Work Text:
The White Horse tavern, London. June 7th, 1489.
From the perspective of Robert ‘Hob’ Gadling, former sellsword and soldier, and the unknowing bearer of the gift of Death of the Endless.
Hob cannot stop glancing at the dancing flames in the fireplace roaring beside him. Chimneys have been around since the Romans, but more and more places have them now, including his favourite tavern designated as a centennial meeting spot. He is grateful at least that he will not have to peer through the smoke to catch a glimpse of the mysterious benefactor he had met one hundred years prior - his vision is piss poor as it is, and he expects his stranger will find it rude to keep squinting at him. The full black visage, if maintained, should at least make him easier to spot amongst all the warm browns and similarly plain hues of the common folk that usually drink in the White Horse.
If the man shows up, of course. The fact that Hob is still alive to meet him - despite many occasions that should have prevented him from living another ten years, let alone one hundred, without ageing a day - should prove that he will be coming. It is clear that this deal they struck all that time ago was a binding one, else Hob would not be here now to anticipate fulfilment of the bargain.
Did I hear you say you have no intention of ever dying?
He still doesn’t. He will tell the pale man in black as much when he arrives. Hob is sure he wants to live, just as much now as he was back then, if not even more so. In just a century he has seen so many changes in England alone, let alone the rest of the world he has yet to see, horrors and miracles both. He has fought in war, danced and drunk and dared and dreamed for more than a lifetime, and now he has even found himself a profession. He cannot begin to fathom what might come in the next hundred.
Unless the stranger’s offer is rescinded. It was never said that he would live past this meeting, only that it would come after the first. Despite having had more than a human lifetime to ponder the possibility, this is the first instance where such a thought has struck Hob since his apparent immortality began. Would his patron destroy him upon receiving an answer? Would he be struck down at last, and sent to whittle away eternity in the hellish pit of whatever creature now has claim over his soul? Hob can recall sitting through enough sermons in church to know where this could end up, and it ought to send a shiver of mortal fear up his back. Such talk of demons and brimstone would strike terror into the heart of any sane man.
And at the same time, the optimistic fool that he knows himself to be, Hob is not afraid of the prospect. He has had better than most, he muses, and it would be a lessened shame to die knowing he has lived far more than any man before him.
A murmur rises through the White Horse’s other patrons. Hob lifts his head to see a man all in black approach his seat, and he stands immediately, like one might do to greet a being of higher station. His stranger is something of that ilk, Hob is certain; at the very least he carries himself like a king, enough to demand that sort of respect from a rascal like Hob. He is not human, and that is the only thing Hob can define with certainty. But he does not offer his hand, does not dare to extend such a thing, instead folding them neatly behind his back, out of sight.
His abrupt elevation amuses the new arrival. “You have no need to stand on ceremony for me, Robert Gadling, though the gesture is not… unappreciated.”
“Hob,” he replies, with an easy smile of relief that he hopes endears him to the new arrival, “You can call me Hob. Most people do.”
Though it is becoming swiftly apparent that this man - if he even is that - is something other than most people, he nods in return. They both move to take their seats, Hob’s hands tucked away under the table, and there is a brief silence as his guest waits for him to speak.
“How did you know that I’d still be here?” Hob asks, and he is unable to hide the trepidation in his voice as a little of his earlier worry creeps into the question, leaning away almost instinctively in his seat, “Who are you? A wizard? A saint? A demon? Have I made a bargain with the devil?”
The stranger’s eyes twinkle with barely restrained amusement; Hob distinctly feels like a hapless insect wriggling in the web of a satisfied but no less hungry spider, and the single word that comes in response does nothing to ease his mounting trepidation. “No.”
“Then why aren’t I dead, long since?” Hob presses, and immediately now where once there was uncertainty, there is a challenge in his words, “Is this some kind of game?”
“No game,” the stranger responds, his voice soft as the fabric of silk that has graced Hob’s skin only once. Another experience he hopes to know again, if the bargain is maintained.
Hob believes him but is still left without any reassurance. “But why? Who are you, and why are you here?”
“I am here because I am interested.”
“In me?”
Hob’s eyes widen, and he feels a warmth in his cheeks which has little to do with the fire glowing heartily at their side. It is true that there is something captivating about the man opposite him, and it is also true that a hundred years prior a part of a more openly arrogant Hob had been tempted to ask why they would have to wait so long when there were perfectly adequate beds to rent in the rooms above the tavern proper. But he is a better man now. Or at least, he likes to think he is. There are other things to occupy him than fighting and fucking nowadays, and that has to count for something. But he would not deny his stranger, if he asks. There had been… dreams, over the last few decades, where Hob had been caught by the fancy of knowing if the mysterious man tasted as good as he--
“In your experience, ” the stranger clarifies, as if aware of the manner of things racing through Hob’s mind in that very moment, and Hob tries not to make it overly evident that he sags slightly. It is an odd thing to feel disappointed when it is simply him making his own foolish assumptions. As if a creature that could impart immortality on a whim would have any interest of that calibre in him, when past his admittedly good looks and often charmingly roguish nature, he really is just a man. There were any number of fools in this same tavern one hundred years before, but Hob just so happened to be the only one stupid enough to laugh in the face as something powerful was listening in.
Sensing there is still a catch that he is thus far unaware of, Hob presses on. “So how is this going to work? You just appear here, on the same night every one hundred years, and we… talk?”
He nods. “Exactly so.”
“Because you want to know what it’s like. To be an ordinary man, living his life, with no fear of an end like others would expect?”
“What makes you think I am not ordinary?” the stranger counters, and though his marble features barely shift from a mask of indifference, Hob thinks - knows - he sees a sparkle of dry amusement in the man’s eyes, as bright and awe inspiring as the stars.
And so Hob leaps. He lets the words tumble from his lips, words he has desired to share with someone, anyone, for several decades now. He speaks of the modern wonders that he now could not imagine going without; chimneys for starters, as per his earlier musings, but also playing cards, handkerchiefs, a new game called chess, rolling mills for thinning sheets of metal… and his newest profession, which he reveals by finally laying his previously hidden palms out on the table between them.
“It’s called printing,” he explains somewhat timidly, and it is more plain than ever in this gesture that he is not the ignorant blaggard of many years prior, “ Don't need to be a guild member, not yet. Suppose there’ll never be a real demand for it, and it's hard work, but it beats the hell out of rotting to maggots in the ground, eh?”
We change now to the perspective of Dream of the Endless, Lord Shaper, master of the realm of sleep, Prince of Stories, he who is known as Morpheus, Oneiros, Kai’ckul, L’Zoril, and the Sandman, among many other names.
Dream’s eyes widen at the sight of Hob’s hands - it is the most plain reaction he has given so far in their meeting. Like the colouring of his beloved raven Jessamy, the warm olive tone of Hob’s hands is stained with clouds of ink, and beneath them are the silver scars of combat from the life he lived one hundred years prior. They detail the narrative of one man, a sell-sword and a soldier and now a printer, and everything in between, stretched out over a century. In his newest line of work, those same hands shared fantastical stories with ordinary people, each blot of ink representing a whisper of poetry or myth or Chaucer’s pilgrims weaving their own tapestry of travel, their existence brushing against Dream’s mind like the gentle caress of an affectionate touch. Chaucer himself had sat in this very pub a century anon, spinning his bawdy folk tales, and yet the caress of those developing stories against his power now paled in comparison to the work of a supplicant such as this, unknowing of his offering as Hob is.
The prince of stories knows of no greater offering to his station, even if Hob himself is not aware of that which he has offered. The dreams of those readers who now have access to the words Hob has printed, previously unimaginable, feed his power; they strengthen it, and in turn strengthen Dream of the Endless and his ever expanding realms. His ruby grows warm with something akin to euphoria against his breast just at the thought. He feels it thrumming through his form, the potential of new dreams and nightmares to craft tingling in his fingertips.
“See what I mean?” Hob says bashfully, breaking Dream out of his brief reverie, “I can never seem to get the shadow of it out, no matter how hard I scrub. At least it’s stained so deep that it doesn’t come off on anything else.”
“You wanted to hide this from me. The marks of your craft. Why?”
Hob blinks. “Well, it’s a bit unsightly, isn’t it? For someone like you, being… whatever you are. And it is hardly that interesting really, compared to all else I’ve done. Seemed like the opposite of a climax.”
Dream shakes his head. “No, quite the opposite. Your work is greatly valued, more than you know. You must do what you can to remain in the printing of the written word, and it will benefit you tenfold what it already has.”
At that, Hob’s eyes widen. It is possible to sense the surprise in him, but also the glimmer of inescapable human greed, a consideration of success in the future. “Is that… some sort of clue?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Dream insists, shaking his head, willing not to dismiss Hob entirely so long as he adheres to the truth of it, “Merely… a request. From your patron.”
“Fair enough,” Hob surrenders with a nod, taking a contemplative sip from his ale before he speaks again, a fresh hope in his eyes so bright that Dream is almost tempted to look away, “While I have you here, did you… want to step outside for some fresh air? The chimney is all well and good, but it’s muggy as a friar’s arse in here, and I could do with a glimpse of the moon and stars. If it would please you?”
“I would like that very much,” Dream admits. The joy at his agreement that radiates around Hob Gadling is almost enough to overpower the insufferable din of the rest of humanity around them.
Almost.
And so we return to the perspective of Robert ‘Hob’ Gadling, now slightly inebriated, sitting on the riverbank of the Thames with his stranger by his side.
Normally the stench of the river would be unbearable. London itself is considered a cesspit, a necessary evil for the trade that keeps Hob’s beloved little island home afloat. Yet despite the summer heat lingering even at so late an hour, and the wandering souls passing him and his companion dangling their feet over the brickwork of the Roman-built riverbank, there is instead the scent of lavender and poppies. It seems to originate from the one sitting next to him, and Hob can almost imagine the soft petals of the flowers beneath his stained fingertips. They are the scents of sleep, of true bliss and summer respite; it is not just the influence of penny ale that has Hob swaying slightly where he sits, his eyelids heavy with a sudden overwhelming urge to rest and be content.
“Probably wasn’t the best idea coming out here,” he admits with a laugh, both of them staring at the water of the river as it flows beneath their feet, “We’re practically asking to be mugged, sat out here like a pair of idle boys.”
His stranger apparently finds some amusement in that as well, offering a precious rare suggestion of a real smile that reminds Hob of a shooting star in that it is blindingly bright but cruelly brief. “You need not fear assault when you are with me, Hob Gadling.”
And despite all that he has seen - and in some case, that which he has done with his own hands - Hob believes him in this, as he has in every word spoken thus far. Questions spring up behind his lips, but they are all things that he does not ask, as he hopes privately that he has all the time in the world to ask them.
There had to be more unanswered mysteries to look forward to, didn’t there? If he was to keep going?
As if he had read his mind, his stranger offers the question that Hob has been waiting to hear for the entire evening. “So you still want to live? You wish to continue in this deal of ours, and inform me again of what it is to live one hundred years from now?”
Hob notes that it seems incredulous rather than inquiring. Like his stranger cannot believe that anyone would want to keep going in a life such as his. It is true that human existence can be dull and repetitive, but there is always going to be more, and Hob has already resolved to seeing all of it, no matter how bad things can get. What’s more, he knows to his core that he is a stubborn bastard, and it will take more than a bit of mortal misfortune for him to forsake such a boon.
“Yes. I want to see these same stars every night, for as long as they sit up there in the heavens,” he says, turning to point up at the array of constellations that glow above them. Hob does not know any of their names, though this feels like a disservice to all that they are, and wonders if perhaps his stranger does. Hob still gazes upon them with the reverence that they are due, and that seems to please the man at his side enough that a brief flash of another smile passes his features. It is far softer and sweeter than any Hob has known from him, and he is certain that he shall treasure it in the coming century until he might inspire another similar vulnerability. It is a sign of trust, and Hob grins back as if to reassure him that despite all the unknowns, the feeling is mutual.
“A hundred years then?” the stranger says, rising from the river to take his leave.
Hob scrambles up to his feet after him, swaying only slightly as the drowsy perfumes of lavender and poppy continue to surround him. “Wait! You never told me who you are!”
Yet another final elusive smile, and then his stranger shakes his head.
“I shall see you in the year of your Lord 1589. Until then, Robert Gadling. Be well.”
***
The White Horse, London. June 7th, 1589.
From the perspective of Robert ‘Hob’ Gadling, former apprentice to the Caxton printing house, currently under the alias Sir Robert Gadlen and serving as a knight under Queen Elizabeth I.
It is a fine feast indeed. Robert does not expect his stranger to take any of the meal; he has not seen the man take a single sip or bite from anything in their first and second meetings, but he wants to show off a little, especially as his recommendation to remain in the business of printing paid off after all.
The choice of table is intentional as well, though he is hoping that will come as a more pleasant surprise than him attempting to bribe his mysterious companion with food, no matter how divine the spread is. As long as he is willing to pay for the two rivals’ drinks, everything should go to plan, and there is no shortage of gold to throw at the landlord these days.
“My friend!” he exclaims upon seeing the pale shape draped in night move towards him through the throng of other patrons, “Sit down! Got in a couple of bottles of good wine for us - allow me to pour you a glass.”
He politely waves away the serving girl and moves to do as he has offered, as his stranger takes the proffered seat and nods his head in greeting, and from the slight movement once again Hob is blessed with the scents of the flowers of sleep.
“Hello, Hob.”
“Hob?” He repeats the name, and then laughs heartily, his heart thrilling at the sound of his truest epithet from the mouth of his oldest friend, “That takes me back some few years. It’s Sir Robert Gadlen now. Fortune has smiled kindly on me, you see. Once a common scoundrel, then a mercenary, then a humble printer’s apprentice, and now? Now I am a knight, in the court of her Majesty, and no less!”
His stranger smiles tightly as Hob goes to pour his own drink in turn. “You’ve had good fortune, I take it?”
He nods. “Aye, that I have. Married too, with a wife and son. My beloved Eleanor, and our little Robyn. I kept up with Caxton just as you said, and found it was a true passion honestly. Could have kept it up another one hundred years. But I had to disappear eventually, otherwise folks would get suspicious.”
He pauses to glance over his shoulder, perhaps still wary of that past, still adjusting to escaping it whenever necessary even after living four times the life he expected to. People had been hung or put to the stake for less, this he knows. But then he continued.
“Whatever money I earned that I had spare, I invested back into the print. And by God, did I work hard. Never thought it would take off like it did, but bloody hell, did it!” he enthuses, “Ordinary people, reading stories and histories and all sorts, because of people like me. Still a wonder I got the ink out, mind. You saw the state of me, even though you approved, in your own way.”
Once again we attend from the perspective of Dream of the Endless, Lord Shaper, master of the realm of sleep, Prince of Stories, he who is known as Morpheus, Oneiros, et cetera…
Dream watches as Hob settles back in his chair with a deep sigh. “It’s funny. This is what I always dreamed Heaven would be like, way back.”
He seems genuinely content. As much as it startles Dream to acknowledge, he is happy for Hob, and for how his extended life has played out for him thus far. Being as old as he is, Dream knows that there is hardship - surely Hob is aware that he will outlive his wife and son, for one - but there is no need to discuss such things. Not when the aura of merriment surrounding his host is such an infectious one.
“Ah!” Hob exclaims suddenly, slapping his palms down on the wood between them to the point where he startles even the otherwise unflappable Endless, “Are you still such a keen purveyor of stories too? Your enthusiasm last we met is hard to forget.”
Dream nods, and Hob gestures to another table nearby with two young men conversing heatedly upon it.
“Two great minds. Marlowe and Shakespeare. Rivals, though it is no secret that they have both had a hand in each other’s works,” Hob explains, and as he leans close to speak more intimately, Dream is briefly distracted by the sheer warmth of life that emanates from the man, “They’re always in here, arguing about some new moral quandary or historical inaccuracy. The amount they bicker, you’d think they were lovers. Or related. Or both. It takes all kinds, I suppose, eh?”
The comment does not inspire the mirth in Dream that perhaps Hob had hoped it would; he clears his throat awkwardly before continuing.
“I rather think you would benefit from a conversation with them. They have stories plenty, much more eloquent and interesting than my own, even with its length and breadth.”
Dream frowns at him then. “You tire of my company?”
Hob visibly panics, eyes going owlishly wide as he shakes his head with great fervour. “God's wounds, no! Not at all, friend, not at all. Faith, I would have you meet me here every night if it pleased you - though you seldom say much at all at these meetings, I find myself…”
At Hob’s hesitance, Dream tips his head expectantly. Hob gestures with his hands, though the movement does nothing to inspire the words he seeks, and after a few moments longer he sighs in defeat.
“I only serve to prove my own point, it seems,” he relents with a somewhat guilty laugh, “I have not the words to explain what it is you do to me. Only that you do it, and a part of me already anticipates our next meeting as much as another revels in this one.”
Dream is taken aback. Such words would not usually be reserved for beings that knew so little of one another. Or rather, of one knowing so little of the other; between the glimpses of his sleeping mind that Dream had for the most part dutifully avoided, and the wealth of information Hob had willingly given himself, Dream is a mystery to his friend by comparison.
“Very well,” he relents with a nod, and at once takes the hand Hob offers him to help him stand without thinking, “Let us meet with these men you speak so highly of. Perhaps they would take as much interest in your story as I do?”
Hob laughs, the sound hearty and hale and every inch the loveable rogue he was back in 1389. “We shall see, friend.”
“Dream,” he tells him, feeling a heart he does not need suddenly leap with a feeling he cannot put a name to as those warm honey brown eyes gaze into his own, “You may call me Dream.”
“Dream,” Hob says with relief, emotionally destitute at the loss of his wife and children in the next century, and he still wishes to live, even after such grief and agony.
“Dream,” Hob says with barely restrained amusement at the next meeting, impressed by his deflection of Lady Constantine.
“Dream!” Hob yells after him with frustration as the former stranger disappears into the night in a swirl of sand and anger.
“Dream…” Hob murmurs to himself into the bottom of a thrice emptied whiskey glass, not knowing where his friend was or the true reason for his absence.
“Dream,” Hob says with relief once again, offering his friend a seat at the table after nearly a century and a half apart, feeling truly as if no time had passed at all.