Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationships:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Series:
Part 4 of dreamling bingo 2023
Collections:
2023 Dreamling Bingo, the random collection
Stats:
Published:
2023-02-16
Words:
2,749
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
42
Kudos:
413
Bookmarks:
54
Hits:
2,128

all the light we cannot see

Summary:

It is not so very obvious, in the beginning. That they’re soulmates, that is.
*
It takes five hundred years for Hob Gadling to be sure that Dream is his soulmate. It takes Dream one moment to ensure they'll need at least a century more to sort it all out.

Notes:

Happiest of (belated) birthdays to my beloved Kick!

Written for Dreamling Bingo prompt C2 ~ feel what your soulmate feels.
This is quite angsty compared to a lot of my other writing, but alas. I'm going through it, so I guess Dreamling will be going through it too. I might continue this au later, but for now, this is what I've got.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

It is not so very obvious, in the beginning. That they’re soulmates, that is. 

In 1389, there is too much going on for Hob to notice anything but his own awareness. Couple that with the surprise, the suddenness of his encounter with the Stranger, and he cannot be blamed for missing the heightened buzz that lingered under his skin for hours after the Stranger left. 

It is more there in 1489; when the White Horse is less hazy with smoke and redolent with conversation, and Hob and his Stranger are tucked together at a table in their own little bubble. Hob feels it, chases it, but cannot quite put his finger on what it is. Why it is that he feels so much more alive when he is with this man, this creature, his mysterious benefactor. 

It has been a long, bizarre century, full of not-dying (even on several occasions when non-age related causes should have ended him quite decisively) and the anxiety of wondering what, exactly his Stranger is. So they sit together, and Hob speaks, and his Stranger listens, and occasionally scoffs, and all Hob can really do is enjoy a moment of certainty in an ocean of inquiry.

In 1589, Hob feels a stab of something as he tells his Stranger of Elanor and Robyn, something that dries his mouth and prickles at his eyes. Something that feels very much like an amalgamation of jealousy and grief, but before he even has a chance to question it, his Stranger is gone to chase after Will-bloody-Shaxberd, and Hob is too busy battling his own heartbreak. He goes home to his wife and his child and dedicates himself to his joy—before it all becomes misery. 

1689 does not bear mentioning, except to say that for the first time, they seem to allow some softness between them. The compassion born of Hob’s hardship blossoms between them, though neither could know how it sits in both their chests, identical and entwined.     

It is not until 1789 that Hob begins to suspect that they are soulmates. It’s the lurch in his chest when his stranger watches him fight, the way he touches his hand curiously as if he too can feel the sting against his palm from where Hob slammed a teacup into a man’s skull. 

When their eyes meet, and the Stranger says, “You need not have come to my defence,” Hob’s soul lights up and surges forward, every atom of his being straining forward to bring them together. Hob feels that if only he can touch his Stranger, his friend, the person he must now admit that he loves most dearly, he will know for sure if this is truly the one his soul aches for, his other half, whom he needs to feel whole. 

But Dream denies him. Sends him away, despite the weight of their gazes, a desire in his dizzying blue eyes that Hob feels mirrored inside himself. So he goes on his way, choked and overwhelmed by the day's revelations. Hob has much to atone for in the next century, and he almost doesn’t have time to linger on the newfound notion that his Stranger might be his soulmate until many, many years after that meeting. 

But linger he does, once he comes back to the realisation. Soulmates are rare enough as it is, never mind that his Stranger is… well, whatever he happens to be. Not human, that’s for sure. Definitely immortal and unchanging through the years, much as Hob is. But Hob has never doubted that soulmates are real. His parents were soulmates, and even hundreds of years after their deaths he remembers their devotion, their absolute connection, a tangible weight between them that bound their family together with the sweetest love. 

With a full century of time between them, Hob’s surety wavers, just a little. Their meetings have always been so short, and so far apart. The memories pale in between, no matter how often he takes his recollections out to savour every detail, like the ink of old sepia photographs that turn more and more monochrome in the sun. 

That doubt fades away the moment Hob sees his Stranger in 1889. A crackling fire ignites inside his soul, warm and certain, fueled by only the sight of his derisive expression as he faces down Lushing Lou. 

Hob rescues him and leads him to their table, where glasses of wine already await them. He jokes about Lou to distract himself from the brash blaze of hope that begs him to toss himself headfirst into Dream’s arms. He may not have learnt too many life lessons over the years, but he does know that this needs a gentle hand. 

While his Stranger speaks of Lou and Lady Johanna, Hob wonders if he knows. If perhaps he has known the entire time, and all these meetings, this long life, have all been some kind of test to see if Hob is worthy, if he would notice, how long it would take him to act on it. 

“You know everyone,” Hob says, thinking but do you really know me?  

“I think perhaps you’ve changed,” his Stranger seems to respond, and Hob’s soul sings yes, yes, yes. 

Hob sighs tremulously. There’s an ache inside him, the same shape and size as his Stranger’s pretty blue eyes, and Hob can’t help himself. There are so many things he could say, so many things he wants to say, but actions speak louder than words, after all. 

The Stranger’s hand rests on the table close to his wine glass, and Hob reaches across to rest his hand atop it. He looks shocked, and Hob understands why. The touch feels electric, intoxicating, like fireworks bursting inside of Hob, filaments of bright iridescence that fill his veins and bring him to life.

The Stranger’s hand flexes in his, his gaze falling to where they touch. His eyes are dewy with tears, his soft mouth opening with silent surprise. Hob caresses his knuckles, turning the hand in his grip, covering them both with his other hand. 

Something rises inside of him on a tide of love so strong it threatens to take his feet out from under him, and he whispers it, knowing without a doubt it is his Stranger’s carefully coveted name. “Morpheus.” 

Morpheus flinches as if his own name is a razor-sharp blow, despite the soft awe on which it is carried forth. 

“Stop.” His Stranger jerks back, standing so quickly that he knocks over his chair. It is by far the most inelegant gesture that Hob has ever seen from him, his stagger so out of character that for a moment Hob does not even register the hurt of their hands being ripped apart. 

It hits him a moment later, not just the emotional sting of rejection, but a true pain, a burning in his chest where a moment ago their bond had forged itself, so lovely and golden. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Hob stammers, getting to his feet as well. Morpheus moves back another step, confused betrayal on his face. “Maybe I shouldn’t have touched you, but–but you’re my soulmate. I know you are, I can feel it. I couldn’t go another moment without—”

“Your soulmate?” His face twists with derision. “You would claim such a liberty with one such as I? You would place such a limited human concept on one that is Endless?” 

Hob staggers back a step at the viciousness in his voice, feeling eviscerated. Phantom blood wells in his throat, coming up to flood his mouth and drown him. His throat closes, tears spilling over from his stinging eyes. 

“Well, I will simply have to take my leave and prove any such notions wrong.” 

Hob staggers after to follow him into the rain, but he has no more words, no more fight left in light of the gaping wound in his chest where his heart used to be. Where the fledgling soulbond still sits, pulsing and glowing in spite of Morpheus’ rejection. 

Soaked to the skin and shaking with shock, Hob watches his beloved Stranger stride away into the night, as angry and disgusted as it seems possible for someone to be. 

In another life perhaps Hob would have called out for him, but in this one, he simply crumples to the muddy street and sobs out all his grief. 

Once Hob’s heart has recovered somewhat, and then his bruised pride has had a chance to get over him bawling in the rain like a fool, he notices that the bond is far more prominent. Whereas before he could only sense Morpheus when they were in close proximity, now it seems as if there is always some small part of himself dedicated to how his other half is feeling. 

It is miraculous and discomfiting in equal measure, mostly due to the fact that Hob can tell just how much Morpheus now resents the bond he too can feel. Some ridiculous part of him, the part prone to chasing hopes and dreams with the enthusiasm of a small child, thinks that perhaps Dream will come and see him again when he gets over his little snit. 

Unfortunately, as the years lengthen between them, Hob becomes less and less sure of that. He even begins to lose hope that Morpheus will even come to their 1989 meeting, but that is still so far away that he has plenty of time to vacillate between yearning and despair. 

When, less than thirty years of their previous meeting, their bond is totally cut off with no warning and no explanation, Hob is finally able to settle completely into that despair. Morpheus will not be returning to see him anytime soon, if ever again. More than that, he clearly has no desire for their bond, for it is gone, and only a being with whatever mysterious power Morpheus has would be able to do such a thing. 

He is consumed with the aching emptiness within him. One would think, given the five hundred years he lived without the true strength of that connection, that it would be easy enough to adjust to its absence. But it is not. It is the worst loss Hob has ever suffered. Worse than holding his still-born daughter while his wife faded away beside him. Worse than burying his son, long before Robyn had a chance to live a full life. Worse, even, than being drowned as a witch and spending the better part of a century starving. 

With nothing else to do, Hob takes some years to be pathetic, to mourn the greatest loss a person can mourn. He sobs and rails and tears down his life in London. Then he gets on a boat to America and spends several years drowning his sorrows in any distraction he can find until he almost feels like his old, hedonistic self once more. 

Meanwhile, in Wych Cross, Dream of the Endless, Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams and Nightmares is locked away in a prison of magic and glass. 

Locked away with nothing but his own thoughts, his grief, his resentment and pride. 

His first awareness when he awoke in the Burgress’ basement had been the complete quiet in his head. No connection to the Dreaming, or the dreamers of the world. No dreams and nightmares to clutter his mind. 

And no Hob Gadling there in the back of his mind, his constant companion these last decades. 

Their bond had been a shock at first, to say the least. Dream had not had the space in his mind to welcome such a connection, had not even been able to process the shock of it at first. It had taken some years for the surprise to wear off, for the constancy of Hob inside him to become a boon instead of a burden. 

Now he is gone, absolutely and completely, along with all the rest of Dream’s awarenesses. He is alone in his head for the first time in his terribly long existence. 

He is numb, floating in an empty ocean of his own thoughts. 

They are not kind. 

Time passes. 

Dream does not know how much. It must be some decades, because the humans age, their fashions change. Even their technology advances, the radios and contraptions that they use for entertainment becoming better and more interesting. 

Still, it is rare for Dream to know the year, and even rarer for him to know the month or exact day. 

At some point, he catches that it is 1969. Humanity has made its way to sending a man to the moon. In 1974 the guards gossip about the resignation of the American president. Someone listens to Livin’ on a Prayer by Bon Jovi on repeat for two months in 1986. 

Dream holds his breath–literally. It is so close to his appointed meeting time with Hob. Even after all this time, he aches for the remnant of their bond, the silent wound of it inside of him. For an uncountable length of time, he lingers on thoughts of Hob, of their previous meetings, the shape and weight of his recollections in his mind a well-worn, familiar comfort to retreat into when the silence of his captivity grows unbearable. 

Then the Berlin wall falls. Dream misses the date, but he feels the shift of time, and he worries that too much has passed. The Soviet Union ends, and now he catches the year: 1991.

After almost eighty years, Dream cracks. He can no longer contain himself, his grief, his rage. His mortal vessel was not meant to contain such huge proportions of sheer emotion. Frustration boils within him, the grief of lost years and potential, the fear for his realm. 

He cries then, for the first time ever, huge, inelegant sobs, the briny tears stinging eyes not made for such an outpouring. 

The guards are so alarmed that one races away to fetch Alex, afraid that something has finally gone terribly, horribly wrong. 

In a way, it has. 

By the time Alex and Paul arrive, the second guard is unconscious on the floor, and the glass orb is empty. 

No one will ever know where Dream of the Endless has gone… Except for Hob Gadling, who’s in for a bit of a surprise. 

Having lived a very interesting life indeed, Hob is no stranger to being awoken in the middle of the night by knocking at his door. It is a bit of a shock on this occasion, as he has only lived in his current flat for a few scant months—hardly any time at all for him to attract trouble. He hasn’t even unpacked all his boxes yet. 

Stumbling through the dim flat, trying to throw some joggers on, the very determined pounding continues, reverberating through the entire building and shaking the inside of Hob’s slightly hungover head. 

Hob pauses in the middle of the living room. He didn’t drink last night, and besides, he hasn’t had a hungover in centuries. In fact, he feels very odd indeed, like the inside of his brain is lined with cotton wool and his blood has congealed to sludge. 

“Hob Gadling!” The voice, deep at the best of times, is gravely and hoarse. It shakes Hob to his core. 

Putting aside his physical discomfort, he lurches forward, rushing to get his front door open. He almost pulls it off its hinges and then–

And then—

“Morpheus,” Hob breathes, eyes wide and stinging, staring at the hunched, naked figure in the doorway. 

“Hob,” Dream croaks, staring at him with wonder. It is by far the most miraculous expression Hob has ever seen on him. He staggers forward just a few steps, closing the distance between them. 

Reeling with shock and the groggy pain that he now realises is coming from the newly reopened bond with Morpheus, Hob can do nothing but grab ahold of his unsteady Stranger, wrapping firm arms around his scant waist. 

Dream cups Hob’s face with trembling hands, staring at him with glassy, bright blue eyes. Hob’s heart, only patched at best, even after all this time, shatters with acute relief. 

“Oh, Stranger, where have you been?” Hob says, tears flowing out of his own traitorous eyes. “I’ve missed you so, you impossible creature.” 

“Hob.” This time it is unquestionably a sob. 

Unable to stand any longer, the two slide to the floor together and hold each other tight while uncountable years of longing and heartache flood between them.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! I adore comments and kudos to feed my muse 🤍

Join me on twitter or tumblr... if you dare >:)

Series this work belongs to: