Chapter Text
It wasn’t much past noon when the sky started to darken over the heads of the army as they stood ready, prepared for war. A storm was threatening on the horizon. Winter was starting to set in. The wind blew cold and brutal as Hob looked over the men gathered before him, they had gathered from all corners of the kingdom, coming here to fight for their king and country. This war had lasted five long years, and Hob could feel its end draw nearer.
This whole thing is going to end, and soon, he thought, a shudder running down his spine as he spotted a flock of ravens in the distance.
Robert Gadling was no stranger to warfare, he had been alive for centuries, he has seen death and destruction before. He had been responsible for his fair share of it. He had led the charge to battle in the past. Robert Gadling understood, better than anyone alive, what warfare truly was. But even with all that knowledge, all that experience, he had not been prepared for this.
By some unknown stroke of luck, he had been granted immortality. Who had given him this gift, or what their purposes in doing so were, he did not know, but who was Hob to question the will of the gods. He had taken to traveling, never staying in one place for too long lest someone grow too curious. He had lived his life quietly, staying away from the center of things, preferring to marvel at the wonders of the world from the sidelines. Sure, his abnormally long lifespan had not completely escaped notice, people would still whisper tall tales about the Man Who Did Not Age, but there was never anything concrete enough to draw any unwanted attention.
But a few centuries back he’d stepped out of the shadows to join the army. Edir was at war, an ally was being attacked by vicious and terrifying forces who dreamed of the destruction of all mages. While Hob was no mage himself, he would not stand by and watch the wholesale slaughter of an entire people. He had joined the ranks of the infantry, protecting his sword-brothers as they fought side-by-side. He would have done that forever, Hob wanted no glory, he did not need any recognition but the loyalty of his friends.
However, as tends to happen in war, there was a battle. At least, that’s what they called it. Hob called it a massacre. His unit walked into a trap, the enemy fell upon them with the force of a maelstrom, and at the end, he was the only one left standing. Kinda hard to keep the whole immortality thing a secret after that. He was given a medal and a position in command, the goddamned king even paid him a visit. He helped lead the kingdom to victory. Edir and their Immortal Guardian.
After the war was over, the old king gave him a plot of land and a chest full of bank notes, with a promise that he would remain undisturbed. Since then, stories have been spreading. People from all over the world have heard about Edir’s immortal knight. How the knight came about his immortality differs depending on where the story originated. If it came from the blood soaked battlefields out on the plains where Hob fought, the stories said he had been given his gift while he fought for his fallen comrades. That he had stood against the tidal wave of soldiers, and when at last he had been struck down, Lady Death had brought him back to deliver her more souls. If the story came from the mountains, where the folk knew to fear the winter and left offerings to the creatures who walked those frigid nights, it would claim that he made a bargain with a troll. If he won in a game of knowledge then Hob would lay claim to the creature’s life force, and if he lost, the troll would lay claim to his. If the story came from a far, beyond Edir’s borders, in the kingdom whose forces had first encountered the might of the eternal soldier. If it was spoken with fear and a simmering hatred, then the tale would claim he was a demon, a dark being, brought about by the Nightmare King. They would claim he was a monster made to destroy, that he lacked a soul and so he could not die.
Hob used to laugh at that, he still does, though it has turned more bitter. For it is the Nightmare King who had dragged him to battle once again.
King Harold’s envoy had shown up at his doorstep, bringing news of war with one of the Endless, and a plea to take up the sword and once again lead Edir’s armies to victory. The Endless were a family, of a sort, mages so powerful they were more “entity” than “being”, and they had been alive for eons. After such a long existence with only six others to keep them company, no wonder they had grown attached.
No one knew why the king of the Dreaming had decided to attack his neighbor, there were suggestions that Edir’s king had insulted him, or that he had simply grown bored. But Hob didn’t need a reason for this madness to know he had to help, when the nightmare stepped out of your dreams and into reality, you could hardly refuse the call to action. He had grabbed his old armor, kept clean and ready by his diligent care, and headed off to the capitol to learn what he was being asked to do.
Now he stood, five years later, in front of his men, young and old, and readied them for the battle ahead. They had taken a defensive position while they waited for King Morpheus’ forces. The reports suggested that the full power of the enemy had finally been mustered, after years of being weathered down by what was not more than half of the Dream king’s numbers, the man had decided to end it.
This is what fueled Hob’s hatred. Morpheus had declared war on a kingdom much smaller and less powerful than his own, and he did not bother to conduct it. Content to let a fraction of his numbers break the hearts and spirits of Hob’s men, while he sat back and watched as the kingdom began to crumble. At first, Hob’s presence had been about evening the scales however he could, giving the kingdom he called home a fighting chance. But then, he saw the destruction that Morpheus was willing to dole out, the suffering he prolonged with his drawn out war that he easily could have ended the very year he started it. After that, Hob’s position as honorary general had been more about keeping the men on their feet for as long as they could and becoming the biggest thorn in the Dream king’s foot that had ever been. He would make Morpheus watch as he destroyed however much of his precious kingdom he could. He wanted the king to pay.
He watched as Morpheus’ forces drew near, a menacing ocean of black clad soldiers and followed by a shifting mass of ravens. The symbol of the Nightmare king, they were meant to pick clean the bones of his enemies.
Gritting his teeth, Hob let out a battle cry and led the charge.
— — —
The battle was fierce. Hob could barely hear himself think over the din of metal against metal and the screams of men. They’d been at it for hours now, man after man had fallen at the end of his sword, and his body was littered with wounds left on any other man, would have ended him. Hob slashed and stabbed his way through the enemy, slowly carving his way forward, until he could no longer tell whether the blood that coated his sword and armor belonged to him or the men he’d killed.
He knew that Edir’s forces were being weakened, the soldiers of the Dreaming had been too many. Slowly, the lines began to buckle, and the horn to signal retreat sounded from behind him. Hob glanced over his shoulder to see the army draining away from the field of battle, they had lost, they would surrender in due time. The war would finally end.
Good, Hob thought. But I’m not done yet.
He turned back to face the Dreaming’s army, still fighting the Edirian soldiers who had yet to disengage.
“Go!” He screamed at them. “Retreat, that’s an order.”
They glanced at him, but upon spotting the plum colored cloak that marked him as a general, they quickly pulled back and followed his directions.
“What about you?” one of the soldiers shouted back at Hob, seeing that he hadn’t taken his own advice.
“I’m fine, worry about yourself,” he replied, and continued to wade, alone, into the fray.
Hob’s done this so many times before. Hob understood the motions of warfare, he understood how to maneuver his body to provide the smallest target possible, all while finding the openings in his enemy’s guard. He’d been alive for a few centuries, he’s worked as a mercenary, he’s lived as a thief, he’s lived off the land, he’d been a soldier. Hob knew how to kill a man. In fact, he’d found he’s rather good at it. So, he didn’t think. He didn’t think about the movements he needed to use, he didn't think about his footsteps or his grip on the handle of his sword. He didn’t think about the deep and weeping wounds that had been cut into his flesh. Hob ignored the pain from the injuries that should have killed him, because he had a mission.
Kill the Dream king, or in the event that this was impossible, destroy as much of his army as he could before the blood loss took him into unconsciousness.
He engaged his latest opponent, but this one was different from the rest. Instead of being clad in the Dreaming’s characteristic black metal, this soldier wore a bright ivory cloak and only the most essential pieces of armor. But perhaps most intriguing, was that instead of a helmet which covered the face, the man before him wore a thick band of metal which obscured his eyes.
As soon as they traded blows, the men closest to them drew back, opening a wide space where they could move unimpeded. But Hob didn’t stop to consider why the other soldiers might have done that, he was lost to the fight. He had poured so much of himself into this war, into this fight, he wouldn’t be stopped now. The ivory soldier and him danced around each other, testing the waters, the other’s skills, engaging and disengaging.
Hob lunged. Quick as a viper, he tried to strike the man under his chest plate, but he barely even flinched. Just knocked the blade away with a casual arrogance. The man cackled, grinning, his teeth sharp and white.
“Making the first move, my my.”
Hob just snarled and moved forward again. Trying to push his opponent into making a mistake by trading a flurry of blows, back and forth, the ivory soldier giving ground easily. Hob knew better than to think he had the upper hand, this man played dirty, he just knew it. It was in the way his steps flowed smoothly over the dirt, the way he refused to stumble, the way he grinned like he knew a very funny joke at everyone else's expense. He kept a look out for any deception, any faint or fake that might give the other away. He didn’t expect an opening.
It wasn’t obvious, it looked like a mistake given its slight nature. It looked like Hob had finally found a way through the swordsman’s impeccable defense. It looked like an opportunity. So he took it. That had been a mistake.
The strange man had done that on purpose, it had been a trap, a very good one.
Hob didn’t even see him move. The man was just a blur, a flash of movement marked more by his sudden absence than by any actual motion. One second he was about to be nicked in the side by Hob’s blade, and the next he was barely a hair's width away, his sword buried up to the hilt in Hob’s chest. And Hob was staring at where his eyes should have been, the eyes which were obscured by the metal of his helmet, the breath driven from his lungs by the force of the impact. He tried to breathe in, to brace himself for the pain which he knew would hit, but the shredded ruin of his heart had stopped the flow of blood.
The ivory soldier slowly withdrew his weapon, stepping back a respectful distance before inclining his head to Hob in just the slightest fraction. Without the other man to lean on as his strength faded, Hob fell to one knee, snarling at the unintended sign of subservience. He glared at the soldiers who were arranged in front of him, refusing to let any of them think he was drained of fight. He wasn’t giving up. He would never forget what this war had done. He was, under no circumstances, surrendering. He could already feel his body trying to knit itself back together, the muscle fibers in his heart slowly, and painfully, mending.
That was when he saw the parting in the crowd. The head of night black hair, adorned with a crown of wicked spires. Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, King of Nightmares, rode his horse through the mass of blood and swords to stop in front of Hob Gadling. He looked down at him, his face impassive, as he stared at the soldier who refused to die. And Hob refused to look away, he glared daggers at the king, challenging him to pass judgment, to order him shackled, to do something, anything. Hob waited for the king to speak. In the end, all he did was look at the ivory soldier and gesture in Hob’s direction before turning his horse back around towards his camp.
That seemed to be enough. As soon as the king’s back was turned the ivory soldier slinged Hob’s arm over his shoulder and half-carried him back to Edir’s camp. The strange man dropped him unceremoniously at the foot of the first tent they came across. He went to go, but paused for a moment before saying, “You just entered a dangerous game Hob Gadling, I sure hope you’re prepared for the consequences.”
Hob was too busy choking on his own blood to respond, but he watched with narrowed eyes as the white clad soldier made his way back to Morpheus’ forces. He wondered what the man could possibly mean by that, but before he could get anywhere with the thought before the black that threatened at the edge of his vision began to overtake him. The next thing he saw was the sky dotted by ravens as he fell into unconsciousness.