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Chapter Text

  Hob Gadling stands on his front porch, one hand buried in his pocket, and the other curled around a glass tumbler. He lifts the tumbler to his lips and downs the last sip of whiskey. He swallows down the burn the alcohol leaves in his throat and turns on a heel to go back inside when the rustle of movement in the grass calls his attention. He crouches down to gently set the tumbler on the porch and rising slowly to his feet, narrows his eyes to peer out into the coming twilight. The golden haze of the setting sun is just barely visible over the horizon, its warm tones already shifting into the darker blues of evening. Nonetheless, by the light still fading away, Hob can make out a human form at the edge of his property, tall and still, a black silhouette against the sunset. 

 His heart skips a beat, and a thousand questions flit through his mind as he attempts to puzzle out who the visitor is. If it were someone he’s expecting, he’d imagine they would already be moving to reach him…perhaps call out a warm greeting, lift a hand in a wave. And yet. 

 “Hello?” He calls out, lifting his hand in a short wave. “Hello there!”

 The figure shifts, moving forward a step only to sway, listing. In that moment, they turn, exposing their side profile to the waning light of the day. That is the moment that Hob stills, as does his heart for the fraction of a second. His lips part in quiet surprise. 

 Dream. His Dream is there, standing still as a statue in Hob’s overgrown lawn. 

 Hob needs no invitation. He flies down the short steps of his porch and quickly closes the distance between them. He flashes Dream his warmest smile as he lays both his hands on the Endless’s shoulders. 

  “Hello, you,” Hob greets him. Dream makes no response and drops his gaze, the muscles in his jaw clenching. Hob swallows, uncomfortably aware of the apprehension knotting itself in his gut. “Where have you been, then? I believe it’s a little early for our meeting, eh? I know, you did warn me you might not make it to the next one….some business of being gone for a good long while. But, I’m loathe to admit it’s not the usual day. Therefore, you, my friend, are a tad bit early.” He squeezes Dream’s shoulders. “That being said, I won’t refuse a visit, not from you. Come in, why don’t you?”

 He shifts to stand beside Dream, draping an arm over his shoulder and guides him back to his house. “So? What trouble have you been up to? Giving Lucienne endless headaches, to be sure. Pun not intended.” Hob chuckles to himself, but when he glances over to see if his friend had picked up on the humour, he is met with a stoic expression that very nearly freezes any remaining mirth in his heart. He jumps up the steps, leaving Dream waiting there as he opens the door, only to beckon him inside. “Alright, you, inside. Now.” He lets the other pass and closes the door behind him, locking it. 

  “Have a seat, dove,” Hob offers, gesturing to the living space occupied by a sofa and two armchairs. The furniture faces the hearth which holds an inviting fire that crackles and snaps as it consumes the old wood within it. “Tea?” He glances at his watch, dark brows arching slightly. “I’ve got something to relax brewing at the mo. It’ll just be a few, promise.” He watches Dream approach an armchair, almost mechanically, his movements stilted and stiff as though he must will to make each one. The Endless takes a seat but does not relax into the cushioned embrace of the chair and sits with his spine ramrod straight. 

  “All these years I’ve known you only just to realize you don’t know what comfort is, do you?” Hob asks in a jesting tone. Dream looks up at him, making eye contact for the first time since his arrival. Hob’s heart drops when he notices the redness rimming his friend’s eyes, a tell-tale sign of the body’s response to and expression of grief. His eyes are bright with unshed tears, their crystalline blue so like distant starlight gleaming even brighter. Dream blinks quickly, and tears slide down the sharp plane of his cheek. 

  “I–My…my hands,” Dream says in something barely passable for a whisper. He looks away, down at his hands which he has laid on his knees. Hob follows his movements, eyes widening when he notes the crimson staining Dream’s pale skin. A strangled sob escapes him, and he balls his hands into fists. 

  “Here, come on,” Hob says quickly, moving to amend the situation. He crouches down beside his friend and without hesitation, takes one of Dream’s hands in his own and examines it. “Is it yours?” 

 Dream shakes his head.

  “I–whose…I’m afraid to ask, but whose is it then?” Dark thoughts curl in his mind like the shifting fog over a cold lake. Hob shudders at them, brushing them away and shakes his head. “Won’t call the police on you, dove. No worries about that. I just want to know because I want to help you, eh?”

  “You cannot help me,” Dream rasps. “Not this time.”

 Hob rocks back, furrowing his brow and defies this. 

   “Begging your pardon, King of Dreams, but I’ll decide what I can or cannot do, thank you,” Hob chides, lifting his brow in soft warning. “Case in point, getting that off.” He jerks his chin at Dream’s hands. “There’s a wonderful invention called soap and water. Give me a second. Get your coat off, will you?” 

   Dream lifts his head to regard Hob with mild annoyance, if the unamused line of his slender brows is anything to go by. Hob pays him no heed as he pulls himself back to his feet and walks off to gather the items he needs. Dream watches him leave and shrugs off his black coat, casting it listlessly to the floor beside him. 

  When Hob returns moments later, it is with a plastic bucket half full of water, an old towel slung over his shoulder, a sponge and a bar of white soap in hand. Dream remains in the armchair and does not move, his gaze fixed on Hob as the latter drops down to the floor at his feet and lays out the items he’s brought. Hob first sets the bucket down in front of Dream, then lays the towel down beside it. He drops the bar of soap in his lap and reaches out for Dream’s hands.

  “Here, look. I’m going to see what a little bit of soap and some scrubbing will do. Your hands, please.” He holds his palms open and waits until Dream tentatively obeys the request, bending down slightly to reach the water in the bucket.   

  Hob smiles victoriously at this and gently draws Dream’s hands down into the warm water. He makes his best effort to school his expression when he catches full sight of the dried blood covering Dream’s arms up to the middle of his forearm. Once the skin is wet, Hob picks up the bar of soap and draws it gently over Dream’s hands and arms until a frothy lather forms. He then sets to scrubbing at the stains with the sponge, careful not to scrub too roughly. He can feel the tension in his friend’s hands and realizes why when he notes the new crimson tinge of the suds and the water. 

  “Easy, there we are, dove,” Hob comments with a reassuring nod. “Look, all gone.” He drops the sponge in the dirtied water and positioning Dream’s hands against the rim of the bucket, snatches up the towel to pat them dry. He wraps the towel around first Dream’s left hand, then his right, squeezing gently to soak up all the moisture and once satisfied with his results, folds up the dirty towel. 

 “Thank you, Hob Gadling,” Dream says in a very small voice. “I do not know why, but in the Dreaming…when I returned…I could not wash it away. It would not go.”

  “Well, it’s gone now, eh? Let’s get this cleaned up,” Hob remarks, groaning as his knees creak in protest when he rises to his feet. He lifts the bucket, dirty water and all and takes it to the kitchen. He dumps the stained water down the drain and brings the bucket to the door leading to the basement, making a mental reminder to take care of it later. When he returns to the living room, he finds Dream still in the armchair, examining his own hands as if he cannot believe what he sees.

  “Want to tuck in? You look ready for it,” Hob says, folding his arms over his chest.

  “What I want is something even you cannot give me, Hob,” Dream replies, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I fear I can never have it, indeed.” 

 Hob hums at this, biting his tongue to hold back the question already forming on his lips. What does he want? He considers vocalizing it but decides better of it. 

  “I meant to ask if you’d like to rest, mate,” Hob tries again. “You know I’d give you anything in my power. ‘All this and heaven too’, and the like. But, the best I can offer is a nap. I’d wager my bed’s a lot more receptive than that armchair. What do you say?”

 Dream throws Hob a flat glance, and if Hob hadn’t thought any better of his friend, he might have considered him affronted. 

  “I do not require sleep, Hob,” Dream mumbles. “I am the–”

  “Yes, I know it all by now,” Hob grunts. “The King of Dreams, ruler of the Nightmare Realms. Dream of the Endless. But even you must get exhausted at some point. Lie down, at least. Humour me, Dream. Close your eyes if you like, but lie down. I promise you’ll feel better.”

 Dream cocks his head slightly, as though weighing Hob’s argument. “I doubt I shall receive the same comfort from this act as you claim that I will, but for your sake, I shall concede.” 

  “About bloody time,” Hob huffs with a wry smile. “Follow me.” He beckons for Dream to follow and leads him up stairs. At the far end of the hallway, Hob waits just before the closed door of his room, watching with contentment as Dream walks down the hallway with the majesty of a king, pausing every now and then to gaze with quiet curiosity at the picture frames lining the wall. Hob opens his door and steps aside to let Dream in. “It is a bit earlier, but never hurt anyone.” 

 Hob readies the bed, clearing away the clutter he’d left on top of it and after showing Dream the essential things (the location of the light switch, how to open the window and the like), he moves as though to leave.

   “Where are you going?” Dream asks him from the edge of the bed. His brows are knit in visible concern. Hob pauses in the threshold, worrying his bottom lip. 

  “I, uh…I wasn’t sure if you….Not that I mind, at all,” Hob says quickly, the words tumbling out faster than his mind can process them. “I suppose I was going to read for a bit before turning in.”

  “Stay. Please.” 

 Hob’s knees tremble at the request, and he’s grateful that he’s half-hidden behind the door and well out of view of his companion.

  “Well, if you insist.” He re-enters the room, pushing off his shoes and lies down on the bed beside Dream. He lets his eyes drift closed and breathes out slowly, waiting until Dream stops tossing and turning on his side of the bed. His friend shifts again, only to finally lie still when he finds a position of comfort much closer to Hob than the immortal had dared to expect. Dream’s back is to him, just within arm’s reach, and the thought crosses Hob’s mind that maybe…just maybe they’d mold perfectly to each other if one had dared to close the distance. 

  It’s the last thought on his mind before sleep takes him.

  A crash of thunder is what jerks Hob from his slumber. The intensity of the noise and the fact that he’s felt something shake and tremble–whether it is the foundations of his house or his own frantic pulse, he is not sure–is enough to disconcert him. He grumbles, pushing himself up to his elbows in the bed and blinks a few times into the thick darkness. He can feel Dream beside him, tossing and turning again. Part of Hob wonders if the storm has woken him. 

 Hob slowly, carefully extricates himself from the mess of rumpled sheets and gets to his feet. Another crash of thunder–and the world most definitely sways under his feet in the wake of it. Hob scowls at this, thoroughly confused. God’s wounds, what a storm that must be to shake the damn house….this can’t be–fuck it all, am I dreaming? He lifts his hands to his head, digging the heels of his palms into his temples, releasing an exhausted sigh.

  “Well, fool on me for thinking I wouldn’t get a calm night’s sleep lying beside the King of Nightmares,” Hob mutters to himself. 

 Hob decides he is entirely done with the dream (or nightmare as it seems to him) when a blinding flash of lightning casts everything around him in searing white. He growls, biting his tongue to hold back the string of curses he would have let fly if Dream wasn’t fast asleep in his bed. 

  “What in God’s name…”

  “Surrender him!” A voice he can feel in his mind shrieks. The rasping words cracked with age, burning with incandescent fury claw at the very edges of his consciousness, and he shudders. He wraps his arms around himself, as though to shove out the noise, but to no avail. 

  “Death is in his heart, and bloodguilt on his hands…surrender him, son of Adam!”  A second voice, softer than the first, yet dripping with malice reaches him almost like a caress. Hob jerks away from it, whipping his head around as if to search for the source of the voices. 

  “Proud man, you dare to defy Fate? You cannot wash the sin from his soul,” a third voice whispers in the depths of his soul. “The ancient laws cry for his blood, and it is our function to obey. Surrender him.” 

 Hob stills, his frown deepening. “Hang on. You want him?” He jerks a thumb in the direction of Dream, still asleep. He blinks a few more times because he’d caught movement then when he’d glanced over. Lifting a hand to rub at his eyes, Hob peers more closely to see three pairs of hands–skeletal, emaciated and withered beyond all hope–extending over Dream, lost to the world in his sleep. “You want him. Well, you bloody well can’t have him, so sod off.” Hob climbs back into the bed, brusquely waving the ghostly manifestations away. His fingers brush one of them, and he recoils at the cold shiver that crawls down his spine when he makes contact. “Sod it. Off with you.” He ignores the disconcerting feeling and brushes them off. They dissipate like mist under his touch, leaving him more confused than before. 

 Dream shifts again, turning to nuzzle into Hob’s shoulder. Hob lies still beside him, still breathing heavily from the events of moments before. 

  Dream makes some unintelligible noise beside him, and Hob slowly, gently reaches over to stroke his hair.

  “Go back to sleep, dove. It’s nothing. Just a nightmare.” 

  When Hob next awakes, it is to a cheerful burst of birdsong. He is jarred by the stark contrast of the pleasant song with the violence of the nightmare he still remembers with crystal clarity. The next thing he is aware of is the soft mid-morning sunlight filtering through the shades of the window over his bed. He releases a heavy sigh and rolls onto his side to leave the bed, but when he turns to greet Dream, he discovers that the bed is empty. 

 Hob remains still, pursing his lips, and swallows. 

Dream is gone. 

Chapter Text

 Hob leans forward on his desk, releasing a tired sigh as he peruses the pile of yet to be graded papers littering his workspace. He dips his head, nods with faint smiles as the departing students say their goodbyes and shuffle past him to the exit of the lecture hall. When the last one leaves, he drops his head, burying his face in his folded arms. 

  He can already feel the pull of sleep drawing him away when his phone vibrates with a notification. He huffs, pushing himself lazily onto one elbow and scrabbles at the mess of papers to reach the phone. Swiping the screen with his thumb, he peers at the illuminated message. Exhibition of Magdalen Grimoire - 6 pm.

  “Leave it to me to forget about that,” Hob grumbles, shaking his head. “Blast it. Good thing I left myself a reminder. Old man, you’re forgetting yourself, eh?” 

 He gathers his things, leaving a semblance of order on his desk before turning off the lights, locking up and making his exit. 

  Hob keeps a watchful eye on the streets as the Uber he’d called takes him to his destination. Already he recognizes the surrounding edifices and other familiar landmarks distinguishing the museum he’s frequented more times than he can remember. The driver leaves him at the front entrance, and Hob pays his due, mumbling a quiet thanks. He pockets his wallet, shoves his hands into his pockets and shuffles ahead, shivering against the biting night wind. The lines to enter are short, thankfully, and he does not need to wait long before he finally makes it inside. Snatching a map on the way in, he turns off to the side, spreading the folded paper out and scanning it until he finds the exhibit he’d come here for. Folding it back up, he slips the map into the inner breast pocket of his coat and proceeds up the stairs to the second floor. 

 Passing a few sculptures and a horrifying piece of modern art he couldn’t describe even if held at gunpoint, Hob eventually finds his way to the set of rooms designated for the exhibition of the Magdalen Grimoire. 

 As he approaches it, thoughts roil in his mind. The Magdalen Grimoire. The name had caught his attention from the very beginning, for he had remembered Dream speaking to him of it on more than one occasion. He also recalled the name of Roderick Burgess, the last known possessor of the Grimoire, and the same, according to Dream, who had summoned and imprisoned the Endless using said Grimoire. There’s no written records of that, nothing saved to the archives of History, and Hob is grateful for it. Nonetheless, he still cringes at the long-standing legend of the ‘demon in the basement’ summoned by Burgess. 

 An ache grips his heart now as he remembers when Dream had first spoken to him of it; his friend’s grief and the obvious trauma he’d experienced–not only him, but the ruin of his realm as consequence of his imprisonment. Hob stares at the photos lining the walls, depictions of Roderick Burgess, his son, and pages from the Grimoire. He curls his lip in a derisive line, cursing under his breath. 

 He’s shaken out of his thoughts when in his distracted wandering, he bumps into someone also perusing the exhibit. 

  “Excuse me, wasn’t watching where I was going,” Hob stammers, stumbling back a step. “Entirely my fault, sorry ‘bout that.”

  “Might as well just–oh…oh. Hello there,” the woman he’d walked into answers, surprise coloring her words. Hob cocks his head slightly, brows knit together and gets the strange sensation that he’s being studied. 

 He decides he does not like it very much. 

  He looks the woman up and down and notices three things on the first glance. She is petite; she is clad completely in black, and her dark eyes glint with the quiet warning that she is not to be messed with. He makes a mental note not to risk it. 

  “Hello?” Hob repeats, folding his arms over his chest. “Did I say something strange?” 

  “No,” she says quickly, “I just…you looked familiar.”

  “I don’t get that a lot, not even from my friends,” Hob says, “which begs the question, why do I look familiar? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance. But oddly enough, you do, too.” 

 She rocks back a step, one brow lifting in a carefully trimmed arch. “Do I? Fancy that. Ah, hang on. I’ve got it.” She nods, shaking her pointing finger before lifting it to her lips in thought. “You’re him. Professor Robert Gadling. With the thesis on ‘humanity and the will to live’, right?”

 Hob looks down, smiling faintly and lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “That old thing…didn’t know anyone actually read it. Yes, that’s me. Though it’s mostly ‘Hob’, no one ever calls me Robert. Much too stuffy for my liking,” he comments, shaking his head in distaste. A beat passes before he remembers to take advantage of the moment and ask her name. “And you are?”

  She flashes him what is very much a smug smile and lifts her chin with all the regality of a queen. “Johanna Constantine. Exorcist and expert on the occult.” Johanna narrows her eyes, and it’s almost as if Hob can see the question forming on her lips before she even vocalizes it. “You aren’t related to Sir Robert Gadling, are you? My ancestress, the Lady Johanna Constantine–she wrote an autobiography–”

  “I am familiar with it,” Hob remarks.

  “–I believe she made mention of him once or twice. As well as a particular…” Johanna trails off, turning to glance over her shoulder at a picture on the wall, one of the glass structure Roderick Burgess had constructed to imprison Dream. “Well, that’s all a matter of whether you believe it or not.”

 Hob leans forward, his curiosity piqued. “What else did she make mention of?” 

 Something flickers in Johanna’s gaze, and the corner of her lips twitches. “Wives’ tales, really. No one ever believes me anymore. I doubt that you will either, Mr. Gadling.”

  “Try me,” Hob insists in a tone that implies he will not take no for an answer.  

 Johanna casts a careful glance around the room before leaning in to whisper, “Perhaps somewhere less crowded?” 

  “Lead the way,” Hob says, sweeping his hand in an inviting gesture. Johanna hums at this and brushes past him to leave the exhibit. Hob waits a moment or two, casting one last glance around him before following after her. 

 She’s waiting just outside when he exits and once they make contact, sets off down the stairs at a brisk pace. Hob walks quickly to keep up, impressed at the little woman’s agility and speed. He almost loses her in the crowd once, but when she lifts a hand at the door of the museum, he keeps his eyes locked on her. Johanna leads him outside and around a corner to a burbling fountain a few yards away from the public restrooms. She herself is sitting on the edge of it, admiring the play of light from the artificial illumination beneath the shifting water. Hob sits down beside her and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “So,” he says. “Wives’ tales?”

  “Legend. Superstition. Whispers in the dark,” Johanna murmurs. “Lady Constantine, according to her writings, once stumbled across Sir Robert Gadling, an immortal, and Dream of the Endless, together having a glass of wine. She’d been following reports of these two, snatching every tidbit of information she could from anyone who saw them. The rumours grew to mythic proportions…perhaps my gran and her gran before her might have fudged the details a bit, but the story goes that Sir Robert made a deal with the devil to obtain for himself the gift of immortality, and they say he met with the devil every hundred years to laugh about it.” 

  “It wasn’t the devil,” Hob mutters before he can stop himself. She stills beside him, and he bites back a curse. “At least, not according to the version I’ve heard. And Dream of the Endless? She’s certain it was him there? As I’ve heard, the Endless don’t–it’s believed that they do not frequent the mortal realm.”

 Johanna shrugs. “That’s a bit of filling in the blanks. She did write something of sand in his hands, which he’d used in some trickery of his. I vaguely remember reading something about the deity Morpheus in Greek Mythology and the use of sand in casting enchantments over unwitting sleepers.”

  “Quite a grand assumption she’s made assuming it was Dream of the Endless himself,” Hob comments. “You do look a lot like her.” 

  “I have to say, I don’t get that a lot,” Johanna replies. “Given that there aren’t many photos or paintings of my late ancestress and even fewer people still living who would have known her. Do you know…there was a drawing she had of Sir Robert Gadling and the Endless. I think you ought to see it and tell me that you aren’t his spitting image.” She leans back, eyeing him. 

  Hob’s heart jumps into his throat, and he suddenly finds himself at a loss for breath and words. Memories of the nightmare rage in his subconscious, and the creeping apprehension that something has befallen his friend is slowly coiling around his heart. He sees clearly before his eyes–almost as if it had fallen into his lap–a possible help and a useful ally, but the uncertainty of the next few moments is almost too terrifying to bear. 

  Almost. 

  “Miss Constantine, I think it might be best if we were honest with one another.”

  “Ah, so it wasn’t just me with that funny feeling of beating around a bush we’re both painfully aware of, was it?”

  “I never actually said no when you asked if I was related to Sir Robert Gadling,” Hob remarks, clasping his hands. 

  “I’m aware of that,” Johanna says softly. 

  “Quite frankly because I’m not,” Hob says, “in a way of speaking. I’m not related to him. I am him. That was me at that inn with Dream of the Endless.”

  Johanna breathes out a sigh that sounds suspiciously like a whispered ‘I knew it’. 

  “And for the record, when I said that you looked familiar, it’s merely because I have met your ancestress and you truly are her spitting image,” Hob continues. 

  “Christ on a cracker, it’s true, then,” Johanna gasps, breathless.  

 Hob shifts somewhat uncomfortably in his place and clears his throat. “So, here to see that old grimoire? I must say it caught my eye when I first heard about it.”

  Johanna nods. “I knew about it. Lord Morpheus found me a while back; he was in need of my services, much like you, and only when I started talking with him did I realize who it was that old Burgess trapped in his basement using that book. I figured I’d come see it for myself.” 

  Hob grunts. “They had the audacity to call him a demon. A demon, for Christ’s sake. Lady Constantine put the same question to us when she imposed on our meeting. It’s beyond me why anyone would want to meddle in those matters.”

  “Power, Mr. Gadling. Greed. Immortality. Pick your poison,” Johanna replies. “The list goes on and on. Which reminds me. What brings you here?” 

  Hob inhales sharply. “Here, as in this moment–a happy and fortuitous accident–but here at the museum, well, I wanted to see what people had to say about this Grimoire. I’m not complaining, because as luck would have, I’ve met just the person I needed to speak to.” 

 “Uh oh, I’m in trouble now,” Johanna remarks with a soft laugh. 

  “I’m afraid I can’t refute that, unfortunately,” Hob says. 

  “What is it exactly you’d need my help with? I have a very….particular line of work,” Johanna reminds him. 

   “It’s Dream,” Hob says after a time. “I’ve got the nagging feeling that he’s in trouble. He showed up to my place a week ago, hands covered in blood, and he looked like he’d been through the ringer. He spent the night, and when I woke, he was gone. I had a hell of a nightmare that night.” 

   “Well, there’s a start. Did he kill someone? Did he say anything when he saw you?” Johanna asks. 

  Hob’s brows pull together in a frown. “I’ve no bloody idea what happened. He didn’t say a word about what happened. Just that the blood wouldn’t come off. He was crying.”

  “So I’d assume he didn’t hate whoever it was whose blood was on his hands,” Johanna mumbles.

  “He looked pretty shaken by whatever happened. I didn’t press,” Hob answers gruffly. 

  “Well, I’m afraid we’ll need a little bit more to go off on,” Johanna snaps. “Your nightmare, do you remember anything specific from it? Maybe a detail here or there could give us something.” 

  “Bold of you to assume it’s anything to do with the matter,” Hob grumbles. “Strangely enough, it might. I heard voices….voices calling out for his blood. Something about bloodguilt, death in his heart…”

  “Bloodguilt?” Johanna stills, turning to glance at him, her brows lifted in surprise. “How many voices were there?”

  “Three, I think,” Hob shrugs. “Hard to say, it might have been 2 or 3 am.”

  Johanna’s eyes widen. “Three voices demanding his blood because of his bloodguilt. How familiar are you with Greek mythology, Professor Gadling?” 

  “Enough to recognize a name or two,” Hob replies. “Why?”

  “Do ‘the Furies’ ring a bell?” Johanna asks. After a beat, she adds, “Sorry, the politically correct term I believe is ‘the Kindly Ones’.” 

  “The Kindly Ones?” Hob shakes his head. “Never heard of them.” 

 Johana huffs. “There’s a good chance that they have a hand in all of this. I’m not completely sure, but I have an idea. Meet me here tomorrow evening. I believe I might be able to point you in the right direction.”

 “Here? Very well then. Until tomorrow.” 

Chapter Text

 Hob waits for Johanna the following evening at the agreed upon place. He shivers against the wintry chill of the night breeze and buries his hands in the pocket of his thick peacoat. He lifts his shoulders, hiding his face in the grey knit scarf he'd wrapped around his neck on a last minute impulse and releases a sigh, watching the faint puff of his exhaled air dissipate in the cold. 

 He taps his feet anxiously on the snow-dusted ground and is about to start pacing when a black car pulls up, depositing his expected company. Johanna steps out of the car, pays off the driver and approaches him, wrapped in a warm white trenchcoat that seems to swallow her small form whole. She stops just out of arm’s reach and greets him, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. 

  “You’re punctual,” she comments. 

   “When you have a fixed day to meet someone every hundred years, punctuality takes on a whole new meaning,” Hob answers with a small shrug. “Where to, then?”

  “Somewhere away from prying eyes,” Johanna says. “You never know who’s watching these days. This way, I know a place.” She sets off at a brisk pace, leaving Hob to scramble after her. Turning a corner, she pauses by a flickering streetlamp and points at an old bookshop across the way. :Upstairs, there’s a loft. I’ve got an…arrangement with the landlord. Lets me up there ‘long as I don’t make too much noise.” She does not wait for a response from him and without so much as a cautionary glance, crosses the street and makes a direct line for the bookshop. Hob shakes his head and jogs after her.

 Johanna is already half way up the narrow stairs inside the establishment when he enters. She flashes him a winning smile before disappearing around a corner. Hob grumbles something about the long taxing years and the curse of aching limbs. By the time he reaches the top of the second and final flight, he leans against the bannister, panting and flicks a fringe of hair out of his eyes. 

  “Tired already, old man?” Johanna quips. “If you want to go toe to toe with the Kindly Ones, you’ll need a little more than that.”

  “Oi, rude,” Hob mutters. “Now, what is it that you dragged me away from an otherwise quiet evening for?”

  “Old. Man,” Johanna repeats, mirth flickering in her gaze. “Have a seat, this might be a bit.” She gestures to the empty chair across from her at the table nearby. Hob drops down into the chair and crosses one leg over the other, folding his arms over his chest. Johanna slides her bag onto the table and withdraws two leather bound books–very old and well-worn. “This,” Johanna says, pushing forward the thicker of the two volumes, “is Lady Constantine’s memoirs. Passed down from mother to daughter in my family line. I believe there’s some drawings in there that will interest you.” She slides it across the table, watching as Hob takes it and carefully examines its pages. “And this is from Lord Morpheus. It’s her dream journal. He left it with me some time ago, said I ought to have it. I have read that from cover to cover, and I think I have an idea or two.”

 Hob huffs, brows arching slightly when he finds a page with a familiar sketch–the very same drawing of himself and Dream sitting at a table, the same drawing Johanna’s ancestress had shown them when she intruded. 

  “This is it,” Hob remarks. “That famous bloody drawing. More of a cartoon, really. I look terrible. He looks worse. No matter. So what are you thinking? Why are the…what did you call them? The Kindly Ones? Why are they after Dream?” 

 Johanna grabs the other book, a smaller black one, and flips open to a certain page. “You mentioned earlier that they said something about bloodguilt, death in his heart. In Greek mythology, the Kindly Ones were really goddesses of vengeance whose function was to bring about justice when grave wrongs were comitted–fillicide numbered among these, well, the shedding of any family blood. I don’t know,” she lifts a hand, “I don’t know for certain what it is that Morpheus has done. He didn’t tell you, and I’ve no way of divining it….but given how he appeared at your door–distraught, you said? He was crying?--with blood on his hands. They’d mentioned bloodguilt. That’s traditionally meant the guilt of shedding blood, particularly in a crime of unlawful killing. It’s something that’s affected him deeply, and as I recall reading in her journal here–” Johanna lifts up the book for Hob to see, “it seems he had a reason for doing what we suppose he did.” 

  She flips a bit more through the book before laying it gently back down on the table. “It’s a rather long story,” Johanna says to Hob, “but have you ever heard of Orpheus and Eurydice?”

 Hob dips his head in a nod. 

  “Well, it was no myth. Orpheus was heartbroken and begged his father, Morpheus–Oneiros, to the Greeks–to plead his cause to Hades and Persephone. Morpheus refused, and Orpheus despaired. He encountered the Sisters of the Frenzy–maenads…” To Hob’s look of utter confusion, she explains, “followers of the god Bacchus, minor god of revelry, drunkenness? No? No matter. He came to a rather unhappy end; they dismembered him, in reality.”

  Hob jerks back, eyes widening. “They dismembered him?” Johanna affirms this with a nod. 

 “All I know is that at one point, much later, Morpheus asked my ancestress to find Orpheus’ head–it had been stolen by the French at some point in history. He’d contacted her in a dream and enlisted her help. He offered in reward whatever it was in his power to give, and Lady Constantine had requested more time with Orpheus. It seems they had struck up a good friendship, those two.”

  “What exactly does it say there in the journal about his son?” Hob asks, lifting a hand to scratch at his beard as though deep in thought. “What has Lady Constantine got to do with it? Forgive me, I don’t follow,” Hob admits, leaning forward on the table. “Time with Orpheus…where was Orpheus at this point? With her in France? Were they close?” 

 Johanna lifts a hand in a halting gesture. “See, my business, my line of work…it’s been running in the family since even before Lady Constantine’s time. We’re known for our…particular skillset. She records here that Morpheus had asked her to return his son to the isle of Naxos, where he had constructed a temple for Orpheus and instituted an order of priests to care for his son there. So it was to that temple on Naxos that Lady Johanna brought Orpheus. She’d expressed a wish to be buried there with him, but I don’t know if she ever obtained that. I’m guessing it’s his son’s blood you found on his hands, given the demands of the Kindly Ones.”

 Hob sinks back into his seat, releasing a weary sigh and closes his eyes. Oh my dearest friend, what have you gotten yourself into?

  “Makes enough sense,” Hob says, “You’re right about that. I didn’t think to press the matter with him, he didn’t look to be in a talking mood when he showed up at my door, and I think I was too concentrated on making sure he didn’t fall apart to think of anything else.” 

 Johanna sets the journal on the table between them, fiddling absently with the ribbon marking the page. “The pieces are there. Grieving Endless, blood on his hands. Dismembered head of his son enshrined on an island my great-great-great grandnan visited. Goddesses of vengeance crying out for blood. So what’s the problem then?”

  Hob splutters. “What’s the problem, she says. What’s the problem? I’ve got a horrid feeling that I won’t be seeing him again, permanently, and that my dearest friend might come to an unpleasant and untimely demise. To put it lightly,” he mutters. “I’ve no idea how those hags–”

  “Careful, Mr. Gadling. Consider your words.”

  Hob mumbles some very uncivil phrases under his breath. 

  “I have no idea what they intend to do with him,” Hob says, “but I know it isn’t good, and I intend to stop it before it happens or fix it when it does.”

  “Well,” Johanna remarks, leaning back into her seat, “Traditionally, the Kindly Ones–well, depending on your sources, you’ve got a different view of the gods and their aspects…some considered the Fates and the Kindly Ones to be one and the same, while others disagreed. The Fates, in mythology, were as their name implies, the caretakers of the yarn that symbolized the lives of every being in existence. One spun the yarn, one measured, and one cut–that is, she ended a life. If they are one and the same, then perhaps they will–if they haven’t already–snip his yarn.” 

  “What happens then, if they do that?” Hob asks in a soft whisper. 

  “What happens to all of us when the time comes, I suppose,” Johanna shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. Never seen it for myself, and it’s not on my bucket list to be there watching the Moirai cutting a yarn, no thank you.” To the anguished confusion on Hob’s countenance, she continues, “I suppose something will happen that will result in Morpheus’ death or bring about an end to his existence….” She pauses, her brows knitting together. “But he can’t really die, can he? He’s an Endless, after all.”

  Hob spreads his hands helplessly. “Never really understood that bit. He’s explained it at least seven times. I don’t think so, but I’d rather not risk it. So, they’re going to cut his yarn. What if I wanted to prevent that?”

  Johanna’s dark eyes flash with interest. “You’re going to need to be a little more specific, Mr. Gadling. If by prevent you mean removing the Fates in a brazen act of unmeditated violence, I can’t promise that that won’t have potentially disastrous cosmic consequences. To that end, I’d be of little help to you as I do value my own life and will have no part in such foolhardy business.” 

  Hob seems to deflate a little at this, his shoulders slumping. He lifts a hand to run it through his hair. 

 She continues. “But if by prevent you mean, I don’t know…waltzing into their residence, perhaps by some stroke of divine luck snatching away your friend’s yarn and somehow removing it from their possession…then that could be.” 

  “Are you implying I commit an act of thievery, Miss Constantine?” 

  “Thievery or murder, Gadling. Pick your poison. Though, forgive my lack of confidence, I don’t think you’ll stand a minute against the Kindly Ones in a fight. It will go badly if you choose the latter. Not just for you, perhaps for the entire universe.” 

  “Pfft,” Hob scoffs. “Well, when you put it that way. I never liked killing, anyway. I’d much rather not fuck with immortal deities and pay for it with my life, thank you very much. Very well, stealing the yarn, then. Where do they live, these Kindly Ones? We’ll need to know the place we’re going to, er, break into.”

  Johanna hums at this. “I’ll need to look into that. But to arrive there, I’m afraid we’ll need some help. Only ravens can travel through dimensions, universes, realities. I might be able to fix up a potion for us, but I’d need at least one feather from a raven to do it. I don’t suppose Matthew would be amenable?” 

   “Matthew?” Hob tilts his head to the side, racking his brain for anything in his memory about the name. It itches, vaguely familiar, but slipping away all the more that he grasps at it. “Matthew! Yes, his raven.”

  “Good job getting there, Sherlock,” Johanna quips. Hob glowers at her. “You get the feather, I’ll look into getting us there.” She gathers her things and prepares to leave. 

  “But how–I don’t even know where–”

  “The Dreaming, Professor,”Johanna answers as simply as if giving him the time of day. “You’ll find someone there who can help. If not Morpheus himself, perhaps Matthew. Find him, get the feather. Meet me here.”  She passes him a note with a direction scribbled on it. 

 Hob fishes for his glasses in the breast pocket of his coat, opens them and pushes them onto his nose, peering at the paper. By the time he looks up, to ask her the time, she is gone.

 He curses. 

  Hob takes longer than usual to fall asleep that night, memories of the last nightmare too vivid in his mind. When the darkness finally takes him, he’s only vaguely aware of it. The real shock comes when he opens his eyes to find himself standing on a long, curving bridge. 

 Before him lies a palace reaching up to the sky, and on either side of him, dark, shifting waters. Creatures–humanoid and not–pass him by crossing the bridge this way and that, some conversing in hushed voices, others talking with no one but themselves. No one gives him a second glance.

  He’s about to take a step forward when a gravelly voice stops him in his tracks.

  “What do you think you’re doing here, tough guy?” 

 Hob bristles at the challenge in the being’s voice–he isn’t sure what to think of said being because the being before him is very much not a man, at all. The figure is much too close for comfort, looming over him as it leans on what looks to be an old shovel. It’s draped in a tattered white shirt too loose for its stick (are those wooden sticks crudely tied together in a rude mockery of a human frame?) form and faded overalls with too many holes too count. Sitting on its shoulders, where a proper head should be, is a jack-o-lantern sans candle. The giant jack-o-lantern is scowling at him and muttering something past the smoking cigar in its mouth. 

  “Well? You got a tongue? Good heaven, gotta tell the boss we got another one here. Fifth one today, sheesh,” the jack-o-lantern on legs remarks.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Hob says in a small voice. 

  “It speaks! I asked you a question, dummy,” the jack-o-lantern turned scarecrow grunts. “What’s your business here? My boss is a busy man–well, ‘es not really a man…whatever, it’s not important. He’s busy. What do you want?”

 A caw overhead catches both of their attention; Hob looks up to see a raven wheeling above them in slow, wide circles. 

  “Boss isn’t here, Merv, remember? He poofed away in a whirl of sand. Nobody knows where he went, not even Loosh.”

  “Merv” shifts his grip on the shovel, arching his spine as if to stretch. Something creaks within his wooden frame, and he groans; it is such a human gesture that Hob does his best not to crack a smile at it, despite his bewilderment. 

  “Did he? Again? Last time he did, we didn’t see ‘im for a hundred years,” Merv grumbles. He rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “Well, ‘boss’ is gone, but the real boss is gonna wanna know why you’re here. Out with it then.” Merv lifts his shovel to jab at Hob’s feet, but Hob dances back a step, spreading his arms out before him. 

  “Easy, easy,” Hob says, “I’m here because Johanna Constantine sent me.”

  “Johanna Constantine?” the raven repeats. The bird had landed on top of Merv’s spade and was peering at Hob with his beady eyes. “Boss knows her. What’s she got to do with this?”

  Hob groans. He is beginning to tire of repeating his explanation to everyone he meets.

  “I believe that Dream is in trouble. He came to see me a few nights ago with blood on his hands, and I had a nightmare about…according to her, it was about the Kindly Ones.”

  The raven caws, beating his wings. “The Kindly Ones?! That’s not good. Go on.”

  “So we met, and we have some ideas…but we need to get to wherever it is the Kindly Ones live. Thing is, we can’t just wish ourselves there. According to Constantine, only ravens like yourself can travel across dimensions.”

  The bird dips his head in a nod. “Boss told me that once. I, uh, hate to break it to you, but I’m not public transit, Mr..?”

  “Hob Gadling,” Hob presents himself. Both Merv and the raven jerk back, something Hob does not fail to notice. They know him?

  “So you’re Hob Gadling!” the raven caws. “Boss talks about you. You seem pretty important.”

 “I–” Hob breaks off, unsure of what to say to that. “He is my friend. You must be Matthew, then, his raven, aren’t you?  Now, Johanna had asked me if it might be possible, if you’d be willing to part with–”

  “You want a feather? She wants to make a potion with my feathers?” Matthew caws repeatedly in what might be the corvid equivalent of laughter. “Ludicrous idea if ever I heard one. Eh, why not. Here, have at it. Give her my regards, will you?” He flaps his wings furiously a few times before ducking his head under a wing. Moments later, he appears again with a glossy black feather in his bill. He hops down Merv’s spindly arm and extends the feather to Hob. 

  Hob mutters a quick thank you, inclining his head to the two of them before he turns on a heel to leave. Just before he does, however, he glances over his shoulder. “Matthew?” 

 The raven has taken flight, but in one sweep of his wings, he starts a circle distantly above Hob. 

  “If you see Dream, tell him I came here, I know. Please?”

  “You got it. I’ll tell boss if I see him. Good luck against the Kindly Ones. They’re not very…kindly.” 

  “Thank you. We’ll need it.”

  It’s the last thing he remembers before the dreamscape fades to darkness and he opens his eyes into the light of the waking day. 

  It takes Hob a few moments to remember where he is, for his mind to familiarize itself with its surroundings. When he curls his hands around the safe, warm comforter of his bed, it’s then that he feels a soft foreign object in his grip. His heart skips a beat. He lifts his right hand and opens his fist to find a single, black feather in his palm.

  He smiles victoriously. 

Chapter Text

 Hob hunches his shoulders beneath his umbrella, shifting from one foot to the other as he waits in the pouring rain on Johanna’s doorstep. He raps his knuckles against her door once more, teeth chattering against the wet chill of the evening. A few more agonizing moments pass before the lock mechanism clicks and the door opens to reveal Johanna Constantine. 

  “Evening,” Hob greets, inclining his head. Johanna grants him a quirk of her lips that might have passed for a smile. 

  “You really do mean business about this,” she comments and steps aside to let him through. He shakes his sopping umbrella out onto the porch and sets it to dry, leaning against her door once she closes it. 

  “He’s my friend,” Hob says, “I owe it to him.” His brows pull together in a deep furrow as he considers. He’s well aware of the danger the unknown future holds, but also aware that there’s a fighting chance that the two of them, together, can make it through. He clears his throat and shrugging off his raincoat, leaves it to hang over the edge of a chair. “So what have we got to do?”

 Johanna hums. “I’ve got everything ready down in the cellar. You got the feather?”

  “Of course,” Hob scoffs. “A lot more easily than I thought.” 

  She shrugs. “It’s Matthew. He’d give them all in a heartbeat, maybe, for Morpheus. Don’t tell him I said so.” She beckons for him to follow and leads him downstairs into the ‘cellar’. The downstairs space is cool, permeated with the chill of damp, rainsoaked stone and the musty odor of old wine and barrels. He can’t see much on either side, for the only light they have is a match Johanna has struck. 

  “Lights went out shortly before you got here. Not that that’s got anything to do with our activities this evening,” she remarks pointedly. “Modern devices…my ancestors never had these problems.” 

 A few moments later, they find themselves in the heart of her cellar, a wide space dimly lit by a few candles in various corners of the space. Johanna extends her hand to Hob, waiting. It takes him a few seconds to remember what she’s wordlessly asking for. 

 It strikes him then, and he jerks to attention, shoving his hand into his breast pocket to retrieve the feather. The glossy thing is bent slightly–something Johanna wrinkles her nose at–but usable. She takes it, turning toward a caldron she has simmering over a low flame on her worktable. The pot bubbles, froth forming over the top of it. Smoke rises from its depth, and a pungent (and decidedly disagreeable) odor fills the air. Hob gags. 

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, Professor,” Johanna remarks when she notes his reaction. “I told you I’d get us there. Never said you’d like it. There, we’ve got it now.” She drops a few other items into the caldron, sprinkling a questionable black powder over the top of the brew, before stirring it with a wooden ladle three times clockwise, four times counterclockwise. The concoction gurgles ominously before the flame beneath it flickers out with a soft hiss. Hob swallows, trying unsuccessfully to still the frantic thrum of his heart. 

 She dips the ladle into the brew, carefully withdrawing it to fill two cups hardly bigger than shotglasses. Setting the ladle down on the table, she offers one to Hob and takes the other in her own hand. 

  “This way,” Johanna calls out, cup in hand, as she approaches a doorway a few feet away that Hob hadn’t noticed before. It is half-hidden behind a pile of boxes, but Johanna quickly flicks a switch to turn on a light over the top of the door. That’s when Hob sees the steel door set in the wall of the cellar, secured by a curious amount of diverse locking systems. 

  “Worried about break-ins?” Hob comments. 

 Johanna chuckles. “More like keeping things out. You’ll understand in a minute. Do close the door behind you, eh? I’d rather not let every creature–benignant or malign–in the existing universe into my flat, thank you very much.” She finishes opening all four locks and pulls the door open. A light flickers on inside. 

 In the small, barren space of cool stone–marble, by the feel of it when Hob sets his palm against the wall at his side–there are two floor-length mirrors facing each other, one on his left and one on his right. The mirrors are set in elegant stylized bronze frames, hanging on the walls in the middle of the room. Johanna approaches them, stopping just before she enters their reflections, and turns to face Hob.

  “These aren’t your typical mirrors,” she says by way of explanation. “See, this flat upstairs,” she points upward. “Hasn’t always been in the family. Fairly recent–’recent’ being a generous term–acquisition by my great aunt a few decades back. This cellar, on the other hand, it’s been Constantine property for God knows how long…see, one of my ancestors–he studied mirrors and their reflective properties, and he also might have…” She pauses, a wry smile curving her lips. “Dabbled in the occult a bit. He discovered, in fact, a capability to travel between realms using the very reflections of the mirrors. It’s all really a matter of how you look at it.” She pauses, almost pointedly, and Hob deadpans, his brows lifting slightly. 

  “Very funny, Miss Constantine, do go on,” Hob grunts. Johanna’s smile widens. 

  “See, the mirrors present a reality that both exists and is non-existent. That is, you can see it. It’s there. But can you get to it? Can you touch it? There’s the catch. There’s an eternal extension into the infinite, some pathway down a dark and shadowed corridor leading to who knows where. Infinitely. Endlessly. Sebastien Constantine is the only recorded mortal who’s ever been known to test it, and he was the laughing stock of his age. You know, they never found his body,” Johanna remarks. “He disappeared, and never any word from him, nothing about a grave. Just gone. I have my thoughts, of course, but…” 

  “So you think he found a way in and never came back?” Hob asks, more for the sake of clarification than anything else. 

 Johanna tilts her head, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. “Up to interpretation. Regardless, he left this here, and it’s a secret that’s been passed down in my family from generation to generation. Of course, as I said moments ago, there’s a great deal of ‘unknown’ in the variables here. So to specify it and give us a better fighting chance of getting where we intend to go–well, that’s why I brewed this.” She lifts the cup to show him. “Magic is a rather slippery slope, involving both spells, potions, concoctions…double, double, toil and trouble and the like. But it’s also very, very dependent on intention. Important to say, because, if for example, we down it and go, might end up in the Dreaming. But we’ve only got one shot at this. One.” She pauses. “And you must concentrate on your intention–on where you want to go, Professor. Remember, the Kindly Ones. If we get this right, we’ll be there in a jiff.”

  “And if we don’t?” Hob asks in a small voice. 

  “Then we might find old Seb…or wander the shadowed halls of the mirrorverse for the rest of our existence,” Johanna answers with a tranquility that unsettles Hob. “I don’t know about you, but that’s not very appealing to me. So, what say you?”

  “We’ve got no choice, I suppose,” Hob says. Johanna’s dark eyes flash with glee.

  “Bottoms up!”  She does not wait for him, downing the contents of her cup in a single swallow. Hob eyes it warily before lifting his shoulders in a shrug and following suit. He’s hardly aware of it when Johanna grabs his wrist and yanks him after her into the space between the mirrors. The last two  things he notices are 1) the way the glass ripples and shifts when Johanna steps through it and 2) the distinctly frigid chill that slithers down his spine when he follows after. 

 Darkness swallows him whole, and he knows no more. 

   When Hob opens his eyes, the world appears blurry, fuzzy at the edges. He blinks several times, and his vision little by little clears, his eyes adjusting to his surroundings. A hand squeezes his, and he jolts, glancing down at himself. Johanna is beside him, squeezing his hand. There’s an almost manic gleam in her eyes, and it shows in the grin she’s wearing. He opens his mouth to ask, but she lifts a finger to her lips. He furrows his brow, tilting his head to the side. Johanna lifts her chin, lifting a finger to point over his shoulder. Hob turns slowly and finds that they are standing outside of a ramshackle structure that can hardly pass for a house. It is nestled among the rocky crags of some monolithic rock. He cannot see much on either side of it due to the thick mist hanging over the place. 

 The shack is large and cavernous, or so it appears from the outside; but all he can make out of its foundations are tree trunks and branches strung together with ropes and hung in moss. If he narrows his eyes and focuses, he can just catch the faint glow of light coming from the depths of the shadows further inside the structure. 

  The Kindly Ones, Johanna mouths. Hob nods slowly, brows arching in mild surprise. 

  So? What now? He considers he might have overshot the silent ‘now’ he’d signalled because Johanna snickers, swiftly hiding the muted laugh behind her hand. She lifts a finger pointing upward and swipes it in a circular motion. 

  Look around, she answers him. He shifts to take a step forward, but she lifts a hand and halts him. I don’t think they’re here. We don’t have much time.

 She treads forward quietly and cautiously into the dwelling of the Kindly Ones, pausing in the doorway to beckon Hob. He grumbles something under his breath about witches and unnecessary trouble, stooping so as not to hit his head when he passes under the low doorway. 

 It takes his eyes a few moments to adjust to the dimness inside, but when they do, he notes–with some surprise–that the space inside is considerably larger than the outside. 

  “Temporal-dimensional magicks,” Johanna whispers, waving a hand vaguely in the air. “I’ve heard about it. Bigger on the inside and all that. Come on.” She proceeds further in, pausing when she reaches what might be the living area. Two sofas and a table are situated facing a small hearth where a dying fire burns–the glow Hob had seen on arrival. On the table is a tray with three cups, a tea pot, some cookies…and a large pair of seamstress’ scissors. Hob cocks his head at the sight, his brows pulling together. Scissors?

  “Scissors,” Hob points out, jerking his chin at the tool on the table. “Didn’t you say something about yarns and lives and snipping things?”

 Johanna nods. “Good job. Sharper than I thought.” To Hob’s unamused glower, she continues, “The Greeks believed that the Kindly Ones took care of all the threads of all living beings, and it fell to them to cut those threads when the time came, that is to say, euphemisms aside…when death comes for them.”

 Hob stiffens, eyes widening. “They…they haven’t cut his yet, have they?”

 Johanna shrugs. “No way to know. Do you see any yarn here that might be his? Hate to break it to you, Professor, but I skipped the class on identifying anthropomorphic entities by the color of their yarn.” Hob huffs in exasperation, balling his hands into fists. He says nothing to it, but her sarcasm is beginning to rub him the wrong way. He might have appreciated it or laughed even, had his friend’s life not hung in the balance. 

  “Where would three old hags keep the world’s biggest pile of yarn in this mess?” Hob growls half to himself. He wanders further in, gingerly pushing at boxes and other unidentifiable objects with the toe of his boot. One of the boxes he shifted (unbeknownst to him) had supported a glass ball half hidden in the shadows. With the box displaced, the ball teetered perilously and slid off of the box. In a split second, Hob catches the gleam of light reflecting off the falling ball and swoops down to catch it before it shatters to pieces on the floor. “Bloody hell, you’d think they’d care better for things.” When he slowly rises to his feet, he knocks his head against something solid and curses, lifting his hand to rub at the back of his head. Stumbling forward a step, he turns on a heel and sees a wooden frame strung with yarn of different colors, sizes and textures. 

  “Uh…Constantine?” Hob calls out softly. Johanna lifts her head from behind a pile of rubbish. “You might want to have a look at this.” 

 “Hang on a mo,” she answers him. “I’ve got something you’ll want to see, too.”

 Hob quickly sets himself to examining the strings, straining for any sign of something, anything. He runs his hand along the threads, his fingers trailing over their frame. At the very end of it, when his fingers brush a skein of grey yarn already woven into a braided rope of sorts–something like the greys and blues of a storm on the sea or distant starlight–a small but intense shock like static electricity hits him. He jerks back, wringing his hand to shake off the sensation. An image flashes in his mind–the first time he’d seen Dream in the inn, when they’d forged their agreement.

  “It’s his,” Hob whispers breathlessly. “This one, it’s his.” 

 Johanna is at his side now, an old tome in her arms, resting on her hip. “You’re sure?” 

  “I mean, I got a picture of him in my mind when I touched it,” Hob says. I figured it…it could be.”

 Johanna hums at this. She shoulders past him and peers up at the frame holding the assortment of yarns. “Which one did you think was his?” Hob lifts a finger to point at the one he’d just touched, and she dips her head in a nod.

  “Right then. That might be his. What’s the next step to your genius, fool-proof plan, Professor?”

  Hob lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Hadn’t gotten that far,” he mumbles. “Hold on. No. The scissors. They want to cut his yarn, don’t they? Because of what he did, taking his son’s life? Well.” He takes a cautious step forward and leans in as far as he dares to get a better look at Dream’s yarn. “It doesn’t look as if it’s been cut. I just see it strung up here on the frame and suppose the rest of it is spooled up back there. It’s just knotted here, like the others…as though they’ve left it and mean to continue weaving it later.”

  “They haven’t cut it then?” Johanna asks. “Perhaps we’ve made good time. So what now?” 

 Hob draws his hand to his chin and strokes his beard, deep in thought. “I need to find mine. I’ve got an idea. It’s probably nuts.” He shakes his head. “It’s undeniably insane, and if it doesn’t work, then it doesn’t work, but–” He heaves an exhausted sigh and takes another look at the frame, searching for his own. 

  He catches sight of a golden yellow yarn, rough under his touch.  Extending his hand, he lets his fingers brush the plaited strands. The moment his fingers touch it, a cold chill crawls down his spine; he feels it in the very core of his being and shudders. 

   He blinks a few times and grips the thread more tightly, twining the end of it around his finger. Much like with the experience of touching Dream’s thread, Hob is flooded with images–flashing, barely identifiable, fleeting. He sees Eleanor, himself through the ages at every centennial meeting, standing on the bridge after Dream’s funeral. The images increase and pick up speed as they race through his mind until Hob can bear no more and lets go. He does have the good sense to twine the thread back on its skein before relinquishing it. 

  “There’s mine, then,” Hob mumbles, rolling his shoulders to shake off the shudder crawling down his spine. “Well, I suppose…might as well get a good grip. Here goes nothing,” Hob says. He uses both hands to grab hold of his skein, gripping the sides of it and jiggling it until it pops out of its place with a satisfying click. Careful to avoid touching the yarn itself, he eases the skein out of the frame. One end is wrapped around the skein in his hand, and the other end is still connected to its origin point deep within the frame. 

  “Here take this.” He hands Johanna his skein, and approaches Dream’s. “Now, I’ve lived a long while and learned a few things. One of those things, surprising though it may be,” he pauses, glancing down at Johanna over his shoulder. “is working with yarn.”

  “Knitting?” Johanna scoffs, barely bothering to hide her laughter at the notion. “Old man confirmed. Stuffy ole’ hist’ry professor who knits on the side.”

 “Inherited fair Lady Constantine’s sense of humour, I see,” Hob huffs. “History remembers a very different lady than my own memory does.” 

  Jo arches a brow, a dark gleam in her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean, sir?” 

  “It means…there were some untasteful rumours going about after she found the two of us. Misunderstandings, all of it,” Hob says quickly, averting his gaze.

  “Mr. Gadling…”

  Hob throws her a flat look. “NONE of it was true. There were things going around….folks were saying, she was saying that she’d bedded an immortal. And she wasn’t talking about my friend.”

 Johanna’s brows fly up, and Hob wonders if it’s the dim lighting or if he really does notice a rosiness in her cheeks. 

  “You can’t mean…I was teasing him when I asked him that, eh. I didn’t really believe that my ancestress would have–God in heaven, Gadling.” She shudders, curling her lip in an exaggerated cringe and rubs her arms as if to shake her own discomfort off of herself. “Good god. No bloody idea what I can do to bleach that from my mind.” 

   Hob offers a smug smile, pleased that he’s been able to put her at a disadvantage. For once. 

  “Let’s just put that past us, shall we? Alright, here goes,” Hob says. He pulls the loose end of Dream’s plaited yarn and tugs until it’s long enough to reach his own yarn directly below. Carefully, he uses his fingers to pry open the plaits of his own yarn enough to thread Dream’s yarn through his. He continues slowly, alternatively tugging at Dream’s yarn to give himself more slack and threading his friend’s yarn through his own. “Eye splice,” Hob mutters, glancing at Johanna through his peripheral vision. She’s watching silently, arms folded over her chest. Through the corner of his eye, he can see her shifting and notes the sudden tension that takes hold of her. The way she jolts. As though she’d seen something, something alarming. 

 Thunder rolls ominously outside, and a very loud (and very close) crack of lightning rips through the air. Hob freezes, turning slowly to glance at Johanna. Had it been storming when they arrived? He doesn’t believe so. Nonetheless, the force of the thunder rattles the shack to its foundations, and Hob stills, receiving a distinctly unsettling sense of deja vu. He’d felt something similar in his nightmare, not long ago.

  “What have we here, sister-selves?” A thin voice, dripping with exaggerated sweetness and cracked with age, asks. Hob closes his eyes, cursing their luck. 

  Of course. 

  Of course the Kindly Ones would arrive right in media res. 

  “A bit of knitting, looks to me,” a younger, warmer voice answers. 

  “He’s very skillful with his hands. Old hands. Young face. Younger soul,” the third one who speaks holds a soft lilt in her voice, almost like a caress. Hob shuts his eyes tighter.

 Johanna clears her throat. He dares not move or speak. 

  “I believe, sir, that you’re meddling with matters not yours to meddle with,” the Old One hisses, all sweetness gone. Her voice is much closer now, and Hob shudders when he feels her breath in his ear. It stinks of corruption, death, and layers of dust over a tomb. “I’ll be taking that, if you please. If you do not, I shall take it any way, I will.” 

 She lays one bony hand on his, presumably to break his grip, but Hob reacts on an impulse. He lets go of Dream’s yarn for just long enough to claw at the hag’s hand and yank it away, but he does not anticipate her resistance. She digs talons into his wrist, in an iron grip, and Hob casts away all sense of gentlemanly decorum, restrained manners, and any sort of social limitation. He breathes out a curse that should never fall on a lady’s ears, and strikes out first with his foot, landing a sharp kick to what he hopes is her shin. Then, when she doubles over in breathless surprise, he lifts his elbow to deliver a sharp blow to a bony edge he presumes to be her jaw. She tumbles back with an irate cry, and Hob fumbles to find Dream’s yarn. Thankfully, it still hangs where it had fallen moments before. Just as Hob reaches for it, the yarn–skein and all, as well as his own–floats seemingly of its own accord out and away from the frame.

 “Christ on a cracker,” Hob whines, “can’t I just–”

  “My sister-selves! What is the meaning of this? But the Laws!” The Old One shrieks, already scrambling back to her feet. Hob snaps his attention to her and stares, slack jawed. The hag–for she truly does look very much like a witch–is shrouded in a loose, dingy grey robe. Her stringy grey hair falls about her in long, tangled waves, framing a face carved by wrinkles of countless years. Her small eyes, squinting beneath thin brows, flash with fire. 

  “The Crone,” Johanna whispers by his side.

  “Peace, Hob Gadling,” the second voice addresses him. Hob turns on a heel, to see a woman younger than the Crone step forward. She, too, is robed in a grey garment, but her face is smooth of the ancient one’s wrinkles, untouched by the harsh hold of time. Her dark eyes are softer, carrying the warmth of a hearth after a long day far from home. Her black tresses are threaded through with streaks of grey, and loosely bound to sweep away from her face. She smiles faintly at him, and it’s then that he can see crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. “I do not share the opinion of my sister-self…rare as it may be. For we are the Three in One.”

  “That’s the Mother,” Johanna says once more in hushed tones. “And…the Maiden.” 

  “The One Who is Three,” the Maiden, youngest of the three, answers.

  “Nonetheless, it is not unprecedented that dissonance may once and again strike a chord in our song,” the Mother continues. “And from that note, a melody may spring. His song draws to an end. For there is an end, even for the Endless. Is it not fitting for the Prince of Stories to come, at long last, to the end of his story?” A cold chill grips Hob’s heart, and he swallows. 

  “But not yet, sister-self,” the Maiden chimes in, stepping forward. “His end must come, for it comes for all who are created. And yet…” Her face is softer than the others, and her large eyes hold a warmth like the Mother’s, but something else–something Hob dares not put a name to. Compassion? Concern? 

  “And yet?” the Crone growls, curling her lips derisively. “What of the laws? His crime demands its payment. The Dream Lord must die.” Hob tenses, his heart pounding behind his sternum. 

  “Laws may be re-written,” the Mother adds, gently. “It was not for nothing that Hope was spared and safeguarded within Pandora’s box when all the evils besetting humanity took flight. It was not for nothing that love was the Creator’s gift to his creations. It is a gift not even He can ask for, and its power is unspeakable.”

  “Love,” the Crone spits. “Can love forestall Death’s uplifted stroke? Can love halt the progression of time and turn back the sun on its course, eh?”

  “It did, once,” the Maiden whispers. “And so, it would seem, again. What is your purpose here, Hob Gadling, Johanna Constantine? Well,” she shifts her gaze to the two skeins of yarn floating just above her hand, “I suppose we already know, but truth from its source is fading now from the fabric of existence. There is no duplicity in you, Hob Gadling.” 

 Hob turns slightly toward Johana. “Translation?”

 Johanna recoils, wrinkling her brow. “What makes you think I understand them any better than you? I mean, if I had to guess, I suppose she wants to hear it from us. Well, genius? You got something?” 

  Hob scoffs. “The truth, why not? It’s what she wants. It’s what I’ve got.”

 “Carry on, then,” Johanna encourages him.

 Hob clears his throat and turns his attention back to the Maiden. “Dream of the Endless came to me some nights ago with blood on his hands.”

 “Family blood,” the Crone cuts in.

  “Hold your peace, sister-self,” the Mother admonishes. She gestures for Hob to continue and whispers to the Maiden, “Put on a spot of tea, will you? There’s a love. Four now, yes.” The Maiden quietly obeys and prepares the tea.

  “I took him in, and well, er…I believe we might have seen each other,” Hob admits, looking to all three of them.The Crone wears a smile bereft of all mirth. “So I did some research and long story short, I’m here to do what I can to help my friend.”

  “His friend?” The Crone repeats. “I do not believe the Endless used such soft a word in the thoughts of his heart. Pah, love and its folly….”

   “What bravery unfound among the sons of men,” the Mother whispers, nodding her approval. “You consented to stand against Fate for the sake of your beloved. And were you convinced you should leave victorious, son of your mother?” 

 Hob’s heart skips a beat. “I–well, that’s why I brought her along.” He nudges Johanna. 

  “Hey, leave me out of this. It’s your business, mate. You deal with the backlash.” 

  “I had a rather hare-brained plan, something I sort of strung together,” Hob answers them with a sheepish pun. “Forgive the pun.” 

 The three ladies blink at him, and he’s aware that they might not have perceived his humour.

  “What do you think you will achieve in binding your yarn to that of Dream of the Endless?” the Maiden asks him, tilting her head in mild interest. Something flickers in her gaze that gives Hob an idea that she knows already the answer she’s seeking.

  “Well,” Hob begins again, spreading his hands wide. “She told me that according to the myths, you lot came after those who committed grave crimes, acts worthy of…well capital punishment and the like. Dream…well, we believe he killed his son, for reasons we’re not entirely sure of, but the fact stands. I figured if I managed to tie his yarn to mine, it might just some way or another protect him. That is, if you hadn’t cut his yarn yet.”

  “We have not,” the Maiden replies.

  “I’m immortal, and I figured that you might do him no harm once his life was bound to mine. Unless, of course, I did some similar act. Then you’d be rid of the both of us in no time. I can only hope that doesn’t happen,” Hob continues. 

  “You mean to say that you wish to bind his life to yours, bind his fate to yours, for the rest of your immortal existence? As long as that shall last?” the Mother asks. 

  Hob dips his head in a small nod. 

  The Maiden smiles faintly, sharing a glance with the Mother. 

  Johanna digs her elbow into Hob’s side. He grunts and scowls at her. “What was that for?”

  “We’ve got lives to get back to? I haven’t got a way back. What did you plan to do next, after this, anyway? Care to let me in on the plan?” she hisses under her breath.

  An idea flashes in his mind, and Hob weighs it, carefully. He has no idea how Johanna will react, if she will approve…or not. No matter, it’s a solution he can see to the present predicament.

  “I’ve got something, trust me,” Hob whispers. “You trust me, don’t you?”

  “No, not really.”

  “No matter. Just sit tight,” Hob says with a shrug. He turns back to the Maiden. “I do have a favor to ask of you.”

  The Maiden’s brows lift slightly, and her soft smile widens. “Brazen son of Adam. You have assaulted our dwelling, attempted to make off with possessions not yours to claim and yet, nonetheless, still would ask a favor of the Fates? I do admire your courage, Hob Gadling. Proceed.”

  “See, we need to get somewhere–”

  “Specifics, Gadling,” Johanna growls through gritted teeth. “Be specific.”

  “To a particular time…but we don’t have any way of getting ourselves there,” Hob goes on, “I don’t know if you’ve got control over time and space…but since you know and watch all the lives of every living thing, I suppose you do to a certain degree.”

 The Maiden hums at this.

  Hob forces himself to continue despite the hammering of his heart in his chest. “I would ask if you can send us to the realm of Dream of the Endless, to the Dreaming. At some point before this whole mess–” He waves his hand vaguely at the connected yarns, at himself and Johanna, at the shack. “–before this whole mess began.”

  The Maiden’s eyes widen slightly. “Quite a request. One that, unfortunately, requires just as great a price. It is within my power to grant it to you, but what are you willing to offer me in exchange?”

  The answer lies already within his heart, hidden between its frantic beating, the words to offer it already on his tongue. He does not hesitate. 

  “My life,” he answers. “My immortality. Death gave it to me, on a wager. Take it, and give him a chance. If he fucks it up, that’s on him, but I’m doing everything I can to see that he doesn’t. Take it, that’s what I’m offering.” 

  “Gadling, you can’t be serious. I honestly thought you had something else less suicidal in mind,” Johanna hisses through her teeth. 

  “Thus my great plan, Jo, that’s it,” Hob says resignedly. 

  “You would give up your life for his?” the Maiden asks him softly, watching him carefully. “How are you to know he will make choices different than those that led you here? If he shall fall again, Hob Gadling, what then?” 

 Hob shakes his head once, firmly before dropping his gaze to the floor. “I’ve never been a man to hang my hopes on hypotheticals, ma’am. To answer your question, yes, I would. I don’t know. He might. He might not. What matters is that I’m doing this for him. It’s the one thing I can do, so why the hell not?” He trails off, shifting from one foot to the other and releases a heavy sigh. After a few moments, he looks up again to find the Mother and the Maiden watching him intently and the Crone staring daggers at him from her perch on a stool by the hearth. “Well? Do you accept it? Is it enough?”

  “A life for a life. Eternity for a moment. Your offering is accepted, Hob Gadling,” the Maiden remarks solemnly. 

 All Hob can hear is the rush of blood in his ears; all he can feel is the frenetic rhythm of his heart. It’s loud enough that he almost, almost misses the Maiden’s softly spoken words. 

 Almost.

 In the silence that follows after, he realizes what has happened and hope floods him. 

  “Y-you mean it’s done? Done deal?” Hob confirms. The Three make no response. 

  The Maiden snaps her fingers, and the yarn floating in the air disappears for a moment. When it reappears, both Dream’s yarn and Hob’s own are neatly wrapped around their respective skeins, still connected by Hob’s handiwork. She flicks her wrist and the yarn lands in Hob’s waiting hands.

  “Take it, then, and do with it as you please. It is yours now, after all,” the Maiden remarks. 

  “Pardon me, but what about us?” Johanna pipes up, lifting a hand in a tentative wave. The Maiden nods. 

  “I have not forgotten you, Laughing Magician,” she answers. “I shall fulfill your request. After all, I always believed Lord Morpheus deserved not the end my sister-self decreed for him. He has been so generous with his offerings. Do give him my regards, won’t you?”

  Hob nods absently, too lost in his own shock and awe that his wish had been granted. “I-I..yes, ma’am.” 

  “Very well then,” the Maiden remarks with a slight smile. “Until we meet again.”

  “May that be a very long while. Perhaps never,” Johanna mumbles. Hob rolls his eyes at this and extends a hand to her, palm up. Johanna lays her hand in his, and the Maiden lifts her own hands, turning them palm upwards in a peculiar twisting motion. Seconds later, the room floods with light. The last thing Hob feels is Johanna’s hand squeezing his. 

  Hob grunts as the air is suddenly knocked out of him with his impact on unforgiving stone. He screws his eyes shut, biting back a curse as his back protests. When the pain abates enough for him to attempt to move, he opens his eyes, flinching instinctively at the sharp contrast of the light of his present surroundings to the dim ambiance of the Kindly Ones’ abode. He’s vaguely aware of Johanna a few feet away, struggling to get her bearings as well. 

 He pushes himself up onto his elbows and discovers then that he has landed, dropped out of thin air, onto a set of stone stairs. 

  “Couldn’t have left us on a duvet, no?” Hob grumbles. 

  “Beggars and choosers, I guess,” Johanna mutters. 

  “Where are we anyway?” Hob asks, glancing around. Distant voices catch his attention, and he hastily shifts onto his stomach, eyes wide as he searches for the source. “There, look.” He points directly ahead of them, to a grand metal doorway at the top of the stairs. Behind the door a massive palace looms, with turrets and walls craning so high, Hob cannot see their peaks. On a wall overlooking the spall entry space before the door, three creatures peer down at all who enter–a griffin, a winged horse and in the center of them, a wyvern. Under their watchful gaze, Hob can see a thick crowd of people filing through the doorway. 

  “You don’t recognize it?” Johanna says, arching a brow. “Ah, you might not have come this far last time. We’re in the Dreaming. Those are the Guardians…and that, is the palace. Morpheus is in there, most likely, if the Maiden was kind and brought us to a time like you’d asked. I don’t think that door will be open for very long. We should probably try to slip in.” 

  “Good thinking,” is all Hob says before he scrambles to his feet and jogs to catch up with the last few people on their way inside. Johanna dashes after him. The last throng of people are a gnarly bunch of warriors with an uncanny resemblance to vikings. Their metal helmets gleam in the daylight, and their armor and shields clang loudly against each other as they shuffle inside. Hob wrinkles his nose at the stench of dried sweat, horses and hard labor. The smell surrounds him on all sides, and he resists the urge to pinch his nose against it. He tries to distract himself from it, quietly reminding himself it’s simply an excuse to get inside. He and Johanna huddle in close behind the vikings, both of them grunting and pushing when they themselves are pushed and pulled in the shifting crowd. 

 Soon enough, they make it past the doors and find themselves in a dimly lit hall, and they are not alone. The room is full of a diverse assortment of beings–humanoid and not. All are gathered at the base of a set of stairs flanked on either side by two torches. In the middle of the top flight, stands a dark-skinned woman with spectacles, holding a book in one hand and a roster in the other. She’s dressed smartly in a black suit.

 At present, she is greeting a contingent of beings sporting horns, spines, talons and fangs. At the head of the small group is a masculine figure wrapped in a full-length leather coat that almost swallows him whole. The shoulders and cuffs of it are lined with gleaming metal spikes.

  “I am Lord Azazel, a Prince of Hell and Commander of the Demon Army that was Lucifer’s,” he presents himself. “With me are the Merkin, Mother of Spiders and Choranzon, Duke of the Eight Circle.”

  The bespectacled woman offers a polite smile. “Lord Morpheus bids you welcome.”

 Lord Azazel does not move. “No, his librarian bids us welcome. Tell the Dream King I demand an audience with him. Now.” 

 The Librarian draws in a breath, clutching her roster firmly to her chest and stares at Azazel for a tense moment. 

  “I would remind you, Lord, “ the Librarian answers him in a frigid tone. “That you are one of many who seek Hell.”

  “No, Lucienne,” Lord Azazel says, his form splitting and shifting into a growling mass of snarling teeth and snapping jaws. His voice deepens. “I am an entire universe of displaced, homeless, hungry demons who will reclaim their birthright.” He approaches her slowly, losing his humanoid form with each step until a shifting mass of darkness full of razor-sharp teeth faces her. Lucienne stumbles back, nearly losing her footing until another voice cuts through Azazel’s growls. 

  “Lord Azazel!” 

 Both Hob and Johanna look up from their hiding place to catch sight of Morpheus standing at the top of the stairs. Hob glances at Johanna out of the corner of his eye, nudging her with his elbow. 

  “Not bad, eh?”

 “Just cost the rest of your immortal life to get here,” she quips. “No, not bad.” 

Chapter Text

 Hob stands with Johanna in a corner of the banquet hall, letting his gaze drift over the crowded space. 

  “Well? Are we going to try to blend in or?” Johanna mutters. Hob tilts his head down at her. 

  “Well, we’ve got vikings over there,” he points ahead of them, “a bunch of scary figures that seemed to have taken a detour in a halloween shop on the way here.” He points a little ways further off toward what appears to be a crowd of demons. “Then Dr. Evil’s army on the left. I don’t think we’d fit in there at all.”

  “Dr. Evil? Who the fuck is that?” Johanna remarks with a laugh.

  Hob looks affronted at this and lays a hand dramatically over his heart. “Dr. Evil? Austin Powers? You haven’t lived, woman.” 

  “Not even going to ask,” Johanna says, shaking her head. “So, what now? There’s your friend. Don’t you have something important to tell him?” She nudges him with her elbow and jerks her chin upwards toward an overlooking balcony where Hob can just barely see Dream standing there with Lucienne at his side. 

  “Well, yes, but it seems he’s a tad occupied with his other guests, but–”

  “Hello.” Both Hob and Johanna jump at the sudden greeting from somewhere too close for comfort. Hob spins around, looking about until he catches sight of a girl with knotted straw blond hair, dressed in a tattered pink dress far too stained for a dinner party. She’s holding a string in one hand, tied to a bright red balloon floating over her head, and in the other, she tugs at the torn and sodden lace falling off the hem of her skirts. 

  “‘ello, little one,” Johanna greets her, offering a gentle smile the likes of which Hob has not yet seen. She crouches down to meet the girl at eye level. 

  “Who’s you?” the girl asks them, tugging absently at her balloon. “Is you being here for the key to the hell of Lucifer, too?” 

  Hob and Johanna share a glance, neither certain of how to answer that question. 

  “Well, I guess you could say we are, in a way,” Johanna answers in an overly sweet tone, cocking her head slightly as she watches the little girl in front of her. “And who might you be?” 

 “I is Shivering Jemmy of the Shallow Brigade,” she answers. “I is a Princess of Chaos. I is very important, and we wants hell too. We do.” 

  “Lovely creature,” Johanna remarks, her smile shifting into something resembling a cringe. “Well, Shivering Jemmy, I think we have to go find our seats now. But maybe later we can…”

  “What is you doing here? You is not lookings like the rests of us,” Shivering Jemmy asks rather abruptly. 

 Johanna huffs. She flashes Hob a glance.

  “I told you, we’re only really here to–”

  “I is not believing you! Yours looking like strangers, you are!” the little girl screeches. “Does King Dreamy know yours here?” Before she can get another word out, Johanna lashes out and clamps a hand over the girl’s mouth, effectively shutting her up. She yanks the girl back toward her and leans down close to her ear. 

  “Now, now, sweetheart,” Johanna hisses. “If there’s something we don’t need, it’s any more attention drawn to us. So if you don’t want any trouble, and I don’t think you do…you’ll keep your pretty little mouth shut and leave us be, will you?” 

 Shivering Jemmy stares at her wide-eyed and nods slowly. Johanna, satisfied, releases her and watches the girl trip over herself scrambling to get away. 

 Johanna releases a tired sigh and turns back toward Hob just in time to see him turning this way and that, looking about himself.

  “Lost something?” she quips. Hob looks up, eyes wide. 

  “The yarns!” He exclaims. “They’re gone.” All mirth fades from her face. 

  “What do you mean they’re gone? You just had them in your hands. What could have happened to them?” 

  “You’re right, I did, but last I remember, we were with that little imp, and someone bumped into me,” Hob rambles, running a hand anxiously through his hair. He lifts his gaze to look at the people around them, some seated, some walking about. In that moment, the crowd parts and Hob catches sight of the yarn in the hands of one of the grey folk–the ones he’d impulsively named Dr. Evil’s army. He’s about to lunge after them, to reclaim his lost possession, when an imposing hulk of a man lumbers through the crowd, shoving people out of his way as if they were nothing but paper waving in the wind. 

  “LIBRARIAN!” The gruff man–one of the vikings–growls. “I demand an audience with the Lord Shaper. Now.” The burly, bearded man, wielding a hefty hammer with a massive oaken handle, shoves everyone out of his way, including the person holding Hob’s precious yarns. The person stumbles back with a surprised cry, dropping the yarn which disappears onto the floor, amidst the scuffle of feet. Hob curses, diving into the crowd to pursue it. He tries his best to keep an eye on the viking, but quickly loses sight of him. 

  “My Lord Thor,” Lucienne calls out over the din. Thor? As in the god of thunder? Thor? Hob muses, pulling himself up short to stand still in the crowd, searching until he lays eyes on the Norse god. He purses his lips and blinks a few times. Guess everybody wants their hands on that bloody key.  “I beg your pardon, but Lord Morpheus will receive you when he sees fit. Until then, you must be content to wait.” 

  “I am a god, and no man,” Thor roars back, lifting his hammer. “Does he think to try my patience?” He swings the hammer overhead, and Hob, even in the midst of his desperate search for the missing yarn, stills when a peculiar crackle fills the air. All the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end, much like the still moment before the first crack of lightning in a summer storm. A bright flicker of light catches his attention, and when he turns his head, he can see sparks shooting from Thor’s hammer. Just then, a large hand settles on Thor’s shoulder and roughly yanks him back. The brazen god stumbles, knocked off his balance, and scrambles to his feet, ready to fight when he pales. 

 Looming over him is a grave, weathered old man with a strong build, clutching a sturdy wooden staff for support. He is draped in a dark mantle, tattered with age at the edges, and sports a black eye patch. The other glints with a silent and dangerous fury. His father, Odin. 

 “Peace, boy,” Odin rumbles, his voice rasping and cracking with age. 

  “All-Father,” Thor answers, chastened. He tightens his grip on his hammer, but draws it back down to his side. 

  “Do you think that because you are god of thunder, you may command here as though in your own kingdom? Have you forgotten that we are guests?” 

 Thor scowls and draws in a breath to respond, but whatever he answers is lost to Hob because the immortal turns his attention back to finding the yarn. He casts one last glance behind him to see if Johanna is anywhere nearby, but does not see her. 

  He does not see her because she has ended up in another part of the room, cornered by the embassy from Hell. Pressed against the wall, she stares down a scrawny masculine demon pointing a knife at her. 

  “You look familiar, you do,” the demon says to her, leaning in close to get a better look. 

 Johanna’s eyes narrow. “Do I? Did I send you back to that hellhole where you belong?”

  The demon chuckles, but the sound is bereft of all mirth. “No, you would never have the pleasure. I do know you.” His eyes flash with recognition, and for a moment, a flicker of fear before he has the sense to hide it. “Hellblazer. What business have you got here? Aren’t content with casting us demons back into hell, eh? You’ve got to own the place, is that it?” 

  “Shut it!” Johanna growls at him, lashing out with her foot to kick him sharply in the shin. “What I’m here for ain’t none of your business, eh? Now out my way or I will send you back where you come from. Lucifer’s hell or not.” She shoulders past him like nothing and scans the crowd for Hob. After a few moments, she lays eyes on him, at the far end of the room, quickly weaving through as he makes his way toward Lucienne. “Hob! Hob?” She calls out over the din of the crowd. 

 He makes no sign that he’s heard her. Frustrated and thoroughly tired of this banquet, Johanna dodges and weaves past people in the crowd, pushing her way forward. Hob keeps going at a determined pace, and she wonders if he’s located the lost yarn. He finally stops several yards behind Lucienne, hiding himself behind a pillar. Johanna quickly follows after him, pressing in close. 

  “Well? Did you find it?” Johanna whispers at his shoulder. Hob keeps his gaze fixed on Lucienne, only lifting a finger to hush Johanna. “Big bloody deal–oh…oh, that’s not good. Not good at all. How’d she get that?” 

 Hob curses under his breath. “It got knocked out my hands when we were in the midst of everyone, and I guess under all the shuffling, it rolled away. She has it now, and I’m almost certain she’s going to bring it to Dream. God in heaven, we’re done for.” Hob drags himself away, around the other side of the pillar and slides down to the floor, burying his face in his hands. 

  “Oi. I have to say, entirely out of character for me to be the one giving the optimist’s pep talk here, but,” Johanna remarks with a derisive scoff, “it can’t be all that bad. You meant to give it to him, didn’t you? It’s what we’re here for.”

  “Right, but I needed to be the one to give it to him. Who knows what the hell he’ll do with it when she brings it to him? Is he even going to know what it is?” Hob asks, breathlessly. 

  “He’s an Endless, and he knows about the Kindly Ones. He’s not very bright….sometimes. But I think he’ll know,” Johanna remarks. 

 A rustling flutter of wings followed by a loud caw grabs their attention.

 Hob jolts back up to his feet, still concealing himself behind the pillar, but taking up his watch once more. Johanna watches quietly beside him.

  The two of them silently observe as Lucienne stoops to pick up the two skeins of yarn and examines them. Both Hob and Johanna catch the moment when Lucienne’s fingers brush Dream’s yarn and a slight shudder runs through her. 

  “Endless energy,” Johanna mutters. 

  “Loosh! Been looking everywhere for you,” Matthew caws, alighting on her shoulder. He leans forward, extending his wings and flapping a few times to balance himself. “What’s that?”

  Lucienne blinks a few times. She regards the skeins of yarn thoughtfully for a few moments. “I…I am not certain. I have a theory, but I should like to bring it to His Majesty’s attention first.” 

  “That’s perfect, actually,” the raven cuts in. “Boss sent me to fetch you. Has some consultations of his own he wants to make.”

  “Does he? Very well. Where is he, Matthew?” Lucienne asks, tilting her head back slightly to glance at the corvid. 

  He caws once, flapping his wings and jumps off her shoulder into the air. “In the throne room. Don’t need to knock, just close the door behind ya.”

  “I don’t believe anyone has ever knocked once in this place, Matthew, lamentably,” Lucienne remarks with a tired sigh as she watches him sail away out of a window. Carefully tucking the yarns under her left arm and her other books under her right, she turns on a heel and climbs two flights of stairs until she comes to a stop between the two braziers where Hob had first seen Dream standing not long ago. He watches Lucienne, now, looking out over the crowd with the countenance of a mother watching five toddlers wrecking a painstakingly ordered living space. Then, she turns around, ascends another flight of stairs and disappears around a corner. Hob and Johanna immediately set off after her. 

 They very nearly lose her down a hallway she makes a left into but thankfully manage to keep her in sight until she reaches the doors of what they presume to be the throne room. She doesn’t even lift a hand before the solid bronze doors open, seemingly of their own accord, to grant her entry. Hob is about to follow after her, but the doors close swiftly behind her. 

 Hob growls, balling his hands into fists. Johanna hides her laughter behind her hand. 

  “Great job, tiger. Missed it by that much. Well, all we can do is wait.”

  Inside the throne room, Lucienne continues forward, yarns and books in her arms. She has almost reached the base of the stairs leading up to the throne when Morpheus rises from it and begins to descend the stairs. 

  “Lucienne,” he greets her solemnly. She stills, inclining her head respectfully.

  “My Lord,” she answers. “Matthew tells me you wished to speak to me?”

  “I do,” Morpheus says quietly. “Though it appears you have something to discuss with me, as well.” He gestures to the yarn in her hand. “Have you…taken up a new hobby, Librarian?” His lips curve in the faint suggestion of a wry smile. “Have your books tired you after a millenia?” 

 Lucienne’s eyes widen behind her spectacles. “Impossible. They would never, not if I had to stare at them for an eternity. And I do, as you know. Because some anthropomorphic entities refuse to bow their shoulders beneath the menial work of managing their own realms, including the fine print ledger work,” she teases, careful to keep her tone light and playful. 

  “Must a king spend all his hours bent over his tomes, squinting and scribbling unto long into the night? Why, if I did it all myself, I should have no need for a librarian,” Morpheus replies, mirth twinkling in his gaze. 

  Lucienne smiles, then, shaking her head. “It is of no import, sir. I am happy to help in any way that I can. Which brings me to my present concern. I have just found this on the floor of the banquet hall. It seems that one of your guests had it on their person.” She takes that moment to shift her hold on the objects in her arms and extends the yarns to him. “I will admit that when my fingers brushed this one,” she holds up the darker yarn, “I felt the most curious sensation.” 

  “Is that so?” Morpheus hums. He receives them into open hands, and when he touches the same yarn, he hisses, jerking back as though burnt. Lucienne lunges forward to catch the yarn before it falls and stares, puzzled between the yarn and her king. Scowling at the offending thread, he glances briefly up at Lucienne. “What trickery is this, Lucienne? If this some attempt at humour devised by Mervyn…I will be having a very–”

  “It is not trickery, sir,” Lucienne answers somberly. “I have no idea why that yarn does that–well, that isn’t entirely true. I do have a theory.”

  “Proceed,” Morpheus says, then. “Please. Few and far between have been the moments when your counsel once offered has not been beneficial.” 

  Lucienne clears her throat. “Well, if you remember the old stories, the ones the Greeks kept meticulous records of…”

  “The myths, mortals call them,” Morpheus comments, nodding. “Yes, go on.”

  “Well, according to the old stories, the Kindly Ones wove the yarns representing the lives of all created entities, mortals and, as my research has shown, Endless alike. The Three Who Are One each had a role in it. One measured, one wove, one cut. Of course, when they snipped the yarn, it was to end a life,” Lucienne continues. “I have no idea, as I’ve already said, where this is from, but it strikes me as extremely peculiar that both you and I have felt something when touching this yarn. Of course, you recoiled from it as though it had caused you pain, sir, are you well?”

  Morpheus furrows his brows, jaw clenching. “I–no harm was done to me, but I felt a cold chill crawling down my spine, and the moment my fingers touched it, it felt like…” He pauses, trailing off, eyes widening in mild surprise. “Remarkable. I cannot describe it.” After a few moments, he speaks up again. “I saw things. Images, fleeting glimpses.” 

  “Images? Of what?”

  Morpheus shakes his head. “Too swift to be certain. But there was a hand grasping mine, and I felt a change. Something in the universe has shifted, and I know not what.” He hums, deep in thought, and looks back down at the yarn in her hands. He lets his gaze drift over both skeins, pausing when he notes the abrupt difference in color between the grey yarn and the other, one of a different gold hue. 

  He furrows his brows at this. “And this?” He nods to the junction of the two yarns. Lucienne shrugs helplessly. 

  “I saw that, as well,” she remarks. “Curious. Note the way the two yarns have been woven together, in a fashion. They were not, from the beginning, bound so.” Morpheus leans down closer to examine the yarns, careful to avoid touching the grey thread. 

  “You are right, Lucienne,” Morpheus says. “I must confess, I am confounded. Whose yarns–if, as you say, they were taken from the hands of the Kindly Ones–are they? Whose hand was it that bound them so…and why did I react so when I touched one of them? If I should touch the other?” He extends a finger and gingerly reaches out toward the golden yarn, bracing himself for an impact. 

 Despite his expectation, no pain comes from the contact. Instead, a flood of images rushes through his mind. Cold shock courses through him when he recognizes them. Hob Gadling at a table in a tavern, boasting of his refusal to die. Hob Gadling, covered in mud and filth, clinging madly to his will to live. Hob Gadling smiling at him at their last meeting since Dream’s escape from his prison. 

  Hob Gadling. 

  The yarn in his hands is that of Hob’s. 

 Morpheus stills, eyes wide, and instead of releasing the thread, slowly, cautiously, draws his hands back across the yarn to where the two different strands connect. The instant his fingers brush the grey yarn, a shiver crawls down his spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He sets his jaw, braving the discomfort of the contact and curls his fingers around the dark yarn. Closing his eyes, Morpheus concentrates on the images that come to his mind. Vaguely, he hears Lucienne calling his name in soft concern, but pays no heed. 

  The images–swift and fleeting–present themselves, but he can distinguish them more clearly now. He sees himself standing on the stairs of his throne, Jessamy on his shoulder, his helm in his hand. Imprisoned in Burgess’s basement, naked and bereft of his power. Standing in his throne room, the glass sphere in his hand as he rebuilds the ruins of his kingdom. 

 The last image he glimpses grips his heart in a frigid, vice-like hold. 

 He sees himself sitting, somewhere, with Hob on his knees before him, washing blood from Morpheus’ hands.

 Morpheus jerks away with a gasp, drawing his hands back to curl them into fists. 

  “My lord?” Lucienne addresses him. 

  “Lucienne,” Morpheus rasps, panting. He clenches his jaw, glancing at the floor a moment or two before lifting his eyes to hers. “I know.” 

  Lucienne arches a brow, tilting her head. Morpheus continues. “I know to whom these yarns belong, and it is…I do not understand it.” To her questioning glance, he answers. “One is mine, and the other is that of my…friend…Hob Gadling.”

 She rocks back a step, lips parting in quiet surprise. “But the implications of this, sir. What does it mean? Who did this?”

  “I had nothing to do with it, obviously,” Morpheus remarks drily. “That can only mean…” He looks away, worrying his bottom lip. “It seems extremely unlikely to me that anyone besides myself or Hob would go to the trouble of dispossessing the Kindly Ones of their property and moreover, to fasten our two yarns together. Why anyone would–” He breaks off, realization dawning in his eyes. “Hob. It must be him. It cannot be anyone else. But why? I–Lucienne, read to me the list of guests you’ve received at the banquet. If it is indeed he who has done this, he must be here.” 

 Lucienne fumbles, shifting the things in her arms until she can reach the roster she’d had in hand. She releases an exasperated sigh, casting a quick glance around for somewhere to set everything else down and finding nothing, sets the yarns and everything else on the bottom step of the stairs. With her hands free now, she flips the pages, carefully scanning each page for her annotations. Slowly, she shakes her head. 

  “Sir, I’m afraid there’s no registration of Mr. Gadling, which I find extremely perplexing,” Lucienne remarks. “I greeted every single one of the parties who passed our doors but–”

  “The ruler of each representing realm,” Morpheus specifies, folding his arms over his chest. “Odin All-Father, Azazel, the Faerie…Lord Susanoo. It is unlikely that you met personally each member of said party, is it not? Is there a chance that Hob may have…” He looks away, something like the ghost of a smile forming on his lips. “Attempted to hide himself to go unseen, for reasons unknown to us?” 

  Lucienne nods slowly, thoughtfully. She lifts a hand to push up the rim of her spectacles. “The possibility exists, sire. Though, as you have said, why he would hide himself is beyond me. Have you not told me he is one of your dearest friends?”

 Morpheus bows his head. “My only one,” he answers somberly. “Many questions and few answers. I suppose we shall have to wait for such a moment as he presents himself in order to–” Whatever he is about to say is cut off suddenly by a series of heavy blows to the closed doors of the throne room. 

  Both Morpheus and Lucienne turn toward the sound, startled. He glances briefly at his librarian, brows furrowed in silent question. She opens her mouth to say something, but the knocking starts again. Morpheus lifts his chin, staring imperiously at the doors. They open, slowly, to reveal Hob and…Morpheus blinks several times, thoroughly surprised to see Johanna Constantine at his side. 

  “Hob Gadling?” Morpheus rasps, still recovering from his initial surprise. He watches, stunned, as Johanna elbows Hob, leaning up to whisper something in his ear. Hob whips around to scowl at her, shaking his head, and storms forward, hands balled into fists. 

  “You have some explaining to do, Dream King,” Hob snaps, but Morpheus knows him too well to know that he’s not so much angry as slightly irate, but nothing of malicious nature.To that effect, Morpheus offers him a wry smile.

  “You likewise, my friend,” Morpheus answers. “You know that you are welcome in my halls, but I must ask. What has brought you here, to the Dreaming? How did you find your way here of all places?” 

   Hob draws in a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Now that’s a long story, mate. An’ I don’t think we’ve got time for that now.”

  “You will explain your business here, Hob Gadling. I have not finished my inquiries,” Morpheus warns. 

 Johanna snorts, and Hob glares at her over his shoulder. 

 “Easy, easy,” Hob says, lifting his hands in surrender. “Didn’t say I won’t, just maybe not everything. Not now.”

  “Sir, the yarn.” Lucienne reminds Morpheus, turning to fetch the yarn she’d set on the stairs. 

  Hob seizes the moment. “Ah, that. Yeah, um. About that, I–”

  “You are aware what this is, are you not, Hob?” Morpheus asks him, gesturing to the yarn in Lucienne’s hands. 

  Hob’s gaze flits to the yarn, and he swallows, his throat bobbing. “Yarn. Yeah, useful for knitting warm things. Hats, scarves, mitts. You name it. My nan made a good business of it way back when.”

  A glower not unlike a storm cloud crosses Morpheus’ countenance, and even Hob quails under the stare. 

  “Do I look to be in a gaming mood, Hob Gadling?”

 Hob arches one dark brow at his friend’s dramatics and wrinkles his nose incredulously. “You probably want me to say ‘no’ to that, but…”

  “Worth noting, anthropomorphic entities don’t actually have a sense of humour,” Johanna adds at that moment. 

 Instead, Hob spread his hands wide in an open gesture of placating surrender. “Fine, fine, you got me. Good old me up to my tricks. I’ll tell you, then, Dream. But,” he casts a glance first at Johanna, then at Lucienne. “I think four’s a crowd, don’t you?” 

 Without so much as blinking, Morpheus says in a rigid tone leaving no room for discussion, “Leave us.” Lucienne dares not speak the questions on her mind, but wordlessly inclines her head in a respectful bow and takes her leave. Just before she walks too far away, however, Lucienne turns and offers the yarn to Hob.

  “You’ll want to explain that,” she advises quietly as he takes the yarn from her. Johanna watches her go, then eyes the two men with mild interest before she, too, leaves. 

  Once the doors close again, Morpheus slowly takes a seat on a lower step of the stairs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, all the while keeping a watchful eye on Hob. 

  “Well?” the Endless prompts. 

  “Patience of a tasmanian devil,” Hob mutters to himself, shaking his head. “Where do I even start?”

  “At the beginning is, commonly, a good place,” Morpheus says. Hob screws his eyes shut at this and sighs.

  “Rhetorical question, dove,” Hob bites out. “I wasn’t actually asking you to–nevermind. Sod it all. So, the yarn.”

  “According to my Librarian, those were previously in the possession of the Kindly Ones,” Morpheus remarks.

 Hob nods to this. “That they were until recently. Jo and I, we…we relieved them of that burden.”

  “The yarns are those of your life and of mine, Hob,” Morpheus goes on. “What purpose did you have in pursuing such a venture? One mortal man against Vengeance Incarnate?” 

  Hob’s about to retort, Immortal, mind you, when he remembers he is no longer immortal. He reminds himself it would not serve to divulge the details of his sacrifice here, now. 

  “Well, don’t you remember? You came to me a few nights ago and I just…” Hob begins to recount his memories of the night that past-Dream had come to him, with blood on his hands, but trails off when he sees no flicker of recognition on the present Dream’s face. To the contrary, his dark brows furrow and confusion flickers in his celestial gaze. “Right, you’re not–you…oh damn it,” Hob growls, lifting his gaze to heaven, “God’s wounds, do I really have to start from square one? ”

 He casts a long look at Morpheus before hanging his head. “So be it. It’s like this.” He clasps his hands, rubbing his palms anxiously and draws in a breath. “I’m from the future–” He pauses, a grin breaking out on his face. “Always wanted to say that,” he mutters with a chuckle, then shake this head and continues. “Your future….well, my past, well, nevermind, not important.” He waves his hand as if to brush his own fumbling of words away. “In my time, future you came to me. You were outside, and when you came in, you…you had–,” Hob pauses abruptly, worrying his bottom lip. He’s distinctly aware of how hard his heart is pounding.

 “I had what, Hob? I grow weary of your incoherency,” Morpheus growls. Hob glares at him. 

  “You had blood on your hands, mate, and you were crying,” Hob answers him in a very small voice, shifting from one foot to the other. “You never told me what you did, how you got the blood on your hands. I didn’t ask either, didn’t seem right. I helped you wash your hands, and we went to sleep. I had a nightmare…you were sleeping soundly. There was thunder and voices. Three voices.”

  Morpheus rises to his feet, approaching Hob. He stops just out of arm’s reach and watches him, rapt. 

  “Three voices, you say? What did they say?” Morpheus asks him. 

 Hob pales, flinching. He decides that he cannot bear the intensity of Morpheus’ stare and shuts his eyes to deliver this particularly unpleasant news. “Told me to ‘surrender him’,” Hob answers, lifting his fingers to make air quotes. “You, they meant. Said you had death in your heart, bloodguilt. That you had to pay for your crime.” Hob lowers his head, working his jaw. He considers for a moment that he has never felt so horrible in his existence as he does in this moment. 

  He flinches again when he hears Morpheus’ sharp intake of breath. “My crime? What have I…what will I do? Have you any idea who it was that spoke to you?” 

 Hob releases a shaking sigh. “That’s it, my friend,” he lifts his head to meet Morpheus’ gaze. “I wasn’t sure, but when I looked into some things, I found information on the Kindly Ones. Greek goddesses of vengeance. There’s three of them. In some versions of it, they’re called the Fates. They spin the–”

   “The yarns of all created beings, measured, woven and cut,” Morpheus finishes for him, his voice hollow. “And how did you discover that it is indeed the Kindly Ones who visited you, demanding justice for a crime I have not yet committed?”

  “Well, you–” Hob jerks his finger at Morpheus, “–haven’t committed it yet, but future you did. See, that’s how I got in touch with Miss Constantine. We met and talked about this. She said something about a dream journal in Lady Constantine–her ancestress, you remember her, don’t you? She interrupted our meeting in 1789.”

  “I do recall it,” Morpheus says quietly. 

  “Well. That’s her ancestress. Apparently, she had a journal in her possession–”

  “I gave it to her, as a gift, for her services to me many years ago,” Morpheus comments. Hob dips his head in a nod.

  “Right, well, that’s been in their family. Johanna showed it to me and it came to our knowledge that your son Orpheus…” Hob trails off when he notices the shift in his friend’s expression. The sorrow that dims the light of his eyes, the anguished furrow of his brows and the downward curve of his lips. 

  He does not need to say more. 

  “I have not forgotten it,” Morpheus replies. “But answer me one question, Hob, What have I done, concerning my son, that has brought the wrath of the Kindly Ones upon me?” 

 Hob writhes on the spot, loathe to speak the words he’s holding in his heart, if only to save his friend from grief he has no wish to give him. Before he can answer, however, Morpheus goes on. 

  “Traditionally, the Kindly Ones have demanded the satisfaction of a debt like this in instance of the shedding of family blood. A father taking the life of his son or vice versa,” Morpheus says so softly Hob almost misses it. “The shedding of innocent blood.” His voice wavers now. “H-have I…will I…do you mean to imply that I will–”

  “You had blood on your hands, Dream,” Hob answers just as softly. “I don’t know why you did it, and to be honest, I don’t need to. I only need you to know that that’s why I’m here. Constantine and I looked further into the matter, and I got this harebrained inspiration that maybe, just maybe I might be able to help in some way. She was flipping through this book," Hob throws his hands up into the air and releases an exasperated sigh. "Came running to tell me the things she'd seen in it. You were there. She saw you....some other red-haired girl. She heard voices. Something about looking for destruction? Spells trouble for me, if you ask me. So–”

  “You thought to break into their dwelling place and pilfer not only my yarn but yours as well,” Morpheus cuts in, too infuriated to pay any closer attention to Hob's words, “To what end?”

  “I’m getting to that, dove, just be patient,” Hob pleads. “My idea was to steal away your yarn before they cut it, but I honestly hadn’t thought much further after that. Then it came to me that–maybe you don’t know, but over the years, I’ve picked up a few things–” He jerks his thumb at the yarn. “Knitting, among them.” He shakes a finger at Morpheus. “No snappy remarks about that, eh! It’s useful.” He pauses, furrowing his brow as he struggles to find his train of thought again. “Ah yes. It came to me that, what if I spliced mine to yours? What then?” 

  “What then?” Morpheus snaps, fire flashing in his eyes. “Do you think yourself to be the Creator to pull the strings of Fate on a whim and fiddle with the fabric of the universe? What then? Did you fail to consider the consequences of binding our very lives in one? What if something should befall you or me? You have not erased the bloodguilt you claim they’ve told you I have on my hands. ‘What then’,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “You did not consider well before you made such an impetuous choice.” 

  Hob recoils, hurt flickering his gaze. 

 “Impetuous choice?” Hob splutters, brows flying up in shock at a reaction he had not expected. “Oh, so I shouldn’t have bothered trying to figure out how to save your sorry arse from those hags?”” Hob intends for his words to bite, but they fly out half-heartedly because he’s too tired, stressed and frustrated to engage in a fight. Just then, a memory flashes in his mind. Dream storming off after their meeting in 1889. Something cold and aching sinks talons into Hob’s heart and he says softly, “What now, then? Are you going to storm off like you did in 1889?”

 He crosses his arms over his chest and watches Morpheus, bracing himself for the blow. 

 Morpheus’ eyes soften, now holding an impossible pain, and Hob begins to regret the hastily flung words. He takes a step forward, already about to mumble something by way of apology but Morpheus slowly lifts a hand, shaking his head, and turns his back on Hob, lifting his gaze to the empty throne at the top of the stairs. 

  “I am afraid I must ask you for some time, alone, to consider all that you have said,” Morpheus says after a time. “You may remain in the Dreaming, if you wish. If not, Lucienne will show you out. Forgive me, Hob, I–”

  “I’d say it’s nothing,” Hob answers, “but it’s not. It’s your life in the balance, my friend. I’m just here doing what I can to drag you back from the brink.” He nods several times, thinking. “I’ll be here. I always am, you know that. I guess I’ll just…well, leave you to it, then.” He clears his throat and, running his hands down the front of his shirt to smooth away invisible wrinkles, takes his leave. When he glances over his shoulder one last time, it is to see Morpheus silently ascending the stairs. As Hob slips past the opening doors of the throne room, the last thing he sees is his friend seated, slumped, on the solitary throne.

  The doors close, and he is gone from sight.   

Chapter Text

  Morpheus leans wearily into the hard planes of his throne with a soft sigh. Hob’s words still ring in his memory, and every echo of them pierces him to his core. 

  You have blood on your hands, Dream.

 He slowly turns his head to stare down at his hands, blinking a few times. 

   You have not erased the bloodguilt you claim they’ve told you I have on my hands.

 He lets his eyes drift closed, sagging into the seat, and searches his vast memory for anything to help him make sense of these words. 

  Bloodguilt. Father and son. Hob had mentioned something about the crimes punishable by the Three. 

  Fear twines its cold tendrils around his heart, strangling it in a hopeless vice. Morpheus opens his eyes as though shifting his gaze would do something to relieve him of the images haunting his memory. 

 It does not. 

 He can still see his son’s disembodied head on the sand where he had left him. 

 He remembers with cruel clarity the anguish on his child’s face moments before he’d turned his back and left. 

  Bloodguilt. 

  An emotion too dark, too raw to name coils in the core of his being, spreading its darkness through the entirety of him until it threatens to swallow him whole. He shifts, lifting a hand to his face, and rubs at his eyes. A weary sigh escapes him. 

  “Dream?” His eyes fly open when he hears his sister’s voice. 

Displaced water sloshes underfoot, the noise of it echoing in the cavernous dark surrounding him as she moves. Morpheus shifts into an upright position on his throne, his brows furrowing as he turns his head to rest his gaze on his younger sister. 

  “Forgive me, my sister,” he whispers, tilting his head in quiet confusion. “I did not intend…”

  “I don’t believe anyone intends to find themselves in my realm, brother,” Despair answers softly, pausing when she comes to stand by his side. She reaches a hand up to clasp a curved edge of his throne and leans against it. “But I do find myself wondering how it is you’ve arrived here. Of course, I know…but well, it wouldn’t do if I told you that, would it?” 

 Grief tightens its grip on Morpheus’ heart, deepens the crease of his brows. A muscle in his jaw twitches. 

  “It is a strange matter, my sister,” he remarks. “I believe it is something that has not yet come to pass, and yet…my heart already holds its sorrow.” 

  “He told you, then,” Despair says, nodding slowly. “That friend of yours. He seems like a nice one. I don't think he’s come to see me just yet. Came very close one time, very close. But it was right about the time you showed up….one of those days once every–”

  “Once every hundred years, yes,” Morpheus mumbles. “I cannot understand it. What he implied. It should be easier to bear if I knew it to be false, and yet. It is not in him to say such things, not to me.” 

 Despair listens attentively, watching quietly. His gaze flits briefly up to meet hers before dropping to the murky waters at their feet. He continues. 

  “However, if he speaks truth, then the reality is one far too bleak, abysmal, even for me, sister.” 

 Despair hums, deep in thought. “You’re welcome here. I mean, I suppose you don’t want to be here. As I said before, no one really does, but then…no one visits me much. No reason to, I suppose. I meant to say that your company is a welcome one. I do get so lonely here.” 

  The corner of Morpheus’ lips twitches in what, in a happier moment, might have been a smile. The expression is too doleful to be called such now. 

  “Perhaps that is why we find ourselves here.” He pauses, turning his head to gaze at the mirrors suspended in the space around the two of them and draws in a breath. “He mentioned Destruction. I remember that now. Johanna Constantine was with him when they broke into the Fates’ dwelling, and as he recounts, she opened a book, the book the Fates keep wherein is recorded all that has happened, all that is and all that shall come to pass. I believe he saw Delirium there, as well.” 

 Despair tilts her head, arching a brow. “Delirium? Haven’t seen her in a long while. But she has been looking for Destruction, hasn’t she? I miss him. I think I’ve missed him the most of all of us. Delirium’s been wanting to find him, she has.” 

“Indeed.”  Morpheus turns to look at her, his dark brows furrowing. “Hob also told me he did not know what it was that drove me to commit the act which has yet to come to pass. That is,” he pauses, his jaw working, and swallows thickly. “The death of my son.” 

 Despair stills, her hands flying to her mouth and watches Dream wide-eyed. “Very few people in this world still living know of Destruction’s whereabouts, brother mine,” she answers him. “Your son is among them.”

 Morpheus stiffens, the line of his shoulders taught; his eyes narrow just a fraction. “How do you know this? You’ve spoken to him of it?”

 Despair nods once. “I visit him, now and then. No one else does. He asks about you, you know. We’ve talked about him–Destruction, I mean.”

 Morpheus sits in silence, contemplating her words behind closed eyes. When he speaks after a time, his voice carries an edge Despair has only ever heard when his temper walks the thin line between calm and rage. “Do you think that I would take the life of the being most dear to me in exchange for something as paltry as the location of my estranged brother who explicitly expressed no wish to be sought after?”

 Despair pales and rocks back a step. She has seen his fury before and has no wish to meet with it again. 

  “I can honestly say I don’t know, my brother,” she answers him. “And it seems, neither do you. Given that you have no knowledge of such events as have not happened yet, save what little tidbits that Hob of yours has given you. It appears that your choice is either to take him for his word or not.”

 He draws in a sharp, shaking breath, as though her words have struck him a blow. 

  “I–I know not,” Morpheus answers her, stricken. “If it is true, then the reality is greater than I can bear. I fear that–perhaps…” He leans forward on his throne, resting his elbows on his knees and studies her. “Is there truly no other way? Must it be the death of my son that leads us to our brother?” 

 Despair regards him with sadness in her gaze, her heart aching at the vulnerable strain of her brother’s words, and she’s about to speak when a memory presents itself in her mind. Half-remembered and fleeting, already fading even as she focuses on it. 

 Destruction. Speaking to her. Flashing that smile she’d loved so much. A hand squeezing hers. A promise made. 

  Despair takes a step closer to her brother’s throne and reaches out to lay her cold hand on his. “There is, my brother. One and only one. He swore to me never to speak of it, but…” she glances away, blinking a few times. “I think this is an exception.” 

 Morpheus tilts his head up to look at her, all of his attention on her every word. “Go on.” 

  She releases a weary sigh. “Centuries ago, long after he left us but not so long that I’ve forgotten–I met him. I asked him why he wouldn’t come back; he evaded, shook it off, smiled that damned smile of his. Stared off into the horizon like some hero of old,” she rambles, shaking her head. “But I persisted. I needed something to hold on to, because even despair needs the slightest sliver of hope to exist. Without that, even I should fade away, and so I asked him. He gave in, eventually. He told me, but he swore me to silence Morpheus. He made me swear never to speak of it to any of you, you know.”

 Morpheus’ eyes flash; there’s darkness in his gaze, but she continues, undaunted. 

  “I figured now that if your only other option was to ask Orpheus for it…and presuming he’d ask a boon of you, one I think both you and I would already know…if it were me, I’d do anything I could to avoid that. I’d run the whole face of the world before daring to face that choice.”

  “I cannot refute the sentiment,” Morpheus answers quietly. 

  “And so, as I’m telling you now. I know where you can find him, and you don’t need to bring any more grief on your head by it. Needless to say, the wrath of the Kindly Ones.”

  The Kindly Ones. 

  Bloodguilt. 

  The words resonate in Morpheus’ mind, and the old sorrow stirs once more in his heart, twining skeletal fingers around it. 

  “I shall not speak a word of this to another, save Delirium, my sister, I give you my solemn word,” he answers her. 

 Despair regards him with the faintest shadow of a smile. 

  “Well, then. Listen closely, and remember.” 

  She leans in then, and in hushed tones, divulges a secret she has long kept buried in the folds of her heart.