Chapter Text
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The gate stood near Hob. Close enough that the defined dim gray etchings of lines and spirals adorning its surface appeared to squirm and slither, evading any concrete form and scuttling towards the edges. A single line at eye level dared to extend outward, one end breaking free from the surface of the gate, only to drip down and disappear like frightened ink. The gate was slit open in the middle the way a meticulous, clean cut on an age-worn canvas hanging on a wall high above, far behind, and unreachable by the strained eyes. Behind him, the pair of gryphons had resumed their stony vigil. Before him, the flickering beacon of light had crossed into the blackened void.
If there was a path ahead, he could not make it out; nor could he discern the ground, had there been such a thing on the other side of the gate. The little flame continued its enticing dance, its light illuminating only itself. It was no man’s jurisdiction. He was going in.
Hob nearly stumbled, denting the soft floor with his weight. It rhythmically rose and fell as if the castle were drawing breaths. Heat seeped from beneath his bare feet. He cast a glance backward; the gate seemed to have silently fused with the all-enveloping darkness, severing any remaining connection with the world he'd left behind. Adapting to the pulsating rhythm of the breathing floor, he gained his footing, but something began to paw at his trousers, his sleeves, the hem of his shirt. He paused. Then, icy, calloused grips clamped around his ankles, then his wrists. They were weak, pleading, and many. The flame remained aloof, floating into the distance unperturbed. So he trudged on.
Mud. The pungent taste of wet muck pervaded his mouth, thick with horse dung, and rife with the decay of half-gone corpses that had once tangled in algae not three feet to his right. The taste of 1625. His feet carried him forward; at least, nothing was tugging at him now.
Punctured the silence from behind a voice, soft and hesitant, "Father, you comin’?” He froze.
Had that been how his young Robyn sounded like? Odd how memory could fail over four centuries, and what his dreams often decided to dredge up. Hob drew a deep breath, then took another step. No. Not this dream.
The tiny flame leading him appeared to slow its pace, coming to a stop and suspending itself mid-air. He stepped closer, and it snuffed out.
The delicate light, the fragile voice, the wretched taste, all gone. The breathing floor beneath him rested and cooled.
“You here, Dream?” Hob stood still, an indistinctive certainty telling him he'd arrived.
As if adjusting to an imperceptible light, the enveloping darkness began to recede, faintly illuminating a spacious room with a stone floor. The room appeared vacant except for two imposing pillars and ornate candlesticks adorning either side.
There, leaning against the far wall, face partially consumed by shadows, knees drawn up to his chest, and those long, pale fingers twisted together, was undoubtedly the friend he'd finally arrived for.
“Didn't know you wore t-shirts and jeans, Dream. Nice look,” Hob commented as he strode over, and his friend tilted his head in response.
“Hob … you came.”
“Of course I did. You let me in, remember?” He halted before his friend, stooping down to align his gaze with Dream's. “Mind if I sit down?”
Catching a faint nod, Hob slid down next to Dream.
“So, all those nightmares were tests?” Hob began after settling down, his back against the cold wall and his feet on the now chilly floor.
"Yes," Dream's voice was barely above a whisper, “Rarely, mortal lives seek my intervention, yet I cannot aid those who flinch from their own demons."
“Is that so? Well, in that case … I doubt you tried very hard. I’ve had worse demons.”
“No. No … I did not.” Dream admitted after a moment's pause. “And they were not meant for you, Hob. Why did you seek me out?”
“Just thought I’d check up on you. Make sure my oldest friend’s back in one piece.”
"I am... intact." Dream lowered his head, his fingers curling into the faded fabric of his jeans.
Worn jeans? Hob noted. Was that Dream's fashion sense or his mood? He shifted slightly, bridging the small gap between them until their shoulders almost met. “Well then, something’s gnawing at you, my friend. What is it?”
“Nothing is gnawing at me,” retorted Dream gloomily, “Rather, something unwanted I found difficult to discard.”
“Something from Hell?” Hob pressed. What could possibly be so hard to discard for a being as powerful as Dream? The Devil himself?
“Indeed … Lucifer Morningstar abdicated his rule, emptied Hell, and left its key in my possession.”
"What?" Hob gasped. “What does that mean? That Hell is yours now?”
“In a sense, yes. And that is why you should leave, Hob.” Dream’s voice turned low and somber, “Emissaries from across realms and dimensions have come for the Key. You may be unsafe here in the Dreaming, and I... am not good company."
“Well, what’s immortality without a little risk?” countered Hob immediately, “Besides, I believe I am the company here, aren’t I?”
Dream cast a fleeting glance at him but didn’t dispute. Heartened, Hob continued, “Fancy a chat about it? What’s your move?”
There was a moment of silence. Then Dream began, in carefully measured tones, “For the rights to Hell, Odin One-Eye offered a vessel for a piece of my soul, Chaos threatened eternal unrest, the gods of Nippon promised any price I deemed fit, Lady Bast vowed to reveal my brother's whereabouts, and Azazel, the demon, offered Nada’s soul.”
“Many of those things I want, or need, Hob. A reckless decision could spell disaster for my subjects and my realm; a wrong choice would scar my soul … ”
“So no, Hob, I have yet to devise a move,” Dream concluded, sinking his face into his knees.
“Christ … I’ve got a ton of questions, but - ” Hob cut himself off, shifting to sit cross-legged. He turned to Dream, leaned closer and lightly patted on his back. Dream stiffened slightly, but then seemed to yield to the touch. “Dream, must you decide now, or soon? Sometimes the toughest situations have a way of sorting themselves out …”
“That may be so, but my visitors are not the epitome of patience,” Dream’s tone grew grave, “I wish I could simply … toss that key away …” As his voice tapered off, a sizable metallic object clinked onto the stone floor, bouncing with a loud clank before rolling to a halt.
“That’s the one?” Hob picked up the metal piece, then held it up to eye level with both his hands. Bathed in the scant light was an ornate key, the carvings on its surface neither intelligible nor discernible. He couldn’t suppress a lifted eyebrow, “Bit old school, isn't it? And a tad large too. Any locksmith worth their salt could probably pick its lock blindfolded.”
“The form of the key is but a sensory accommodation of the abstract.” Dream lifted his head slightly to gaze at the void between the room's pillars rather than the key in Hob’s hands. “There is no material lock to pick, no key to cast away.”
Hob placed the key back on the floor and closed his eyes. When he reopened them, the key had vanished. He heaved a sigh, thought for a moment, then turned to Dream, “So, why does Hell even exist to begin with?”
There was a pause before Dream responded. “Hell has existed since the dawn of creation, a place for the demons and the damned. Then Lucifer gave it form, and filled it up.”
“So at least some stories were real … Demons running about all day, endless brawling and screaming I imagine ... the Devil must’ve had a handful,” Hob half-joked. “Where have they all gone now that Hell is locked up?”
Dream turned look at Hob, a glint of surprise evident in his eyes. “The whereabouts of Lucifer and most demons are unknown to me. As for the damned souls, they seem to be returning to the world of the living."
How could souls of the dead return to the living? The Walking Dead coming live? Shaking his head, Hob reeled his thoughts back to … the Devil.
“So … the Devil got fed up, or bored, hit a burnout or something, but why the extra work of kicking everyone out?" Hob’s brows knitted, "Powerful as the Devil must be - the Devil, for heaven's sake - couldn't he have slipped away unnoticed if he stopped giving a damn?"
"Lucifer is not one to leave unnoticed - ” Dream broke off, snapping his back straight.
Hob turned to Dream, sensing the sudden tension.
Dream met his gaze, then spoke slowly, “Lucifer was in rebellion once again, against the Creator, and His plan for the order of creation.”
"Huh?" Hob blinked.
Dream glanced down at the key, which had reappeared at the exact spot from where it had previously vanished. He continued in a somewhat lighter tone, "Hell is integral to the order of created things. Without torment, fear, and all that Hell embodies, Heaven would lose its allure, and its meaning.”
“Right, order,” Hob began, nodding in comprehension, “So Heaven might be after the key too, huh? Now that's a classic twist. The hero's the villain."
“Perhaps,” Dream leaned back against the wall, “But even if Heaven does plan to intervene, I cannot count on them to act before my other guests do.”
“Them?”
“Angels from the Silver City are here in my castle, to observe, so they claim … I need to think."
Hob gave the key a gentle prod, causing it to spin on its bow. He then glanced at Dream, who appeared notably less tense. “In the spirit of pondering over things, why don't we move somewhere warmer and … perhaps easier on the back?”
Dream looked almost baffled. He glanced between Hob, the wall, and the floor, as though he had just began to register the cold of the wall and the hardness of the stone floor. Then, before Hob knew it, they were seated on what felt like a plush sofa. Hob eyed their new seats, felt the texture of the cushions, and noticed two soft throw pillows neatly stuck under a navy blue blanket to his left. Under the faint starlight filtering in through a window that hadn't been there moments before, Hob stared at the snoozing cat spread across the top quilted pillow cover. Too many whiskers.
“This is my sofa, isn’t it?” Hob noted.
"Is it comfortable?"
"Wanna bet?" Hob chuckled."You mind if I hang around while you think?"
There was a brief pause. Then Dream spoke softly. “You do not need to stay for me, Hob. You have helped more than enough, and the dawn is not far off."
Hob peered out the window at the stars sprinkled against the velvety darkness of the night sky. He stated, "I'll stick around until morning then. Promise I'll keep quiet.”
Dream didn't refuse, so Hob, rather nimbly, tucked one of the throw pillows behind Dream’s neck and draped the blanket over him from the neck down. “There you go,” Hob quickly leaned back to his side, grabbed the other pillow, and quelled a smile, deliberately not meeting his friend’s eyes as he allowed his thoughts to wander.
As the sun began to rise, Hob marveled at his resistance to sleep, despite the sofa's enchanting pull - a charm that would ordinarily have him dozing off, particularly whenever James Bond got on a bike on his living room TV. Dream was now standing by the window, gazing into the morning light. His homey t-shirt and jeans had been replaced by an elegantly flowing, black robe.
Could one sleep and dream in a dream? And where had his thoughts gone the rest of the night? Those queries dissipated from Hob’s mind as he got off the sofa and walked over to Dream.
"Good morning, Hob," Dream’s voice gentle in the quiet dawn. "How did you know I had returned to the Dreaming?”
Hob looked at his friend, taken aback. “Well, that - I didn’t, not exactly.”
Dream observed him, clearly waiting.
Hob awkwardly scratched his head. “The last time you were - away, I was beset by the weirdest dreams - though I didn't know why at the time. After that,” he paused, eyeing the shadows of the windowsill on the floor. “After that, I didn't dream for quite a while. A very long while.”
He drew in a shaky breath, “So, after we toasted you farewell, I figured - this time, if I started dreaming again, I’d try to find you. You know, just in case."
After a few heart beats of silence, he heard Dream’s voice, tinged with the gentle warmth of the morning sun. "Thank you, Hob."
“Hey, what are friends for?” Hob glanced up at Dream, who seemed to be smiling ever so slightly. He couldn’t resist smiling back. “So, have you decided what to do?"
"No. Hob, although … Do you know what makes a good story?"
"Hearts, obstacles, and tea at breakfast?" Hob suggested.
Dream’s gaze returned to the window, surveying the mountain beneath the castle that seemed to have sprung to life in the morning light. “One is entrapped and must move. Or someone else will."
Hob's smile faded into a thoughtful look. "Let's hope someone else does, and soon."
"Soon, I will know." Dream’s tone was as inscrutable as his countenance.
Hob perked up, a grin spreading across his face. “Hey, Dream, you know what I think makes a good story?”
Dream retreated from the window and turned to him, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Hearts, obstacles, and tea at breakfast?"
Hob laughed. ”Exactly. Tea at breakfast, my place. What do you say?"
Their eyes met, and Hob noticed the stars in Dream’s eyes eclipsing the brilliance of the morning sky.
"I can't promise my presence for breakfast, Hob. I must address my guests once more. And the more powerful ones may not leave quietly, if at all."
“I see,” Hob put on his most serious contemplative look. "Guess I'll just have to make a habit of having breakfast then."
At that, his friend seemed pleasantly surprised, his stoic facade evidently cracking if only briefly.
"Very well, Hob,” Dream’s far-off, ethereal voice passed through as the sunlight, the mountain, the castle, the window, and himself all dissolved before Hob’s eyes like the morning mist.
“Very well.”