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“I don’t suppose you care to find another pub tonight?” Hob suggested with halfhearted hopefulness, keeping his tone light and waving offhandedly at the mess around them. And what a mess it was. Spilled tea on the wooden floorboards inches away from his stranger’s shoes – so much for trying to defend him first, eh? Off to the side, two goons laid unconscious and a noblewoman whimpered in the throes of what looked like a waking nightmare.
Not exactly a standard Sunday evening at the pub, even by Hob’s storied experience.
His stranger looked thoughtful as he pondered the suggestion. Hob fully expected dismissal and the acknowledgement of another appointment in a hundred years’ time. After all, this had been their longest and most exciting meeting by far. He would take what he can get. Instead –
“That sounds sensible,” His stranger declared. For a moment Hob thought he must be dreaming, before the next question brought his consciousness firmly back to the present. “What do you have in mind, Robert Gadling?”
“Well,” Hob scrambled to gather his thoughts. “If it’s not too presumptuous, uh, as clearly I did foreseen something like this happening… We could go to my Club? I’ve booked a suite for myself for the night and it’s just a short walk away.”
His stranger considered that briefly, and came to a decision with a shake of his head. “No,” he said quietly, dark eyes trained on Lady Johanna. “She may have told others about our meeting. It may not be safe for you.”
“I’m perfectly safe!” Hob protested with light indignation, and was about to remark upon his own immortality when his stranger closed the distance between them, stepping delicately around shards of broken porcelain. Words died on Hob’s tongue as a cool hand grasped his elbow.
“Will you trust me, Robert Gadling?” His stranger asked.
“Yes,” Hob answered without hesitation. He did not know the name of the man next to him, or where their next destinations may be. Yet he knew, deep in his heart in a space beyond instinct and faith, that he would follow his stranger anywhere. “Yes, I do.” he declared, breathing reverence into his consent.
Peering into his eyes for a long moment, and evidently deciding he liked what he saw, his stranger released his hold on Hob to retrieve a pouch from his coat. The one that contained the power to summon old ghosts. Pouring a seemingly never-ending stream of glittering substance onto his open palm and letting it spill onto the floor, his stranger linked Hob’s arm with his own, as the particles – salt, or sand? – swirled around them.
So long, White Horse, Hob thought vaguely, giddy with excitement. A hundred years then.
Travelling with his stranger felt like being on a ship, with salt in his hair and salt on the tip of his tongue. There was a constant, rocking sensation, sprays of mist caressing his cheekbones. The light and shapes of the White Horse Tavern blended together before fading around them, and Hob saw constellations behind his eyelids. There was that rocking sensation the whole while, the feeling that his consciousness was steadily shaking loose inside his skull, solid matter dissolving into light. He was mass of sensations and images, a subconscious mind distilled into its purest form.
*
When Hob was a mere boy of eight years, he wanted to climb to the top of the cathedral.
Growing up by the coast, where two estuaries converged by the shores of the North Sea, young Hob and his pack of little mates would sneak out of their houses between first and second sleep. On nights when the moon shone bright and tides ran low, they would trek across exposed flatbeds to steal tiny parcels of treasure from the oyster farmers. Shucking oysters on the pebbled beach, looking up at the stars with the ocean suspended on the tip of his tongue, he wondered what the sky would taste like.
“If you drowned out there, no one would know for days,” his father warned, not unreasonable. “You’ll catch death much sooner than you might hope if you keep going on like this, boy. Keep your feet on the ground. Falling off a church will send you straight to hell.”
“Do you wish to touch the face of God, little chap?” Asked the learned gentleman at the tavern, stopping for a rest during his pilgrimage, taking an interest in the bright peasant boy with stars in his eyes.
Little Hob pondered this, as seriously as any child could. “No,” he answered eventually. “I want to travel past the stars. God’s house is the furthest up I can get, for now. At the top, the very top where I can pet the gargoyles, I want to reach up, and kiss the face of dream.”
*
Throughout the centuries, Hob has shared his life and his heart with many a beloved. None had met the family he was born into, or the acquaintances from his youth. He never shared much detail. I had a happy childhood, he would always say. That was never a lie.
He did not know why he thought of this when his stranger guided them across the night sky: through a starry ocean smooth as a mirror, past wondrous gates intricately carved, over an impossible bridge lit by a hundred torches, across a castle with many turrets, and towards the top of the highest tower. He did not know why, except it was a boyhood wish come true, and he felt happy.
After a heartbeat that may well have been an eternity, the shimmering dust settled, and their surroundings took shape once more.
A single thought dominated Hob’s mind as he looked around him: this is impossible. He should not be here, and even with his stranger on his arm, he tensed. He could not fully take in the room; it was all blurring together, a whirl of familiar smells and uproarious chatter and a tune that fell out of fashion when Queen Bess sat on the throne.
Off to the side, someone yelled, too loud, and he did not actually jump but was vaguely aware his stranger may have noticed the twitch.
“Do you recognize where we are?” His stranger asked, turning to face him. In the light of candelabras that should exist only in memory, his eyes sparkled.
“Yes,” Hob took a deep breath, desperately wanting to get to the point, before the urge to either make his escape or get very drunk overtook him, “We are at the White Horse.”
“Indeed we are,” his stranger nodded. Letting go of Hob and making his way over to a laden table tucked in the alcove, he picked up an offering from the bounty on display with deliberate ease. “Venison pasty? I was told they are good.”
This cannot be happening, Hob thought. The notion of time travel seemed ridiculous. But in the end, he supposed it cannot be any more ridiculous than immortality. He sat down gingerly, accepting the pasty, while his stranger proceeded to sample the offerings, with the urbane ease of a man born to authority.
“Did we just travel back through history and turn the clock back two hundred years?” Hob asked as he took a bite. The pastry crumbled exactly the way he remembered. He swallowed, and took another good look at his companion, who sipped his wine and seemed more at eased than he had ever been during their meetings. “Are you… Father Time? Thought you’d look older.”
“I am not my father,” his stranger answered with a small smile playing on the edge his lips. And what now? Before Hob could voice that thought out loud, his stranger continued to speak, answering a part of his previous question: “And we did not go back in time. Not exactly. This is a dream, Hob Gadling. Constructed with elements lifted from both our memories, but a dream nonetheless.”
“A dream,” Hob repeated numbly, and his eyes went wide. For a horrible instant he could not help but wonder: “So, this all in my head? Is my body currently passed out in the floor next to Lady Johanna, out there in the real world?”
“No, Hob.” His stranger answered patiently. “You are here with me. We may be in a dream, but it is all quite real, in your sense of the word.” He explained as he grabbed a piece of lamb and poured more wine, elegant as any aristocrat. Basked in the light from the flames in the fireplace, the wine was the exact same shade as the gem he wore. “And where were we, before we were so rudely interrupted?”
Hob, still reeling, forced himself to ponder the invitation. He needed to take this chance, and not risk waiting another hundred years, not knowing. “Yes indeed. I was asking, dear stranger. Who are you, truly? Tell me, what is your name?” He hoped that was the right thing to say.
“We have known each other for precisely four hundred years, Hob Gadling, and I have good reason to expect our acquaintance will last many more.” His stranger offered in lieu of an answer, keeping his gaze on the ruby liquid in his glass. “You do not yet realize this – although you will, as you spend more time around me in the coming years, come to understand a simple fact. While a name may seem a mundane formality to you, in some circles it can carry a price. And have great power.”
A shift, and his stranger looked directly into Hob’s eyes: “I have many names. Some, in jest, have said I collect them out of amusement. How little do they know. I am Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless. Does that answer your question, Robert Gadling?”
“Morpheus.” Hob tested out the name slowly, letting the syllables roll off his tongue, trying to not feel dizzy. Isn’t he just dreamy? That thought came out of nowhere, and Hob chewed on the inside of his cheek to put a stop to that chain of thinking. He needed to focus.
Then, like two pieces from those novel jigsaw puzzles, something about that name clicked, snapping neatly into place, into a map he could follow.
Morpheus. The Shaper of Forms. The Prince of Stories. The Dream King.
Over the centuries, Hob had ample time and opportunity to research his old stranger, to attempt to uncover his identity. He chose not to actively do so, as a part of him always hoped said stranger may one day do him the courtesy of letting him know himself.
In the early days, he travelled the country and the continent in search of the next war, consciously picking up bounties and inadvertently collecting tavern tales told in the evenings. Later, during a rare period of peace, over long days and slow evenings at the printing press, he devoted himself to the study of languages, in order to devour the contents of the materials he assembled and distributed. Works of scripture and history and political pamphlets, sure, but also legends and parables from ancient and faraway lands.
Sleep and dreams personified were not unusual in tales, and as he stared at the pale figure by his side, it occurred to Hob that the Dream King was not just a fairy story.
“You – with Lady Johanna back at the pub. You blew sand in her eyes – you’re not Father Time.” Hob said with a certainty that surprised even himself. He could not take his eyes off his companion, who had been watching him carefully the whole while. “You’re the sandman.”
His stranger – Lord Morpheus, the Dream King – nodded, and smiled at him, looking pleased, like he had won something here.
Before Hob could dwell on this further, the lad from the table to the side jumped up from his seat and broke out in verse – as if on cue – to eulogize Doctor Faustus and voice his wish of immortal dreams. Good old Shaxberd.
“Now that we’ve established you’re above trading in souls,” Hob joked, “Will you be heading off with old Will here and leave me to my lonesome, again?”
“No, Hob,” the Dream King replied, completely serious. “Tonight you shall have my full attention.” For a moment, the looked he aimed at Hob had a different sort of intensity, something substantive – suggestive –, something that seemed out of place with the casual distance between them.
And then the look was serious again, the moment gone, and Hob decided he must have imagined it. Despite the peculiarities of his surroundings, Hob felt himself begin to relax. And he couldn’t help but wonder -- Why, of all places, bring me back here?
At each of their previous meetings, the Dream King listened as Hob recounted his life over the past century. His trials and tribulations. Fortunes made, lost, and regained. Over the years, Hob had consciously collected stories he thought his stranger would find interesting, had them suitably embellished, so he could talk for hours in the hopes of prolonging his mysterious company. At the back of his mind, something about the way this particular meeting ended had always bothered Hob, and it had nothing to do with Shakespeare.
“You know, I’ve had a lot of time to ponder this particular time we met, during those miserable decades that followed,” Hob began, speaking slowly, “You just left – I wasn’t bothered by that per se – you did always come and go as you pleased. What really bothered me was you left without asking the question you always asked.” Hob stopped and started again, making sure he got his words right. He had an inkling he might not like where this line of conversation would lead. But he had to know. “You didn’t ask, back in 1589, whether I still wished to live.”
The Dream King looked at him evenly. His gaze was penetrating. “You were happy. I did not need to ask to know the answer.”
“Indeed you did,” Hob agreed. He swallowed hard, deflecting with a joke to buy himself a bit more time, before this conversation made its inevitably way back to loss and heartbreak: “And how silly Sir Robert Gadlen was, bragging about hosting a Queen while a King met him for supper. Although in his defense, he had not yet realized his old stranger is in fact, a monarch of his own.”
The Dream King smiled at him, amused. Lit by flames and accentuated by shadow, his profile was … well, it was captivating, for a lack of a better word. Now that Hob allowed himself to look, his old stranger was very beautiful indeed. He had the most mesmerizing eyes, where starlight can be appreciated even on the clearest blue day. Hob was aware this creature was eons old and powerful beyond his comprehension, and he did not care. He keenly felt the need to know him better, to find out what he was made of beneath the dark fineries.
“I used to wonder,” the Dream King spoke, momentarily shattering the illusion. “This may sound odd to you, but I could have dropped in on your dreams whenever I wished. But I never did. I stayed away from you in the Dreaming so I can learned about your experience in your own words. Had I known about your loss, your struggles, your pain, I could have offered you some measure of comfort, if only at night.”
Hob shrugged, “You always insisted I can live life on my own terms. Our friend Shakespeare put it more eloquently than I ever could, but at the end of the day, loss and grief are a part of life. I buried my family. I said goodbye. I mourned. I still continue to mourn. Even if I can’t quite move on after two hundred years.”
The Dream King tilted his head slightly, conceding a point. Very subtly, his think fingers clinched, fingertips disappearing into his palm. There was a story there, Hob could tell. When he spoke, his voice was even. “In spite of the certainty of loss, you still wish for the companionship of a beloved. A family, perhaps.”
“Well,” Hob replied simply. “Perhaps someday, if.” He could not even bring himself to complete the thought.
“If,” the Dream King mused on the notion, and he looked Hob in the eyes. That was when Hob recognized what he had been missing.
He was devastated.
“What was it like, for you?” he asked, dark eyes wet and voice cracking, barely above a whisper.
He was not asking about the changes in profession, or the latest development in creature comforts. He was asking about Hob’s family. The loss of his wife. His son. Hob knew the sort of answers he was supposed to give to a concerned friend. Something warm and uplifting, something out of the stories grown-ups tell children. Time heals all wounds, and all that. Certainly nothing that would upset a sympathetic ear further. And nothing like the truth.
Hob was not quite sure how to go about discussing this. He thought perhaps you could only really understand if you had lived through it, experienced heartbreak firsthand, and that was not really helpful. And it was not as if he hasn’t known death and loss before, so saying it’s more or less like the rest of my life, except the people dying were not in the plague pits or on the battlefields of France. It’s in my own bed, under my own roof, and it hurts infinitely more than hunger, or poverty, or drowning wasn’t going to be useful to a celestial being like the Dream King trying to better understand the human condition.
“I’m not sure if I can explain,” Hob said honestly. And then he tried anyway, because his otherworldly friend was looking at him like he could experience a thousand heartbreaks all at once, and Hob felt like he owed it to the universe to make sure the curator of the world’s subconscious was not going to crack from concern and fall into pieces. And he desperately wanted his old stranger to be happy. It was an intuitive, insistent yearning he could not quite rationalize.
“It’s … at the end of the day, it’s just life, really. After that kind of grief, it’s like life itself had been through a thorough shaking. It’s as if all the colors have been seeped out of the world. Food and wine have lost their taste. And as time goes on, there will be days, weeks, or even months at a time where you feel like you’re alright. But you’re never ever truly alright, because, hell, you could come across a tune she enjoyed, or a path you’ve walked together, or the same ale he used to drink. And then the memories come rushing back, it rushes back all at once and you feel the fresh pain all over again, and you hope to God you have enough muscle memory to tell you how to keep putting one foot ahead of the next. To get on with things. To just stay upright when your heart and brain can’t deal. And in the end of the day, you’re alone in a grey, tasteless world. But you go on.”
His friend never took his eyes off him, but now he was looking at Hob as if he expected there to be more talk about life’s riches and so much to live for somewhere in his monologue. Hob supposed that was preferable to despair.
“Is that so.”
“It does get better,” Hob felt compelled to add, because it was the truth. “I know it does. I know I’ll be alright. I’ve mostly kept my own company over the last two centuries while trying to build my life back up again, putting myself together even if I’m not sure how all the parts fit anymore. but do I know for sure I won’t be going through life by myself forever.” It was not a lie, not now, when the Dream King sat next to him in their pub, on their agreed date.
Hob collected consequences and mistakes alongside memories and stories, and had the scars to go along with each and every one, over his body and on his heart. There were few constants in his life, and he held onto them more greedily than what was perhaps sensible.
And even in my lowest moments, he thought, I knew I was not alone. I had our meeting to look forward to. He did not quite know where the thought came from. It’s not friendship, not exactly. They have known each other for four hundred years, but in some ways they were practically strangers. He knew next to nothing about this unimaginably powerful being sitting by his side, his old stranger, the Dream King. But he knew he could count on him being there for their next meeting, however infrequent and however brief they have been. Just looking at him, Hob knew in his heart beyond the shadow of a doubt: this man – creature – eternal being that wielded power beyond comprehension – trusted Hob to be there for him too.
At the end of the day, perhaps this connection was the reason they continued to meet, century after century. Perhaps that was why the Dream King decided to extend this particular meeting. Why he brought Hob back here, to conclude unfinished business, and to remind themselves when difficult times laid ahead.
And he looked at Hob and smiled. “Thank you.”
Then Hob realized he knew exactly why his friend had asked.
“You’ve lost someone too. And you’ve been alone.” Hob said. He wondered what that was like for someone older and more powerful than gods. At the rate their meetings went, Hob did not think he would learn the whole story anytime soon.
Hob did not voice a question aloud, but the Dream King answered anyway. “It was a long time ago now, even by your standards. And yes, I have been alone.”
And Hob looked at him, and he thought about the way his friend’s eyes burned, the way his cool touch lingered. He thought about all the mistakes he had made and about calculated risks. Then he thought, to hell with it.
He shifted over, moving into the Dream King’s personal space, close enough to smell salt and breathe in stardust. His friend’s eyes darkened, but he remained very still, and said nothing. Hob wanted to press kisses on the edge of that lovely mouth. He wanted to work his fingers under the layers of fine wool and dark silk, to see the Dream King without his armor. He wanted to show him life, brilliant and limitless; he wanted to leave him something warm to hold onto when he’s performing his duties, all by himself, somewhere out there in the cold, vast universe. He wanted to convince him grief was not endless. He wanted to sweep away the melancholy and show him joy.
“Hey.” Hob said, low and soft. “For tonight at least, we don’t have to feel lonely. We could have a great night together, if you’d like.” He whispered the offer, like it was a secret he’s giving up to the night, setting it free.
Well, that was not exactly his best line. Not quite Shakespeare, a critical part of himself snickered. But it would have to do.
The Dream King looked up, blue eyes meeting brown, stars aligning. He was holding his breath; Hob had not seen him exhale. He bit his lip.
This was always the worst part – the anticipation. Regrettably, Hob had been decked in the face on more than one occasion for asking; his instincts needed much refinement over the centuries. He was also absolutely certain his old stranger could do a lot more damage than any lad or lady, should he take exception to the offer.
(Years, centuries from now, when Hob’s asked about this moment, he would say he did not know what compelled him to reach out in this way. Somehow, he knew he could trust his intuition absolutely. Perhaps in the land of Dreams, where shadows lie in pale comparison to reality, intuition led to revelation. Or so the theory went.)
Then a smile began to form its way around the corners of the Dream King’s lips, small at first, then wider, as if Hob amazed him. Like he could not quite believe what was transpiring – not incredulous as if it was wrong, or obscene, or beneath him, but as if he simply never expected this.
“Hob,“ he whispered. “Is this what you wish, truly?”
Hob could not help but smile back. He felt like a man back on solid ground after taking a risk that could result in him floating out to sea. “Yes,” he said. “Absolutely. I would never say to you anything I did not mean.”
“If this is what you wish,” his friend said carefully, a shadow of surprise lingered in his voice, making it quiver, just a little. “Then you shall have it. A night with me, in this dream. For I wish to have this also.”
Hob took a glance at their surroundings, of a loving recreation of a scene from centuries ago, of old friends and acquittances and strangers from long past, cherished in memory and re-made with dream stuff. He was not yet versed in the mechanisms of the Dreaming, but he felt safe. For all intents and purposes, they were alone. “Right here?”
The Dream King shook his head with mild distaste, like a large house cat considering and then rejecting table scraps. “No, not right here. As much as I do remember this place fondly, we can do much better. Would you like to follow me?”
“Yes,” Hob said. The only appropriate response considering the circumstance, even though he had no idea where they may be going next. “Yes, please.”
His friend stood up and looked him over carefully, offering him one last smile before spinning on his heels and heading for the door.
Hob hesitated for a split second before following, staring after the Dream King and enthralled by the way he moved. He had made more than his fair share of reckless decisions over the centuries, too many to count, but this felt like a really, really good one.
Hob followed his friend through the door and into the room beyond, feeling his feet pad across dark, plush carpet. This must be the Dream King’s personal chambers, he realized. The bedroom itself was small but lavishly decorated – a jewel box with rich wooden panels and murals depicting scenes from legends never told in the waking world. Tristan and Isolde with a happy ending.
There was a single candle on the bedside table, casting long, flickering shadows across the vaulted ceiling. It was by no means dark – starlight and moonlight reflected off the monstrous chandelier, its crystals dusting pale light on every surface they touched.
The Dream King himself made his way over to his bed that may as well be a throne, and sat beneath soaring canopies draped in velvet the shade of midnight. He folded his hands delicately in his lap, and looked off into the distance. The windows, with their fine tracery, were only a few paces from the foot of the bed, but his gaze was thousands of miles aways.
He looked up when Hob finally stopped gaping at the room and shut the door behind him. From where he stood, Hob can see the Dream King’s wide, shiny eyes, his shoulders rigid with tension. Hob frowned.
“Changed your mind there?” Hob asked. “That’s alright, love. We will not do anything you don’t feel comfortable with. We can just sit, like the old friends we are, and chat some more. Have a bit more wine, share some stories.”
The Dream King was quiet for a moment. “No, I meant what I said earlier,” he said eventually, his voice steady. “I have made my choice. It’s … it has been a while since I have engaged in anything such as this. The last time I brought anyone back here, with me. Well. That was a different age.” He looked around the room, and Hob supposed his friend was not the kind of man who usually brought trysts back to his place.
“So, that night back at the White Horse. I take it you and old Shaxberd went somewhere else instead?” Hob went for the joke, hoping to lighten up the mood a little at his own expense. “I sat there like an idiot, you know, jilted by his beautiful stranger, left to drown away his sorrows with mutton.”
The Dream King tilted his head and laughed, like he couldn’t help it. “Oh goodness, no. Will and I simply spoke that night. I made him an offer, which he accepted. We met a few times after that, over the years. Once for a performance, and a few for harmless dalliance. I did show him my realm once, towards the end. But he was never here. Not in this heart of the Dreaming.”
“Wait a minute.” Hob could not believe he never made this connection before. “Shakespeare’s fair youth. That old fool was waxing poetic about you! I myself do not quite have the imagination to compare you to a summer’s day. But.” Hob searched his memory carefully, eventually arriving at one specific turn of phrase that sustained him through much of the 17th century: “’For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings. That then I scorn to change my state with kings.’ Got to say, old chap was onto something there.”
The Dream King’s smile was rueful. “So they say.” He moved a delicate hand and patted a spot on the silk bedspread to his side. “Will you sit with me, Hob Gadling?”
“Oh, I would like to do a lot more than that.” Hob said, grinning in a way he hoped was roguish, and tension left the his friend’s shoulders in a chuckle of delight. Excellent.
He sat next to the Dream King, their thighs not quite touching. His friend took a moment to muse a little space, before visibly steeling himself and took off his coat. Underneath he wore a simple white shirt, open at the collar and leaving his pale throat bare. Under Hob’s gaze, the stars in his eyes burned even brighter, exquisite features framed by waves of dark hair that tumbled down his shoulders. He was so beautiful. Hob felt his mouth go dry. Men would immortalize his image on frescoes and carve effigies out of marble. If only such beauty could be recalled in waking hours.
“Hi there, dear stranger,” Hob whispered gently. In awe. “So there you are.”
The Dream King took a breath, and the lines around his mouth firmed into something decisive. “It’s Morpheus. Or Dream.” He said. “If we are to know each other in this way, I would like you to use my name. After all, you were the one who spent three centuries asking for it.”
Hob chuckled, feeling something warm settle deep in his chest: “But you told me your name already.”
“You have not called me by it all evening.” The Dream King replied pointedly.
“Morpheus.” Hob whispered the name like a prayer, and felt lightening sparkle through his nerves. He cannot recall which of them made the first move – one moment he was seeing stars behind his eyelids, and the next he was leaning in with his hand sliding through Morpheus’ impossibly soft hair, and their lips met.
Hob was not sure what he expected kissing a dream – the Dream – would feel like. Fast and furious, perhaps; all of his senses on fire, every sensation amplified, each of his fantasies taking shape and exploding like supernovas across the night sky of his subconscious. But the reality he experienced was nothing like that at all. He felt firmly grounded in the embrace of this old stranger of his, who kissed him slowly, carefully. A steady hand cradle the back of Hob’s head, as if it were a fragile, precious thing. Morpheus took his time exploring Hob’s mouth, soft and delicate. The care he showed was sweet, and something about the deliberate pace left Hob aching. He felt desire smolder in him, its embers fanned with loving attention. He felt Morpheus offering him a glimpse of something he could not yet comprehend. Something endless.
And then Morpheus’s other hand slid up to caress the slide of Hob’s throat, and touched a cut neither of them had noticed was there. Hob winced, surprised by the pain, and jerked back with a hiss.
“Hob? Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” Hob said, stretching his neck experimentally, bringing up a hand to test at the wound. There was only the slightest hint of blood. “Everything’s fine. Turned out Lady Johanna’s blade got a bit closer than we realized.”
Morpheus’ perfectly arched brows knitted together in concern. “Are you in pain? I should have intervened earlier and not let things get so far.”
Hob wanted to wipe the frown off those perfect features across from him. Preferably forever. “I’ll be perfectly fine. She barely grazed me. This will heal in no time at all. Probably won’t even leave a scar.”
Morpheus blinked slowly, taking his time to find the right words. “And do you have many of those? Scars?” He asked, careful.
“It may be hard to imagine, my lord,” Hob replied, deadpan. “But defending your honor from a lady was hardly the most hazardous task I’ve embarked upon.”
Morpheus, for the lack of a better word, cackled. How a sound like that could come out of such an elegant creature, Hob will never know. “There,” he said, “remove your clothing so I may see any other unhealed injuries I need to be mindful of.” It was not a command, not exactly, but the intention was clear.
"You just want see me without my shirt on," Hob replied, grinning, even as a wave of trepidation lapped through him. He did not usually feel self-conscious about his own body, but this was not an usual situation. He may be immortal, but his body’s human. Wounds heal but never truly fade. He did not want Morpheus to see him as he was, and feel disgusted. The Dream King probably shared his bed with stars and goddesses and the fairy queen for all he knew, and how could plain old Hob Gadling ever compare?
Centuries of soldiering and misadventure left their mark on this body of his; every one of those four hundred and thirty years mapped out in scars across his skin. Old cuts from every cold weapon imaginable; ragged outlines of where he stitched himself together on silent battlefields faded to silver shadows. More recent punctures and burns from bullets and the one blasted time, a cannon ball; some still pink and hurting. Hob thanks a God he no longer believed in for small mercies – at least they did not try to burn him as a witch. Recovering from that seemed unpleasant and would probably take ages, but even then the wounds were only skin deep. Hob shuddered to imagine what his heart would look like.
“Well, yes.” Morpheus said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. The Dream King cannot actually read minds, even here in his Kingdom, good to know. Before Hob could continue his internal, private monologue, Morpheus reached out and touched the stock tie around Hob’s neck. He skimmed his fingers over the fabric, waiting for permission. Something about his deliberate politeness hit Hob with a rush of fondness, settling somewhere deep in his ribcage, between one heartbeat and the next. He had never set foot in this strange place before, but something about it felt like coming home.
“May I? I would like to see you.” Morpheus prompted, waiting for Hob’s answer. For his permission. In the starlit room, Hob could see the lovely blush coloring Morpheus’s pale cheeks. Perhaps he had thought about this before, Hob realized. But how could he possibly hope to stack up against a Dream King’s imagination?
But this – him – was what Morpheus said he wanted, more than once. And Hob wanted, more than anything, to make him happy, if only for a moment. To show him joy. His old friend carried the weight of a thousand worlds on those narrow shoulders. Hob can give him this, to do his best to see him relax a fraction, if for just one night. As to whether or not Hob’s own reality could live up to the Dream King’s expectations. Well. There was only one way to find out. "You may," Hob said, finally, "but I’m... likely not up to the standards you’re accustomed to."
The frown Morpheus aimed at him was a mix of emotions Hob could not fully decipher. Perhaps sensing his confusion, Morpheus tried to explain, while his elegant fingers worked on Hob’s tie and waistcoat, moving down the buttons of his shirt with brisk efficiency: “You give me little credit, old friend.” He paused briefly to gesture at the pieces of clothing scattered around them: “If it were my wish, all this could simply disappear. But I wish to know the touch your clothing, and to see you as you are. Perhaps in time you will better understand scope of my work; the mechanisms of the Dreaming.”
Well then, if you put it that way. It was bad manners indeed to keep a King waiting. Hob took a breath, and pulled his undershirt over his head. Summoning up another grin, he watched Morpheus carefully, waiting for his face to change, for disapproval to twist those lovely features into a frown.
“You are remarkable, Hob Gadling,” Morpheus said, and he smiled at him, as if he liked what he saw. How can that be? But then Morpheus kissed him again, and, well, Hob could not find it in himself to be distracted by worrying about anything.
Hob has had his fair share of dalliances over the years, in his decades as a mortal man and in the centuries after. He thought he had done it all. A woman he loved and thought he would grow old with. Women he loved but also knew would turn to dust sooner or later, as he watched on. Fellow brothers in arm needing a helping hand while on long, lonely campaigns abroad. Pretty boys with painted faces after a night at the theatre. Peculiar strangers from his travels, where he could sense something unnatural, like a kindred spirit. But in the end, it was all the same to him. There was never a connection that lasted, not for four hundred years.
The only exception was this old stranger of his, Morpheus. He was something else entirely.
Morpheus nudged Hob back onto the bed, kissing him all the while, with a gentleness that filled the cracks of Hob’s battered, resilient heart. He ran those cool, silky hands all over him, slowly, methodically, as if he was working to determine precisely what Hob liked best. As if he had this all thought out, a plan he had pondered for centuries, and that plan consisted solely of taking Hob apart with pleasure.
Hob was entirely on board with this plan, of course. His brain briefly registered the half-formed notion that he had propositioned his old stranger in the first place because he wanted to do these things to him instead. Then Morpheus planted a kiss in the spot behind his ear, where his jaw met his throat, and Hob managed to clear his brain entirely.
"You may relax now," Morpheus whispered, sliding his hands down Hob’s torso, up and down again, deliberate and soothing, and Hob realized he must have been a little tense, still, as the last traces of tension seeped out of him. Morpheus stroked his side, and kissed him again. For all that they were strangers, this felt astonishingly intimate. "Is this good for you?" he asked, breathless.
"Yes," Hob said, his mind completely blank. "Yes, great."
"May I?" Morpheus hooked a slender finger at the wait of Hob’s trousers, and Hob knew with absolute certainty that whatever else he may have in mind was also going to be great also.
Hob reached out a hand and petted Morpheus’ hair, dark as night and impossibly soft against his fingertips. “Go right on ahead.”
Morpheus was once again slow and deliberate, taking his time as if they had all the time in the world. Perhaps they did. By the time he had gotten Hob completely naked, Hob was panting with anticipation. He twisted in the sheets, dark blue silk and celestial embroideries wrapping around him like the night sky itself.
Sitting back on his heels, Morpheus, still unfairly, almost completely dressed – grinned down at him, as if admiring the view. “Now our situation has much improved.”
“Care to join me?” Hob asked, because, well, he may have been a lord once but he’s not noble, and he would very much appreciate getting a good look. Morpheus paused briefly, as if his own state of dress had not crossed his mind, and shrugged off his own shirt in one smooth motion.
Before Hob had the opportunity to truly take in the pretty picture before his eyes – the flawless alabaster skin, the lean muscles that would make sculptors weep – Morpheus was on the move again, making his way down Hob’s stomach with kisses, pausing over the scarred jut of his hip with a tenderness that threatened to break Hob’s heart all over again. He parted Hob’s knees gently, pressed a delicate kiss on the inside of his thigh. With his free hand, Morpheus kneaded softly over skin Hob had never, in his four centuries, realized could be so sensitive: the end of his fingertips, the edge of his palm, the top of his wrist right above his pulse. Hob shivered with need. He needed Morpheus to keep moving, to get on with it, because he could not endure this exquisite agony for much longer.
“Please,” he heard himself beg, in a voice that sounded foreign to his own ears.
Morpheus smiled up at him and then, finally, finally, took Hob into his mouth. He was as careful with this as with everything else, his lips closing gently around Hob’s cock, bobbing down slowly, smoothly, until Hob was fully engulfed in warm heat. And Hob moaned out in spite of himself, summoning the last bits of his self-control to not simply draw back and thrust in. Goodness, Morpheus was good at this. Hob wondered dumbly if he picked up a few tricks as part of the job, or if this was all just raw talent.
Morpheus took things agonizingly slowly, and the touch of his lips and the lap of his tongue was much, much lighter than Hob was generally used to or expected, but, goodness, Hob had always loved a pretty picture. It could not get much prettier than what was in front of him – his beautiful stranger, lips flushed, dark hair fanning over his rosy cheeks, his otherworldly eyes sparkling in pleased focus. He had lost track of how long Morpheus had been doing this. Here between them, this connection felt endless, like something beyond time and unrestrained by reality, his own pleasure somewhere off to the distance.
So he was happy to watch, Hob thought, and then Morpheus dipped his head and took him all the way down again. As he responded involuntarily by arching into it, Morpheus slid a cool hand underneath him, a steady, slick finger between his legs and back, moved just a little bit in, and there. The orgasm took Hob completely by surprise. He moaned and came, shaking, as Morpheus wrang every last ounce of pleasure from him, easy and deliberate, until he was a trembling, quivering mess.
Well pleased with himself, Morpheus slid back up the length of his body and wrapped his arms – pale yet steady, like the rest of him – around Hob, and just held him, tight. Hob tucked his face against Morpheus’ shoulder, smiling. He was not going to think about how he may have to wait another century before he will even lay eyes on this glorious creature again. Bless his greedy little human heart, but he already wanted to this again, right this moment.
“My goodness, you are excellent at this,” he said. And Hob knew he was no poet, and that was inadequate, but he did not know what else to say. “I – thank you.”
He felt better than he had in ages, he realized. At ease. He honestly cannot recall the last time he felt this good. Not in two hundred years, in all likelihood. He needed this.
Morpheus offered him another small smile, which at this point ought to look out of place given Hob knew exactly where said mouth had been, but somehow it remained precious as ever. “The pleasure, I believe, is all mine,” he said simply.
“And speaking of Your Majesty’s pleasure,” Hob began, grinning, as he reached a hand between them to paw at Morpheus’ trousers. He wanted him undressed, now.
Morpheus grabbed his wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but his hold was firm. “You do not have to feel … obliged,” he said, and there was an uneasy edge to his voice that Hob did not like. Did he say, or do, something wrong? “I wanted to do that for you, and that is all.”
“And I want to do something for you, And I reckon you would like it. I certainly would like it.” Hob replied, confused. He felt like he had been missing something. Something big, but perhaps not obvious. “I may be an idiot with questionable judgement, but I’m not selfish. Have I been a poor friend, to give you that impression?”
“No, not at all. But.” Morpheus bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood. Hob had no idea what was wrong. It made him hurt in a way that felt physical. “It is I who has been the poor friend. And I am not known to be a generous lover. I am – concerned. It was poor of me to not even attempt to explain myself beforehand.”
Hob was utterly bewildered. What could he possibly mean by that? Was Hob beneath him, after all? But that made no sense whatsoever consider what just transpired, and when Hob looked at Morpheus, he realized he looked distressed.
“You’re concerned about causing me injury,” Hob hazarded a guess. “You really needn’t worry. Can’t die, remember?”
Morpheus remained unconvinced. Tension was building back up in the curves of shoulders. “You do not understand. I am Dream of the Endless. Being with me, the cost always comes due. The rules have always been clear. Being with me will bring a mortal to his doom.”
“Oh dear,” Hob tried to gather his thoughts. Confusion still reigned, but he vaguely recognized the need to tread carefully here. “You’re not the brightest sometimes, are you, love. The ‘can’t die’ part literally means I’m not a mortal.” He held his hands out, in a placating gesture. “We’ll be just fine.”
Morpheus shook his head. “It’s not your body I’m concerned about.” Beneath dark lashes, the stars in his eyes looked wet. To Hob’s horror, he realized they were filled with unshed tears. That simply cannot be allowed to continue.
Think, Gadling, think! Sleeping with him was clearly not the problem here. Afterall, Morpheus did admit to being the fair youth of the sonnets, and good old Shaxberd lived a full, normal life. With period appropriate personal tragedies, sure, but nothing that suggested anything as dramatic as doom. No, Morpheus was concerned about something else. He knew he could break Hob’s heart. Perhaps he knew Hob could break his also.
Hob took a deep breath. “Earlier, I asked you for tonight because – “ because I wanted spend time with you. To make you happy – “because I wanted to. That’s the whole extent of it. Believe me, I’m not so greedy.” I’m not so delusion to ask for your heart remained unsaid.
But he must have said something right, because Morpheus looked up at him a watery smile, blinking away tears. “Is that so?”
“Yes. We can take it easy.” Hob offered. You can have me, all of me, on a platter, if only you’d ask, his heart screamed eagerly. He stomped down on that thought, vicious. This was not about him. He can drink away his own sorrows later. “Like you did for me. I will make you feel great. Good, simple fun. You don’t have to worry about anything.” And unlike silly old Hob, you’re too clever to go and fall in love. You glorious creature.
Morpheus’ shoulders relaxed a fraction. “You are certain?”
“We can do this,” Hob said. “I promise.” He thought he was starting to understand, what Morpheus was alluding to earlier, about costs coming due. Sometimes, you cannot have something simply because you wish for it. Sometimes, it was best not to ask at all.
So Morpheus stripped out of his own clothing with elegant efficiency and Hob sat back to watch the show, because heartbreak can wait and Morpheus’ beauty was a wonderful distraction. Every inch of Morpheus was lean muscle: pale, smooth and unscarred. Hob supposed that was one of the perks of being Endless, universes saying thanks for keeping everything together. He moved gracefully, utterly at ease, as Hob dragged him down to bed, curled next to him, kissed him a few more times, relishing each moment. Morpheus was ridiculously responsive, offering delicious little moans with Hob’s tongue in his mouth, a mouth that still tasted of Hob.
Hob broke off the kiss to pull his head back, to take a proper look at Morpheus, to greedily drink in his image. From underneath him, Morpheus pressed his palms onto Hob’s chest, as though he could shove through the flesh and bones of him, as if he was somehow stopping himself from dig his hands into his chest to feel more. Hob’s own hands ended up framing Morpheus’ shoulders, as he leaned down to taste the salty sweat from his temple, between his brows, on his upper lip.
Hob avoided Morpheus’ dark, burning eyes. He thought his insides might explode like a dying star if he looked at him, jumbled feelings and half-coherent thought tumbling out uninhibited, dragging everything down. Instead, he brushed a fingertip over Morpheus’ nipple, experimental. The response was instantaneous – Morpheus gasped in surprise, arching his back as he writhed in the sheets.
“Has it been a while, love?” Hob whispered absently, watching in fascination as the intricately embroidered stars on the quilt moved, dancing and swirling across a galaxy of dark blue silk.
“The last time I part took? That was not so long ago,” Morpheus answered, a little breathless. “But the last time I permitted myself to truly indulge? It has been millennia.”
Hob snapped back, willing himself to look into those otherworldly eyes, lit up by stars and darkened by lust. This I can understand, Hob reminded himself. This, I know how to fix. And a new found conviction, he shifted downwards and went about what he had wanted to do all evening.
Sucking Morpheus off was quite the experience in and off itself. He was so ridiculously responsive, whimpering as Hob’s tongue pressed him just there, thrusting up helplessly as Hob tightened his fingers around the base of his cock. The cock of dreams, Hob thought gleefully, fully immersing himself in the delicious sensations of the moment. Hob knew he was good that this – four centuries of diligent experience will do that for a fellow. But the way Morpheus looked down at him, with raw, unbridled delight, touched Hob in a way a purely physical encounter never could. Hob was beginning to see that this had always been something else. Something forbidden, a taste of which will inevitably leave him wanting. Perhaps he should have realized sooner, but he also knew, sure as anything, that he would never choose a reality where they did not have this shared moment.
Morpheus’ pale fingers dug into the sheets, and Hob worked his free hand up his smooth chest, along his pale throat, to his exquisite face and still-red mouth, pondering what he could accomplish with a wet finger or two – but Morpheus simply kissed his fingertips, delicate and tender like everything else he had done, like that was he wanted to do, all along. And the next moment he came with a shuddery moan, and Hob felt so in love, and wondered how he could ever sleep with anyone else ever again.
Hob pulled off, buried his face by the delicate bones of Morpheus’ hip, and hid his tears. He was a mess, but he needed to hold himself together.
Morpheus breathed slowly, like he was trying to get his heartbeat under control. When Hob raised his head, the smile he offered was glazed around the edges by something Hob could not decipher.
“How did I stack up, against the goddesses and pretty boys of ancient Rome? Or was it Greece?” Hob joked, hiding his heartbreak behind humor.
Morpheus let out a chuckle with the next exhale. “You are remarkable, Hob Gadling.” He said, for the second time that evening.
Hob made his way back up the bed, and Morpheus looped an arm around him, pulling him close. They stayed like this, for a moment, locked in an embrace and as they watched gold-threaded stars move across the velvet canopy. Hob turned his head to press a kiss on Morpheus’ cheek, wishing this moment could last forever – suspended in amber perhaps, or safely preserved in a glass bottle, like a battleship or a city of wonders. There was so much he still did not know, so much he did not understand, things perhaps he should be afraid of. Selfishly, he wanted to stay, but he knew it was not his choice to make.
“That was good for you,” Hob said, breaking the spell. “I’m glad for it.”
Morpheus was silent for a long while, then his arms tightened around Hob. “I need to embark upon a task tomorrow, difficult and long overdue,” his voice was soft, as though he was already half a universe away. “My heart was filling with dread, until we met again tonight, and you reminded me what warmth felt like. For this I thank you, Hob Gadling, truly.”
Of course Hob could not actually stay at Morpheus’ side. Who was he to stand in the way of a Dream King’s duties? But he cannot bear to stand aside for another hundred years, to be apart from him after sharing such intimacy. A shadow of a plan formed in his mind, and he decided to follow it and see where it led. After all, his intuition had served him well tonight.
“Let me help you,” he said, and Morpheus raised an eyebrow. “Well, not with everything, obviously. I haven’t the faintest clue how your Kingdom works, so can’t really be useful to you on this, uh, dream, front.”
Morpheus shook his head, but he was not angry. “And what not-dream area can you help me with, old friend?”
“I have an proposition for you.” Hob said, mustering up his courage, bold as a knight petitioning his King for chance at the greatest quest. He really needed this, he realized. He had never had a chance to find his grail.
"Well," Morpheus said, his smile a little lopsided. The fondness from earlier, now nestled deep in Hob’s chest, blossomed with warmth. "I did enjoy your last proposal very much.”
“Even someone like you will have dealings in the real – mortal – waking world.” Hob began, choosing his words carefully.
“Indeed I do.” Morpheus nodded. This was going well. “What is it you have in mind?”
“Let me be your agent, or spokesperson, or human consultant. If there are tasks on earth that need to be done, you needn’t involve yourself directly. I hope you know you can trust me absolutely. After all, I have over four hundred years of earthly experience.”
Morpheus pondered this for a moment, his brows furrowed ever so slightly. “I see the merit in what you propose,” he said eventually. “I will keep this in mind.”
Hob supposed that was as good an answer as he was going to get. He grinned, and added for good measure: “And I come with the added benefit of immortality, so you would never need to worry about my safety.”
Morpheus frowned. “Yes, but you need to be careful. You could still be hurt. Or captured."
Hob leaned forward to kiss the worry away. “I’ll be safe. I know what I’m doing, most of the time anyways.” He moved back a fraction, thinking he should try to tidy himself up a bit and perhaps get dressed again. Morpheus reached out a hand to stop him, and with his other hand, snapped his fingers with a flourish. All traces of their previous activity vanished. The bed was dressed in clean linens, and Hob found himself scrubbed clean and dressed for bed, ready to go to sleep.
“Show off,” Hob teased, with affection.
Morpheus smiled, well pleased with himself. He was clad in a long, bellowing robe, dark as midnight, with flames licking at its hems where half-formed shapes emerged and disappeared in the blink of an eye. The Dream King’s about to attend to his duties, Hob reckoned.
“Is this where we say goodbye?” he asked, putting on a brave face. He really hoped he did not have to wait until 1889, for their next meeting in the waking world.
Morpheus looked mournful himself, the stars in his eyes dimming briefly. “Soon,” he said after a moment. “But not yet.” He stood up, and together they made their way to the small antechamber. Morpheus reached out and tapped the mural, and Hob watched in fascination as a painted Tristan stepped to the side and into the light, as a door materialized from the shadowy space he vacated.
Making his way through the doorway that did not exist only a moment ago, Morpheus paused at the threshold, and beckoned Hob to follow.
“Wow,” Hob said, taking in his surroundings. “This is the third time in one night where I followed you through a doorway and did not expect to end up where I did. Will I ever grow accustomed to this?”
“Perhaps not. After all, I need to keep a few tricks up my sleeve. To surprise you, from time to time.” Morpheus replied wryly, his eyes sparkling. Hob noted with great satisfaction his friend had remained relaxed.
Looking around the room, Hob supposed his suite at the Club was comfortable enough. The room was warm from the fire, and the small bed in the corner with the plush headboard would serve him well. Nothing will ever compare to the magic of the Dream King’s chambers, but Hob knew he had no right to that world. “What’s the plan then, my dear lord Morpheus?” Hob asked, making his way to the bed. “Will the sandman himself be tucking me in for the night? Perhaps with a bedtime story?”
“Is it a story you want?” Morpheus asked.
“No.” Hob said, drawing on revelation he knew did not existed in the real world. Perhaps he was still dreaming, after all. “I would, very much, like to remember tonight.”
“And you will. Every detail. You have my blessing.” Morpheus replied evenly, as if that were something Hob should have taken for granted. “Anything else?”
Yes, you, screamed Hob’s treacherous heart. His head made him try to settle for something more subtle. “Yes,” he said, picking the right words. “I would, very much, like to see you again. Without having to wait a hundred years.”
Morpheus’ lovely features lit up with wonder, like this was something completely unexpected. “You will, of course, visit the Dreaming whenever you’d like, when you sleep,” He explained, while making his way over to the small desk in the corner. Picking up a piece of paper and scribbling something down, he brought it over to Hob, taking a seat next to him on the bed. “If you ever have need of me in the waking world – if you found yourself in trouble, or in need of a friend – put your hand on this, and call out to me. I will do my utmost to answer.”
Hob accepted the slip of paper. On it, in plain black ink and a flourished hand, was a single word, a name. A treasure that Hob finally found after spending four centuries searching – Morpheus. Without thinking, he brought the note to his lips, covering it with a kiss, pouring into it his affection and reverence. He felt like a fool. And he could not bring himself to mind.
When he looked back up, Morpheus was smiling at him with a twinkle in his eye. “Do you plan on kissing me like that, before we part? Or just the scrap of paper.”
Before Hob had the chance to respond, Morpheus lifted the covers and patted at the pillow, beckoning Hob to lie down in bed. And Hob did as he was told, obliging. The Dream King proceeded to tuck Hob in, and leaned in for his kiss, which Hob was only too happy to provide. Well, Hob kissed Morpheus with more gusto, with one last nibble at his lip, but he figured that was what he meant. Morpheus looked well pleased, after all.
“Sleep, my dear Hob,” the Dream King murmured, running his cool fingers through Hob’s hair. As he closed his eyes and let his consciousness slipped away, Hob felt warm, and safe, and loved. “This dream is over, but you will rest, and no nightmare shall trouble you.”
*
The next morning, Hob woke up alone as sunlight streamed through the window, feeling better rested than he had in decades. He sat up, and chuckled to himself as he shook sand from his hair. On his pillow laid the handwritten note from his dream, real as anything.
Hob picked it up, breathing in the earthy scent of paper mixed with ink, and held the name over his heart. He allowed himself a moment to dwell on the joys from the previous evening, before dusting himself off to embrace a new day.
Five Years Later - June 28th 1794
Hob must have fallen asleep.
When he shut his eyes while drafting a joint memorandum to the War Office and Admiralty on behalf of the Anti-Slavery Society, Hob only intended to rest for a moment. When he opened them back up, he was no longer at his desk, surrounded by books, maps, and half-formed plans regarding shipping lanes to foreign colonies. Instead, he found himself on a beach, tasting salt and sand. Stars shone through the surface of dark waters, without reflecting the constellations above.
I have seen this place before, he thought. Curious.
“You.” Said a familiar and not wholly welcome voice just off to his side, interrupting his revelry.
Ah. Hob straightened, his shoulders stiffening imperceptibly. He turned towards his unexpected companion, and bowed slightly with a smile; polite yet prepared. “Lady Johanna. To what do I owe this unexpected rendezvous?”
From less than two paces away, Lady Johanna scowled. “I may ask of you the same question, Robert Gadling.” While the words were delivered with the same easy confidence from their last meeting, the effect was somehow dampened by her current state of dress. Crossing her arms over her nightgown, she looked like someone yanked her straight out of bed. Hob reckoned perhaps someone did, and he had a pretty good idea who that might be.
“Here,” Hob said, shrugging off his coat and held it at arm’s length, like an offering. She accepted it wordlessly, wrapping it around her shoulders. “If you would follow me, my lady. I think I know where we are.”
Together, they turned away from the dark, shimmering waters to approach a pair of imposing gates. The one of transparent horn swung open, unguarded, beckoning them in.
Across the threshold, Johanna stopped in her tracks. “This is more wondrous than the treasures of Chartres or Constantinople,” she whispered, mesmerized by the castle at the center of the lake.
Hob concurred. He looked past its many turrets and towards the highest tower, feeling something twist deep in his gut. “Indeed it is,” he replied. “Although the last time I was here, the bridge was an aqueduct. An interesting idea, replacing it with the Pont Neuf.”
“You have been here before?” Johanna demanded, as they made their way to the heart of a realm that was most definitely not Paris.
“I have. Five years ago. Came right here after your visit, actually.” He replied, and that was the truth.
Hob had not seen Morpheus since the night they had together. He had not summoned him in the waking world, or tried to find him in dreams. Oh, he had thought about it. It was downright embarrassing, how much he had thought about it. He missed him desperately, but what claim did he have on the Dream King? Hob had kept busy over the last five years, but not a day went by without him wishing to see his dear old stranger again.
And here they were. Stone steps led them right up to the castle gate. Above the huge oak door, three mythic beasts stirred to life. The great gryphon regarded Johanna carefully. She did not flinch under its amber gaze. Hob observed the wyvern, who must have travelled between the plains of Cymru and the shores of Brittany, wondering if he will get to pet a gargoyle after all. Pegasus from Mount Olympus shifted slightly, and from behind its wings came forth a pied crow, which seemed unremarkable until it spoke.
“Welcome, Lady Johanna Constantine. Welcome back, Hob Gadling.” It – she – said in greeting. “Lord Morpheus is expecting you both. My name is Jessamy, and I will guide you to him. Please, for your own safety, stay close and do not deviate from the path.”
The door swung open, and they followed her through.