced down at his hands and Chrome wasn’t wrong.  He was definitely looking a little fuzzy around the edges.  He poked the crocodile experimentally but he felt solid enough.  

“Lucienne,” Icarus called out to the librarian who was debating something with Mervyn by the bar.  “Something’s wrong with Lord Hob!”

That, of course, got the attention of everyone in the place and soon he was surrounded by an anxious group all talking over each other to offer advice and suggestions.

Lucienne pushed her way to the front.  Hob struggled to make out her features clearly, the entire room was spinning, but he thought she looked a strange mix of hopeful and fearful.

“Lucienne?”  Even to his own ears his voice sounded off.  “What’s happening to me?”

“I think…”

He never found out what she thought.  One second he was squinting, trying to look her in the eyes as his head spun.  The next he found himself flat on his back, looking up at an unfamiliar wooden-beamed ceiling, blinking sleep out of his eyes.

One hundred and six years after he fell asleep in that cold, damp, miserable trench, Hob Gadling woke up.

Chapter Text

The first thing Hob noticed was that his mouth tasted truly foul.  

As in, he thought a rat might have crawled into it, died and decomposed, foul.

The second thing he noticed was the hunger .  That all-encompassing, bellyaching hunger he hadn’t felt since the seventeenth century.

That was all he needed to be sure that he was back in the Waking World.  He had never felt hungry in the Dreaming.  Even when he hadn’t eaten in days, he’d never felt remotely peckish.  Food wasn’t needed to sustain him there, though he had occasionally indulged, out of habit more than anything else.

He tried to turn his head, to see where he was, and whimpered when his stiff muscles objected after so long asleep.  He tried to speak but his voice came out as a hoarse, scratchy whisper and he knew that, above anything else, he had to get a drink of water.

He needed it.  

He could hear it gurgling through the pipes in the walls.  He could smell it.

He forced his head to turn, first to the right and then to the left, until he spied a jug of water on the small, rickety bedside table. 

He lunged for it with some unknown reserve of supernatural strength.  He managed to clasp it in two emaciated hands and brought his head down to gulp like a desperate dog on a hot day.  His hands shook with the effort to tilt it ever so slightly off the table so he could get his head at the right angle to drink.

Long tendrils of brown hair got in his way.

Hob only managed a few, glorious sips before his strength failed him.  He had no choice but to let go of the jug and sag back on to the narrow single bed, panting up at the ceiling after too much exertion.

His head was spinning and all he could really focus on was his thirst and hunger, but a more alert part of him vaguely realised that if he was awake, it must mean Morpheus was free.

Any contemplation of the consequences of that were quickly dismissed.  He had more urgent needs to deal with.  

He was regretting persuading Fiddler’s Green to just leave his body be.  The Dream had wanted to check Hob into a hospital everytime they moved so Hob’s body could receive the best care possible in its sleeping state.  But Hob had vetoed that idea.  He’d felt it was too risky.  There was a chance a doctor or nurse might realise his secret.

And it wasn’t as though he could starve to death.  He had known he’d be in for an unpleasant awakening, but it seemed time had dulled the memory of just how horrific it was to feel his body wasting away.  

And despite forgetting to brush Hob’s teeth, Fiddler’s Green appeared to have done his best.  

Hob smelled pleasantly of fresh soap.  His nails were neatly trimmed.  He was clean shaven.  His muscles, while wasted and stiff, hadn’t atrophied as much as they would have without outside intervention.

All in all, Hob chuckled hoarsely to himself, he would give Fiddler’s Green a ten for effort, even if only an eight for execution.  He took one off for the teeth and another for the hair that seemed to have grown down to his waist.  

Thinking of Fiddler’s Green, the Dream himself  bustled into the room, humming happily to himself, with a basin of water and a sponge in his arms.

He dropped both in shock when he saw Hob with his eyes open looking back at him.

“Lord Hob!  You’re awake at last!  Congratulations!  I take it this means Lord Morpheus has returned?”

Hob tried to speak, but his throat was still too dry.  Fiddler’s Green hurried over and helped him sit up, holding a glass of water to Hob’s lips so he could take slow grateful sips.

Once it was empty and he no longer felt he was dying of thirst (though he was still thirsty, that would take some time to fade) he was able to think more clearly.

“Food.  For pity’s sake, get me some food.”  Admittedly it was only about one thing.

Before he could object, Fiddler’s Green scooped him up in his arms and carried him like a blushing bride out of the room.

Hob recognised the house they were in.  It was the townhouse he’d bought in 1743.  When it had been time to leave it before his neighbours grew suspicious, he’d left instructions for his ‘son’ to inherit it and that ‘son’ had rented it out.  As had his ‘son’ and his ‘grandson’ and so on.

Fiddler’s Green had clearly decided to move back in.  There were distinctly more books than before.  Piles of them everywhere.  A real tripping hazard, though of course Fiddler’s Green nimbly avoided them as he carted Hob down the stairs, into the kitchen and set him gently on a chair.

The kitchen had changed beyond recognition.

Strange metal contraptions cluttered the countertops and they no doubt had their uses, but Hob couldn’t even guess what they might be.  

Fiddler’s Green opened the door of a large white cabinet and cold air blew out of it. The Dream fished inside and pulled out a small bucket-shaped container which looked as if it was made of plastic.  

Plastic containers!  Who would have thought?

Hob watched, amazed, as Fiddler’s Green fished a saucepan out a cupboard and set it on a black glass sheet set into the countertop.  

He emptied the contents of the container - soup, as it turned out - into the pan and pressed randomly on the glass.  It beeped alarmingly.  

“What?” he croaked.

“Oh!” Fiddler’s Green turned, wooden spoon in hand.  “Of course, this is all brand new.  Err… when I moved in, the last tenants complained that everything was very old fashioned.  It wasn’t really the decor they were complaining about, but the appliances.  There was no central heating, you see.  And the electrical system hadn’t been updated in… well… ages.  The electrician I engaged to inspect it was surprised the house hadn’t burned down.  It was terribly unsafe.

“And while I was having the electrics redone, I thought I might as well get central heating installed.  And then I thought, well, it would be nice if you had a modern home to return to.  So you could orient yourself in the twenty-first century from the start.  

“I do hope you don’t mind?”

Hob wasn’t quite up for a laugh, but he managed a delighted wheeze and shook his head.

“What is it?” he gestured at the black glass again.

“It’s an induction hob.  For cooking.  A descendent of the humble stove.  It’s much easier to control the temperature with this than with what you’ll have last used.  It runs on electricity, you know.

“And let’s see, what else?”  Fiddler’s Green gave the soup a stir and took a quick glance around.

“Ah!  Perhaps the most important thing for an Englishman.  This is your new kettle.  It also runs off electricity.  You don’t heat them up on a stove these days.  You simply fill it up.”  He demonstrated.  “Pop it on here and flick the switch.  Tea leaves are not really used at home anymore.  Most people use tea bags.  I hope you like Earl Grey.

“What else is new?”

By the time the soup was ready, Fiddler’s Green had done his best to explain the toaster, the large, always cool pantry (known as the fridge) and a strange device called a ‘microwave’.  Hob didn’t really understand it, but a bowl of soup had been set in front of him and that was all he cared about. 

He practically inhaled it, immensely grateful when Fiddler’s Green immediately dished up seconds.

He had to force himself to stop after that.  Whatever made him immortal made him sturdier than most humans, but even he had to be careful reintroducing food into his system after so long.  

He scraped his bowl clean with his spoon then pushed it away, sighing in satisfaction.

His hair fell into his face again and he brushed it back in annoyance.

“What happened to my hair?”

“Well, I did try my best to keep up with the latest fashions.  But it changed so quickly and it all got so complicated.  In the end, I thought if I trimmed the ends occasionally and just let it grow, you could get it cut however you wanted upon your awakening.  Though it’s not too unusual to see men with long hair like yours these days.  I bought you some little elastic hair thingumajigs you can use to tie it back.  I probably put them in the bathroom 

“But can I just ask, Lord Hob?  Is Lord Morpheus back?  Does he expect me to return immediately?  Only I thought I could possibly stay a bit longer.  Reintroduce you to the Waking World.  A lot has changed.”

Hob was very, very aware of that, and for the first time he felt uneasy about it.  This wasn’t the organic change he was used to.  This was monumental.  

This was… frightening.

“I didn’t see him,” Hob admitted.  “I just woke up.  But if I’ve woken up then he has to be back, right?”

“It’s certainly the most obvious conclusion,” Fiddler’s Green agreed.  “I’ll stay then.  Until summoned.  Help you get back on your feet.”

Hob thought he might cry with relief.  He could face this if he wasn’t alone.  

Words couldn’t express his gratitude, but he reached across the table and tried to convey it with a sincere squeeze of the Dream’s hand.

“Oh, don’t mention it!  I really am happy to do it.  Now sit here, sip your tea and I’ll go and search for those hair ties.  I can explain the new money to you first.  You fell asleep when they were still using shillings, I’m afraid it’s all different now.”

Fiddler’s Green bustled off, and Hob had every intention of following his advice and quietly drinking his tea.  But a cool breeze blew across the back of his neck and he suddenly felt a heavy, ominous presence.

Hob swallowed, throat dry again despite the tea and soup, and considered not turning round.  Or ignoring the problem.  Hoping it went away.   

And yet at the same time he was desperate to look round and see for himself if it was who he thought it was.

“You dare, ” that painfully familiar, quiet, slow voice that he’d been both longing for and dreading spoke up behind him.  “ You dare to presume you can replace me!”

And this was sounding far too much like the argument that ended their last meeting for comfort.

Hob tried to turn, but he was hampered by the chair he was sitting on, and he had to push himself off the table to rise to his feet on trembling legs and shakily turn around.

His Stranger glared at him, blue eyes blazing in vehement anger.

“Morpheus,” he croaked, voice painfully small as he bore the full brunt of his Stranger’s wrath, and it made their last argument look no more than an inconsequential squabble.  

Hatred.  Clawing, damning hatred dug its sharp claws into Hob’s feeble chest and tore at his already wounded heart.

“I did not give you leave to call me by my name, Usurper.”

“It wasn't like that, mate,” Hob pleaded.  “I wasn’t trying to usurp anything.  I…  I was just trying to help you.”

“Help ?”  

Morpheus stalked towards him, and the primal part of Hob’s brain told him now was the time to drop everything and flee.  Not that he’d get very far in his weakened state.  Though Morpheus didn’t look much better.

He was as painfully thin as Hob, with dark shadows marring the skin below his eyes.  

“You dare to presume that a man such as you could help?  Could run my kingdom in my absence?  Defile it!”

Hob blanched.

He had never been deluded enough to think that Morpheus would say ‘thank you’.  Hadn’t even really thought Morpheus would be especially grateful.  But ‘defile’.  That was a bit harsh, wasn’t it? 

“I think that’s taking it a bit far.  Look, I know it wasn’t how you would have done things, but I did my best.”

They were of equal height, but Morpheus somehow managed to loom over Hob, forcing him to cower against the table at his back.  They were practically nose to nose and Hob would have sworn he could feel a cold wind emanating from his most definite not-friend.

“Your best? ” Morpheus sneered.  It was an ugly sneer, intended to demean its recipient.  To make them feel dirty and hollow.  

“I return to my kingdom after over one hundred years of captivity, and what do I find?

“My palace open to all the Dreams and Nightmares who feel like entering.  A common drinking establishment installed within it!  

“One of my Major Arcana missing.  Playing nursemaid in the Waking World.  And the other Major Arcana welcoming me back and offering advice.  Giving me, their king, suggestions.  Daring to argue with me when they disagree.

“And through all this I have to listen to them thank me for sending Lord Hob to them in their hour of need.”

“The title wasn’t deliberate,” Hob blurted out, very well aware that wasn’t Morpheus’ main grievance, but he felt the need to clarify the point all the same.  “It started out as a joke between me and a friend and it got out of hand.”

Morpheus looked like he wanted to drown Hob in the half drunk cup of tea on the table.

“And what was I supposed to say to that?  Was I supposed to reveal that my entire realm was gullible enough to fall for the scheming of my trusted librarian and a human upstart?

“Oh yes, Lucienne was smart enough to admit her part in your little plan the moment she was alone with me.  She shall be appropriately punished.  Even if I find myself unable to do so publicly.”

“Morpheus!” Hob wasn’t ashamed to admit he was begging.  “Please don’t blame her.  She was only trying to keep everything running until you got back.  I’m the one who went along with it.  I’m the one who took charge.  She was your most vocal advocate.  Anything that’s changed in your realm that you don’t like, that’s on me.”

Despite his many protestations to the librarian herself, that when the time came he was throwing her under the bus, it turned out he was more than willing to toss himself under the oncoming wheels.

“So she didn’t agree to let a Nightmare pretend to be a Dream?”

Bloody hell!

He already knew about Gault.  Hob had vainly hoped that the Nightmare turned Dream might have managed to stay unnoticed by her Lord until Morpheus had cooled down.

“Gault didn’t want to be a Nightmare anymore,” Hob whispered, not daring to speak louder. 

“It is not a matter of want.  I created her to be a Nightmare.  She had responsibilities that she should have known better than to abandon.  She was to show dreamers their greatest fears so they might face them.

“It was not for her, or you, to choose otherwise.”

Something inside Hob, possibly his sense of self-preservation, snapped.

Morpheus could insult him.  Tell him what a shit job Hob had done trying to fill his shoes.  But Hob drew the line at Gault.  Hob couldn’t allow Morpheus to even consider doing anything about Gault, or Hob really would have to usurp him.

“Remember in 1789?  You know, when I was a fucking slavetrader .  Remember what you said to me then?”  The little stubborn spark of rebellion that had refused to be extinguished by Morpheus’ fury flared.  “You said the choice to choose how I lived was mine, but would I take that choice away from others?”

“It is not a choice!”

“Bollocks!” Hob roared, surprising both himself and Morpheus, who finally took a step back, shock replacing anger.

“She made the choice to try and give people pleasant dreams when reality had worn them down, and she was good at it!  She changed .  Just because you refuse to, doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t!”

“You dare!”  

The anger had returned but it was now matched by Hob’s own.

“Yes I bloody well dare!  You can go on about me usurping you, but you weren’t there to fucking usurp!  You were gone !  Your realm was crumbling, your subjects were getting ready to flee.

“No!” he barked when he saw Morpheus opening his mouth, ready to rebuke Hob before Hob had even got started.  “You’ve already flung out your accusations.  Now it’s my turn.

“You may not like what Lucienne and I did, but we did it for you !  And yes, we made it up as we went along.  And yes, we’ve made mistakes.  Yes, we made some decisions we didn’t think you’d agree with.  But it’s not like you left a bloody instruction manual, Morpheus!  It’s not like there were any contingency plans on what to do in the event of your unexplained absence! 

“So we did what we could.  We told whatever lies we needed to tell to keep your citizens from deserting.

“We worked our arses off trying to make sure there was a kingdom for you to come back to.  And we did it all knowing that nothing so gracious as a ‘thank you’ would ever cross your lips.  

So, yes, I dare! ”

They were both shaking.  Hob from the adrenaline pumping madly through his body and Morpheus, most likely, from indignation at being told off by a mere human.  Neither was willing to be the first to look away.

“Knock, knock,” came an unsure voice from the open doorway.  “Am I interrupting?”

Fiddler’s Green shuffled self-consciously into the room, clutching a handful of what looked like string circles.  “I found the hair ties.  Turns out I’d put them in the living room for some reason.  

“Anyway, can I just say how wonderful it is to see you, Lord Morpheus.  Words cannot adequately express my pleasure in seeing you returned to us.”

“Thank you, Fiddler’s Green.  But it is time for you to return to the Dreaming.  We have both been away from our duties for too long.”

“Oh!” Fiddler’s Green looked at Hob in surprise.  “I thought I might stick around for a couple of weeks.  Or days,” he amended hastily when he saw the look on Morpheus’ face.  “Only a lot has changed since Lord Hob went to sleep, and it might be hard for him to adjust without a guide.”

“Robert Gadling has always proved himself more than capable of adapting with the times.  He does not need your help.  

“Come.  We must be off.”

And without even a final glance in Hob’s direction, Morpheus and Fiddler’s Green vanished in a swirl of sand that disappeared before it landed on the polished wooden floor.

Hob was left to face this brand new world.  Alone.

Chapter Text

Hob tried to be brave.  He really did.

But he was so out of his depth that all it took was one small mistake and he was drowning.

First, he tried to sleep.  His body was already exhausted from its limited use so far and, despite his fear of what he might find in his dreams now Morpheus was back, he held out hope that he might see Dioka, Aeras, Icarus, Chrome or, hell, any of his friends.  He’d even settle for sullen, unforgiving Abel.

The first problem he encountered was when he tried to make his way back to bed.  The kitchen was in the basement, while his bedroom was on the first floor.  Hob had barely managed to make it to the ground floor before he collapsed, wheezing and unable to contemplate dragging himself up any more stairs.  He hauled himself into the front room and flopped onto the settee, head resting on one armrest and feet dangling over the other.

He drifted off quickly; his mind was in turmoil but his body craved sleep.

He awoke less than two hours later filled with uncontrolled terror, images of his friends exploding in shellfire imprinted onto the inside of his eyelids, Luke’s eyeless corpse cradled in his arms.

He rolled off the settee and lay curled up and shaking on the cold hardwood floor.

He knew no Nightmare had had a hand in this torment.  This was a dream straight out of Hob’s unfettered mind.  There’d been no gentle nightmarish hand to guide him.  Teach him.  

He wished that there had been.  It would have shown that he was not alone.

He clambered pitifully to his feet and staggered downstairs in search of more food.

Except when he got to the kitchen, he realised he had no idea how to cook any of it.  The induction hob was a complete mystery to him and the microwave looked like something out of one of the works of Mr H G Wells.

Packets and packets of food he didn’t recognise or couldn’t cook stuffed the shelves.  Hob felt like Tantalus, unable to reach the fruit hanging from the tree above him or bend down far enough to take a drink of the water below.

He ended up eating cold soup with chunks of dry bread and drinking water straight from the tap.  He devoured three apples from the fruit bowl and wrestled open a plastic packet of oat biscuits, amused by the name ‘Hobnobs’.

Afterwards, he lay on the floor, flat on his back, and willed himself not to throw up all he’d consumed. 

He felt victorious when he managed to climb all the stairs back up to his bedroom with only one hand clutching onto the bannister.  

He could do this, Hob sternly told himself.  Having Fiddler’s Green around would have been lovely, but he could still manage on his own.  The world had changed.  Hob would just have to face it head on.

First things first.  He didn’t think the times had changed so much that it was acceptable to go out in one’s pyjamas.

With a degree of trepidation, he searched through the wardrobe and dresser for some clothes.

While Fiddler’s Green had provided him with a huge assortment of what seemed to be modern undershirts, he couldn’t find an actual shirt for the life of him.  And all his trousers seemed to be made of heavy blue denim and there wasn’t a single pair of Hob’s preferred braces to be found anywhere.  

Even the underwear was different.  So many bright colours and patterns for a piece of clothing most wouldn’t see.  And Hob spent a good ten minutes searching for sock garters before realising that these modern socks weren’t slipping down to sag around his ankles.  

Feeling distinctly underdressed, he reminded himself that all he planned to do was walk out of his front door, just to go down the street and back.  Hardly any time for anyone to notice if his attire was inappropriate.  But a small step towards getting back out into the world.  No need to run before he could walk.

He pocketed the keys Fiddler’s Green had left in the hallway and opened the door.

The noise hit him first.  

London had never been a quiet city but this was a constant roaring racket.  It drowned out the familiar sounds of people yelling and dogs barking.  It was an incessant thrum in the background occasionally interspersed with blaring horns followed by angry voices.

He clutched the railing at the top of his steps, mouth open in astonishment.  

Motor vehicles packed the street.  When Hob had gone to sleep, he’d become used to seeing a few about town, but nothing like this.  They were parked in every inch of space along both sides of the street, and he watched as a mother dragged a little girl back from the road before an oncoming vehicle could collide with her.  The motor vehicle didn’t even slow down, just let out an alarming honk and continued speeding past.

A noise unlike any he’d ever heard before got louder and louder overhead and he looked up to see a giant aircraft glide across the evening sky.  No one else looked up.  No one else noticed.

They were all talking into small rectanglar objects pressed to the side of their heads .

And the clothes the people around him were wearing!  If anything, Hob was overdressed.

He watched, agog, as a young woman tottered down the street on impossibly high heels, skirt barely covering her arse and acres of painfully white flesh on display.  Was she not cold?

A man met her on the corner of the street, bending down to offer her a kiss.  The man wasn’t much better dressed in Hob’s opinion.  An undershirt only, shorts as if he were a schoolboy, silvers hoops implanted all the way up and down the shell of one dark ear and a large tattoo clearly visible stretching up the side of his neck.  

Hob didn’t think he was a prude, or a snob, but they’d both have been arrested for public indecency the last time he was awake.

Panic was beginning to prevail.  Hob stood, completely frozen, unable to take a single step further forward.

He didn’t know this world.

He didn’t belong in this world.

He stumbled backwards, slamming the door shut and sliding down it until he was on his knees, forehead pressed against the wood, hysterical sobs wracking his frame.

He couldn’t do this.  

He didn’t know how.

He spent the next three days lying on his bed, undoing the little work he and Fiddler’s Green had done to build his strength back up.  

What was the point?  He was trapped in this house, unable to navigate the world outside.  What else could he do but lie there and not starve to death?  

Would he accept her gift of oblivion if Death came and offered it to him now?

In the darkest moments he was scared he might.  

Because this wasn’t living.

And yet…

Hob wanted to live.  He wanted to know what it was like to thrive in this brand new London.  He wanted to know what an ‘instagram’ was and if it was still relevant since he’d first tried reading about it. 

He wanted to go and sit in his new pub and try the beer and listen to the busy lives of the people around him.

He didn’t want to die.

He just didn’t know how to live.

Hob was jerked out of his downward spiral by a series of sharp taps on the window.  With great effort, he looked over and saw a familiar raven with a splash of white feathers at either temple.

“Luke!” he croaked, crashing out of bed in his haste to let his friend in.  He didn’t even give Luke the chance to hop inside, instead cradling the only friend he had left in the world in his bony hands and clutching him gratefully to his chest.

“Rab!”  Luke headbutted him softly.  “Rab!  Ye look terrible  Ye need tae eat Rab!”

Hob shook his head.  He didn’t want to leave the safety of this room.  Not when he understood most of the things in here.  If he wanted to eat, he’d have to go to the kitchen and see all the contraptions he didn’t understand and face his inadequacy.

“Yes!” Luke insisted.  “Come on, Rab!  Ye cannae do this tae yersel!”

“How are you here?” Hob ignored him, stroking the warm feathers with gentle fingertips.  “What’s happening in the Dreaming?”

“Ah’m no tellin’ you anything till ye’ve got some food in front of you.  Come on Rab,” Luke cajoled.  “Make a poor bird a cup of tea, get a sandwich intae you an’ ah’ll tell you everything ye want to know.  Ah’m here now, Rab.  We’ll get you through this.”

Luke bullied, badgered, bribed and begged Hob slowly downstairs and into the kitchen.  He pecked spots of mould off the remaining bread as Hob carefully sliced himself some cheddar and made a simple sandwich that he nibbled under his raven’s watchful eye.

“Yer goin’ tae eat a’ that and then get yerself in the shower, Rab.  You stink.

“Yes, mum,” Hob grumbled, forcing himself to take another bite.  A shower?  What had happened to the bath?

“If ah were yer mam, ah’d be tellin’ you no tae invite that friend o’ yours over no more.  Right disagreeable bugger he is.  Ah gave him a piece of ma mind!”

Hob dropped his sandwich in alarm.  “You what?”

“Oh aye!  He comes back, storms awa’ in a huff when he realises things arenae how he left them, an’ then comes back again an’ tells everyone ye need tae be separated frae the Dreaming, fer yer own good .  Tae help with yer reintegration back intae the Waking World.

“Like bein’ cut off frae those ye’ve called friends fer the last century an’ leavin’ you all alone is goin’ tae help!  It’s bloody daft, is what it is!

“Ah told him that.  An’ he looked like he wis tryin’ tae shit oot a hedgehog!”

That was some mental image.

“He started whingin’ on aboot who had given permission fer there to be a new raven, an’ ah telt him it was his own sister who had much better manners than he did.  Honestly!  Ah’m bumped off lookin’ fer the guy an’ he immediately says he has nae use fer me and tae get oot o’ his sight.

“Which wis fine wi me.  Ah went an’ had a good chat wi’ Fiddler’s Green, collected some messages frae a’ yer friends an’ then flew here.”

Hob was feeling a bit faint, and it wasn’t from the hunger.

“What else has he done since he got back?”

“Well, he disbanded the council.  Not that that’s actually done him any good, ‘cause all the Dreams an’ Nightmares still raise their issues wi them and then they try an’ solve them unless they absolutely have to involve the ungrateful git.  An’ he’s in a right strop when he’s around an’ no dashing aboot doin’ god knows what, so no one wants tae bother him if they can help it.  No after what he did tae Lucienne.” 

Hob was really regretting the sandwich. It tasted like ash in his mouth as he remembered Morpheus’ threat to punish the librarian.  

“What did he do?”

Luke’s feathers puffed up in indignation.  “Said the library needed an audit an’ resortin’ an’ then got her an assistant .”

The last word was spat with the same venom most people used for door-to-door salesmen.

Oh!

Poor Lucienne!

Her beloved library.  Her sanctuary.

Torn apart and put back together again by someone else’s hands.  

Hob couldn’t think of a worse punishment for her and he desperately wished he was able to be there for her.  

“Why are you friends wi such a numpty?” Luke grumbled.

“He’s been imprisoned for more than a hundred years, Luke.  That’s going to leave some scars,” Hob chided the raven gently.  Even Morpheus’ damning words couldn’t erode all of Hob’s loyalty.  

Luke sighed and placed an outstretched wing on Hob’s hand, batting it up and down like he was trying to pat it.  “Ah know, Rab.  And ah know he must be hurtin’ and comin’ back tae find everything different must be a shock.  But that disnae make it right, banishing you frae all yer friends.  

“Everyone else is coddlin’ him.  Yer makin’ excuses fer him yersel.  Ah’m no goin’ tae.  Someone needs tae be on yer side Rab, an’ that’s me.”

Hob found it hard to swallow around the awkward lump in his throat and he abandoned his sandwich to clutch Luke to him.  Tears he’d been holding back soaked the raven’s feathers as he allowed the pent-up helplessness to spill from him.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted and Luke wrapped both wings around his neck in an attempt at a hug.

“It’s a’right, Rab.  Everyone’s bin askin’ you whit tae do fer over a century.  Time tae let someone else hold the reins.   

“First thing we’re goin’ tae do is go buy some mair food.  Which means ye need a wash, because no one is gonnae want tae sell you anything when ye smell like that.”

“But money!” Hob protested.  “Fiddler’s Green said the money’s changed, but he didn’t have time to explain it and I don’t know where he put it, or how to access any of my accounts and I can’t-”

Luke cut him off with a wing to the face.

“We’ll deal wi it one step at a time, Rab.  Ye go an’ have a bath, an’ ah’ll go figure oot the money situation.  Ah’m sure Fiddler’s Green can tell me where he left some, an’ there’s a new guy in the Dreaming who I think just might be able to help.”

Chapter Text

There were two ravens waiting for Hob on his bed when he emerged from the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel.  

The raven who wasn’t Luke cawed in alarm.  

“You look skinnier than the boss!”  

“Which is why we need yer help gettin’ him food!” Luke retorted before Hob had time to feel self-conscious.  “Rab, this is Matthew.  He’s the new guy.”

“I thought Morpheus’ raven was called Jessamy?”

Matthew shuffled awkwardly on the bed.  “She died.  The boss doesn’t talk about it.  Didn’t even want another raven, but he had to go back to the Waking World to reclaim his tools and the council weren’t about to let him go without a raven, so I got the job.”

Hob felt an unexpected pang of grief for a raven he’d never known.  If Luke were to die again and leave Hob forever…  Well, he understood Morpheus’ mood a bit better now.

“That’s no important the noo.  Whit’s important is that Matthew here wis human till last week.  He knows this century better than anyone else an’ he’s gonnae help me help you tae figure it oot.  

“Ah’ve snuck him oot fer a wee bit , but if we need tae know somethin’ in the future an’ he cannae be here, ah can gae tae the Dreaming tae ask him an’ then come back an’ tell you.  See, easy-peasy!”

Hob sat down on the bed, sheer, profound relief making his legs numb.

“Thank you!”

“Please don’t,” Matthew begged.  “The boss doesn’t know I’m here and I don’t want to know what he’ll do to me if he finds out.  He goes all still and frowny everytime someone mentions Lord Hob .”

“You don’t have to help if you’ll get into trouble,” Hob felt compelled to offer Matthew a way out, his mind drifting back to Lucienne and her rearranged library.

“No way.  Everyone in the Dreaming seems to think you’re a good guy.  Even that scary cheetah.  Let’s just try and get this over with as quickly as possible so I can be back before he notices.”

It wasn’t that easy.

For one thing, Matthew wouldn’t let Hob attempt to leave the house until he was satisfied that Hob’s clothes were suitable.

He hopped up and down on Hob’s dresser, demanding Hob open each drawer and show him the contents.  They eventually agreed on an undershirt and a pair of heavy denim trousers that Matthew insisted were called jeans now.  But Hob point blank refused to go out in just that.  He still felt practically naked.

“It’s a warm day,” Matthew protested as Hob pulled a grey cardigan from the bottom drawer and put it on.  “And you look like a stuffy old teacher.  Apart from the hair.  You need to tie it back.  Go and get him some hair ties,” he told Luke, who flew off and came back with the pack Fiddler’s Green had left in the kitchen.

Matthew eyed Hob critically once he had tied his hair back and stuffed his feet into some sensible brown leather shoes.

“You’ll do,” he grumbled. 

“Let’s figure oot a haircut next, Rab,” Luke chimed in.  “Ye look like a delinquent.”

Matthew snorted, which was an odd sound coming from a bird.  “Not in that cardigan!”

Following Luke’s instructions, Hob found Fiddler’s Green’s wallet in the room he’d been using supposedly as a bedroom, but in reality as a room for overflow books.  He peered inside, dismayed to find very little cash (and what cash there was was strange and plasticky) but a lot of small rectangular plastic cards.

“Don’t worry,” Matthew told him when he saw Hob’s alarmed face.  “Fiddler’s Green gave me the PIN codes.”

“What?”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!  I keep forgetting how much you don’t know!  Come on; lay it all out and I’ll go through it.”

Matthew wasn’t a very patient teacher, prone to insulting Hob when he felt Hob asked too many pointless questions, but he did manage to explain the basics of the new currency and the purpose of the various cards.

“Ye can do this, Rab,” Luke assured him as the three of them stood at the front door some time later.  He had Luke on one shoulder, Matthew on the other, and Matthew had given him strict instructions to tell anyone who asked that they were Hob’s emotional support ravens.  Which wasn’t far from the truth to be honest.

“And if anyone asks about why you’re nothing but skin and bone, just tell them you’ve got cancer,” Matthew had also advised him.  “That’ll shut them up and it explains why you look so awful.  My cousin had breast cancer and the chemo may have saved her, but it looked like it was destroying her at the time.”

And with no more excuses to make, Hob took a deep breath and stepped through the door and down the steps, into the great wide world. 

Luke had scouted out the way to the nearest shops while Matthew had been dressing him, so whispered directions directly into Hob’s ear, warm feathers pressed reassuringly into his friend’s neck.

Hob thought he would have attracted more attention, walking down the street with two ravens on his shoulders, but of course this was London.  It had seen weirder.

“Don’t stop!” Matthew hissed at him when they got to the store.  “Why have you stopped?”

“The… The doors opened by themselves!”

“It’s automatic!  A camera or sensor or something sees you coming and opens the door.  It’s normal!  Keep moving !”

There was nothing normal about it!  How did the door know he was approaching?  Where was the person who opened the door hiding?  Was it some kind of pulley system underground?  It was extraordinary!  Though a bit of a dull job for the poor sod operating the doors. 

Matthew pecked him sharply on the shoulder when he froze just inside the doorway, but even that could not force Hob to move.

An entire shop filled with all sorts of food imaginable!

When Hob had gone to sleep, his normal shop had consisted of going to several different vendors to purchase different things: meat from the butchers, fruit and vegetables from the greengrocers, etc, etc.  

Never could he have imagined a store where everything was sold in one place!  But here he could buy eggs, milk, apples, a roast joint and a packet of biscuits all in one place.

Extraordinary!

He could even buy wine!

Matthew bullied him to stay on track and stick to the list he’d made on the bird’s instructions before leaving the house.  While Luke, the metaphorical devil on his other shoulder, whispered encouragement to explore, pick things up and take them home to try out.  

Hob was close to dancing with delight when he saw his first pack of disposable tissues.  Hankies you didn’t have to wash. Use once and then discard!  How wasteful!  How clean!  How decadent! 

Matthew insisted he only needed one box, the spoilsport.

It was as he stood in the line to pay, feeling elated with his success so far, that he spotted the newspaper.

It wasn’t the main headline - that was taken up by some politician caught doing something they ought not (which showed some things never change) - but about two thirds of the way down the page, he read:

The World’s Longest Nap: Only Survivor of Sleeping Sickness Wakes Up

Hob dropped his basket. 

The shop assistant, who had been hovering near him ever since he’d told her that he was sick when she’d asked about the ravens, dived out of an aisle to help him.  Hob thanked her in a daze, unable to draw his gaze from the paper.  

How did they know?

How had they found out?  

Who had discovered him.

“Rab.  Rab.  Rab! ” Luke hissed in his ear, more insistently each time as Hob stood, clutching his refilled basket, staring in horror at the newspaper.

Matthew took a more direct approach and bit his ear.  The pain jerked him back to reality and he tightened his grip on his shopping in an effort to stop his hands from shaking.

“Either buy it or move,” Matthew snapped.  “Stop standing about like a weirdo and go .  You’re getting funny looks.”

The clear instruction propelled Hob forwards and he grabbed the paper and moved to the front of the queue.  The lady at the till was looking at him in concern, but fortunately she didn’t speak as she passed all his items across a small piece of glass with a red light emanating from it causing a series of sharp beeps.  

Matthew had made damned sure Hob knew what to do with the small plastic rectangle that apparently contained everyone’s money these days.  He’d made Hob roleplay paying for food with him at home before he would let Hob step one foot out the door.  

So, feeling like this was all completely surreal, Hob tapped the bank card against a chunky plastic box and took the receipt the till lady handed to him, having paid for his shopping without handing over any cash at all.  

And that was it.  

He’d shopped.

He’d purchased food.

He was one step closer to figuring out the modern world.

Cooking the food was another matter entirely.

Matthew, it turned out, had very strict ideas on what could and could not be put in a pasta sauce.  He spent more time lecturing Hob on the perfect spaghetti bolognese than instructing Hob on how to use the wealth of new and confusing kitchen appliances at his disposal. 

Still, between the three of them, Hob managed to cook himself a respectable meal, and he’d only used every pan he possessed and set off that shrill gadget called a smoke detector once.  

It wasn’t until Matthew had left, hoping no one had noticed his extended absence from the Dreaming, and Luke had flown off into the night in search of a barber close by because he said he couldn’t stand to see Hob’s hair like that a moment longer, that Hob felt brave enough to read the newspaper article that had startled him.

It was short.  But most importantly it was not about him .  Unity Kincaid, who at one hundred and eighteen years old was probably the oldest person, barring Hob, alive, had woken up after over one hundred years asleep.

Hob did some quick mental calculations.  

Twelve, she’d have been twelve when she fell asleep.  She’d slept her whole life away.  And unlike Hob she didn’t have the chance to make up for it.  She didn’t have another century to spare.  She had maybe a few years at most.  No time at all to live the life she should have had.

Hob sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by chaos and dirty dishes, and spent a moment in quiet reflection, feeling grateful for the opportunities he still had that this poor woman did not.

How was she adapting to this new world, he wondered.

He hoped she had help.  

He hoped, wherever she was, people were being kind to her.

She’d have woken up to discover she’d lost everyone.  All her friends and family would be long dead.  At least Hob had Luke.  At least he still had friends, even if he couldn’t get to them right now.

He wished there was some way to reach out to her.  Let her know she wasn’t alone.  But there was no mention of where she was in the article.  Just a brief sentence saying that her family’s solicitor was looking after her affairs.

Hob crawled into bed that night, for once feeling the good kind of exhausted.  He drifted off easily, and even though he was awoken a few hours later, his unguided mind making him relive all the detailed horrors of the war he’d spent a century avoiding thinking about, he knew he’d make it through this.

Luke was nesting on the pillow next to him, soft feathered body easily shifting to press against Hob’s face until his galloping heart slowed to a trot, and he had Hob’s back.  

That alone was enough to let Hob know everything was going to be alright.

Chapter Text

A much neater Hob sat sipping a pint in The New Inn a couple of weeks after Luke had flown back into his life.

The difference between Hob then and Hob now was like comparing his 1689 self to his 1789 one.   His hair was clean and clipped into the short style he’d worn when he’d last been awake - a bit of familiarity didn’t hurt and he was already eying up how men his apparent age wore their hair for his next haircut. He was freshly bathed, he was clean shaven, and most importantly, he didn’t look like a strong breeze would blow him away.

He also didn’t flinch or gawk at every new thing that crossed his path.

He wouldn’t say he was comfortable with the world he’d woken up to, but he was managing his reactions a lot better.

It was all down to Luke.  

Every day Hob woke up, sweaty and disoriented, convinced he was back at the Front, but Luke was there, talking to him softly in his soothing Scottish patter until Hob calmed down and remembered where he was.

Then Luke would inform him of their schedule.

One new experience a day.  That was Luke’s solution.

And he did his research.

The morning after Matthew’s first visit, Luke had flown back to the nearest barber shop, perched outside and watched for two whole hours as customers came and went.

He’d returned to find Hob carefully attempting to fry bacon for a breakfast sandwich and proceeded to debrief him on all that he had witnessed.  Then he’d convinced Hob to lie down and take a jaunt outside using Luke’s eyes so Hob could see for himself the interaction between barber and customer.

They had rehearsed over lunch what Hob was to say.  What answers he might give if asked any awkward questions, and what small talk he was comfortable making.  Then, with a 1915 photo of himself in his army uniform placed securely in his pocket, Hob had bravely traversed the busy London streets once more, with Luke on his shoulder nattering in his ear the entire way.

They’d been lucky.  The barber had had a cancellation and was able to fit Hob in there and then.  When asked what he wanted, all Hob had to do was show the picture he’d brought of his ‘great-grandfather’, and let the barber get to work.

Luke had sat quietly on the chair next to him, his presence accepted when Hob had explained that he’d been in a coma since he was young (a car accident) and that Luke helped him with his anxiety when dealing with a much changed world.

It was closer to the truth than what Matthew had come up with, and it allowed Hob to be clueless about current day culture.  The barber had clearly been dying to know more, but had been professional enough to realise that prying might cost him a potential repeat customer.

Most of the conversation had been taken up by the startling family resemblance between him and his great-grandfather, which Hob had dutifully marvelled at.

That evening, flushed with success, Luke had made Hob start writing a list of everything he wanted to discover.  Luke took charge of the list.  Each morning he briefed Hob on what they’d be doing that day and what research Luke had already done, either by flying all over London and observing, or by nipping back to the Dreaming to ask either Fiddler’s Green or Matthew.

It had been a relief not to have to make those decisions.  To have someone else tell him what was what.  To give up control, to trust Luke to get them through this.

Each day had been something new, and then later in the evenings he and Luke would curl up on the sofa and watch the television Matthew had popped in to show them how to operate.

The nature programmes were Luke’s favourite.  Meanwhile, Hob had developed an obsession with a show called Call the Midwife .  Luke poked fun at him for it, but if Sister Bernadette didn’t find a way to be with Dr Turner, Hob was going to have to write a stern letter to the BBC.  

At Matthew’s suggestion, they’d spent one night watching a history documentary on the Second World War.  Hob hadn’t got any sleep that night, wondering where humanity had gone so wrong as to have a second bloody global war.  One that resulted in genocide and atom bombs.

Luke had allowed Hob to binge his way through four episodes of Call the Midwife that night without complaint, unable to sleep either.

“Annie’s dad wis Jewish,” he’d told Hob as the credits rolled after one episode.  “She had family in Poland.  Nane o’ them made it oot. Ah knew whit had happened over there, but seein’ it on screen like that…”  

No more needed to be said.

The day after the horrific documentary, Luke had navigated them by bus to Westminster Abbey.  There they had stood, in front of the grave of the Unknown Warrior, and they’d mourned.  Mourned for the men they had known, cared for and fought with in the trenches.  The ones who had never made it home.  The ones whose bodies Luke had tried desperately to collect.

Jimmy, Tom, Wilfred, Charlie, Edmund, Paul…  The list went on.

And then they mourned for the countless others they hadn’t known but who had died in the war that followed.  

After they’d returned home, Luke had invited Matthew round.  The other raven had first instructed Hob on how to order a Chinese takeaway and then informed the two morose creatures in front of him that a day like theirs called for a bottle of wine and a feel-good movie.

Matthew had chosen The Princess Brid e.  Luke and Hob had watched it three times since.

But today was Sunday.  A day of rest.  And Luke and Hob had mutually agreed that they should tackle nothing taxing today.

It was a gloriously sunny day. Hob no longer looked like a skeleton, The New Inn had been open for over a week and he was keen to try out his new pub.

It was only a ten minute walk away and while Hob still didn’t know how his bank card worked, he knew how to use it, so it was a relaxing afternoon.  He and Luke sat outside, enjoying the view of the river and the Sunday passers-by.

He had his eyes closed and was basking in the sunshine when a shadow moved over him, blocking out the warmth.  He opened his eyes in irritation and almost fell off his chair when he met the weary eyes of Morpheus.

The Lord of Dreams and King of Nightmares stood silently before him, looking healthier than when they’d last met, some meat now clinging to his bones.

Still too thin.  Still too pale, though.

Hob opened his mouth to say… 

He didn’t know.  He wasn’t sure he had anything to say.  Not after their last conversation.

At least, nothing he wanted to say until he understood what kind of mood Morpheus was in.

This was supposed to have been a pleasant and relaxing afternoon.  A reward for all his hard work this week.  

In the end, it was Morpheus who broke the silence.

“May I join you?”

Hob froze.  He wasn’t at all sure whether he wanted to say a desperate ‘yes’ or ‘bugger off’.

Luke saved him once again, flying from the back of the chair he was perched on up to Hob’s shoulder, the two of them against the Endless standing stiffly before them.

“Depends,” Luke cawed.  “Ye gonnae yell at us?  Or ye actually here tae talk?”

Morpheus frowned at the bird.

“You chose to become part of my realm upon your death and yet you are determined to challenge me.  I am your king.”

“Naw,” Luke dismissed Morpheus’ statement with a wave of his wing.  Hob wanted to tell him to stop.  Not to risk Morpheus’ wrath.  Not to do anything that might mean Morpheus took him from Hob.  But he was rooted to his seat.  A silent, terrified observer.

“Ah didnae choose tae be part o’ your realm,” Luke continued, either unaware or uncaring of the potential danger he was placing himself in.  “Ah chose tae carry oan helpin’ ma mate.  Ah chose Rab, no you.  Nothin’ against ye at the time, ye understan’, but ah didnae know you frae Adam.  

“Ah thought, well, ah’m no ready to see if the pearly gates will let me in just yet, an’ Rab could probably do wi some more support, bein’ trapped asleep as he wis.  He’ll be so upset wi me bein’ murdered lookin’ fer his friend, ah thought.  An’ ah do hate tae upset him.  So when yer sister offert me the chance tae stay wi him, ah took it. 

“After a’, he wis like a faither tae me.  He taught me tae be a guid man, more than ma own ever could.  An’ someone had to hae his back.  So ah chose him.  Afraid you didnae even factor intae it.”

Morpheus was pulling the exact same face he had in 1689, when Hob had told him death was a mug’s game and he still had so much to live for.  A kind of baffled wonder.

It wasn’t an angry face and Hob felt the terror coursing through his veins lessen.  Maybe they were going to get away with this.

“You do realise I could unmake you?  Send you back into the Darkness.”

Hob dislodged Luke from his shoulder and was cradling him in his arms in an instant, as though he could shield Luke from harm with his own body.

“Don’t,” he croaked.  Pleading.

Morpheus stepped back, startled, seeming to have forgotten Hob was there.  Hob could see him taking them both in.  The way Hob’s fingers clutched tightly onto Luke’s feathers and the way Luke did nothing to loosen them.

Grief welled in the depth of those blue eyes.   

“He will come to no harm from me.  You have my word.”  

It was enough to relax Hob’s grip by a smidgen.

“I wish for us to talk, Hob Gadling.  If you would allow it.  

“The past two times we met…  I expressed sentiments that I now regret.”

Hob nodded cautiously, that persistent spark of hope, the one that had existed within him all his long life, flaring brightly.

Luke coughed, drawing both of their attention back to him.

“Ye want me tae stick aroond, Rab?  Or wid ye prefer me tae mak maself scarce fer an hour?”

Hob’s first instinct was to say no.  Luke had never once left his side outside of the house.  But it was Morpheus before him.  His Stranger meeting him at last, and these meetings had always meant to be just for the two of them.

“You’ll be back in an hour?” he checked.

“Aye.  Ah’ll just be roond the back.  See if ah can convince Rab Junior tae toss some chips ma way.”

He wriggled out of Hob’s arms and flew off.

Morpheus sat down and they eyed each other warily.  Hob didn’t know what to say.  He didn’t know what to feel.  

“You are quieter than I have ever seen you before, ” Morpheus observed.

“What did you expect?” Hob snapped, settling on the bitterness he felt over Morpheus’ accusations the last time they’d spoken.  It was easier than the joy.  Than the longing to go back to how things once were.  “At our last proper meeting, you spat on my offer of friendship.  And the last time we saw each other, you deliberately chose to be cruel.”

Morpheus visibly flinched.

“I did not mean- ” he began, but Hob wasn’t having any of it.

“You did.”  He picked up his pint and made a show of taking a long drink, waiting to see if Morpheus would insist on denying his heartless behaviour, or let Hob speak.

“I don’t know what happened to you when you were gone,” Hob admitted, and he could see Morpheus withdrawing into himself, building up walls.  It almost made Hob desist, but that stinging barb of hurt nestling in his breast kept him going.  

“But to keep you away from your kingdom all that time…  It must have been awful.  And then you came back to find that I’d been living in your house, messing up your furniture, moving everything around, and you lashed out.  And you did it in the most hurtful way you knew how.

“You knew I’d been asleep for over a hundred years.  You knew I didn’t know anything about the world as it is now and you deliberately tried to cut me off from anyone who could help.

“You sent Fiddler’s Green away - the one person I trusted to keep my body safe in the Waking World.  And you cut me off from all my friends in your realm.  So I couldn’t even find any comfort in my sleep.

“How is that not cruel?”

To Morpheus’ credit, he refused to look away from Hob’s reproachful glare.

“You are right. ” he admitted with a small dip of his head.  “ I was harsh.

“I was angry at humanity, for what they had managed to do to me.  And I was angry that my kingdom was so different to how I remembered it.  To how I’d dreamed of it.

“And to realise that a human, even one I’d known as long as you, had been ruling it, changing how things were done…  

“You changed so much. ”  And there was definitely a hint of accusation there.  Morpheus clearly wasn’t willing to forget their last conversation either.

“What was I supposed to do?” Hob demanded.  “I was trapped in your realm.  I couldn’t let it fall apart.  Should I have stood by and let your subjects panic and flee?  Let your realm crumble into sand?”

“They gave up on me so easily, ” Morpheus protested.  “ Not even one year gone and Lucienne coaxed you into her preposterous scheme for fear they would all abandon their duties.  How little I meant to them in the end.”

“You meant the world to them!” Hob countered stoutly, refusing to allow Morpheus to wallow in self-pity.  “It was fear of your absence that almost drove them away.  All they needed was a reason to stay.  

“You may not like what I did, but my presence gave them hope that you’d return.  In the end, they stayed out of love.  For you!  Their lord and master.  Their king.”

Morpheus wore an unpleasant sneer.  “ A king who is no longer needed to rule his realm.  Your council has seen to that.”

Hob, abandoning all restraint and all common sense, threw the dregs of his beer in the startled Dream Lord’s face.  

“You…  You…  You don’t know how to be grateful for anything,” he hissed, taking great satisfaction in watching the amber liquid drip off Morpheus’ nose to land in a small puddle collecting on the table.  “You’re so proud, so arrogant that you see any hint of help as a hindrance.  Or a weakness.

“They're not there to replace you!  They’re there because not a single one of us could do what you do.  If you really insist on sulking, just remember that it took ten of us to do what you did single-handedly.  And we only partially succeeded”

Hob couldn't help but snort as Morpheus visibly brightened.  He fished in his pocket for one of the new disposable paper tissues he was still so delighted by, and handed it to Morpheus to clean his face.

“Is it really so bad,” Hob asked, taking advantage of Morpheus’ preoccupation with wiping beer off his face, “to know that you created beings so intelligent, so loyal, that they can band together and keep things going in your absence?  Doesn’t that speak of your skill as a creator.”

Hob had known Morpheus for over six hundred years, and Morpheus might know infinitely more about him than he did about the Dream Lord, but he knew what how vain Morpheus could be.

At their every meeting, his Stranger had always been immaculately dressed.  Fastidiously keeping up with the latest popular style.  Always expensive looking.  Even now, a century out of touch with the Waking World, he wore what even Hob, with his very limited knowledge of the latest trends, knew was a well-tailored and expensive coat.  

Appealing to his vanity certainly seemed to do the trick.  His lips curved upwards in a small, pleased smile.

“You are correct.  I had not thought to look at it that way.  Still…  Now that I have returned, there will have to be changes.”

“Just don’t forget that they can help,” Hob tried to caution.  “No man should have to do everything alone.”

“I am no man, Hob Gadling.  I am Endless.”

“Yeah, I know.  Lucienne explained it to me.  But the same rule applies, Morpheus.”

“I wish it had been I who had given you my name.”

Hob’s breath caught in his throat.

“I had much time to think while I was away.  To reflect on many regrets.  

“Our meeting in 1889 was one of them.  You were right but I refused to see it.  I was lonely.  I enjoyed your companionship.

“I would like us to be… friends.”

“Of course we’re friends,” Hob huffed, a broad smile breaking out across his face.  “I don’t cover for just anyone when they’re late for work!”

Chapter Text

Before Hob and Morpheus had parted after their long overdue catch up, Hob had sternly instructed Morpheus not to leave it so long before popping by in future.

Still, he hadn’t expected the Dream Lord to show up on his doorstep only a day later.

Hob had been having a lazy day.  He’d slept in late, having had his first restful night’s sleep since he’d returned to his world.

It had started off as usual.  He’d been cowering in a trench as the ground exploded around him, the screams and dying cries of his friends filling his ears. 

He’d been curled in a ball, praying to a god that after six hundred years he still wasn’t sure he believed in, when a gentle hand had clasped his shoulder.

He’d looked up into Gault’s concerned eyes and the entire blood-soaked scene had melted away and they were in the lush green meadows of the Dreaming.  

“Gault!” he had launched himself upwards and into her open arms.  He had buried his face in her shoulder, squeezing her tight.  And then he had sobbed.

He couldn’t help it.  

It had been so good to see her again and yet seeing her brought with it the stark realisation of everything he’d lost by waking up.

“You are alright?” she had checked, hands patting up and down his sides as though checking for injury.  “I have been trying to find your dreams since you disappeared, but Lord Morpheus put you out of my reach.  I couldn’t find you!   And then you suddenly appeared in my mind tonight and you were so scared!”

“I’m fine,” he had cried harder into her shoulder.  “I missed you so much!”

“I missed you too!  We all have!  Dioka and I were one sleep away from confronting Lord Morpheus.  Suadela has been wearing your form in protest all week.”

Eventually, they had managed to part, both wiping their damp eyes on their arms.  Hob had been so relieved to see that Gault still had her gorgeous wings.

Morpheus hadn’t forced her to turn back into a Nightmare.  Hadn’t undone the best thing Hob had ever done as Regent.  

“He was furious,” Gault had told him softly, when she realised what he’d been staring at so intently.  “He accused me of abandoning my duty.  That I’d made a choice that wasn’t mine to make.  Gone against how I was created.

“I thought he might unmake me there and then, but Dioka stepped forward.  She stood up for me.  Dioka!  That shocked even him and he stormed off in a temper.  

“And when he came back, I thought…. I thought that that might be it.  But all he said was that it was not up to anyone else, not even him, to choose how I lived, but that I’d better prove myself capable of the choices I’d made.”

She had sounded worried.

“You will,” Hob had sworn, clutching her hand tightly.  “You are the best Dream I’ve ever had!  You are magnificent, Gault.  And I’m so glad to have you here.”

She’d squeezed his hand in thanks.  “And you?  How are you?  Luke has been doing his best to keep me updated, but I couldn’t help worrying about you.”

And Hob had been unable to burden her with the hopelessness and loneliness he’d been feeling.  The anxiety that had simmered beneath the surface with every step outside the safety of his home.  Instead he told her of all the new discoveries he had made.  The new inventions of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries that astounded him.

As he had spoken of the wonder of fridges, tupperware and microwaves, he could almost believe that he was thriving.

By the time he had woken up, it had been almost lunchtime and Luke had decided that the only new thing they were going to achieve that day was research into the latest news rocking the country.  All it required from him was a quick visit to the shop to buy one of each newspaper and a packet of biscuits.  

They’d spent the afternoon trying to understand the common news stories in each paper, and writing out a list of questions for Matthew about all the things they didn't understand.

Russia seemed to be causing trouble, which surprised Hob.  When he’d fallen asleep in 1916, the Russians had been their allies, what with King George and Tsar Nicholas being so close.  Now there didn’t seem to be a tsar anymore, at least none mentioned.  Though it did sound as if this Putin character had taken on the powers of a tsar.

And the British had left something called the European Union, and were facing the consequences.  Who was to blame for this depended on which newspaper Hob read.  But regardless of whose fault it was, the economy was in bad shape.  

And there had been another plague.  

Fantastic!

Hob had been glad to clear the papers away and attempt to make a Rogan Josh.  He’d first eaten curry in the 1770s and he’d been unable to resist an Indian cookbook he’d spotted on special offer in the window of a small bookshop a few streets away from him.  Apparently the author lived close by.

Luke was not a fan of spicy food and had flown back to the Dreaming to badger poor Matthew with an endless list of questions about ‘Covid’ and ‘Brexit’.

Hob had been able to enjoy his curry in peace, but had been startled when the doorbell rang.

No one ever rang the doorbell.  

Who would?

The only mail Hob ever received was bills, so the postie had never once rung to drop off a parcel.  

He knew no one.  He had no friends here apart from Luke.  So who would be ringing at his door?

He had not expected Morpheus who swept in the moment Hob cautiously opened the door.  

“Do you have a television? ” he asked, in lieu of hello.

“Err…  Yeah.  Why?”  Hob quickly closed the door, watching as Morpheus looked curiously around his hallway.

“My sister has suggested a film I should watch.  I require a television set to do so.”

“Oh,” Hob didn’t really know what else to say.  “Sure.  What’s the film?”

Morpheus reached into his elegantly tailored coat and pulled out a slim plastic box with a picture of a smiling woman on the front.

“Mary Poppins.”

There was not much Hob could say to that, so he gestured Morpheus through to the living room and tried to remember how to work the DVD player. Morpheus was no help.  He sat stiffly on the sofa and watched as Hob cursed at the various boxes connected to his television.

Watching a movie with the Dream Lord was certainly an experience.

He sat, straight as a poker, unblinking as he stared at the screen in front of him.  His face gave away nothing of his thoughts.  Hob curled up at the other end of the sofa, trying to concentrate on the movie and not on the way his foot kept slipping further down the seat cushion until it rested lightly against his companion’s thigh.

Hob’s first instinct was to draw it back quickly, lest Morpheus be offended by him daring to enter his personal space.  But that would draw attention to what he’d done, and his friend (friend!) hadn’t reacted to it so far.

His foot soon went stiff with the effort of keeping it exactly where it was, not pressing further into Morpheus’ firm thigh, but not drawing it away either and thus exposing its presence in the first place.

He was so focused on his foot that he missed most of what the movie was about.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Morpheus’ hand wrapped casually around his ankle while the magical nanny on screen sang about feeding the birds.  He looked over to his friend, but Morpheus was still staring straight at the screen and Hob forced himself to relax.  To enjoy the hint of warmth encasing his ankle.

“So,” he cleared his throat as the final strains of ‘Let’s Go Fly a Kite’ echoed around his living room.  “What did you think?”  The thumb of the hand on his ankle was now absentmindedly stroking along his heel and Hob was cursing the film for ending.

“Sentimental poppycock ,” Morpheus complained with an unimpressed sneer.  “ I do not understand why my sister recommended I watch it.  The books were far superior.”

Of course he'd read the books.

“I thought the songs were catchy,” Hob offered, ever determined to see the bright side in new experiences.  “And I liked how in the end  the father saw what a mistake it’d been to ignore his children.  They do grow up so fast.  Blink and you’ll miss it.”

Hob had blinked and Robyn had been gone.

Morpheus’ thumb paused halfway through its broad sweep.  

“Indeed, ” he agreed, voice barely audible.

Hob was reluctant for the evening to end, and he felt that the moment he turned off the  television it would.  So he did the only thing he could think of and queued up the next episode of Call the Midwife .

“Hope you don’t mind,” he told Morpheus.  “I try to watch at least one episode a night.”

Morpheus didn’t comment, but he didn’t move either and his thumb continued that slow comforting sweep.

In hindsight, perhaps Call the Midwife was a mistake.  There was at least one point in every episode that had Hob welling up.  

At least the BBC would be spared his angry letter he thought, as they watched Dr Turner chase down Sister Bernadette in the fog to declare his love for her.

“He doesn’t even know her name, ” Morpheus complained beside him.  “ How can he claim to feel so much for her when he doesn’t even know her real name?”

“So what,” Hob snapped defensively, unwilling to hear the Dream Lord slight his favourite show.  “I didn’t know your name for over five hundred years.”

They both froze at that declaration and Hob wished instantly that he could take it back, certain he’d gone too far.  But Morpheus quickly relaxed back into the couch and resumed staring at the television as if nothing had happened.

They watched as Chummy was rushed to hospital, the fate of her and her baby cruelly drawn out.  Hob tried to wipe his eyes surreptitiously on his sleeve, unable to block out that final memory of Eleanor, alive, scared and bleeding profusely, begging Hob to save her and their baby.  

His whole frame trembled as he attempted to prevent his tears from falling.  His nose from running.  As he tried to swallow that painful, hot lump that had taken up residence in his throat.

He was unable to prevent a desperate sniff and the television abruptly cut off as Morpheus shifted in his seat to face Hob properly and thrust a fistful of paper tissues at him.

“Sorry,” Hob apologised, mopping his leaking face.  

“Why watch this programme if it upsets you so much?”

“I didn’t know it was going to upset me,” Hob protested.  

The Dream Lord did not look convinced.  

“Look, the sad bits are sad.  But the happy bits are joyous.  And that’s life.  There are good times and bad.  Times when you can’t see how anything is going to be OK ever again, and then that moment down the line when you realise you’ve kept moving forwards and made it out the other side.  The bad bits are still bad, but they make the good moments sweeter.  And as time goes on, you still think about the sad moments, but the sting isn’t there anymore.  

“I still ache when I think about Eleanor, Robyn and the baby.  That will never go away.  But I can laugh now, when I remember the happy times we shared together.

“If I’ve learnt anything over the last six hundred years, it’s that when I’m at my lowest, I know it won’t be forever.  I’ll see something, a new invention, a patch of particularly beautiful flowers, a child smiling at me, and that will fill me with joy.  And that gives me the strength I need to pick myself up, brush myself off and build myself back up again.

“You never cease to amaze me, Hob Gadling.”

Hob felt his face heat with embarrassment.  The Dream Lord was gazing directly into his eyes and giving him that small, genuine smile that Hob liked to tell himself was just for him.  

“Though ,” Morpheus turned to frown at the television.  “ I still feel it would be best if we desist with this distressing television show.”

“Nah, we’ve got to know how it ends.  Otherwise how am I supposed to sleep tonight?”

“You shall sleep well and long, for I shall ensure it.”

Hob’s face was never going to return to its normal colour.  It was going to be stuck permanently pillar box red.

“Aww, thanks.”

“After all, it will take you a full night's rest to move the tavern you created out of my palace.”

“But your citizens love it!” Hob protested.

“Hence why they may keep it.  But not in my palace.”

“But it was so handy.  They could just stop by informally and I’d get to find out about any issues before they became issues!”

“And you and that infernal council still can.  In the inn’s new location outside the palace.  Then you can bring any concerns to me.  Officially.”

Hob opened his mouth to object to the pointless layer of bureaucracy Morpheus was adding, but was stopped when his friend held up a hand to silence him.

“That is the only compromise I am willing to make.  I am their king, Hob.  Not their friend.  And having my creations roam as they will inside my stronghold undermines my authority.  

“Out of respect for the hard work and sacrifices you and your council made, I am willing to allow some of what you've been doing to continue.  But do not push me too far, lest I take it all away.”

Hob, wisely, shut his mouth and Morpheus stood up to leave.

“We should do this again,” Hob blurted out, before he could overthink his invitation.

“Matthew gave Luke and me a whole list of films we had to see.  And I think you’d like our favourite.  You should come back and watch it with us.”

“I think I would enjoy that.  Sleep well, my friend.”

And that night, Hob dreamed of walking along the banks of a river.  He stopped at a particularly pleasing spot and, pulling brick after brick from the river, with many enthusiastic hands to help him, he built.  

A familiar structure rose before him, and as he shook off the haze of the dream and found himself consciously in the Dreaming, he realised an exact replica of the Tavern of the White Horse stood before him. 

Mervyn slapped him companionably on the shoulder as Gault leaned wearily against him.

“No time for rest,” the pumpkin complained.  “We need to move all the furniture from the palace to the inn as quickly as possible.  Before Lord Morpheus changes his mind.”

“At least it’s not far,” purred Dioka, complacent in the knowledge that, as a creature with no opposable thumbs, she’d land the more satisfying task of supervising the heavy lifting.  

Hob looked behind him, across the river that he now realised was the moat surrounding Morpheus’ palace.  

Across the moat, a tall, thin, familiar silhouette could be made out through a window set high in the castle walls.

Hob raised an arm in greeting, smiling as his friend waved back.

Chapter Text

Hob was never leaving his bed again.  He was going to lie here until the universe took its last, gurgling breath and then lie here some more.

A potent combination of fear, panic and mortification was paralysing him.

How could he have thought that he was ready to interact with the public?  How could he have thought he was ready to interact with the world without Luke on his shoulder?

He should have stayed inside today.  The moment he had urged Luke to take a day off.  So his friend could fly over to his honorary great-grandson’s house to peep in at the newest addition to the family - a beautiful baby girl called Elizabeth - Hob should have just curled up in front of the television and watched The Lord of the Rings .  

Instead he’d gone out.  

He’d decided to sit inside The New Inn and order lunch.  He’d been perfectly happy nibbling on chips and reading the first Harry Potter book - Matthew had insisted it was a cultural phenomenon - when someone had politely asked if they could join him.

The man was tall with warm green eyes and a head of soft brown curls.  He had been wearing a tight blue polo shirt that did nothing to hide well-defined muscles from Hob’s appreciative gaze, and his easy smile persuaded Hob to agree without thinking.

“Jon Walters,” he’d held out a tanned hand for Hob to shake.

“Robert Golding, but most people call me Rob,” Hob introduced himself.  He’d been able to discern his current alias from the latest of several fake birth certificates that Fiddler’s Green had arranged for him.  It had amused him no end to see from the certificate that his father was one Gilbert Golding and his mother was a Dioka Golding née Chesterton.  He himself was officially one Robert Chesterton Golding.

At first it had been easy.

Jon had done almost all the talking.  Easily chatting away and going off on tangents that Hob mostly understood and those he did not he was able to just nod along to.  All it had taken was a few questions from Hob and Jon had been willing to spill his life story.

Hob merely had to look interested, smile and continue to eat chips, while mentally making a note of all the references he would need Matthew to explain when the bird next came to visit.

There had been an awkward moment when Jon had asked Hob if he had Facebook or Twitter, but Matthew had already warned Hob of what to say in that scenario and accepted that Hob wasn’t a fan of social media.  He’d willingly agreed that it could be all consuming and intrusive, and really, who needed it anyway.  Despite having attempted to add Hob on to it not two minutes before.

Then he’d asked for Hob’s number and Hob had suddenly realised he was being flirted with.  Jon was interested in him.

That had sent an illicit thrill up his spine.  It had been so long since he’d done this.  Felt out a man in a bar.  Talked carefully round in circles to make sure they were both on the same page.  That no misunderstanding had occurred.  That the other man wasn’t a Bobby in plain clothes attempting to lure him into an inadvertent confession.

Of course, Hob didn’t have his phone on him.  Matthew hadn’t got round to explaining how to work the small  rectangular gadget he’d instructed Hob to buy and all Hob could do was switch it on and off.  He didn’t even know what his phone number was, let alone how to call someone on it.

“Err… I’m afraid I dropped it down the toilet.  Saving up for a replacement,” had been Hob’s stammered and embarrassed excuse.  “But I come here for lunch every few days,” he’d added hastily when Jon’s face had fallen.  “If you ever fancied joining me, we could meet up then.  Should have a new phone soon.  He had promised himself there and then that he was going to get Matthew to teach him how to work that damned contraption.

Even if this gentle flirtation with Jon went nowhere, Hob could do with another friend.  Especially one who resided in this world and had opposable thumbs.

Jon had smiled and ordered them both another pint and had asked Hob how he’d survived lockdown.  It turned out Jon could now make a pretty good loaf of sourdough.

“Think I just slept through it,” Hob had told him truthfully, but Jon had laughed like Hob had told the world’s most hilarious joke.  

And then he’d placed his hand pointedly on Hob’s knee.

In public.  Where anyone and everyone could see.

Hob couldn’t help himself.  He had instinctively recoiled in fear, head darting about to make sure no one had seen.

What had Jon been thinking?

This wasn’t a bloody molly-house.  How could he behave so carelessly?  So openly?

Hob hadn’t just woken up after over a century to risk being imprisoned for gross indecency.

Jon had stood up, hurt flashing across his face before he forced it into a neutral expression.

“Sorry, mate,” he had said coolly, already moving away.  “Read the signs wrong.”

And then he’d left, leaving Hob feeling confused and scared while a young woman at the next table glared at him.

“You were definitely flirting with him,” she had asserted when Hob had caught her eye.  “You can’t blame him for thinking he had a chance.”

“I… I…” Hob hadn’t been able to contain the shiver of apprehension he had felt when he realised she’d seen it all.

She had frowned at him.

“Are you alright?  You don’t look well?”

He had shaken his head and bolted for the door.

He had walked briskly down the street, not watching where he was going until he’d bumped into two men walking together down the pavement, openly holding hands.

What?

“Sorry,” one of them had called out carelessly, but the other had forced him to stop when he’d caught sight of Hob’s face.

“You OK, pal?” the second man had asked in concern.  “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

Despite the regular meals filling out his frame, Hob knew he still looked too thin.  Still looked too undernourished, too gaunt..

“Feel sick,” he had admitted.  “Chemo,” he had blurted out afterwards, relying on Matthew’s excuse to save him from any further explanation.  “Need to get home.”

“Shit,” the first man exclaimed.  “Sure you can make it?”

He had nodded.  Desperate to get away so he could organise his thoughts in peace.

“Can we give you a hand?” the second man had asked, ignoring the elbow to his ribs from his partner.  “Only, no offence, but you don’t look like you’ll make it on your own.”

Hob had opened his mouth to refuse, caught sight of their joined hands again, and closed it.  He had nodded instead and let himself be led back home and into his kitchen.

“Nice place!” the first man, whose name Hob had since learnt was Ben, had whistled appreciatively.  “Who did you have to kill to afford this?”

“Ben!” Aarav, the other man, had smacked his partner on the shoulder, shooting Hob an apologetic smile as he switched the kettle on and asked Hob where he kept his mugs.

“It’s alright,” Hob had shrugged.  “Inherited it.  I’m not working at the moment.”  Because he was sick was silently implied and accepted.

At his insistence, the pair had made themselves a cuppa and helped themselves to biscuits.  They had talked inconsequentially about mundane topics such as the weather, the football and how the government were handling its latest fuck-up.  All the while, Ben had had his hand on Aarav’s knee and Aarav had looked openly and lovingly at Ben.

They hadn’t even been trying to hide it.  It was as though it was normal now.

Had the world changed so much?  Had Hob missed something so vital?

It didn’t seem that long ago that a former lover of his had been hanged for sodomy.  He’d breathed a sigh of relief when the death penalty for such an act had been scrapped, but he’d still had a couple of close calls with the police that would have seen him share the same fate as poor Oscar Wilde.

“How long have you two been together?” he hadn’t been able to help asking.

“Three years!” Ben had crowed proudly, causing Aarav to blush.

“And…. How did… everyone take it?”  Hob had been unable to help asking, desperate to know.

“My mum said she knew before I did,” Ben had replied nonchalantly.  “My dad just shrugged and told me to always use condoms, but he’d lost a friend to AIDS.”  He’d admitted it so casually, with so little concern.  The law must have changed when he’d been asleep.

Aarav hadn’t looked quite as comfortable at Hob’s question.  “We have a ‘don’t talk about it’ rule in my family.  If I do bring Ben to an event, he’s my ‘good friend’.”  Aarav had rolled his eyes and Hob reflected that even though the law had probably changed, some people's attitudes obviously hadn’t.  

And, oh god, Jon from the pub probably thought Hob was one of them.  And what did Ben and Aarav think he thought?

“Going to make it a bit bloody awkward at the wedding!” Ben had scoffed.  Aarav winced.

“Wedding?” Hob repeated blankly.

“Yup!  Next year!  Finally convinced him to say yes.” 

Aarav had saved himself from having to reply by taking a big gulp of tea.  

Hob had sat there gobsmacked.  Two men could get married now?  Legally?

Hob had been unable to stop himself from remembering all the men he had loved and eventually lost.  The ones he’d never been able to love openly, unlike the women he’d fallen for.  He’d never thought about marrying any of them, never thought about marrying anyone ever again after Eleanor, but to know that if he’d been with them now, he could …

He didn’t know why that brought a feeling of profound sadness instead of the joy he should have been feeling.

“My mum and dad helped us pick out a venue.  One of those big country houses that cater to private weddings, and we were actually just off to the florist to discuss flower arrangements,” Ben had chatted away happily.

Aarav had been silent beside him and his smile was strained.

Hob had watched him in concern, wondering if he should try and change the topic or hurry them out of his house so they could go about their day.  

He had just opened his mouth to thank them for their help, but he was feeling ‘a bit tired’, when an image had suddenly entered his mind.

Aarav and Ben were standing together in a green field just behind a large house Hob knew instinctively was Aarav’s family home up in Hertfordshire.  Friends and relatives sat smiling on rows of chairs and at the front were Aarav’s mum and dad, tears of happiness in their eyes while they watched their only son marry the love of his life.  

Aarav and Ben looked deliriously happy as they proudly recited their vows beneath an arch covered in-

“Yellow roses,” Hob had blurted out.

“What?” Ben had asked, startled by Hob’s interruption of his proposal story.  

“Err… You mentioned flowers.  Sorry, just had the thought that yellow roses might be nice.”

Yellow roses like the ones Hob somehow knew Aarav’s mum grew in her garden.  Aarav’s favourite flower.  

“I like that idea,” Aarav had chimed in, his smile much more genuine but wistful, and Hob had suddenly known that he needed them out of his house before he uncovered any more hidden longings.

It had still taken him ten minutes to make the appropriate noises and then accept a hastily scrawled copy of Aarav and Ben’s phone numbers, with the promise to message when he got his phone ‘fixed’ to assure them he was alright.

He was now in bed, covers pulled over his head.  The panic had subsided, but he was still feeling a mixture of scared, mortified and confused.

What was happening to him?  How had he been able to know all that?  

And it wasn’t just Aarav’s idea of a perfect wedding that Hob knew.  He knew that Aarav’s mum insisted on introducing him to eligible young women every time he visited her unaccompanied.  He knew that coming out to his parents was the hardest thing Aarav had ever done, knowing he was crushing all the expectations they had for his future with that announcement.  Especially after he had already disappointed them by becoming a journalist rather than a doctor or a lawyer.  

He knew that Aarav believed his parents preferred his sister’s husband to him.  He knew that Aarav had been depressed before meeting Ben and had thought, more than once, about ending it all.  He knew that Aarav controlled those thoughts carefully with medication and therapy, but that sometimes, on especially bad days, they still haunted him. 

Hob knew all this and he didn’t want to know any of it.  People’s thoughts should stay private inside their own heads.  It wasn’t his business to know their hopes, fears and dreams.

Hob screwed his eyes shut, desperate to fall asleep.  He needed to talk to Morpheus.  And the bloody anthropomorphic personification of the collective subconscious didn’t have a damn phone.  So even if Hob knew how to work his, he could hardly give his friend a call.

As often happens when one is desperate to sleep, Hob stayed stubbornly awake.  He rolled onto his stomach, smothered his face in his pillow and groaned in frustration, eyes screwed shut.

A familiar weight settled onto the bed beside him and the covers were tugged gently off his head.

“You have been screaming for me for the last half hour.  What ails you, Hob?”

Hob rolled onto his side to gaze blearily up at Morpheus who was reclining elegantly on the bed, top half leaning against the headboard, long legs stretched out in front of him on top of the covers and neatly crossed at the ankle.  He wasn’t wearing his boots, Hob noticed dumbly.

He wasn’t too surprised by his friend’s sudden appearance.  After movie night number three, Morpheus had come to the unspoken decision that he no longer needed to knock or be invited in, and just materialised wherever Hob happened to be.  

Unless Hob was in the bathroom.  Hob had been forced to impose that rule after Morpheus had appeared there the day after Hob had tried some dodgy sushi.  

It was nice, seeing more of Morpheus.  Not only did his friend frequently visit him in the Waking World now, joining him for movies, outings and occasionally dinner, but Hob had discovered he was able to choose to be consciously aware in the Dreaming if he so wished.  He and Morpheus had been wandering all over the realm together, Hob giving the Dream Lord the lowdown of all that had happened in his absence (to his shame the decay he’d failed to stop for so long still left its marks on parts of the kingdom).

Some nights they just sat together in Morpheus’ observatory, sipping tea made on the stove Hob had persuaded his friend not to rip out, and talking.

Morpheus frequently complained that the observatory was no longer his and Hob didn’t even try to deny it.  Not when Gault had made him a sign that said ‘Hob’s Room’ and he had proudly hung it on the door.  Hob knew Morpheus well enough by now to know that his sulk was just for show.

Speaking of the Nightmare turned Dream, she’d been complaining that Morpheus was hogging him.  He needed to make some time for her soon, lest she force him to dream whatever vengeance she cooked up.  She had once been a Nightmare after all. 

“I saw something I wasn’t meant to see.”  Hob brought his knees up to his chest, pressing his shins against Morpheus’ thighs and resting his head against Morpheus’ hip, seeking comfort and not caring how vulnerable he must look. 

Hesitant fingers tangled themselves in Hob’s hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp, a hand carding through his hair.  Hob was beginning to wish he hadn’t cut it so short, to give Morpheus more to play with.

“What did you see?”

“Someone’s hopes and dreams.  Who they were, not how they appeared to everyone else.  I knew, just from looking at him, that he wasn’t sure about getting married, not because he didn’t love his fiancé, but because he doesn’t believe his parents will attend and it won’t feel like a real marriage if his family doesn't acknowledge it.”

The hand in his hair abruptly stilled and Hob had a front row view of Morpheus’ genuinely astonished expression before a pale hand covered his face.

“What are you-” he protested, but Morpheus shushed him.

Hob lay still, an uncomfortable tickling in his head as Morpheus searched for… something.

“I’m sorry ,” Morpheus whispered.  

Fear gripped Hob.  Why was Morpheus apologising?

“I should have warned you that there was a risk that your extended time conscious in the Dreaming might affect you.  Change you.”

“Change?” Hob bleated in fear.

Morpheus removed his hand from Hob’s face and then slid down the bed so he was lying, facing him.

“You created a blasted pub in my realm.  You have your own raven.  You can now glimpse into the mind of dreamers and know them.  Your time ruling my realm has shaped you into something more similar to myself.  A being able to preside over the Dreaming.”

If his friend thought he was being reassuring, Hob was going to have to disillusion him.

“But I was just filling in!  I wasn’t actually ruling!”

“Call it what you will.  The Dreaming recognised what you were doing and sought to aid you.  Change you to make it easier for you to carry out your responsibilities.”

“But I’m human!  I’m not like you!  Immortal or not, I’m still human!”  Hob didn’t pause to think how what he was saying might offend Morpheus.  He was too busy panicking.  If the Dreaming had changed him, then what was he?  Did he belong in this world anymore?  Was he going to be banished to the Dreaming to spend the rest of eternity there?

As glorious as Morpheus’ kingdom was, this world was Hob’s.  He didn’t care that he still didn’t understand it.  Still didn’t know how to navigate it unaided.  It was his!

Morpheus brought his hands up to cup Hob’s face, forcing him to abandon his spiralling train of thought so he could focus solely on the way the Dream Lord's long fingers felt smoothing over his stubbly cheeks.

“You, Hob Gadling, are the most human human I’ve ever encountered.  Not even a century ruling my kingdom could change that.  I do not believe you could ever be anything else.  You are human.  But you are also something else.  Something a bit more than human.  Something made of hope and dreams.”

“What does that mean?” Hob begged, staring pleadingly into Morpheus’ eyes, desperate for a straight answer.  “Am I going to know the life story of everyone I meet just by looking at them now?  Am I going to develop other powers?  How do you feel about all this?”

“Do you still mix up your thoughts with Luke’s when you see through his eyes?  It will take practice, that is all.  And who’s to say what might happen to you next?  Maybe you’ll develop other talents.  Maybe not.  I cannot see the future. 

“As for how I feel ,” a boyish smirk spread across that stupidly handsome face.  “ It is good to know that if I ever choose to take a holiday, I have a suitable substitute to call on.”

Hob couldn’t help it.  He let out a snort of laughter.

“You’d better not be planning to put me in charge again anytime soon.  Or I’ll let the Dreams and Nightmares run riot.  I swear, Morpheus, I’ll do it.”

“Morpheus is what my subjects call me.  But it is really just a name I was given by humans many centuries ago.  One of many.  My true name is Dream, Dream of the Endless.  I do not let many use it.  But I think I would like you to be one of them.”

Hob stared at him in astonishment, trying to comprehend the magnitude of such a request.  

“Hey, Dream,” he whispered, not daring to speak the treasured name too loudly.

Dream smiled.  Not his minute quirk of the lips, or his small reserved grin.  A proper, full face smile.

Hob was helpless to do anything but grin back.

The moment was only broken by the growling of Hob’s traitorous stomach.

Dream raised an amused eyebrow and Hob blushed.

“Shall we go and find something to eat?  You were enthusing about trying a new Ethiopian restaurant the other day.”

Hob’s stomach growled again at the reminder.  But he closed his eyes and curled closer to Dream instead.

“In a minute,” he murmured.  “It’s been a bad day.”

Dream’s fingers made their way back into his hair, scritching soothingly back and forth.

“Do you wish to tell me about it?”

Hob did.

Chapter Text

This was madness.

Hob knew it was.

Yet he stood outside Unity Kincaid’s nursing home anyway, Luke perching on his shoulder and muttering dire predictions under his breath.

“Morpheus widnae like this,” Luke hissed.

Maybe not.  But Dream was a bit busy at the moment so Hob hadn’t had the chance to tell him his plan for him to disapprove of it.  He tried to kid himself that he wasn’t bitter that their now frequent meetings had been suddenly curtailed while Dream chased down the rumours of a Dream Vortex, whatever that was.

It was just... Hob had grown accustomed to Dream popping in once or twice a week.  He missed their talks.  Their random excursions in both the Waking World and the Dreaming.

He missed the trust Dream had recently been showing him as he figured out how to manage the ‘changes’ the Dreaming had ‘encouraged’ within him (Dream’s turn of phrase, not his). 

It had been Dream who had patiently coaxed Hob into working out how to look at a fellow human being without learning their entire life story, though it had admittedly helped with Hob’s integration into the modern world.  It had been Dream who had officially declared Hob’s continuing leadership of the council.

Once Dream had got over his wounded feelings at being ‘replaced’, he had taken Hob’s suggestion of being proud of having such loyal and capable subjects to heart.  He had looked positively giddy when he outlined what tasks he was now delegating to Hob and the council.  They were admittedly the more dreary aspects of running the kingdom, but the council enjoyed their continued prestige and Dream enjoyed being able to shift his focus to creating new Dreams and Nightmares and had the time to dedicate to more urgent matters when they arose.

It had been working out surprisingly well.

Hob, it had been unanimously agreed by everyone but Hob, was the one to report to Dream, though their official meetings had rapidly turned from official to casual, just as soon as they finished discussing business.

Another benefit was that Hob, being significantly less intimidating than Dream, often found minor Dreams and Nightmares more willing to come to him with any quibbles than they would to Dream.  It allowed Hob to solve their problems before they became serious enough to involve the Dream Lord.  Dream had been both surprised and delighted by this development.  He had seemed almost proud of Hob.  A thought which never failed to put a smile on Hob's face.

It was amazing how in only seven months, Dream had gone from being scathing of Hob’s efforts to actively delegating to him.

Hob still wanted to hunt down every single person who had been involved in Dream’s imprisonment and use them for target practice - he’d show them why English longbowmen had been so feared in the fifteenth century.  But he couldn’t help but wonder if that forced period of introspection hadn’t changed parts of Dream for the better.

He hated himself when he thought that.  

He knew his friend still struggled with the memory of his time in captivity and Hob still shuddered when he imagined what it must have been like.  Stuck in a glass cage.  No privacy, no kindness, no air.  Being gawped at by depraved captors who demanded the impossible.  

Watching his beautiful raven die in front of him, blood desecrating the glass holding him prisoner.  

Hob, when he had woken up after that conversation with Dream, had immediately gathered a confused Luke close and hugged him as tightly as he dared.  

Luke still didn’t know what had come over Hob that morning.  Hob hadn’t shared what Dream had confided to him with anyone.  Dream was king of his realm, and he couldn’t afford to show his vulnerability to his subjects.  Not even to Lucienne (whose ‘assistant’ had been sent packing, much to her relief).  Hob was the only person privileged enough to know this side of Dream and he guarded that honour greedily.

But still, there was a marked difference between the haughty and proud Dream of 1889, who’d spat on Hob’s offered friendship, to the current Dream who now seemed to welcome Hob’s intrusion into his life.  Hob wasn’t a fool.  Dream could still be haughty and proud.  But he'd mellowed somewhat.

Which was why it was so irritating that Dream had suddenly reverted back to his aloof and distant self when he’d become aware of the threat of this Dream Vortex.

Hob had tried to protest that he could help.  The Dream Vortex was after all human and Hob was ‘stubbornly human’ according to Dream.  But Dream had waved off his offer with casual indifference and suggested that Hob should really take a couple of weeks off to dream as humans did, so as not to burn out.  He’d even gone over Hob’s head and talked to the council about it.  They, of course, had all hastily agreed, fearing for Hob’s health.

Even Gault had agreed with Morpheus and, no matter how hard Hob tried, he’d been unable to force his conscious self into the Dreaming when Dream and all his creations were working against him.  

So Luke could take his ‘Morpheus widnae like this’ and shove it where the sun didn’t shine.  Hob was doing this, monumentally bad idea or no.

After all, he’d paid a lot of money to some very highly qualified ‘specialists’ to set up a realistic enough paper trail to convince Mr Holdaway, Unity Kincaid’s solicitor, that he was the great-grandson of Humphrey Kincaid, Unity’s uncle.

It was the only way he could get in to see her.  Her solicitor, quite rightly, was being very strict over who had access to the elderly, vulnerable woman.  An entire lifetime asleep - it would be so easy for someone to come along and take advantage of her.

A bit like Hob was, though he soothed his guilty conscience by reminding himself that he didn’t actually want anything from her but to meet her.

Mr Holdaway greeted him at the entrance with a firm handshake and led him up the stairs swiftly with minimal small talk.

“She asked to speak to you alone,” he told Hob in front of her door.  “Are you sure that bird is hygienic?”

Luke puffed up his feathers in indignation.

“He has almost nightly baths,” Hob assured.  Luke made him run one for him every night, determined to avoid fleas.  They both still vividly remembered the hell the monstrous wee beasties had put them through in the trenches, so Hob couldn’t begrudge him this indulgence. 

Mr Holdaway still didn’t look convinced, but he was hardly about to demand Hob get rid of his service animal unless his client demanded the same.

Unity Kincaid was waiting for him in her room, seated primly on a luxurious red and gold chair.  She rose as he entered and held out a hand for him to shake.

“How kind of you to visit me, Mr Golding,” she smiled.  There was something dangerous about that smile that instantly put Hob on his guard.  “Please, have a seat.”

He lowered himself cautiously into a matching chair.  

“Now,” she smiled that dangerous smile again.  “Why don’t you tell me about why you went to all that trouble to falsify your identity to come and talk to me?  Are you a reporter, by any chance?”

Hob froze in his seat, Luke mirroring him on his shoulder.

How did she know?  Should he play dumb?  Deny it?  Or was the game truly up?

“Don’t try to convince me you are who you say you are,” Unity warned.  “You see, even poor Mr Holdaway isn’t aware of this, but Humphrey Kincaid, whom you claim to be a descendent of, found women to be nothing short of repulsive.  Physically I mean.  It was a well kept family secret that his valet was actually his husband in all but name.  

“I was a very young girl at the time, so I didn’t understand what he meant when I overheard him telling my father that he couldn’t stomach a marriage of convenience as he’d never be able to sweet-talk any bride into believing he found them appealing when he couldn’t ‘perform’.”

Yeah, there was no way Hob was going to convince her he was a relation.

“I’m not a reporter,” he admitted.

“Just a random well-wisher then.  One who sees the benefit of cosying up to a rich old lady who probably doesn’t have too many years left.”

“No!” Hob denied vehemently, sick at the thought.

“Then what possible reason could you have to go to all this effort to meet me?”

And Hob’s mind, usually so good at coming up with reasons and excuses for the unexplainable, drew a blank.

Or rather, it kept circling back to the one explanation he should not give.

The true one.

The one explanation Hob had never given anyone when they inquired about his oddities.

Hob had never told anyone about his immortality before Luke.  Not even Eleanor.  And Luke had been a special case and it hadn’t exactly ended well for him.

But Hob was tired.

It had been seven months since he’d woken up, and he was so bloody tired of pretending each and every day that he’d grown up in this new, modern world.  Of trying to cover up his ignorance or his out-of-date knowledge.

He wanted someone he could talk to about the difficulties in missing out on over a century.  Someone who would understand the frustration he still often felt.

And the only person who could fully understand just how much the Sleeping Sickness had stolen from him, from them , was Unity Kincaid.

“I was born in 1355,” he blurted out, before he had a chance to talk himself out of it.  Unity, whose hand had been reaching for a little silver bell that would no doubt summon someone to eject him from the room, froze.

Whatever excuse she had expected him to offer, this certainly wasn’t it.  

“I blabbed in a tavern one night that I thought death was stupid and that I wouldn’t go along with it.  Only I didn’t realise the anthropomorphic personification of Death was listening and she decided to grant my wish to see if I really would have the desire to keep on living.

“So I did.  And I loved it.  Well, not the bad times.  Didn’t enjoy those, especially not the witch trials.  But the bad times always passed eventually and so I never asked for Death to take back her promise.  

“But then, in 1916, I was trying to catch forty winks in the trenches, and in spite of the mud, the cold, the lice and the noise, I managed it, and I didn’t wake up for over a century.

“And I had a friend who’d made sure my secret wasn’t discovered, so I didn’t get dissected or experimented on, but it meant that when I woke up, there was no one to help.

“And I’ve managed.  I’ve done my best.  Even though I still don’t understand instagram, and I miss hats.  Why did hat wearing go out of fashion?  I loved my top hat.  But it’s lonely, not having anyone else understand what you’ve been through.  So, I decided to try and find a way to meet you, because I just wanted to talk to someone who understood…”

He trailed off sheepishly.  Unity was staring at him in open-mouthed astonishment.  She probably thought he was a complete nutter.  He could feel his face beginning to burn with the humiliation of his confession.  What had he been thinking?  Why on earth would she believe him?

“Fer gawd’s sake, Rab,” Luke covered his face with a wing.  “Ye need tae break these things tae people gently.  No jist dump it a’ oan them.  Ye cid’ve given this poor wimman a heart attack.”

Unity reeled backwards, and Hob darted forward to grab her arm before she tumbled over the chair behind her.

“The bird’s talking!” she exclaimed in astonishment.

“Err… yeah.  He’s magical too.”

“Ma name’s Luke.  It’s lovely tae meet you, ma’am.  Sorry aboot droppin’ in oan ye like this.  Ah tried tae tell Rab that it wis a bad idea, but he widnae listen an’ he’s the boss.”

“Your talking bird is Scottish.”  Unity reached up a trembling hand to stroke Luke’s feathered head.  He closed his eyes happily and instructed her to move her hand to the right to get an itch that had been bothering him.

“Glasgow, ma’am.”

“We had factories in Glasgow.  My father took me there once when he went to inspect them.  We went to Kelvingrove Art Gallery afterwards and had afternoon tea at Miss Cranston’s Tea Room.”

“Lovely area,” Luke hummed agreeably.  “Speakin’ o’ tea, ye widnae have a cuppa goin’ wid ye?  Only we got up early an’ this one wis too nervous tae remember tae boil the kettle.  Woulda done it maself, but ye know, no hands.”

“Of course!” Unity gently pulled away from Hob and rang the little silver bell.  

Mr Holdaway immediately popped his head round the door.  He’d clearly been guarding it.

“Could you ask them to bring up a tray of tea and cakes, Mr Holdaway?  We’ll have it here.  I’d like to catch up with my… cousin.  Privately.”

Mr Holdaway was too professional to look shocked that Hob was being invited for tea instead of getting kicked out.  He nodded and quickly shut the door again.

“Please, let’s all have a seat.”

Hob sat gratefully, not sure how much longer his shaking legs would have held him up.  Did this mean she believed him? 

She ignored him as they waited for tea, choosing instead to chat to Luke, who, to be fair, had been a much politer guest so far.

It wasn’t until after they’d been interrupted by a knock on the door and the friendly woman with the tea tray had left them to it, that Unity turned to him.

Hob couldn’t help but notice that she poured Luke his tea first, not batting an eye at the frankly obscene amount of sugar Luke requested.

“Now, Mr Golding-”

“Gadling.  Golding is just the latest made-up surname on a long list of made-up surnames.  I was born Robert Gadling, though everyone just called me Hob.”

“Mr Gadling then.  Your story is…”

“Unbelievable?  Insane? Pure mince?” Luke suggested helpfully in between dipping his beak into a delicate china cup.  

“Quite,” Unity agreed.  “And while a talking bird does give me pause… Well the proof of a magical talking bird is right there, whereas your claims are a lot harder to prove.”

Hob shifted uncomfortably.  “I mean, I function pretty much the same as everyone else.  If you gave me a fatal wound, I would recover, but otherwise I just heal a bit more quickly than the rest of the world.”

He looked down at his pretty floral plate.  The tiny cake fork accompanying it would be hard to do himself any serious injury with, but he could probably manage if she insisted she wanted proof.

“I should prefer proof that would create less mess,” Unity told him firmly, leaning over to move the cake fork out of his reach.

“Ye still got that photo, Rab?  The one ye showed the barber?” Luke piped up. 

Hob had never got round to taking it from his wallet, so he fished it out and handed it to Unity.  He hadn’t yet decided on what modern haircut he wanted, so had stuck with the familiar one he went to sleep with in 1916.  

Unity looked between him and the photograph for several minutes, her brow furrowed in contemplation.  It was a long, torturous wait, but finally she handed back the photograph, her eyes warm where before they had been cold. 

“I miss my mother’s perfume.  I never knew what it was, so I can’t even see if they still make it.  I’d do anything to smell it again.”

“Nothing is ever going to smell like my mum again,” Hob offered.  “She never wore perfume.  We couldn’t afford any fancy oils or anything like that.  But she always used to smell of the herbs she grew and used in her cooking.”

And just like that, the dam was broken.  They took turns to share what they missed about the world they used to know, Unity demanding he tell her everything about living through history she’d only read about.

She was annoyed that he had never met any of Henry VIII’s six wives but, unlike some people, she was suitably impressed that he’d played host to Elizabeth I.

“The worst part,” she told him solemnly, “is that I dreamed an entire lifetime while I was asleep.  I took over the family business.  I met a beautiful, wonderful man whom I married.  Who supported me in everything I did.  We had a child together.  And she grew up and gave us a grandchild who in turn gave us two gorgeous great-grandchildren.  And then I woke up.  And I realised that my entire life was fiction.  I never took over my father’s business.  I never got married.  That hurt.  

“Did you feel the same?”

Hob wished he’d thought to visit the other Sleeping Sickness sufferers while he’d been running the Dreaming.  But with all the overwhelming problems facing the realm, it had completely slipped his mind.  It had been enough for the other council members to promise him that they’d have good dreams until they awoke.  

He wished he’d popped into Unity’s dreams and befriended her.  Just so she’d have someone in the Waking World who she knew from her dream life. 

“I didn’t dream a lifetime for myself,” he admitted.  “I dreamed of an impossible crumbling castle that I had to keep from falling down.

“The biggest thing I felt when I woke up was fear.  Fear that I’d never properly fit into the world I’ve adored for six centuries.  Some days I still don’t think I’ll ever fit in the way I used to.  I was so good at changing with the times, but they’ve changed so much!”

Unity nodded in agreement, pouring them all another cup of lukewarm tea. 

“I envy you, Hob,” she sighed.  “You have all the time in the world to make up for what you’ve missed.  

“The doctors tell me I’m disgustingly healthy for a woman over a hundred, but realistically, how long have I got to make up for all that time asleep?  And what time I do have is marred with old people’s problems.  The staff here are lovely. They’ve done their best.  But it’s so restrictive.”

Hob and Luke both grimaced in sympathy.

“Sometimes I long to break out of here in one of those cars you see in films!  And can you believe they have talking in films now!   Have a day of complete freedom!”

Hob desperately wanted to give it to her.

They chatted some more until a member of staff knocked on the door to inform them it was time for dinner and would Unity’s cousin be joining them?

Hob made his excuses to leave.  He’d already been here for hours and Unity did look tired.

“Just what I need,” she grumbled to him as he helped her downstairs to dinner.  “More sleep.”

They shared a knowing, secret smile.  

“You’ll visit again tomorrow,” she instructed before he departed, and Hob promised he would.

Chapter Text

“You’ll need these,” Hob told Unity, handing her a silk scarf and a pair of sunglasses.  “I’m breaking you out.”

Unity took them with an amused quirk of an eyebrow.

“Are you?  Is that why you’re wearing that ridiculous hat?”

“Hey!  I look dashing!”  Hob pulled off the cowboy hat he’d borrowed.  

“Ye look like a right prat,” Luke muttered from his shoulder.  He was not impressed by the tiny top hat he’d been cajoled into wearing.  

“You look very handsome, Luke,” Unity assured the grumpy raven.  

“Ah look like a pillock.  Yer lucky yer costume disnae involve a stupid hat.”

Hob decided that Unity was taking too long, so he grabbed the scarf and tied it round her hair while she tried to convince Luke that he didn’t look stupid (he did, but that was revenge for insulting Call the Midwife one too many times).  He slipped the sunglasses onto her face and, taking her arm in his, led her from the room as quickly as he felt she could comfortably manage.

The hallway and stairs down to the entrance hall were deserted, as Hob had arranged for them to be.  He hustled a bemused Unity outside and opened the back door of their getaway car. 

And what a car it was.

A bright red convertible with the roof rolled back.  

The perfect car to liberate an old lady from a nursing home for a day of illicit freedom.  

Hob darted round to the other side and slid in the back next to her, throwing a tartan blanket over their laps to keep them warm.

“Drive,” he demanded, and the car lurched into motion, throwing up gravel as it sped down the driveway.

“Stop!” an indignant voice called behind them.  The manager of the nursing home came bursting through the front door as they pulled away.  “Bring her back this instant!  I’ll call the police!”

“Hey, Rob,” Ben twisted round in the front passenger seat to face him, the wind blowing his pink feather boa into his face.  When Hob had insisted that costumes were essential for this heist, Ben had produced said boa and a sparkly pink fedora with alarming alacrity from his side of his and Aarav’s shared wardrobe.  “That was staged right?  You did tell the staff what we were doing and persuade them to play along?  We’ve not actually kidnapped this charming lady?”

“Who cares!” the ‘charming lady’ hooted with unrestrained joy, tossing her arms up to feel the air rush through her fingers.  “You should have done this ages ago!”

“Tell me there will be no high speed police chase or I will turn this car around right now,” Aarav threatened from behind the wheel, dressed in a much more subdued black fedora.  Hob, when planning the escapade, had not felt confident in his ability to drive a modern car, so he’d roped in Ben and Aarav.

They had kept in touch, convinced, Hob suspected, that he’d been disowned and cut off by a disapproving family for being bisexual.  They had rallied around him in support and invited themselves into his life.

Hob had spent his first Christmas in over a century at Ben’s parents’ house, being clucked over by Ben’s mum, Harriet, as his dad, Bill, clapped Hob manfully on the shoulder and told him it would all work out.  Harriet now stopped by whenever she was in the area to clean his kitchen and make him soup, while Bill had taken to watching the footie in The New Inn and inviting Hob to join him.

It occurred to Hob that he might have been stealthily adopted.

“No police chases,” Hob assured Aarav.  “The ‘trying to stop us at the last minute’ bit was his idea.  Apparently he’s a big name in the local amateur dramatic scene.”

Unity groaned.  “He inflicts his ‘theatrical masterpieces’ on the residents.  We’re his captive audience.  Every blasted play has a dark and mysterious male lead who always gets the girl in the end and he always plays the lead.  

“I heard the rest of the cast are planning a coup.”

“On or off stage?” Ben checked

“Oh, it will definitely be on.”

Ben cackled along with her and, just like that, an unholy alliance was born.  Aarav caught Hob’s eye in the mirror and indicated with a glare that he was blaming any future theatrical torture on Hob.

They sped through winding country roads, startling the wildlife and other cars with their badly sung renditions of popular tunes from Unity’s youth.  Hob had asked Ben to create a playlist on Spotify and Unity was overjoyed when she realised she remembered every word of ‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart’, despite it being over a century since she’d last sung it with her mother.

The last strains of ‘Molly O’Morgan’ had just died away when they pulled up at their destination.  A small country pub, well renowned for its food.  Hob had had to put up a substantial bribe to get a last minute reservation, which Unity gleefully told him just added to the fun of this caper.

The four humans were a merry party over lunch, though Luke perched silently on Hob’s shoulder, looking as disapproving as a raven could. Ben and Hob enjoyed several pints while Unity decided to sample all of the different gins the bar had to offer.  When she ordered her third large gin and tonic with an unladylike belch, the waiter had looked anxiously at Hob.

“She’s over a hundred years old,” Hob shrugged.  “If she wants another gin, I say she should go for it.”

“Here, here!” Aarav agreed, toasting the tipsy Unity with his own pint of Diet Coke.  “She’s allowed to live a little.”

Unity had been fussing over him and Ben like they were her favoured grandsons and Hob suspected she’d won two more regular visitors once this day was over.  He was glad.  Unity deserved all the friends she could get.  

Life hadn’t been fair to her.  It would have been understandable if she’d been angry that her life had been stolen away.  It would have been natural for her to feel violated when she was told of the child she had borne in the Waking World without any awareness of it - and Hob desperately wanted to hunt down whatever sick degenerate had raped a defenseless sleeping woman and hang him up by his ankles and use him as a punching bag - but she didn’t.

She was pleased that she had descendants.  She was frantically trying to track them down.

She had such a positive and inspiring outlook on life that Hob wished there was a way for her to share in his immortality, so that she could go on like this forever.

They stayed drinking and chatting until the manager was forced to come over to their table and politely ask them to leave unless they were planning on staying for dinner.

Unity looked willing to carry on, but Hob had seen her stifling several yawns over the last half hour, so he caught Aarav’s and Ben’s eye and they hoisted Unity up and poured her into the car.  Hob made sure to leave a massive tip as they left.

Despite Aarav’s fears, there wasn’t an army of angry care home staff waiting to jump down their throats for allowing Unity to get well and truly hammered.  The manager quickly cut off his earnest apologies as Hob helped Unity up the stairs.

“She’s not the first drunk pensioner we’ve dealt with and she won’t be the last.  When they get to a certain age, no health warning is going to put them off.  If they want a damn whisky,  they’ll have a damn whisky.”

“Oh, Luke,” Unity giggled as the door to her room closed leaving her alone with Hob and the raven.  “I’m sorry.  This must have been so boring for you.  You’ve had to pretend you couldn’t talk for ages.”

“It’s a’right, lass.  Ah’m just glad ye had fun.”

“The most fun,” Unity tried to spin round, but forgot that Hob was still holding her arm and almost fell over.

“Let’s get you sitting down and I’ll pour you a glass of water,” Hob interjected, quickly doing just that.

“Oh, thank you for today, Hob!” Unity leaned sideways in her chair as she attempted to grab his hand.  “It was just what I needed.  The perfect afternoon to accompany the perfect morning I had before you turned up!”

“Oh?”

“Mr Holdaway has found her, Hob!  He’s found my great-granddaughter!  He’s arranging for her to come over from America to see me.  She’ll be here next week.  Isn’t that perfect!”

Hob wasn’t sure about that.   Unity was obviously overjoyed, but Hob was unable to block out the unease he felt every time he was reminded of what had happened to her while she was asleep.  He knew it wasn’t logical, but he felt responsible somehow.  He’d been in charge of the Dreaming during the sleeping epidemic.  In a way it felt like this had happened on his watch.

He didn’t dare voice any of this to Unity though.  He didn’t want to diminish any joy she might have found.

“Knock, knock,” a cheery nurse pushed open the door.  “I’ve come to help you to bed, Miss Kincaid.  Your cousin will have to say goodbye now.”

Hob dutifully gave Unity a kiss on the cheek, thanked the nurse and promised to visit the following day.

He grinned as he collected Aarav and Ben, saving them from the manager who had been trying to convince them to ‘volunteer’ as stage hands for his next theatrical masterpiece.

He could still hear Unity singing from her open bedroom window as they drove away.

Chapter Text

Aarav and Ben drove him home but didn’t hang about.  They had to drop the hire car off before seven so that Hob wouldn’t be charged for another day.

It was fortunate they left so promptly because Dream was waiting for him in his kitchen with a bunch of red roses.  A bunch of red roses from the Waking World at that.  Hob could see the Tesco price tag still stuck to the cellophane.

Which meant Dream had materialised in the Waking World, walked into Tesco and bought a bunch of roses.  All the while looking like the tortured hero of some gothic romance.  He must have made the checkout girl’s day.

“Well,” Luke snorted in Hob’s ear.  “Ah’m aff tae stretch ma wings.  Dinnae forgive him too easily.  He’s bin ignorin’ you fer a month.”

“I apologise,” Dream cut in before Hob could even open his mouth and Luke was fully out of the window.  “I handled this latest crisis badly.”

And he had.  First he’d cut Hob off from the Dreaming and when Hob had forced his way back in a week after first meeting Unity, the Dream Lord had made himself scarce and had expressly forbidden the council from interfering in his search for the Dream Vortex. 

It had given Hob plenty of nights to hang out with Gault, Dioka, Suadela and the rest, but he had missed his oldest and dearest friend fiercely.

“Is it all sorted now?” Hob asked, wandering over to fill the kettle and flip the switch so he could avoid expressing his immediate forgiveness - because of course he forgave Dream, he always did, but he had to at least try and make the King of Nightmares work for it.

“No,” Dream frowned.  “I have ascertained that the rumours are unfortunately correct, but I have been unable to locate the Vortex so far.”

“Then why are you here?” Hob turned away from the kettle to face Dream who still stood there awkwardly, clutching his shop-bought roses.

“Because I missed you.”

Oh come on.  That wasn’t playing fair.  Hob’s heart instantly melted and he couldn’t stop a goofy grin from plastering itself across his face.  Dream’s own lips quirked upwards in response, a smug smile lighting up his face.

“Oh, don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Hob muttered, but he was laughing.  “You still neglected me for almost a month.”

“One might say that is a significant improvement on the last time.”

“You’re impossible,” Hob accused him, turning back round to make the tea.  “So what’s the plan now?  Anything I can do to help?”

“Stay out of it,” Dream answered sharply.  “Please Hob.  For me,” he pleaded as Hob spun on his heel, mouth already open to retort.  “You do not know how dangerous this is.  I failed to destroy a Dream Vortex once before, and an entire universe paid the price.  Meddle with the Dream Vortex and even you might not survive.  I could not bear that.”

Dream was playing dirty.  Hob kind of wanted to stamp his feet and inarticulately scream at him.  He also wanted to hug him.

He searched Dream’s face for any trace of insincerity but found none.

“Fine,” he reluctantly agreed.  “Just… please keep me in the loop.  I worry about you too, you know.”

Dream pursed his lips in contemplation before nodding his agreement.

“Very well.”

“Great… So what are you going to do next?”  Hob brought the tea over to the kitchen table and set Dream’s mug down in front of him before taking a seat himself.

Dream slid into his own seat, setting the flowers down on the table, and grinned mischievously at Hob.  “I’ve given Fiddler’s Green a holiday to thank him for all his hard work and to apologise for so abruptly cutting off his sabbatical in the Waking World.”

Hob blinked at his friend stupidly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dreams and Nightmares will be naturally drawn to the Vortex.  All I have to do is keep an eye on Fiddler’s Green and he will lead me to them.  And with any luck, they will also lead me to my missing Nightmare.”  Dream’s expression darkened and Hob reached over instinctively to grip his hand in a vain attempt to offer comfort.  “We are long overdue for a chat.”

“And then?  What happens to the Vortex?” Hob asked softly.  “You kill them?”

Dream squeezed his hand.  “If there were an alternative, I would use it.  But this is the only way to keep the universe safe.  I can make it painless.  If they wish, they can even stay in the Dreaming.  Live out an eternity in my kingdom.  But they cannot be allowed to wander blindly around the Waking World.”

Hob didn’t know what to say to that.  

He pulled the roses towards him and examined them, just for something to do.

“Why roses?” he wondered aloud.

“I asked Matthew how he used to convince people that his apology was sincere and he advised me to purchase these.  Do you like them?”

“Err… yeah.  But Matthew was probably thinking about how he used to apologise to his girlfriend when he fucked up.”

“Is there a different flower I should have purchased for apologising to a man?”  Dream sounded innocently curious, but he was definitely pulling Hob’s leg.

“Well… I suppose not.  But red roses tend to imply a romantic connection between two people.”

Hob wanted to take those words back the moment Dream’s face smoothed over into a perfectly blank expression.  The delighted twinkle in his eyes disappeared, the boyish grin had fled.

“You find these flowers inappropriate then?”   He reached out, as though to take them back and Hob clutched them tightly to himself, crushing the blooms against his chest.

Was it just his imagination, or did Dream sound disappointed?

“Hold on!” he demanded, mind suddenly whirling as he replayed all their encounters since that first fateful movie night.

Strolls by the river at sunset.  Dinners in nice restaurants.  Companionable evenings in front of the television.  Long, meandering talks alone together in what was now Hob’s observatory in the Dreaming.  The delegating.  The increased responsibility.  The way Dream had gone above and beyond to carve out a space in his life for Hob.

“Have we been dating for the last eight months?”

“Of course,” Dream told him haughtily.  “I thought that was obvious.”  He stood up stiffly, as if to go, but Hob was having none of it.

“Don’t you ‘obvious’ me!”  He was out of his seat, around the table and jabbing a finger into Dream’s chest before the idiot could disappear.  “You never said anything!”

“My actions spoke perfectly clearly.”

“ Clearly they did not, because I did not know that we were dating!”

“Dating is such a juvenile word,” Dream complained, completely missing the point.

“Stepping out, courting, wooing, whatever you want to call it.  I had no idea because you didn’t say anything.  You can’t expect me to infer romance from your actions when you have only willingly called me your friend for less than a year!  You-”

Hob was abruptly cut off as Dream, clearly fed up with his diatribe, leaned forward and planted a brief kiss on Hob’s still moving lips, muffling his continuing indignant reasoning.

As a tactic it was most effective, for Hob silently gaped at him when he pulled away.

“Do my actions speak clearly to you now?” Dream outright smirked at Hob’s slack-jawed expression, inordinately pleased with himself.

Hob blinked stupidly at him before forcibly pulling his wits back together.

“I’m afraid I am even more befuddled,” he declared, not even attempting to hide his delighted grin.  “You’ll have to endeavour to clear up my confusion, lest I misunderstand you some more.”

He had shamelessly been angling for another kiss, intending to reciprocate this time.  But he could not be overly disappointed when Dream instead slipped both arms around him and rested his forehead against Hob’s own.

“I do not dare enter into romantic entanglements lightly.  I have done so in the past and it has turned out badly.  For me, for them, for my kingdom.  

“But you have wormed your way into my kingdom, into my subjects’ hearts and into mine.  And I find that when I think of a future with you, all I am filled with is… hope.

“Will you allow me to love you, Hob Gadling?”

Hob could do nothing else but kiss Dream for that speech, and so he did, holding his oldest, dearest friend and newly acquired lover tightly to him.

“Was that so difficult?” he murmured when he finally allowed Dream to pull away from him.

“Exceedingly,” Dream informed him with mock sincerity.  “But the reward was well worth it.”

Chapter Text

If Hob were perhaps not as attentive as usual on his next few trips to visit Unity, the lady graciously forgave him on account of his dreamy expression every time she asked him about that ‘nice gentleman’ he was stepping out with.

It helped that Unity herself was overflowing with joy on account of the discovery and impending visit of her great-granddaughter and so was quick to forgive his meandering mind.

She and Hob happily chatted away to one another, each lending only half an ear towards what the other was saying.  The nursing staff were used to Hob’s frequent visits by now, and more than one had pulled him aside to tell him how glad they were that Unity was so happy.

Mr Holdaway was less prone to being infected by Hob and Unity’s good mood.  He, with all the caution that made him so good at his job, had sought to get Hob alone to speak to him of Unity’s great-granddaughter's imminent visit.

“You’ll be there of course.”

Hob shook his head.  Unity had been polite enough to invite him, but they both knew his claim of kinship was fictional, no matter how real it felt at times.  This was a moment for true family only.  And Hob had to weigh up the pros and cons of inviting more honorary family members into his life.  

It wouldn’t be like it was with Unity who knew of his immortal situation.  He’d be inviting the young girl into his life, only to abandon her when it no longer became possible to hide his lack of ageing.  It might be better to keep a distance and Unity knew it too.

“As close as Unity and I have become, I’m only a distant cousin.  I would just get in the way.”

“That might not be a bad thing,” Mr Holdaway grumbled.  He refused to back down over the sharp look Hob cast his way.  “I hope for the best, Mr Golding, but I am a practical man.  There is a chance that Miss Walker has no interest in pursuing a relationship with Miss Kincaid.  She is a stranger to her, after all.”

“But the girl just lost her mother,” Hob protested.  “Surely discovering she has a great-grandmother would be a comfort right now.”

“A great-grandmother whom she will likely have to mourn in a few years.”  Mr Holdaway shot Hob a sympathetic glance, as though he could see the inner turmoil his statement caused.  “I have been a solicitor for a long time and I’ve seen it all.  Miss Walker may embrace her great-grandmother with open arms, or she may close herself off to protect herself from future heartbreak.  If it’s the latter, I’d prefer it if you were there for Miss Kincaid.”

Hob still felt that it wasn’t his place to interfere in Unity’s family reunion, but he agreed to visit the following day to provide emotional support if needed.

None was required.  He could tell from Unity’s beaming smile when he opened the door the day after Rose Walker’s visit that it had gone well.

“She’s magnificent!” Unity exclaimed when he asked how it had gone.  She thrust a heavy silver picture frame at him.  “Isn’t she beautiful?  One of the lovely girls took a picture of us and managed to develop it yesterday evening so I could put it on display!”

Hob looked down at the photo of a smiling Unity with her arm wrapped around the shoulders of a petite young woman with coloured dreadlocks framing her face.  She looked overwhelmed but happy at the same time.

“She’s lovely,” Hob told Unity sincerely.  Anyone who could bring Unity such joy was amazing in Hob’s book.

Unity rambled all through their customary tea and biscuits and Hob sat back and basked in her euphoria, letting her talk as much as she wished.

“Is she coming back again today?” he asked when Unity paused for breath.  “Any chance of meeting her?”

A small frown flashed across Unity’s face.  “I’m afraid she’s already headed back to the States.”

“What?  Already?  She just arrived!”

“Her brother is missing.  My great-grandson.”

“Missing?  How?”

Unity let out a large sigh, deflating in her chair.  “When my granddaughter broke up with her husband, he insisted on keeping their son.  Then he passed away and no one knows where poor Jed ended up.  We know he’s in foster care but that’s it.  Poor Rose is beside herself.”

“Is there anything I can do?  I could hire a private investigator.  See if they can find them.  I have the money.”

Unity gave his hand a squeeze.

“You, Cousin Hob,” she winked playfully at him, “are a dear, dear man, but I have money of my own.  Rose, with my financial help, will track down her brother in no time.  I’m sure of it!”

“Still,” Hob insisted, not liking this feeling of uselessness.  “If there is anything I can do, you will tell me and let me do it, right?”

“You can take me out for dinner on Thursday.  The manager has arranged for his latest theatrical ‘masterpiece’ to be performed, and I should relish the chance to miss it.”

“But poor Aarav has been suckered into playing the detective’s sidekick!  Ben and I were going to come and watch it to support him!”

Unity scowled at him.

“Oh…  Very well.  If our Aarav is in it, I suppose we must endure it.  But we shall all go out for dinner at the weekend.  And you tell Ben he has to drive.  Poor Aarav will need a drink after all that.”

“He doesn’t drink,” Hob grinned at her.  

“Then I shall drink his,” Unity informed him.  “Tell him, he now drinks gin and tonic.

“Now, when do I get to meet this fancy man of yours?”

“Once I’m sure he won’t run for the hills at the mere suggestion,” Hob laughed.  “It’s only been a week.  I think he’s entitled to at least two more before I inflict you on him!”

Unity smacked him playfully on the arm for that, but dropped the subject.  

The truth was, Hob wasn’t sure how to break it to Dream that he was hanging out with the sole other survivor of the Sleeping Sickness.  He had no idea how Dream would take it, and he was reluctant to rock the boat so early on in their now established relationship.  He realised, of course, the longer he put it off, the more awkward it would be when he did eventually tell Dream.

That only made putting it off easier.

He kept telling himself that he would tell Dream once the Dream Lord stopped being so busy.  Hob had found himself back in charge of the Dreaming during his sleeping moments as Dream was devoting all his time to searching for the Dream Vortex, with Lucienne and Matthew being the only two allowed to assist him.

The entire kingdom was rife with rumours of the elusive Vortex and Hob and the council’s main issue at present was quelling the ever growing panic that was beginning to consume the realm.  

There was also something strange going on somewhere in the Dreaming, but Hob had been unable to discover what.  He didn’t know how he knew, but he had a gut instinct that there was an interloper lurking somewhere in the kingdom.  He just didn’t know where or how to find them.  Several times he’d started walking to where he thought the disturbance was coming from, only to be woken up by his alarm before he got there.

It was frustrating, though not as frustrating as finally being allowed to kiss Dream only for him never to be around to kiss!  The sooner his lover found and destroyed this Dream Vortex the better, Hob thought churlishly.   

But when Dream did finally appear for a visit, it was not with the news Hob wished for.

Hob found him one evening in Hob’s own bed, leaning against the headboard, legs stretched out, eyes closed in contemplation and with a fierce scowl marring his handsome features.

“What’s up love?” Hob asked as he crawled up next to him and took one of Dream’s cold hands in his.  Dream gripped it tightly and pulled Hob into his side so Hob was forced to lie with his head on Dream’s chest.  Not that Hob was complaining, though it did put his neck at a weird angle.

“I have lost the respect of my subjects.”

“Dream,” Hob tried to sit up so he could face his lover, but Dream’s arms had sneakily made their way around him, making it impossible.  Now that Hob had openly welcomed Dream’s attention, the Dream Lord was not shy about bestowing it.  “Trust me on this, your subjects respect you.  I had over a hundred years to listen to tales of your rule and they were all uttered in tones of awe, occasionally sprinkled with a healthy dose of fear.”

“Your friendship with my Nightmare turned Dream has caused her to fear me no longer, or she would not have let a child impersonate me in a dream,” Dream told him darkly.

Hob forced himself out of Dream’s arms so he could look the King of Nightmares in the face.  The anger he feared to see (for Gault’s sake) was there, but also, and it broke Hob’s heart, was undeniable hurt.

“What happened, love?”

“I found the Dream Vortex.”

Hob’s heart leapt.

“You did?  You mean it's over?  You’ve… neutralised them?”  Even with the euphemism, it still sounded harsh to Hob and he felt vaguely guilty over so casually dismissing the ending of a human life.

“No.  My errant Nightmare is still at large.  I cannot deal with the Vortex until she has drawn him to her.”

Hob looked at his lover incredulously.

“That is the stupidest plan I have ever heard,” he told Dream bluntly.

Dream instantly let go of him and pushed him away, clearly offended.  He opened his mouth, no doubt to deliver some scathing retort but Hob did not give him a chance.

“No, it is!” he insisted.  “I mean, you’ve found the Dream Vortex.  Who we have already established is a danger not just to your kingdom, but to this world as well.  And instead of eliminating the threat immediately before anything can go wrong, you decide to let it continue as it is and hope for the best?  That’s a stupendously bad idea.”

“The Corinthian-”

“Can be tracked down another way!  In a way that doesn’t put everything at risk!  In a way that doesn’t put this poor, poor woman in the path of a vengeful nightmare!  You’re already going to have to kill her.  Why torture her by forcing her to tangle with your worst ever creation?”

Dream scowled, so Hob knew he had reluctantly seen his point.  Although that didn’t mean he was willing to amend his plan.

“You sound like Lucienne.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.  She’s one of the most responsible people I know.”

“Then I’ll tell you what I told her.  I realise that in my absence you were both compelled to act as you thought was best and while I did not initially show it, I am grateful.  But I am back now.  Do not contradict or question decisions you cannot fully comprehend.”

Hob loved Dream, but at this moment he didn’t like him very much.  

And he didn’t have to stick around if this was how Dream was going to treat him.  He heaved himself off the bed and left the room.  Not even sparing Dream a look as he headed downstairs to grab a beer and a snack and park himself moodily in front of the television.

Dream, of course, didn’t have enough sense to leave well enough alone.  He trailed behind Hob, despite Hob giving him the cold shoulder.

He made it through one episode of the BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice that Ben’s mum had recommended to Hob, before he broke and leaned heavily into Hob’s side, refusing to let Hob ignore his presence any longer.

“I know my words seem harsh Hob, but you need to trust that I know what is best.”

“Your best sounds bloody stupid,” Hob snapped.  “And I still don’t know how all this connects to you being mad at poor Gault.”

“The Vortex was looking for someone.  I thought if I helped her I could keep an open eye on her without her suspicion.  Matthew has been watching her in the Waking World and I’ve been with her in the Dreaming.  We searched together for the dream of the child she was looking for and found ourselves playing the villains in an insipid superhero fantasy Gault had created for him, where the hero of the hour was a young boy who was, in fact, the Sandman.”

Hob couldn’t help it.  He wasn’t able to stifle the snort of laughter that erupted when he imagined Dream’s face when he came face to face with a boy declaring he went by one of Dream’s monikers.

Hob quickly schooled his face into a more serious expression when he realised Dream didn’t find it at all amusing.

“And what did Gault have to say about all this?”

“I have not spoken to her yet, but she knew I was displeased.  Let her reflect on that until I’m ready to deal with this insult.”

“Dream, love, I doubt she meant it to be insulting.”

“What else can it be?”

“Well,” Hob couldn’t help the amused smile, forgetting that he was still angry at Dream.  “They do say imitation is a form of flattery.  She wanted to give this kid the best dream she could and so she made him into a version of the most powerful and impressive entity she knew.  

“Should I be offended that she didn’t make him… I don’t know ‘The Immortal Knight’ or something?  I thought I was her best friend.  Why did she pick you? ”

His complaint had the desired effect of stroking Dream’s ego - he really was the most vain creature - and soothing any ruffled feathers.  Gault would probably get off with nothing worse than a half-hearted warning to be more respectful, if Hob was any judge.

Dream, now content, wormed an arm around Hob’s waist and fished the remote out from between the couch cushions.  Part of Hob wanted to protest that he still thought Dream’s idea was stupid.  But a larger part of him was content to lean into Dream’s arms and trust that Dream knew what he was doing.

Chapter Text

Dream did not know what he was doing.

That became clear to Hob the moment he discovered the nature of the disturbance in the Dreaming.  It had been bothering him so much that he’d even acquired sleeping pills so he could take long naps during the day just to try and get to the bottom of it.  Unity was starting to worry about him.

There was a dead person in the Dreaming who shouldn’t be there.  

Hob and Luke had finally found what had been bothering Hob’s slumbering wanderings.  A truly hideous, in their opinion, glass monstrosity that was masquerading as a house.  It was the kind of house that Ben’s dad sighed longingly over when they appeared on the TV.  Ben’s mum, on the other hand, would snort and ask, quite rightly as far as Hob was concerned, who would want to live in a house where all and sundry could peer inside and see you lazing around in your pants?

The dead bloke inside the eyesore was lounging about in his boxers scratching an unseemly itch when Hob rapped his knuckles on the glass.

“What are you doing here?” the dead man exclaimed, rushing over to slide open a glass door. 

“I think the more important question is what are you doing here?” Hob asked, wrinkling his nose as the smell of decay washed over him with every breath the dead guy exhaled.  Dream had once told him that he occasionally offered his kingdom as an afterlife to a few exceptional mortals, but Hob had met them, and the clawing rotting smell never hung about them.  This man was not here at Dream’s invitation, Hob was sure of it.

“I live here.  Now you need to go.”

Luke, one wing covering his face in an attempt to block out the stench, gave a caw-like snort.  “We’re no the ones trespassin’.  We dinnae need tae go anywhere.”

“This is my house!  I built it!”

“You get permission for that?” Hob queried dryly.  “You know, seeing as how this isn’t your land.”

The man was looking desperate.  “My wife will be here any minute.  You need to leave!”

“Your wife?” Hob drew back slightly in astonishment.  Was the wife dead as well?

“She’s going to come and live with me here.  In the house we designed together.  We’re going to be parents.  Just like we always planned to be.  Before the accident.  I’m begging you.  Please leave.”

Hob and Luke shared a look.  Dead husband desperate to spend time with his pregnant sleeping wife.  It broke both their hearts.

And that poor woman.  Having to prepare to give birth and raise her baby without her husband.  No wonder she was desperate to live in her dreams.  

But that didn’t change the fact that this was wrong.  Hob knew it.  Luke knew it.  It felt wrong .  Every time they looked at the poor guy in front of them, a feeling of revulsion swept over them, warring with their new-found pity.

“Look mate,” Luke bravely removed the wing from in front of his face.  “Whit’s yer name?”

“Hector.”

“Hector, mate.  Ye cannae jus’ squat here.  This here is a kingdom.  Wi a proper king.  Ye need permission fer shit like this.”

“No one was here when I arrived.  No one has bothered me apart from you two!”

“Well, we’ve had a bit of a situation going on,” Hob rejoined.  “Been rather distracted lately.  But you’d have been discovered by someone else soon enough.”  

Hob sighed in frustration and ran an agitated hand through his hair.  He didn’t like this.  He didn’t want to have to kick out the bloke who just wanted to live the life he should have had in the Dreaming with his wife.  How often had Hob sought out Eleanor and Robyn in his dreams?  But at the same time, the thought of allowing Hector to stay made him feel physically sick.

“Luke,” he decided.  “You stay with Hector.  I’m going to find Lucienne and see if she has any ideas about… all this.”

Hob knew all the shortcuts by now and it only took him a brief walk to a small meandering stream nearby and a hop across it to find himself at the bridge over the palace moat.  He hurried across and ducked through the doors and used his inside knowledge of the palace layout to turn a swift right into the library.

Ever since Dream had had ‘words’ with her, Lucienne was rarely to be found out of her library.  Hob had taken to keeping her company, when he wasn’t exploring the Dreaming for whatever was wrong, and letting her rant in her quiet, understated way, about self-centred bastards who didn’t know how to show gratitude.  Of course, Lucienne would never put it quite as bluntly as that, but Hob knew how to read between the lines.

To his absolute delight, Dream was in the library with her and, from the forced casual tone of his voice, Hob knew that he’d just uttered his version of an apology.  By his standards that had taken him hardly any time at all!  Hob was so proud. 

He hung around the stacks for a few moments, giving them space to clear the air, before making his presence known.

“...This is something else, something new,” Dream was saying, head bent close to Lucienne’s as they conferred.

“Perhaps,” Lucienne retorted, clearly not convinced.  “But if there is something new in the Dreaming and you did not create it, how did it get here?  This is the Vortex, I assure you.”

“I’ve found what’s new,” Hob stepped around the bookshelves so they could see him.  They both looked up at him in surprise, so intent on their conversation that they hadn’t heard him approach.  “And you’re not going to like it,” Hob told Dream grimly.  

Lucienne didn’t like it either.  She muttered darkly to herself as Dream stormed out of the library, black coat billowing ominously behind him.  “Only the Vortex could allow something like this to slip through,” she told Hob irritably.  “He needs to end it, before irreversible damage occurs.”

“He’s doing his best,” Hob murmured gently.

She scoffed.  “That’s the love talking,” but she did give him a miniscule smile as she said it.  “His best would have been to end the Vortex the moment he discovered who she was.  The longer Rose Walker is allowed to break down the barriers between the Dreaming and everything else out there, the worse it will be.”

Hob froze.

Surely not.

It couldn’t be.  

There were probably dozens of Rose Walkers out there.  Hundreds.  Thousands.

Right?

“Rose Walker?” he croaked.  Not sure he wanted to know the answer to his next question.  “Not Unity Kincaid’s great-granddaughter?”

Lucienne grabbed a book from the desk with the girl’s name printed across it and flicked through.  “...Yes.  Unity Kincaid was the only other survivor of the sleeping sickness, wasn’t she?”

“Hmm…” Hob tried to hum non-committedly but immediately cracked under Lucienne’s severe gaze.

“She’s a friend,” he admitted.  “I got in touch with her a few weeks ago and ended up telling her everything.  Well, almost everything.  The immortality, not the running the Dreaming bit.  She just… gets it.  What it’s like to be awake in a world that has changed beyond recognition since you were last there.  The only other person to get it like that is Dream and he… wasn’t there much for a while.”

“So while Lord Morpheus was busy hunting for the Dream Vortex, you were making friends with the Dream Vortex’s great-grandmother?”  She sounded unfairly judgemental in Hob’s opinion.

“I didn’t know she was Rose’s great-grandmother!”  And Hob dearly wished he could unlearn Rose’s name.  Hob had been a soldier for longer than anyone probably should.  He’d grown up in a country riddled with never-ending bouts of plague.  The idea of Dream having to kill someone to keep the Dreaming and Waking World safe had honestly not bothered him very much, apart from worrying about how it would affect Dream.

But that was when the Vortex had been nameless and faceless.  

It was different now.

Now he knew her name.  Her face.  And how her death would completely destroy Unity.

He roared in frustration, a wordless, anguished scream and kicked the solid wooden chair in front of him, hard.

Lucienne stood calmly to the side, content to allow him to vent his frustration so long as he didn’t touch her books.  

When he’d quietened, she came over and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry it’s happened this way.”

“There’s no other way, is there?” Hob asked her hollowly.  “She’s got to die.”

“Yes,” Lucienne answered simply, and Hob appreciated the bluntness of the answer.

He ran an agitated hand through his hair.

“I need to wake up,” he declared.  “I need to warn Unity.  I can’t let her go into this blind.”

Lucienne’s face clearly showed what she thought of that suggestion, but she knew him well enough not to argue.

He meant to wake up and head straight to Unity’s nursing home before visiting hours were over, but Luke swooped in through his bedroom window before he’d finished getting dressed.

“Yer boyfriend’s a pillock” the raven declared as Hob hopped about struggling to get into the too-tight jeans Ben’s mum had bought him - all his other jeans had mysteriously disappeared the last time Ben and Aarav visited.

“Your raven is inordinately disrespectful,” Dream countered, suddenly appearing next to Hob with Matthew on his shoulder.

“I don’t know, boss.  I don’t think you handled that very well at all.”  At Dream’s stern glare, Matthew fluttered over to Hob’s dresser to perch there in relative safety.

“Ye dinnae threaten a wimman’s bairn!” Luke screeched, as angry as Hob had ever seen him.  

“I didn’t threaten,” Dream retorted with a snarl.  “I informed them of the consequences of their ill-thought out actions.  Do you think I want to be responsible for their child?”

“ And one day, I will come for it, ” Luke mocked in a truly appalling impersonation of Dream.

“It did sound a bit like a kidnapping threat,” Matthew added helpfully.

“It was not-” 

“Enough!”  Hob had finally managed to get his jeans on and all Ben’s mum’s predictions of his lover being unable to take his eyes off him when he wore them had come to nought.  “Someone explain what’s just happened.

“Not you two,” he snapped as Luke and Dream opened their mouths simultaneously.  “Matthew, you explain.”

“Well,” Matthew ruffled his feathers nervously.  “It started off quite well.  The boss spoke to the dead guy, Hector, and told him he was dead and couldn’t stay.  Once the consequences of his presence were explained, he took it pretty well.  Obviously devastated, but resigned.  

“But then his wife came in with the Vortex, ‘cause they’re friends or something, and she refused to let him leave, so the boss dusted him, right in front of her.”

“Cruel,” Luke muttered.  

“She was never going to resign herself to letting him go again and the longer it went on the harder it would be when he inevitably had to go,” Dream seethed.

“As upset as she was for her friend, Rose seemed to understand that,” Matthew continued hastily before Dream could say anything else.  “Don’t think she liked the way the boss did it, but she understood he had to.  But then the boss told the wife that her child had been conceived in the Dreaming, which made it his, and that meant he would come for it.  

“And then,” Matthew spoke more loudly when he realised both Luke and Dream were about to start yelling at each other again, “he ended the dream, except Rose followed him into the palace and started threatening him, before she ended her dream and woke up.”

Hob waited for a moment in case Matthew had anything more to add, but the raven seemed to be done.

“Right,” Hob tapped his fingers nervously against his thighs, trying to process the shitshow he’d just missed.  He slowly lowered himself back onto his bed and sat with his head cradled in his hands.  What a mess!  Rose was Unity’s great-granddaughter and Dream had somehow acquired a child while pissing off Rose and the mother of said child.  He should have gone golfing with Ben’s dad instead of catching a nap to sort out this… this clusterfuck!

“You’re angry with me,” Dream observed in that cool detached way of his.  The way he always acted when he was deeply upset and trying not to show it.

“Of course he is, ye kidnappin’ wanker!” Luke fumed.

“Stop!”  Hob held up a hand, using the other to massage his now aching temples.  “I’m not angry, just trying to process everything.  Give me a minute, both of you.”

Eventually, he could put off the inevitable conversation no longer.

“What, in as close to a way as a human can understand, do you mean when you say the child is yours?  Does it being conceived in the Dreaming mean you’re its father?”

Dream visibly flinched.  “ No ,” he growled.  

Hob held up his hands placatingly.  He knew a little of Orpheus, Dream’s son.  Dream had mentioned him once and then refused to ever speak of him again.  As though he felt Hob ought to know of him but it was still too painful to speak about him.  Hob got it.  He had never pushed for more information from Dream, though Suadela and Dioka had had a wealth of tales.

“Step-father?” he tried.  “Honorary uncle?  Fairy godmother?”  The last suggestion earned him a small smile.

“I suppose,” Dream considered his question for a few seconds.  “The closest you’d get is foster-father.”

“So you’ll be responsible for them.  They’ll be your… ward, I guess.”

“ Our ward,” Dream declared, dropping down onto the bed to sit next to Hob and grabbing his hand.  

“Ours?” Hob questioned, gripping Dream’s hand tightly as he felt the miniscule tremble.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Luke and Matthew both subtly trying to shuffle towards his open bedroom door.

“Yes,” Dream nodded his head, as though trying to convince himself that this wouldn’t end disastrously.  “I’m not doing this alone.  I’m going to need your help.  You can deal with the mother.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Hob agreed.

Chapter Text

“Matthew’s right, though,” Hob declared.  “You didn’t handle that very well at all.”

“She was irritating.”

“She was losing her husband all over again,” Hob countered mildly.  The best way to deal with Dream was to be annoyingly reasonable.

“After she and her husband violated my realm.”

“Which they had no idea they were violating.  They had no way of knowing they were putting you in an awkward position.”

Dream sneered but made no further argument, proving Hob had won that round.  Though he wasn’t so sure he’d win the next.

“I have a confession to make,” he admitted, not liking the way Dream immediately tensed next to him.

“I’m friends with Rose Walker’s great-grandmother.”

Whatever Dream had been expecting, it wasn’t that.  He opened his mouth, paused, then shut it again.  For a couple of horrible, drawn out minutes, Dream stared at him in silent contemplation.  Hob could do nothing but wait anxiously.

“Unity Kincaid,” he finally spoke.  “The only other person in this world who can relate to what you’ve been through.  Especially as I have been so busy recently.”

Hob blinked stupidly at the Dream Lord.  He hadn’t expected this quiet acceptance.  He’d expected Dream to fly off the handle.  To yell at him.  Not to take a moment to try and understand what he’d done.

This, beyond everything else, was proof that Dream had changed.  Not just from his time in captivity, but from his time with Hob .

“Yeah,” Hob croaked, shifting along the bed so he and Dream were pressed thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder.  “It’s been nice talking to her.  She’s an amazing woman.  You’d like her.

“And I had no idea that her great-granddaughter was the Dream Vortex.  I’m going to have to tell her, Dream.  I need to be there for her when she loses her great-granddaughter.”

Dream sighed wearily, dropping his head so his cheek was pressed against Hob’s hair.

“You and Lucienne were right.  I should have ended this swiftly when I first found the Vortex.  Now everything is spiralling out of control and… I do not wish to kill her.  Not now I know the girl.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Hob whispered, because what else could he say?

They stayed where they were for a moment, taking comfort in each other, until Dream’s head suddenly snapped up.

“I must return to the Dreaming.  Fiddler’s Green has returned.”

Dream rose and Hob followed him.

“Should I…”

“No,” Dream cut him off, but softened the rejection with a brief kiss.  “You have a much harder task ahead of you.  I know it will mean little, but tell Unity Kincaid I am sorry it has to be this way.”

And then Dream disappeared and Luke flew back into the room.

“Whit noo, Rab?”

At least Luke had also calmed down.  Hob ran a tired hand over his face as he thought.

He’d definitely missed the last bus to Unity’s nursing home.  He and Dream had spent too long talking.

Ben and Aarav were in Spain, on a much deserved holiday, and wouldn’t be back until the following evening, so neither could give him a lift.

He could take a taxi but, by the time he got there, dinner and visiting hours would be over and he knew Unity liked an early night.  Better to wait until the morning.

If he booked a taxi now, he could get one to take him first thing.  It was the best plan he could think of.

He and Luke passed an anguished night together, both unable to sleep and filled with a sense of hopelessness that made them restless.

They tried watching TV, but nothing held their attention for longer than five minutes and when they attempted to play Monopoly, Luke ended up flipping the board with his wing and declaring Hob ‘the worst cheat’.  It was amazing how board games could turn the nicest person Hob had ever met into a grouchy sod.

They ended up spending most of the night sipping tea in silence, occasionally piping up to assure the other that whatever Dream was up to, he was probably fine.  Neither could lie to the other about how well they thought the upcoming conversation with Unity would go.

It was a relief when the taxi arrived with the pale morning light.

The cab driver was content to let Hob stew in silence as Luke flew back to the Dreaming to get an update from Lucienne.  Luke had offered to come with him, to be there when he broke the news to Unity, but Hob knew this was a conversation he needed to face alone.

The Dreaming was his kingdom (well, Dream’s, but it had been Hob’s for over a century).  It was his responsibility to tell Unity about it and the threat her great-granddaughter posed to it and the entire universe.

Hob had fully expected to have to wait in the foyer until Unity woke up, but when the nurse popped her head round the door to check, she found Unity already awake.

She hadn’t yet got out of bed, but she didn’t seem to care about Hob visiting while she was still in her nightdress.  She waved off his offers to wait until she was dressed and bade him sit down on the edge of her bed.  She looked troubled.

“Hob… If anything happened to me, you’d look after them, wouldn’t you?  Rose and Jed.”

Hob stared at her dumbly, unsure what to say in reply when he knew what was about to happen to Rose.  Why was she asking this of him now ?

“Please!” she gripped his hand tightly with both of her own.  “Please say you’ll look after them.”

“Unity,” he croaked.  “What’s brought this on?  Has the doctor said something?”

“No,” she shook her head.  “No, nothing like that.  I can’t explain…”  She paused and then she stared at him, as though seeing him properly for the first time.

“Except I can, can’t I?  You’re probably the only person I can talk to about this.”

“You can tell me anything,” Hob assured her.

She still hesitated, unsure he would believe her despite the impossibility of his long, immortal life.  

“When I first woke up… There was something missing.  It wasn’t something physical.  It was this intangible part of me that I’m not sure I realised I’d ever had until I woke up and it was gone.  I think… I think Rose has it now.  And it’s dangerous.”

Hob closed his eyes, feeling the moisture build up behind his lids.  

It wasn’t fair.  None of this was fair.

“Yes,” he confirmed, voice hoarse.  “She has.  And it is.  She’s a Dream Vortex, and if she’s not stopped, she’ll destroy the universe.”

Unity inhaled sharply, a sob caught in her throat.  Hob could see she understood the implication of his use of the word ‘stopped’.

“We have to save her!” she cried.  “There’s got to be something we can do!”

“I don’t know,” Hob admitted.  “If there were any other option, Dream would have done it already.”

“Dream?”

“My… boyfriend, for lack of a better expression.  You might know him as Morpheus.  Lord of the Dreaming where we both spent so long trapped.  The one…” his voice stuttered, but he refused to be a coward.  Refused to leave the unspeakable unsaid.  “The one who is going to have to kill Rose to save the rest of us.

“I’m sorry Unity.  I didn’t know until yesterday.  I swear it.  I didn’t realise what Rose was, or what it meant.  I’m so, so sorry.” 

He was crying, but so was she.  He’d feared anger.  He’d feared condemnation.  But there was only sorrow and desperation.

“Help me then!” she demanded.  Unity had no time for anything but saving her great-granddaughter.  “Take me to the Dreaming.  To Morpheus.  There has to be a way for me to take this… this thing back from Rose.  It was supposed to have been me, I’m sure of it!  We need to make it me again.”

“But you’ll die,” Hob croaked, shaking his head.

Warm, wrinkled hands cupped his cheeks, forcing him to stare into Unity’s resolute eyes.  

“I’m over a hundred years old Hob,” she reminded him gently.  “Rose is twenty-one.  If one of us has to die, it should be me.

“It would have been nice to have lived for a bit longer,” she gave a gentle laugh.  “But at least I did get to live.  Thanks to you and Luke and those two wonderful boys you dragged into my life.  Tell them I’m sorry I won’t be able to make it to their wedding, but to raise a glass of gin to Aunty Unity, though Ben will have to drink both.”

“I don’t think he’ll mind that,” Hob sniffed.

"I don’t either.  Now stop trying to put this off.  We have to go and save Rose.”

She lay back down on the bed and looked at him expectantly.  Hob took a deep breath and lay down beside her, taking her hand in his again.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, shutting his own.  “We need to fall asleep.”

It should have been impossible.  They were both too keyed up by all the revelations of the previous ten minutes, but maybe a bit of what had made Unity the original Dream Vortex remained, because Hob felt her drifting off in less than a minute and she pulled him down into the Dreaming with her.

When he opened his eyes, they were in the library and Unity was already off, dragging him along past rows of books.

“Hob,” Lucienne called from behind him.  “What are you doing back here so soon?  Who is this?”

“This is Unity Kincaid.”  The woman in question barely paused to nod hello.  “Rose’s great-grandmother.  We think we’ve found a way to save Rose and the Dreaming.”

“But that’s impossible!” Lucienne exclaimed, following after them.

“It’s not,” Unity insisted.  “I just need to check something.  I need to read the book of my unlived life.”

Lucienne shot Hob a questioning look.  “I’m not sure we have those volumes.  We have books of Sleepers’ dreams.”

“No thank you - I’ve had quite enough of dreams,” Unity insisted.  

“You’ve got every book written and unwritten,” Hob countered.  “Unity’s life if she’d never been taken by the Sleeping Sickness has to be here somewhere.”

“Found me!” Unity called out jubilantly, snatching a book with her name upon it from the shelf and flicking it open.  They watched as she riffled through the pages, quickly scanning their contents.

“I was right!” she declared not even five minutes later.  “Come on.  We have to go.  I can save Rose and the Dreaming, but we need to go now! ”

Lucienne looked at Hob, and he dipped his head, confirming he believed Unity spoke the truth.  The librarian immediately sprang into action.

“This way,” she ordered, spinning around and leading them through the shelves, Unity and Hob following hastily behind her.  “They’re this way.”

She led them out of a side door and into paradise.  Greenery as far as the eye could see.  Wild flowers gave off a sweet, comforting scent, and a warm breeze embraced them.  Hob could feel Fiddler’s Green’s soothing presence all around them, urging them gently forward towards the two people they could just make out in the distance.

Dream had his hand raised, and Rose, Unity’s Rose, had her eyes closed in acceptance.  Hob put on a burst of speed and the other two copied him.  They couldn’t be too late.  Not now.  Not when Unity was here to save her!

“My lord, stop!” Lucienne exclaimed as they burst onto the scene.

Dream looked at the three of them in astonishment as Rose cried out to her great-grandmother.

“This is Unity Kincaid,” Lucienne started to explain but Unity quickly jumped in.

“I am Rose’s great-grandmother,” she declared fearlessly, still clutching the book of her unlived life.  “And according to this book, I was meant to be the Vortex of this age.  But because you were imprisoned and locked out of the Dreaming, that fate was handed down to my descendants.”

“I don’t understand,” Dream confessed and Hob wanted to run to him and hold him close, but this wasn’t his moment.  It was Unity’s and Hob didn’t want to let another inch of space separate them any further either.  He wanted to hold on tight to her and not let her go.  But that was a selfish thought on his part.  Unity had made up her mind.

If the situation had been reversed?  If Hob could have given up his life to save Robyn’s, would he have done it?  Hob wanted to say ‘yes’.  Of course he would.  But if he was honest with himself, he couldn’t be totally sure.  He did, after all, love life so much.  

But Unity was here.  Willing to do what Hob was not sure he could, and as much as he hated it, he had to let her.

Unity scoffed.  “You’re not very bright, are you?”  And Hob couldn’t help the weak chuckle that escaped him as Unity sassed the Dream Lord.  

Dream’s eyes flicked towards him, brows furrowed in confusion and Hob did his best to give him a reassuring smile as Unity talked to Rose.

They all watched in astonishment as the girl reached inside her own chest and pulled out a glowing crystal red heart.

Hob would have missed it if he hadn’t been so attuned to Dream’s facial expressions, but something about the heart definitely unsettled his lover.  Whatever it was, Lucienne seemed to guess, and if Dream didn’t spill the beans then Hob was going to be grilling the Librarian.

Unity took the heart from Rose reverently, before turning to Dream with a triumphant smile.

“I’m the Vortex now, Dream King, as I should have been long ago.  So, leave my great-granddaughter alone.”

She turned to look at Hob.  “You’re still next to me, right?  Still lying next to me, holding my hand?”

Hob had to wrestle his words past a hot lump in his throat.  “Of course.”

She smiled at them all and looked down at the heart in her hand as it cracked open and bathed her in a flash of red light.  

In the back of Hob’s mind he felt her hand in the Waking World go limp in his own and heard her sigh out her last breath.  He had to turn away from them all in the Dreaming.  Stuff his clenching hands in his pockets and look up at the sky as he blinked back tears.  

He ignored the conversation behind him, taking a moment to piece himself back together so he could face Unity with the smile she deserved.  She’d saved Rose.  She had done what she wanted.  Hob didn’t want her feeling sad for him.  Even though there would be no more wild escapes from the nursing home.  No more quiet chats over tea and cake.  No person left in the Waking World who understood Hob so well.

Unity could stay here, in the Dreaming if Dream let her and if she wanted.  Dream had been willing to offer that to Rose.  Surely he would offer the same to Unity.  Hob could introduce her to all of his friends in this realm.  Take her to The Almost White Horse.  There would be tea and cakes and wild adventures they could have here.  She didn’t have to be gone completely.  Not like Eleanor and Robyn.  

He was able to turn around with something resembling a smile plastered across his face.  He’d obviously missed something though, because Dream and Lucienne looked spooked.

Unity was holding Rose in her arms, reassuring her that everything would be OK.

“Mr Holdaway will see to it that you and Jed have everything you need,” she promised Rose.  “And Hob will be there for both of you.  You can tell him anything.  He’ll understand.”  

Hob nodded, though neither looked over at him.  Dream’s hand forced his own out of its pocket and entwined their fingers together.  They glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes, and Hob knew that despite this clusterfuck, they’d be fine.  Neither blamed the other for this outcome.

As the two women broke apart, Dream approached Rose, and seeing as Hob wasn’t about to let go of his hand, Hob went with him.

“You and your brother are children of the Endless,” Dream stated, and Hob had definitely missed something while his back was turned.  “You have suffered enough.  You may leave this place.  Goodbye, Rose.”  

And then she vanished.

They all stood silently for a minute.  Taking in what had just happened.  

Hob pulled Dream to face him and gave him a short, sweet kiss.  Motivation for what he would need to do now.  There were nurses and a lawyer he would need to contact.  A funeral to organise.  Rose shouldn’t have to worry about any of that.  

“Come here,” he turned to Unity and let go of Dream.  Unity stepped willingly into his arms and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head as held her tight.  “You did it, you amazing woman!”

“Now, you get Lucienne here to introduce you to Gault.  She’ll look after you until you settle in.  I’ll be back this evening to see you, but I need to sort out everything in the Waking World now, so I’m going to wake up.”

If he made it sound like she would obviously stay here, maybe she and Dream would just accept it.

One last squeeze and a quick smile to Dream and he let himself drift back to consciousness.

Unity was still warm next to him and Hob gave himself a moment to cry.  Just for a moment, before he got up to flag down a nurse and call Mr Holdaway.  

No matter what, life went on.

Chapter Text

“Not a dry eye in the place,” Hob assured Unity as they sipped margaritas at the bar in The Almost White Horse.

“Is it wrong to be so happy about that?” Unity asked, twirling her straw absentmindedly through her fingers.  She sat across from him, now looking like a young woman in her twenties, in her prime and ready to experience death to the fullest.

“I mean, you’d be pretty upset if they were all smiling at your funeral.  I think this is one of those rare occasions where you can be pleased people were sad.  Ben and Aarav arranged a piss-up afterwards and invited all the care home staff who could make it.  Ben toasted you at least six times, every time someone handed him a gin.  

“Jed really enjoyed hearing stories about you from Aarav and Mr Holdaway.  And I think he ate almost all the canapes by himself.  I was surprised he didn’t make himself sick.”

“And Rose?”

Hob hesitated.  The truth was, Rose had looked ill.  Like she hadn’t slept since Unity had died.  He’d tried to talk to her but she had politely sent him on his way.  She wanted to talk to him about everything, she assured him, but not yet.  She wasn’t ready yet.  When she was, Hob would be there.

“Think she’s planning to write a story inspired by all this.”  He’d overheard her tell Lyta.  

“Good!  That’s got to be therapeutic, right?”

Hob nodded.

“How are you liking the Dreaming so far?”  

Unity smiled widely.  Hob loved that smile.  Even on her now young face, it was still the same smile he remembered.  

“It’s divine!  I used to think I’d had enough of dreaming.  But that was when all I had were my own dreams.  Now… now there is a whole world at my fingertips and I can go anywhere!  Gault has been letting me tag along with her until I find my bearings.  This place can be confusing!”

“Yeah,” Hob agreed.  “But you’ll get the hang of it, and in the meantime Gault will keep you right.  She’s good at that.”

“We went stargazing in your observatory the other day,” Unity gushed.  She prattled on and on about her adventures with Gault.  Hob might have been imagining it, but he rather suspected Unity was developing a crush on the Nightmare turned Dream.

Well, good for her if she did.  Gault was certainly better than Unity’s last partner.  

Dream had confided in Hob his suspicions as to the identity of Unity’s ‘golden-eyed man’.  If Hob thought he had any chance of surviving an altercation, he would happily punch Dream’s sibling on the nose.  And break their legs.  See how many innocent young women Desire could hoodwink with a crooked nose and missing teeth.

Speaking of Desire…  Dream should be back from ‘visiting’ them by now.

He finished his drink with Unity, kissed her on the cheek and headed up to the palace.

Dream was in his throne room, sitting on the steps that led up to his throne and staring straight ahead in unnervingly still contemplation.

“Everything alright?” Hob checked as he approached.

“Desire has backed down for now, but they are no doubt brewing their next attempt to kill or maim me as we speak.”

“I’m sorry, love.”

Dream reached up and pulled Hob down next to him and laid his head on Hob’s shoulder.

“Did you speak to Lyta Hall?” he changed the subject and Hob let him.

“She’s still not your number one fan,” Hob admitted.  “Or mine, now that she knows I’m with you.  But I tried to impress upon her that no baby snatching was about to occur.  That Daniel would be naturally drawn to the Dreaming as he got older, thanks to the nature of his conception, but that he’d be better off having two wildly eccentric uncles there to keep him out of trouble.”

“Did she believe you?”

“Don’t think so,” Hob admitted.  “But I’ll explain the situation to Rose when she’s ready to talk to me, and I’m hoping she can convince her friend.”  He felt Dream nod wearily against his shoulder.

“I’m tired, Hob,” Dream admitted.

“Can’t say I blame you after all that.  But with any luck things will have calmed down now.  We can just enjoy being free and spending time together.  Did I tell you I signed up to this thing called ‘Open University’?  I’m going to get a degree!  And it’s all done over the computer!  What will us humans think of next?”

“Do you even know how to work a computer?” Dream asked, and Hob knew, without looking, that he was smiling.  

“Ben and Aarav are showing me how to work it.  I think they’ve changed their theory about me having an abusive family to me escaping from an abusive cult.”

Dream chuckled.  “And what will you study?”

“History!”

Dream sat up properly so Hob could see his eyebrows raised in astonishment.

“History,” Dream repeated.  “Hob Gadling, you’ve lived through history.  Why do you feel the need to study it?”

Hob grinned at his lover mischievously.  “Want to see what they got wrong.  Think I can somehow use myself as a source?”

Dream tipped his head back and laughed.  A proper joyous laugh and Hob felt his chest swell with pride at the achievement.

“Come on, Duck.”  He stood and pulled Dream to his feet.  “Let’s go watch the stars and dance under the moonlight or something.  I’m feeling romantic.”

“Duck?” Dream questioned.  “I thought I was a donkey.  A stupid donkey at that.”

Hob froze.

He’d only ever called Dream a ‘stupid donkey’ once.  In this very room, with no witnesses.  So how did Dream know?

Unless… Hob could feel his neck heat up with  embarrassment.  Had Dream somehow heard Hob’s confession when he returned to the Dreaming?

That was… mortifying.

Before Hob could somehow extricate himself from the awkwardness of this revelation, Dream spoke again.

He clasped Hob’s hands with his own and looked deep into his eyes so Hob could not escape the earnestness in Dream’s own.

“I did not love you from the beginning either,” Dream confessed.  “I didn’t even contemplate the possibility until I returned to my throne only to be confronted with your confession.  It was… brutally honest.”

Hob opened his mouth to automatically apologise, but Dream stopped him with a look.

“I’m glad you said it.  I’m glad you cared so much for me that you gave part of your heart to my kingdom.  That you were willing to call me out when very few others would.

“Stupid donkey pales in comparison to what my sister would call me when I am being particularly stubborn.  But if I'm sometimes a stupid donkey, then I’m happy to be your stupid donkey.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, love,” Hob admitted, unable to help the broad smile breaking out across his face.

He reeled Dream in for a kiss and then dragged him towards the door.  There were subjects to greet, Dreamers to guide, a certain Dream and former Vortex to matchmake.

But most importantly, there was still life to be lived.