Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Erasmus Fry didn’t get visitors. He told himself he didn’t get them because he didn’t like them and as a privileged, ageing author of some renown surely he was permitted his privacy. The truth of the matter was that he didn’t get visitors because there was simply no one to visit him. No friends or family left to care. And anyone else in this world who may have been inclined had long since forgotten him.

No one cared about Erasmus Fry anymore.

That was why, in summer of 2020, he found himself sitting almost giddily in the chair closest to the door watching the clock. Surely he was being foolish. Surely he was making an absolute fool of himself in his old age. But if this was going where he thought it would then maybe this wasn’t the end of old Erasmus Fry after all.

The bell rang.

Joints complaining, he hobbled over to the door using the walls as support. Damn doctors, no good any of them. He composed himself best he could in front of the door before tapping on the intercom.

“Who is it?” There was only one person it could be but he didn’t need to know that.

“Robert Garter,” the nice voiced man said, “to see Erasmus Fry about an interview.”

Of course, of course.

Sliding off the chain, Erasmus yanked the door open. On the other side was a man in his thirties with a long nose and a charming smile. He was sensibly dressed with a laptop bag slung over one shoulder and not a single notebook in sight. Reporters these days. Couldn’t do it right. Still, beggars could not be choosers and loath as he was to admit it, Erasmus was certainly a beggar the moment. Not for much longer though.

This interview was going to change it all.

In the living room amid his collections, Erasmus watched Robert Garter set out his equipment. Some fancy new-fangled recording device plugged into a laptop that he explained would automatically transcribe it all. Seemed a bit unnecessary but who was he to judge? Didn’t matter how these words were written, all that mattered was that they were . If this Mr Garter wanted to get a robot to do the talking to then so be it.

“So, Mr Garter,” Erasmus said to break the silence. “Where do we start?”

The man did have a nice smile. Warm, comforting. “Please, call me Hob.”

“Hob?” Erasmus let out a small chuckle. “That’s a very old version of a nickname for Robert. Back from when they used to swap out the first letters of a name’s diminutive. Ed to Ned, Rick to Dick.”

“Rob to Hob, I know.” Hob tapped a button on his fancy little device then sat back. “Well, I suppose my first question has to be how did you begin writing?”

It was nice to stretch his vocal chords after so much time alone. Nice to just let himself talk and talk and talk while Hob listened with that warm smile of his. It was nice to be asked questions about himself. It was just nice. At no point during any of Erasmus’ long monologues did Hob interrupt or even seem bored. He just watched Erasmus intently.

Finally after about two hours of just letting Erasmus talk (and getting through an entire pot of tea in the process), Hob leaned forward.

“You’re probably going to think this is a foolish question,” he said and Erasmus laughed.

“By all means ask it, dear boy.”

“Do you know the rumours about you?” Hob asked. “In certain occult circles. They say you came across some old lore at Mt Helicon.”

A chill ran through Erasmus’ old bones but he kept himself steady. “Where did you hear that?”

“Occultists are always trying to one up each other,” Hob said, “and when some got hold of those texts, they went looking for the missing ones and it led to you. They say you went to Greece a hack and returned with something that made you a genius.” That smile wasn’t looking so warm anymore and those eyes, still intent, had a fierce edge to them.

If he said no, would Hob refuse to publish the interview? He couldn’t allow that. He had to finish this, it was the only way to get his books back out there. It was the only way for people to remember him.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Erasmus finally said and Hob frowned. “I don’t remember what I found. When I realised my time was done, I passed it along and when I did the memories all faded away.”

“Do you remember anything ?”

“I remember it looked human. I remember it was strangely beautiful in its way but sullen and petulant.” The not-memories were like a cloud that clung to the once mighty canyons of his mind. “It didn’t want to give me my stories but I made it. See that’s the thing about magic, if it cannot be wooed it can be beaten into submission. Even if it struggles, persistence wins out in the end. After all, it's not like such things can actually feel pain.”

Something imperceptible shifted in Hob’s face then that smile was back just as warm as it had been before. “More tea?”

The pot had been empty for a while.

“Oh, um, yes.” Those old bones of his screamed at the idea of getting up again but Hob was on his feet already.

“I’ll get it,” he said, “don’t worry.”

What a kind young man. Maybe the strange questions were just a bit of personal interest. After several moments and quite a bit of clattering, Hob returned with a fresh pot of steaming tea. As he poured them both new cups he glanced across at Erasmus again.

“Do you mind if I ask who you gave the… inspiration granter to? Off the record of course.”

A face flashed in Erasmus’ mind of another young man, this one desperate and needy.

“Richard Madoc,” he said and Hob’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “Been doing mighty well for himself best that I can see. Oh, thank you.” He accepted the new cup and took a few refreshing sips. Almost immediately, he frowned. There was an unfamiliar taste to it. “What tea did you use? I’m not sure I know this one.” Paranoid thoughts flashed through his mind of murder mysteries and poisoners. “You- You drink some.”

Frowning, Hob took a sip of the tea himself. “Tastes fine to me.”

Was his sense of taste slipping in his old age too? Or had he just become so accustomed to making everything himself that he’d forgotten that another person’s methods can change even the slightest aspects of a beverage’s taste? That must be it.

He drank some more but still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. What was that little after taste? Had Hob dragged some ancient tea leaves out of a long forgotten bag? There was an itch building somewhere in the back of his throat that he fought back.

Across the table, Hob was watching him still. The smile had faded. “Can I tell you a secret?” Hob asked.

That cough was still building, blotting out whatever words Erasmus wanted to say.

“I’m not really a reporter,” Hob said and Erasmus finally realised that those strange little quirks of Hob’s face were barely concealed rage. “I’ve spent the last thirty years looking for a friend of mine. Problem is, I don’t know his name. All I know is that he’s immortal and granted Shakespeare the inspiration for his plays.” He took another gulp of the tea and made a face. “Yeah, that does taste bad. Sorry, rat poison’s all you had.”

Rat-

Rat poison?

No, no. Erasmus had to be mishearing things. Something was wrong, something was- The cough finally exploded out of him and blood splattered across the coffee table.

“You hurt someone very dear to me,” Hob said, carefully wiping blood from his own mouth. "You abused and tortured him for decades.”

“So you poisoned us both?!” Erasmus demanded before pain wracked through his chest, forcing him out of his chair.

“I’ll be fine,” Hob said coldly. “No one will even know I was here. Just poor old Erasmus Fry, forgotten, lonely, pathetic. Honestly, don’t think anyone’s even going to mourn you.” A wince of pain flickered across his face and he thumped his chest. “Never gets easier.”

The world was beginning to spin. Darkness flickered along the edges of Erasmus’ vision and as his mind faded away all he could think of was the letter he’d sent to the publishers. Had they even read it? Had they even cared?

Would anyone?

Erasmus Fry died in the summer of 2020. As far as the world was concerned, he’d poisoned himself in a state of misery.

Robert Garter or, as he’d once been known, Hob Gadling set his sights on the next target of his rescue quest; renowned author Ric Maddoc.

Chapter Text

At no point had Hob begun this quest with the intention of killing people. In fact, despite all the things he’d done, he’d kept his slate clean of murder (pre-meditated or otherwise). But there had been something about Erasmus Fry; something in that smug, self-satisfied callousness that had driven him into a rage. By the time his anger shifted even slightly, it was too late. There was no turning back.

There was never any turning back.

It had taken two months after killing Fry for Hob to work his way into enough literary circles to finally get himself an invite to one of Ric Madoc’s illustrious publishing events. They were swanky upper class dos at his house, the same exact nonsense as the political balls Hob had gone to in centuries past. Really the only thing that had updated was the fashion and how refrigerated the champagne was. Same snobby rich folk, same simpering sycophants, same bored staff waiting for their time to clock out.

No one paid too much attention to him. A reporter for some specialist literary magazine, it was important enough to make Ric Madoc feel noticed without getting too many people looking at him. The canapes at least were delicious.

Snagging another one, he meandered through the crowd, listening in.

“The committee felt Madoc’s new book has transcended genre,” one man in a brown suit was saying. “Have you read it?”

Had most of these people? Did any of them really care about the book or was this just the next big thing and they were clinging to it? Perhaps he was being unkind. Perhaps his thoughts were tainted by what he knew Ric Madoc had locked up somewhere in this house?

It felt hard to enjoy the party.

Catching one of the waiter’s attention, he gave an awkward smile. “Hi, sorry, is there a second bathroom? Downstairs one has someone in and-“ He tightened his smile.

Thankfully sympathetic, the waiter said that there was a second one upstairs but to be quick as Mr Madoc didn’t like people being up there for too long. Well Mr Madoc could go fuck himself. And he could keep the K this time.

Voices still echoed up the fancy wooden staircase but they were muted. Up here, there was a sense of almost otherworldly calm. He remembered once when he was a sailor how a storm had overtaken the ship. For hours, he’d been contemplating if he’d be able to walk back to England underwater when their ship had sailed straight into the eye of the storm. He’d wandered out onto the deck and stared in awe at the sky.

Something was here. He could feel it.

As he walked, he noted each of the doors. That same polished wood and-

One had a bolt lock on the outside. There was no reason any door in the upstairs of a house would need a bolt lock on the outside unless it was used to keep an old storage door closed. This neither looked old or for storage.

Tentatively he knocked. There came the sound of shifting feet from within but no answer.

“Are you in there?” he hissed. “It’s Hob.”

Nothing. Perhaps his stranger couldn’t speak. Perhaps this was someone else entirely. Either way, someone was being kept against their will and he intended to find out who it was.

Six hundred and sixty odd years of being alive had left Hob with a vast array of skills. One he’d picked up but had never had to really use before was burglary. It had gotten a lot harder over the years, what with cameras and alarms but a lot of the old techniques still applied. So after the party had long since died down and Ric Madoc was sleeping in what was probably a pile of money, Hob quietly re-entered the house.

He carefully made his way up the stairs, avoiding the creaking areas he’d noted before. Couldn’t be impatient with this sort of thing. It was all about taking your time. If no one knew you were there, then you’d have all the time in the world, at least until daybreak.

Everything was the same as when he’d left it before. The same doors, the same bolt lock, the same eerie sense of something else radiating out of that room. Had his stranger felt like that? It was hard to remember.

All at once, he was struck with a sense of nervousness. What if his stranger was angry? What if he didn’t want to see him even after everything that had happened? What if he was hurt? What if- So many what ifs. It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered now.

The lock was a good one, expensive no doubt. But Hob had seen these locks grow, seen them develop over decades and kept his skills sharp with each one. It took time, it took effort, but eventually the lock gave way.

Finally. Finally, his search was over. Finally, he would be reunited with his stranger.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

On the other side, bathed in moonlight, was a woman. She had long dark hair, soulful eyes and wore a simple white dress that she was scrunching between her fists as she stared at him. She was beautiful but she wasn’t his stranger.

They stared at each other in bewilderment for a long moment before Hob cleared his throat. “Sorry, hi, I thought you were someone else.”

“Someone else?” she asked, her accent was definitely Greek but it felt like an older flavour of it. “Are you the one who knocked?”

“Yeah, sorry if I scared you.” What the hell was going on? How were there two immortal beings with inspiration granting abilities? “What’s your name?”

Releasing her dress, she took two paces towards him then stopped. “I am Calliope.”

“Right, well, Calliope, do you need rescuing?”

There was a moment and then something changed in her face. It was an expression that Hob had seen before and would never forget, one he’d felt upon his own face in his darkest ours. It was the expression of hope being dangled before the hopeless. It was someone resigned to an awful fate having the first glimmer of a chance placed before them.

“Yes,” she whispered, blinking. “But I cannot go with you. I am bound to him, I cannot be free until he lets me go.”

“So I make him let you go,” Hob said and her eyes widened. They shifted over his shoulder right as he heard a metallic click behind him.

A croaky voice that suggested someone had woken up in a panic said, “Step away from her.” Hob glanced back to see Richard Madoc pointing a pistol at him.

“Where the fuck did you get one of those?” he demanded. Just from a glance he could tell it was absolutely not legal. Then again, rich idiot. Money could get you anything.

Nervously licking his lips, Madoc tightened his grip on the gun. “Never mind that. Who are you?”

“Stop waving that thing around,” Hob sighed. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“Shut up. Calliope, what was he doing?”

There was silence.

“ Calliope .”

In a small, broken voice, she said, “He wanted to rescue me.”

Madoc let out a strangled laugh. “You can’t have her, whoever you are, she’s mine. Mine by law .”

“Maybe,” Hob said, taking a step forward. Madoc’s eyes widened and he brandished the pistol a little harder, eyes darting from Hob back to Calliope. All Hob needed to do was take one more step and he’d be able to get that stupid gun away from him. Someone like this would break almost immediately under pressure so it wouldn’t take much to make him let Calliope go. “But you’re gonna let her go anyway.”

He took a step.

A terrified Ric Madoc accidentally shot him four times. One went wide, pinging off into the wall. One hit him in the shoulder. One cut straight through his upper thigh. The last buried itself deep into his chest.

Staggering to one knee, Hob roared and flung himself at Madoc. Years upon years of fighting experience raged through his head. He’d survived battles against far worse enemies than some scrawny, pathetic man like Richard Madoc.

They hit the ground, grappling for the gun as it fired off again, narrowly missing Calliope who screamed. Hob smacked Madoc’s hand into the ground until the gun was released.

“Please,” Madoc whimpered before Hob grabbed him into a tight headlock.

“Say she can go,” Hob snarled into his ear.

“I can’t- I-” Madoc slapped at his arm. “Please, I-”

“Say she can go !” Hob tightened his grip. Something loud was beating in his ears, something so loud he could barely hear himself think. Was that- Was his heart? Was… Against his will, his grip loosened as his fingers refused to obey him. How much blood had he lost? How… Numbly, he felt his body begin to shut down. He wasn’t going to die but… Maybe a sleep would be nice. Just a little nap.

Until he felt better.

His head hit the floorboards with a resounding smack.

*

Calliope watched in muted horror as her would-be-rescuer collapsed in a pool of his own blood. What a kind, stupid man. A brave idiot. To sacrifice his own life for a stranger that he had just met, she wished she could inspire a poem for him. Something to remember him. But all she had was Richard Madoc.

Swallowing her grief, she set her eyes on him. He was sitting there in his sleepwear, covered in this stranger’s blood, white with shock. Slowly he looked up at her.

“He- he made me do it,” he whispered. “I- You saw. I had to.”

“Your actions are your own, Richard Madoc,” she said. “You could have let me go, now you have blood on your hands.”

“But- I- I need to think. I need to-“ Breath shaking and shuddering, he pushed himself away from the body. “I need to- God what the fuck? What have I done?” He stared at the blood coating him and retched. “Jesus fucking Christ, he’s- Oh god. Oh god.”

There was no part of Calliope that had any sympathy for him. The dead man on the other hand. There had been someone he was looking for. Someone he’d loved enough to come here, someone who maybe had loved him just as much. Someone who would never see him again. It was a poor thing for a man to die surrounded by those who did not care for him.

Ignoring Madoc’s whimpering, she stepped close to the body of her valiant stranger and knelt down. There were old prayers to the dead she could say. Something to help him on his way to whichever land he found himself in. She lay hand on his bloodied chest.

And stopped.

“He lives,” she said.

“What?” Madoc scrambled over, feeling for a pulse in the man’s neck. “H-how? Is he dying slowly? I don’t- What’s happening?”

“I know Death,” she said and felt that continued, steady beat of his heart. It was a little slower than it should be but more like that of one in deep slumber than one on the edge of dying. “She will not come for him. I know not why.”

Relief was brief for Madoc as he allowed himself precisely thirty seconds to be glad he wasn’t a murderer before his eyes widened. “Oh god, he’s gonna wake up. He’s gonna tell people I shot him. Fuck.”

She fixed him with a withering stare. “Would you have preferred to be a killer?”

“Dead men can’t go to the police,” he snapped. “Shit. Okay. Okay, he’s still injured, he’s not… super healing or something. I can work with this. I… I need to think. I need to figure out what I’m doing.”

“While you think, may I treat him?” If she were herself, she could have called upon her sister goddess’ to help her cure the man of all his ails. As it was she was cut off and alone. “So he does not bleed across the hallway.”

A nervous laugh left Madoc and he pulled himself up to his feet. “Yeah. Yeah, you… you bandage him. Apparently he can’t die so… Could just keep him here. I mean, could keep you company. I’ll need robe, chains? He looked strong. Can’t tell anyone if he doesn’t leave.” He looked so self-satisfied with his solution. “See it all works out. You get a friend and our secret stays safe.”

Heart sinking, Calliope looked down at her brave rescuer and wished she could apologise to him. She wished she could tell him how sorry he was that his fate had now joined hers.

Chapter Text

Pain was something that was surprisingly difficult to get used to. Logically speaking, if you spent the better part of seven hundred years getting into fights and various accidents, you’d perhaps grow accustomed to it. Apparently not fucking gun shots though. Despite Calliope’s best efforts Hob could barely move for days after his break in.

To make matters even worse, when he’d first woken up, he’d found that Madoc had installed a metal loop into the wall above the bed and chained him up to it. Part of Hob wanted to make a dumb joke to lighten his own mood. The rest of him just wanted to be angry. Angry he’d failed. Angry that Calliope was now forced to take care of him. Angry that he was at the mercy of some little monstrous creep like Ric Fucking Madoc.

The creep himself came to visit every day. He kept his distance, giving Hob a wide berth and occasionally touching the large bruises Hob had left on him during their fight. Back in the day a man won a fight based on skill not on who happened to have the death machine. Guns were definitely not something he was thrilled about being around in the modern age.

“People will come looking for me,” Hob warned him after four days, when he could finally speak without pain. He still had jobs, neighbours, people who would notice he was missing. “Someone’ll call the police. They’ll find me eventually.”

Madoc gave a twitchy grin. “See, I thought about that. Calliope though, she can suppress inspiration. She can suppress the idea to come looking for you.”

Perched on the bed beside Hob, Calliope gave Madoc a glare. “It will not last.”

“It’ll last long enough,” Madoc said, running his fingers through his hair. “Long enough for me to- to figure out what I’m doing with you.” He began to pace on the far side of the room, back and forth. “Are you magic? Is that why you didn’t die? Why you’re healing so well?”

Hob just tightened his jaw.

“Calliope said death wouldn’t touch you, what does that mean?”

“I’m immune.”

“How? How is that possible?” Clicking his fingers, Madoc stopped. “You’re like her aren’t you? That’s why you came looking for her. You don’t sound Greek. What are you some minor demigod of lock picking or something?”

Too tired to deal with him, Hob closed his eyes. “Ask me when it doesn’t hurt to breathe,” he snapped.

Madoc gave a nervous laugh. “I’ve got two of you. Oh this’ll be good, you’ll see. Good for all of us.” Still muttering to himself, he finally left.

There was silence for a long moment, then Calliope said, “I remember when you knocked on the door. You said you were Hob, is that your name?”

As his chest tensed with discomfort, he just nodded.

“You are a fool, Hob,” she said.

“Rude.”

“But very brave as well.” Tucking her legs beneath her, she shuffled closer across the bed. “You said you were looking for someone else. Who? Who could you possibly have mistaken me for?”

Well that was definitely the hot button issue wasn’t it? How to explain it? And how to explain Calliope ? So many things had been said, things he’d didn’t understand.

“Answer for an answer?” he offered.

“That is the fairest trade I have had in sixty years,” she said gently. There was the echo of a smile on her pretty face but her sad, dark eyes seemed to wash it all away. “I asked mine first.”

“Six hundred and thirty years ago, I met a man. He made me immortal and I’ve been meeting him in the same pub every hundred years.” When Calliope didn’t look disbelieving, he continued, “Last time, we got into a fight and he stormed off. Then he missed the next meeting. Now, I don’t know if he hates me but if he’s my oldest friend and he's in trouble then I want to save him.”

Calliope just gave a slight frown. “I have more questions but I owe you one first. Ask?”

“What exactly are you? I mean no offence. But I followed a lot of very strange trails to get here and you definitely don’t look sixty.”

Another ghost of a smile now. “I am a muse. A goddess of times long past though still worshipped in the ways that matter. I have inspired great poets and writers for millennia, plays and songs that have lived on long after their creators were dead.”

“Until Erasmus Fry caught you,” Hob said.

She only nodded.

“I killed him.”

Those big, sad dark eyes looked up at him in shock. In awe perhaps? Or was it horror?

“Erasmus Fry, I killed him. Poisoned him.” He gave a half smile. “Wasn’t meaning to but that was a monster and I don’t regret it.”

When she turned away, he thought she was angry but she instead lay down on the bed beside him. “I hated him,” she whispered. “I had never hated a human before but I hated him. He told me, promised me, that he would free me before he died and now he’s dead I’m-” Her voice cut off in a choke but no tears fell. Had she run out of tears? Trapped for almost a human lifetime. How must that feel? How must that weigh on a person?

Was there anything else that could be said?

“You had more questions?” he prompted. “About the man I’m looking for.”

After a moment, she said, “Yes. What did he look like?”

Odd. Though, then again, perhaps immortal creatures of inspiration knew each other. Maybe his stranger was one of these muses too.

“Tall, pale, dark hair.” Not useful, not useful at all. “Eyes like starlight. Always wore black with a ruby at his neck.”

A soft sound that was almost a laugh came from Calliope. “Brooding? Stoic? With a voice so beautiful you could fool yourself into believing you could live off its sound alone?”

That was one of Hob’s few regrets. That he’d been unable to coax his stranger to fill the silence with that lovely voice of his. So many of their meetings were just Hob talking.

“You know him?” To be that specific, she had to.

“His name is Morpheus,” she said and it felt like a jolt of electricity rushing through his entire system. A name for his stranger. A name for his friend. A real name, not just whatever labels his mind had constructed over the centuries. “Ruler of Dreams. We were once married, he and I.”

It was like an overload of information all at once. Calliope managed another almost laugh as she watched his face. No doubt the millions of thoughts exploding all at once showed in his expression.

“His sister is the Lady Death,” she continued. “It is she, no doubt, who granted you your immortality.”

A sister? On top of an ex-wife? What else was he about to learn?

“Why?” he demanded.

Calliope gave the smallest shrug. “Who can say with their kind?”

An ancient memory, faded with years, sparked.

“Oh shit,” he whispered. “When I met him, I’d just been saying death was stupid and I wasn’t planning on dying. What if his sister was with him and I…”

“Taunted the god of death?” she asked. “Perhaps she liked you for it and wanted you to be a friend for her brother.” Calliope tilted her head, appraising him. “From the little I have known of you, you do seem like the sort of person she would like.”

Of course, just casual friends with a death god. Why not? This whole thing was already so goddamn weird. Sleep began to grab at his mind like an itch. He fought it away, trying to get his brain in order.

“You were right,” she said and he frowned. “From what I know, he is captured. I know not the details but… You were right to go looking for him.” There seemed to be a silent understatement there. Something she didn’t want to say but he understood.

“I’m sorry,” he said and she didn’t look at him. “Soon as I’m healed, I swear we’re getting out of here. Both of us.”

That glimmer of hope flashed in her eyes but all she said was, “Sleep. You need rest.”

*

“Tell me a story.”

It was dark. A storm raged outside and downstairs, Madoc was torturing his computer to get more words. Hob was standing by the bed stretching his still healing limbs but appreciative of what a month had done for him. The chains made everything fucking harder.

Glancing over where Calliope was still sitting by the windowsill, he frowned. “Me?”

She nodded. She always looked so drained when Madoc was writing. Like the very life force was being sucked out of her and nothing but a ghost would be left without it.

“It’s been so long since I heard one I was not forced to inspire.”

A story. Sure, he knew stories. As the ache in his leg began to wind up into a burning, he forced himself to sit down. Stories.

“Real or not?” he asked.

“I do not mind.”

Maybe a fictional one. Something to spirit them both away from this place.

“Once upon a time,” he began and she pressed her back against the wall, giving him her full attention. “There was a princess, named Calliope.” That got one of those almost smiles on her face. “And she was the mightiest princess in all the land. With armour made from dragons she’d slain and a sword pulled from the grips of a devil, she walked all across the kingdom slaying evil wherever she found it. Now, one day, she reached a crossroads. At that crossroads were a pair of evil wizards who were stealing the dreams of travellers out of their heads. Calliope pulled her fearsome sword from its sheath and cried, ‘Stop! You braggarts! If you continue your evil ways, I’ll have your hides!’” He paused to catch his breath but before he could continue, she spoke.

“Calliope was fooled,” she said, “by the clever illusions the wizards had placed to trap her. But her brave squire saw the villains entrenched within the woods around.”

“Her brave squire?”

“I have inspired enough ballads to know all great knights have one.”

He laughed and nodded. “True. This squire foolishly tried to charge the wizards himself. Luckily, his knight was there to protect him.”

“And together they defeated the wizards,” she said softly. “Free from any cage that had been prepared for them.”

“Rode off on their horses to explore the land,” he said. When she didn’t reply he added, “Never been much of a story teller. Wasn’t my forte.”

Shaking her head, she leaned towards him. “I know the tales a father tells. You made your children heroes in their minds.”

Memories dredged themselves up across his mind. Memories of Robyn curled up at his side, begging for a story about warriors and battles. Memories of Eleanor laughing as she sewed new clothes for their new baby, a daughter she’d insisted. She’d been right, not that she ever got the chance to know it.

“Child,” he said stiffly. “I never got to tell my daughter any stories. And maybe if I’d filled Robyn’s head with less tales of heroics, he wouldn’t have gotten himself killed.”

Calliope bowed her head. “I know your pain,” she said. Their eyes met and it was indeed his own pain he saw reflected back at him. The pain only known by parents who had suffered the very worst fate imaginable.

“You were a mother,” he said.

“My son was Orpheus.”

“I know that story.”

“Then you know how it ends,” she said. The storm raged on. The darkness was loud that night.

*

Madoc was back, still standing too far enough away to be reached.  “You… look well?” he said.

Hob fixed him with a glare that matched the one Calliope was also giving him. She watched from the foot of the bed that had become her customary spot in the five months since Hob Gadling had joined her in captivity. It felt… nice to be a united front against Madoc and his cruelty.

“I know I haven’t been the best… host,” Madoc continued.

“Yeah, you shot me and chained me to a wall,” Hob said. “Gonna try and rectify that any time soon?”

That same almost nervous smile that always happened was on Madoc’s face. “You don’t understand. Since you’ve got here, it’s been better than ever. The words, the ideas. You make her happy and that makes it all better . This book is going to be the best thing we’ve ever written.”

“We?” Calliope demanded. He always did this. Always tried to drag her into some form of being complicit with what he did. As if she had a choice.

“Of course,” he said, eyes bright. “He makes you stronger, you inspire me, I write. It’s a group effort. And- and that’s not all.” He pointed a hand at Hob. “With the money I’m gonna make, I could cut you in. Give you a portion of the profits.”

“Profits?” Hob repeated dubiously. “You would… pay me?”

“Yes, if you stayed here willingly and kept her company, kept her happy.” Somewhere in Madoc’s mind this clearly made sense and for the briefest flicker of a moment, Calliope feared Hob would agree.

Instead, Hob looked at her. “Is he crazy?”

Madoc’s face immediately soured. “Look, I’m trying to do what’s best for all of us. All you’d have to do is not tell the police and come visit as often as you could. You could- you could go home?”

“You’re serious?”

Was he really considering this? After what Madoc had done to him? To both of them?

“Yes,” Madoc said and he eagerly stepped forward. “We’d be business partners after all.”

“Shake on it?” Hob asked and extended his hand. With a wide grin, Madoc walked closer, hand outstretched. Was this it? Was this how her supposed friend betrayed her? Was this how her final piece of hope was dashed away? Was she really such a fool that she had been tricked by a human again ?

As soon as Madoc was in range, Hob lunged. Slamming into the ground on top of him, Hob grabbed Madoc around the throat. Squeezing. Squeezing. Madoc squirmed, smacking at Hob’s arms, his feet kicking out.

Calliope allowed herself the briefest moment of relief. Then another brief moment of regret that she had doubted the man she’d come to know. Finally, she stood.

“Stop,” she said. “He cannot free me if he’s dead.”

Immediately, Hob let him go. Still planted firmly on Madoc’s chest, he sat up, breathing heavily. What was it that she saw blazing inside of him at that moment? Rage? For her? For both of them? It was-

There was something in Madoc’s hand. Before she could shout a warning, Madoc jammed it into Hob’s side and there was a sickening crackle of electricity. Buckling, Hob writhed on the floor, muscles spasming violently.

Panting, Madoc forced Hob off of him before shocking him again. And again. And again.

No. No no no no. That was all she could think as she scrambled off of the bed and tried to shove Madoc away. He grabbed her by the wrist, squeezing so tight she feared he might actually break the bone.

“Stop,” she hissed. “Or I will never inspire you again.”

That finally got through to him. As Hob lay groaning on the floor, Madoc stared at her with wide, affronted eyes. Like he was offended. Like this wasn’t his fault. Like she’d insulted him.

“Fry was right,” he whispered. “Always right.” Licking his lips, he looked from Hob to Calliope then back again. “Threaten me like that again,” he said to her, “and I will hurt him.”

A shiver ran down her spine. When had this brutal coldness arrived in this man? Was it from his desperation?

Still holding onto her wrist, Madoc kicked Hob squarely in the stomach. “And you!” There was a long pause as he seemed to be building up the courage to do whatever he was thinking. “This is what happens when you attack me.”

That grip on her wrist tightened and he began to drag her towards the door.

“No,” she said and struggled, trying to force him off her. But he was her master, there was little she could do. He dragged her further and further out of the room.

On the floor, Hob wheezed and tried to stand. “Calliope.”

“I am your master!” Madoc threw her against the hallway bannister with enough force that the world blinked white for a second. “It’s time you both remembered that.”

“Calliope!” Hob reached for her just as Madoc closed the door behind him. Alone with him in the hallway, she felt panic flutter in her chest.

Hours later, she was shoved back in the room. There was no strength in her to stand so she just collapsed to the floor where Hob still lay. In the dark, their hands found one another.

*

“Tell me a story,” she whispered, curled against his side.

And he did. He always did. Stories of adventure, of freedom, of rescue and more. Stories where they were far away from this place. Stories where evil little men like Richard Madoc could never hope to survive.

Chapter Text

There were few things that made Hob more irrationally annoyed than Richard Madoc being happy. Still he was here with a big grin on his face as he sidled into the room that morning. It was August and the sun was a blazing thing that lit up the small room with warmth. Calliope stood with her back to the door, drinking in the sunlight with closed eyes.

“Ta dah!” Madoc said, waving a hardback book towards Hob. From this distance, he could see the words Eagle Stones emblazoned on a black cover. “I told you it was going to be my best work and I was right.”

A few things had changed since his explosive outburst a few months before. For one thing, Calliope all but ignored Madoc unless directly spoken to. For another, Hob was allowed a newspaper of his choice every week so that he could stay up to date with the world and do crosswords. It was a feeble attempt to make Madoc feel better about himself no doubt. Feel less like a dictator and more like a congenial host.

There was a long pause as Madoc waited for a reaction. Hob glanced over at Calliope who continued to just bask in the sun before taking Madoc’s poorly laid bait.

“What’s this one about?” he sighed.

Excitedly, Madoc stepped forward and carefully tossed the book to him. “I think you’ll like it. There’s a little surprise inside for you both.”  That made Calliope turn around. She raised a silent eyebrow at Hob, still not looking at Madoc.

This should prove interesting at least. Hob flicked open the cover and found the ‘surprise’ written on the first page. A dedication.

“To Calliope and Hob,” he read out loud. “My inspirations.”

Face falling into a withering look of disgust, Calliope returned her attention to the window. Madoc’s eyes flicked nervously to her then back to Hob. There was an almost pleading look in his eyes.

“It’s… wow,” Hob said dryly. “Great, uh, great honour.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Calliope bite back a smile. “Almost makes it sound like we’re friends.” Not a single speck of the sarcasm seemed to pierce Richard Madoc’s happy little dream world as he grinned.

“Even more news.” He did a little drum roll on his thighs. “They’re already organising a movie version. We’ll be shooting it in actual Los Angeles. Have you ever been?”

“Once or twice,” Hob said, flicking to the blurb. Something about an actor finding a cryptic name. Good work of course, as it was entirely Calliope’s efforts that made it happen. “So… you’ll be leaving us here?”

“That’s the fun part, the studio has hired me a private jet.” Madoc seemed so utterly relaxed as he pulled the one chair up to sit in. “Should have no trouble getting you two into the country. Who knows… Maybe we’ll decide to stay there.”

Hob froze and exchanged another dumbfounded look with Calliope. There was some strange fantasy taking place in Madoc’s mind, so vivid that Hob could almost see it playing out. The noble writer with his two magical friends. A little family that made marvels. Maybe that was the problem with good writers, they were able to fool themselves as well as everyone else.

Finally, Calliope spoke. “Maybe ‘we’ will decide?”

The happiness slid off Madoc’s face as he let out a long sigh. “Can you not allow yourself to enjoy our success?” he demanded, back on his feet. “Even for a second? The three of us are telling stories that move and inspire people. Isn’t that what muses were made for?” He gestured to both of them.

Calliope’s hands bunched into fists behind her back and Hob desperately wanted to reach out to her. But any sudden movements around Madoc made him nervous.

“My sister goddesses and I were born,” Calliope said. “We were not made.”

Before she could even finish, Madoc’s phone was ringing. No doubt his agent as he began jabbering on about whatever performative goodness he wanted to show off next. Always more and more things to ease that conscience of his. Trying to drown it out, Hob opened up the fresh newspaper he’d been brought and began flicking through to the crossword. It was one of the only things that let him stay sane these days.

As Maddoc wandered out, he became aware that Calliope was suddenly very close. She was staring at the newspaper.

“You can read it, if you like?” he said, offering it to her. Immediately she grabbed it and climbed onto the bed beside him.

“Look at this,” she whispered, smoothing out the front page. A headline read: Sleeping beauty wakes up. Below it was a subtitle: Sleepy sickness patient says “life is a dream.”

“I remember when that broke out,” Hob said. “Back in the tw- Wait, a second. You said that Morpheus-“

“Caused it when he was imprisoned,” she finished. They’d spoken in depth about their strange shared connection to the cold, pale man.

“So if it’s over…” Hob’s eyes widened and Calliope’s face split into a real smile. “Can you summon him?”

Nodding, she pointed at the pen in his hand and he all but threw it at her. She spread the paper out and wrote MORPHEUS in large block capitals. Was this finally going to be over?

“I call to you, Oneiros,” she prayed, placing her hands over the paper. “That you may hear me and come to my aid when I say your name out loud.”

So utterly entranced in the little ritual was Hob that he didn’t hear the footsteps on the floorboards. Didn’t hear the door creak back open. Didn’t notice Madoc's return until he demanded, “What are you doing?”

Both of them froze.

“I said , what are you doing?” There was an edge to Madoc’s voice that he always got when things were beginning to get dangerous.

There was no way that Hob should be afraid of this man. And he wasn’t. Not really. But he looked at Calliope and remembered what had happened last time. Remembered the bruises, remembered how she’d lain there.

“Give me that,” Madoc ordered. “Now.”  Shoulders slumping, Calliope handed him the newspaper and he immediately frowned at the word. “Morpheus?” His eyes flicked between them. “What does it mean?”

“God of Dreams,” Hob said. “Old friend.”

Fingers tightening on the paper, Madoc frowned. “You writing him a letter?”

“Something like that.” There was no fear in Calliope’s voice, just the cold hard steel of determination.

Madoc scoffed. Ripping the name out of the paper, he crushed it in his fist. “You’re mine,” he said to the both of them. “By law. The God of Dreams can’t save you.”

*

Dream of the Endless stepped into the quiet night to find the voice that had summoned him. The walls of a room materialised around him. A small room with a single window that let moonlight pool around a familiar figure. No matter how many aeons had stretched between them since their last meeting, still he knew every line and graceful curve of the woman he had once loved. The truth of what had occurred within this house was visible to him from the sleeping mind of the man downstairs. The horrors.

“You came.” He heard the smile in her voice.

“You called,” he said simply and took a step forward. Then he frowned as she turned and knelt beside the bed where another figure lay, chains extended up to a loop in the wall.

“I told you,” she said and he saw another familiar face staring at him in awe.

“Hob Gadling?” he asked. Hob’s face lit up in one of the most beatific smiles he had ever seen upon a human. When he’d been speaking with his sister, the idea to find Hob had briefly sparked before falling to the wayside. Even now, as he felt Richard Madoc’s dreams, Hob’s face was obscured there. “You have been hiding him,” he realised. “From even me.”

Immediately, Hob was putting himself in front of her. “Don’t blame her, Madoc made her do it.” The glow from the window illuminated their hands, entwined and gripping tight.

Calliope laid a reassuring touch on Hob’s shoulder and he relaxed. “They told me you had been imprisoned,” she said. “Just like us.”

Imprisoned? Yes. Abused, tortured, defiled? No. The memories flowing through Richard Madoc’s mind were horrific, foul things that he wished to erase as soon as he became aware of them. But there was no erasing them. There was no turning his back to them. Each one that he felt, stoked a fire within him that was soon blazing.

“Not like you,” he said as both Hob and Calliope drew closer to him. “My suffering was nothing compared to yours.”

“Don’t say that,” she urged. “Comparing our suffering only compounds it. It pained me to hear of your misfortune.” Those lovely eyes were so gentle, so warm despite it all. “I’m glad that you are free.”

Beside her, Hob nodded. “I went looking for you so it’s good to know you didn’t need me.”

Something inside Dream shivered. Guilt? Gratitude? “You… looked for me?”

“Yeah, got me locked up here,” he said with a grimace. But he looked to Calliope and that lovely, earnest warmth was still there. “Maybe it’s because you needed me more.” Had Calliope ever looked at him like that? Even when they were together?

Now was not the time.

“I can break your chains, Hob Gadling,” he said. “But, Calliope, you were bound here by the laws.” Just one look at Hob’s face told him all he needed to know. Hob Gadling would not leave his friend alone here. Would not abandon her. He made no move to even ask, just kept his eyes on Calliope.

She came closer, looking up at Dream with an expression that risked hope. “I know you cannot free me,” she said. “Only he can do that, but perhaps you might inspire him? To let me go?”

As if she had to ask. As if either of them have to ask. As if there was anything in this world or any other that was going to stand in the way of his fury.

“I will do all that and more,” he vowed.

Calliope’s expression shifted. “Dream-” she began.

“He must be punished,” Dream growled. He could see it all now as he knew where to look. Could see the scars on Hob, the torment upon Calliope, the grief that clung to them both like a noxious poison. This room, this house, it reeked of misery.

“How?” Calliope demanded. “What punishment could be enough? Even his death would not bring back what he has taken from us. He’s nothing. He’s just a man.”

Did she know what she was asking of him? To leash this writhing beast of rage within him, to lash it down and lock it away.

“I cannot allow him to go free.”

Still chained, Hob called, “Why?”

“Because I was once yours?” Calliope added. “Because you hold Hob’s life within your hands?”

Is that really what they thought of him? Had he been so cruel and callous in past centuries that they thought this was some petty thing of ownership and ego? He looked between the two of them slowly.

“Because he hurt you,” he said. Hob closed his eyes, ducked his hand, and Calliope was looking at him with an expression he didn’t understand. “The last time I saw you, you said you would never speak to me again.”

Was that regret in her?

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I did not know where else to turn.”

Did she think he was angry? Did she think…?

“You misunderstand me. When I heard you call to me, even after all this time…” He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence, to say the flurry of wild emotions that had wracked through him. He turned to Hob. “And you, my friend, I was cruel to you. I should never have done that.”

Hob’s eyebrows raised. Confusion? Surprise?

“Let me help you,” he said to them. Pleaded with them. These two wonderful, beautiful folk that he had had the pleasure of knowing. Of calling his beloved. “I owe you that much.”

A long look was exchanged between Calliope and Hob. It was a complicated exchange born from bond forged in terror. Finally, in near unison, they nodded.

“What will you do to him?” Calliope asked.

*

Ric threw open the door. A cold sweat still clung to his face, shivers working through his bones. His muses sat on the bed together, glancing up at him as he entered. For the first time, he realised it might have been contempt in their faces.

“What did you do to me?” He hated how uneven his voice sounded. “Are you giving me nightmares now?”

Calliope and Hob looked at each other as twin smiles grew upon their faces. They knew . They had done this. After everything he’d done for them and they were conspiring against him?

“Tell me!” he spat and Calliope gave him a patronising stare.

“We have done nothing to you, Richard Madoc,” she said, slowly rising to her feet. “You have met Morpheus, who the Romans called The Shaper of Form.” She took a step towards him. Bold confidant. “He is Hob’s oldest friend.” Another step. “He was also once my husband and is the father of my son.”

Ric recoiled backwards as she stopped in front of him. “I- I didn’t know you had a son,” he whispered.

Her face contorted in an anger he had never seen in her before. “You know nothing about me,” she said and turned back to Hob who fixed Ric with a grin.

“Too late to worry about it now,” Hob said and his chains clinked as he stretched out with his arms behind his head.

And it was. Much, much too late.

First came the nightmares. Strange things, twisting things. He dreamed he was chained to a sun, his flesh burning but unable to die. He was buried beneath the earth, crushed by the constant, ever shifting pressure of the continents. He was drowning, he was eaten alive, he was torn apart.

For the next three days, he awoke screaming and drenched in stinking sweat. Sleep didn’t seem to do anything for him and the bags under his eyes grew darker and darker as he wandered through appointments like a zombie. Then there were the things he saw while awake. Constant flickers out to the corner of his eye of something. Something watching him. Something stalking him. Something waiting to kill him. Already sleep deprived, he was a twitching paranoid mess whenever he left the house.

He could deal with it though. He kept telling himself that as he chugged copious amounts of caffeine to keep himself awake. He could handle this.

“Do your worst, Dream King,” he muttered to himself in the mirror. What could dreams really do after all? It was just in his head. Nothing in there could really hurt him.

Then the day of the book reading came.

Ideas so terrible, so horrible they clawed through his mind like a raging fire. He had to get them out, he had to get them out of his head. Only then would they be gone. But even as he split his fingers scrawling them across the wall, the ideas, the terrifying, disgusting ideas just took form.

They were real and here and could hurt him. And they wanted to hurt him so very badly.

Richard Madoc was found curled up and sobbing incoherently in a hallway by concerned guests of the Eagle Stones book reading. The only words that could be made out were ‘I let you go’. Experts suspected that Mr Madoc had a nervous breakdown of some kind that seemed to have stripped him of all higher brain functions.

*

Despite everything, Madoc did at least have some good taste in clothes. Hob delightedly rifled through Madoc’s wardrobe looking for literally anything to replace the things he’d been wearing for the entirety of his imprisonment. Sure he’d washed but the clothes certainly hadn’t been. He settled on a comfortable blue shirt, sturdy trousers and a very expensive suit jacket that wouldn’t be getting any more uses out of it. Sadly Madoc’s equally as expensive shoes were a size too small for him and he wasn’t about to torture his feet for some footwear. The old boots would have to do.

Taking the stairs two at a time, his face split into a beaming grin when he saw Calliope. Now this was how a goddess was supposed to look. Her hair was gorgeously plaited and a white chiton flowed around her held at the waist by an intricate belt. Beside her, Morpheus stood as cold and dark as always. But there was a softness to him now.

“You look stunning,” Hob said as Calliope took his hands in hers.

She laughed. “You have also cleaned up well.”

“Flatterer,” he said, earning another of the lovely smiles.

Calliope kept a tight hold of his hands as she turned to Dream. Had they been talking when Hob had interrupted? He thought he’d heard their voices as he came down stairs.

“I think you should release the mortal now,” she said, and looked to Hob who nodded. They’d had a lot of time to talk while they waited those final days. “He has set me free and without forgiveness, wounds will never heal.”

Almost aghast, Dream’s eyes looked between them. “You would forgive him? For what he’s done?”

“I will not forgive what he has done but I must forgive the man.” Her grip on Hob’s hand was solid and warm. “Not for him. For me.”

Dream looked to Hob perhaps hoping for a second opinion. “I’ve known a lot of people like him,” Hob said. “Pathetic and worthless. Listen, he’s not getting off scot free, as soon as I leave I’m putting an anonymous tip into the police about some illegal firearms. He’ll be punished by mortal means. He’s beneath you, beneath all of us.” There was such a strange look on Dream’s face. The only word that sprung to mind was admiration.

“Will you let him go?” Calliope asked.

After a long moment, Dream simply answered, “If that is what you wish, it shall be done.”

(Somewhere across England, a man woke up in a hospital. He wasn’t quite sure who he was or where he was, all he knew was that he had done something terrible.)

At the door, looking out into the night, Calliope stood close to Dream and spoke with him. Hob did his best not to listen and looked around the big empty house that had been his prison for the better part of a year. Would it be seized? Maybe he could buy it, knock the whole thing to the ground and build something in its place. Have there be something good come out of this misery.

He glanced back to the door. Calliope rested her head against Dream who was stock still, tension worked into the very shape of him. After a second, she caught Hob’s eye and reached a hand out to him.

“I give my thanks to you as well,” she said when he arrived at her side. “Should you ever wish to write, I will be there right beside you.” Leaning up, she placed a warm kiss upon his cheek.

“Never tried writing.” He ducked his head, feeling oddly bashfully.

“There is always time to begin,” Dream said softly. Was that a smile on him? Couldn’t be.

Calliope walked to the threshold of the door and stopped. “Fortune be with you both,” she said softly and then, for the first time in years, she stepped outside.

For a long, long time, Hob and Dream watched her take in the fresh air and walk slowly down the street. They watched until she disappeared into the night and they were alone. The world felt a little dimmer without her. A little less wondrous. But they were both still here, so maybe it was alright.

“I’m sorry,” Dream said softly and Hob tilted his head in confusion. “That my imprisonment forced you to worry for me. That it led you here to this… place.” The way he said the word made it seem like something bitter, something poisonous.

Hob bumped his shoulder against his old friend. “Not your fault. Now, should we find a pub?”

A real smile worked its way across Dream’s lips and he nodded. “Yes, my friend, I believe we are overdue an appointment.”

They walked into the night.