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“The best any of us can do is…enjoy what little time we have, and try not to ruin it for anyone else.”
This was a strange turnabout, wasn’t it? Hob offering advice on life to Dream. It had been an odd day, though, one defined by loss and grief. To be fair, this entire encounter was out of character for his mysterious friend—showing up unscheduled at Audrey’s grave, talking about never coming back, looking like Death was looming over his shoulder. Even now, sitting beside each other at the New Inn, Dream looked more pale than usual, haunted and withdrawn into himself.
Something was very wrong.
Dream was quiet for a long time, sitting as still as stone. His glass of wine went untouched. Hob didn’t press, hoping his words were offering some measure of comfort to his friend. Somehow, being able to impart his own little wisdom to his ageless stranger gave Hob a bit of solace.
“Time,” Dream said. Without moving his face, he shifted his gaze to meet Hob’s, and Hob’s breath caught to see such naked sorrow in his friend’s eyes. “What were you parents like, Hob?”
Hob paused with his glass halfway to his lips. The question was decidedly out of character for Dream, who neither asked nor offered any personal details about life or family.
“My parents?” Hob asked after taking a small sip of his remaining scotch. “To be honest, I don’t much remember. It’s been so long.” He sighed. “What I do remember, is that they were like anyone was, back then. They worked hard, but were poor serfs. Mum was always pregnant and had a baby on her hip, but the only ones that made it past three were me and a couple of sisters. Both of them died in the plague, though.” Hob went quiet, staring into the amber fluid in his glass. “They all did.”
“What about your father?”
There was a way that Dream’s voice broke on the word “father” that pulled Hob’s eyes off his pint glass. There was a brittle sheen to his pale eyes that Hob had never seen before.
“My father wasn’t a particularly good man, nor a bad one. He was a survivor. He did the best he could with what he had.”
“Did he…love you?”
“I believe so, yes, in his fashion.” Hob scratched absently at his chin. “He beat us when we deserved it, but it never gave him pleasure to do so. He always made sure our plates had food before he took any for himself.”
In his mind’s eye, he could still pull up a foggy memory of his dad sitting in his chair before the hearth, legs extended and crossed at the ankles. He was humming a wordless tune, and working at a small piece of wood with his carving knife. He blew on the little figure, and after rubbing his thumb across it, handed it down to where Hob sat on the floor.
“What you think, Hobkin? Think your mum will like it?”
Hob looked down at the carved flower. Herry Gadling was no artisan—the carving was rough-edged, and would fool no one into thinking it had once been alive. But it had been made with care over the course of many nights, and Hob held it back up to his father with a smile.
“It’s a rose, just like her name! She’ll love it, papa.”
His father gifted Hob with a rare smile, shining like a beacon under his red-brown beard. He ruffled Hob’s hair, then took the trinket back, giving it another once-over with his thumb.
As the memory faded, Hob spoke softly. “He didn’t show affection often, but I understand why, having been a father so many times now. It’s hard to get attached when you know how quickly your children can be taken from you.” He swallowed hard. “But we do, anyway.”
He gave a soft, sad smile, and glanced over at Dream.
Dream was even paler than before—if that were even possible—his lips pressed together in an impossibly thin line. His eyes were glassy, bloodshot, and gleaming. As Hob watched, two tears escaped the dark line of his lashes and fled down his cheeks.
His friend was crying.
A surge of protectiveness went through Hob. He’d cried plenty of times in his long life, but he hated doing so in front of others. Knowing what a withdrawn individual Dream was, it must be a nightmare to be so exposed in public.
“Hey, follow me,” Hob said softly, putting a hand on Dream’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
Dream let himself be led, stumbling a bit as Hob guided him out of the main pub area and into a room in the back. The New Inn reserved it for busy weekend nights and private events, and it was blessedly empty at 2pm on a Wednesday. Hob shut the door behind them, and turned to face his friend.
Dream had wrapped his narrow arms around himself, clinging to his own shoulders with a death grip. He didn’t look at Hob, instead staring blankly forward, and another font of tears coursed down his face.
He knew his expression all too well, and Dream’s sadness clung to him like a mourning shroud. Hob was wearing his own mantle of grief, wrapped in his memories of Audrey. Maybe it was his fresh heartache that lowered his reservations, or maybe it was Dream’s unbearable vulnerability. Whatever the reason, Hob closed the distance between them, and raised his arms to Dream.
“May I?” Hob asked, for even gripped in sadness as they were, he wouldn’t presume touching Dream without his consent.
Dream’s face didn’t move, but his gaze flickered over to meet Hob’s briefly. He barely nodded, but it was there, the assent Hob needed to close the last bit of distance between them and wrap his arms around Dream’s narrow shoulders.
At first, Dream was as stiff and cold in his arms as a marble statue, and Hob was worried that he’d imagined Dream’s nod. Then, with the slowness of ice melting in the dawn sun, Dream’s body slumped into Hob’s.
“There you go. I’ve got you.”
Dream’s only response was a strangled whimper. Then, a shuddering gasp, followed by a long quiet sob. Hob’s already broken heart shattered, and tears pricked at his own eyes.
At any other time, this would’ve been the moment that Hob had been dreaming about for over six centuries. His beautiful stranger in his arms at last, opening himself, trusting Hob. He’d never imagined this, though, this deep plunge together into the deep seas of grief, something rawer and more vulnerable than he even thought possible.
Hob stroked Dream’s back soothingly, feeling the jut of his bones even through the thick material of his coat. His heart almost stopped when Dream’s hands fluttered up to Hob’s waist, then fell back down helplessly.
“It’s alright, Dream. You can hug me back.”
Dream’s arms wrapped around Hob, gentle as fog around a tree. It was enough, though, to anchor Dream, and he pressed his forehead against Hob’s shoulder.
“My son is dead.”
Hob’s heart stopped. He hadn’t even known that Dream was a father, though he supposed he should’ve guessed, considering he was an eternal being. Gods were always having scads of kids, weren’t they, sprouting them from foreheads or tears or the old-fashioned way. His own words came back to him:
“It’s hard to get attached when you know how quickly your children can be taken from you. But we do, anyway.”
“I’m so, so sorry, my friend.” Hob held Dream just a little tighter, imbuing his embrace with as much sympathy as he was able to give. He’d lost so many children, himself, even the ones who had lived long, healthy lives. He knew the sharp cut of this particular grief.
“My son is dead, and it was of my doing.”
Hob’s blood ran cold. There was something so final in the way Dream said it that Hob knew that Dream wasn’t speaking metaphorically—he truly believed it.
“I’m sure you did everything you could to save him,” Hob said gently.
Another sob wracked Dream’s slight frame, his next breath a barely contained wail.
“I neglected him for so long,” Dream whispered, “I should have helped him when he first asked.”
“Hey, hey, it’s not your fault,” Hob said. “I know it feels that way, but—”
“I am his father!” He stopped short, gasping as if punched in the gut. “I was his father.”
Hob held him as a fresh onslaught of tears wracked its way out of him.
“I should have gone in his stead, or I should have done something to stop him from going…”
“Dream, friend, I need you to listen to me, alright? Sounds like your son…what is his name?”
“Orpheus.”
Orpheus. Like the ancient Greek tragedy. Hob knew that old story, and he wondered if perhaps….no. Now wasn’t the time to ask.
“Orpheus was his own man, wasn’t he. He made his own choices.”
At that, Dream lifted his head to look at Hob, and his face was pinched in grief and anger.
“You don’t know—”
“Yes, I do,” Hob said softly. “I’ve buried more of my own children than I care to count. All of them hurt to lose, but the one who almost broke me was my boy, Robin.” He swallowed hard. “I told you about him. He was the apple of my eye. My pride and joy, and he lost his life in the most idiotic and pointless reason—drunkenly defending my honor and stupid family name.”
Dream’s lips parted to speak.
“Please let me finish,” Hob said gently. “For years I blamed myself. If only I’d joined him at the tavern that night, as he’d asked. If only I’d been more cautious and moved us before the suspicions of witchcraft found us. If only I’d taught him better how to defend himself, instead of pampering him with all the riches I’d never been able to spoil anyone else with.” Hob took a deep, shaky breath. “It took me centuries to come to peace with the realization that, in the end, he made his own choices. Stupid, foolish choices, but his own, nonetheless. There was only so far I could guide him before he had to walk on his own, and sadly, he chose a path that led to his end.”
Dream’s lips closed again, but his eyes softened. Gods, he looked so broken, and Hob wanted to put him back together a piece at a time.
“It’ll take you time to heal, to be sure. You’ll never get over it. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Robin, or Chelsey, or any of my little loves. But the sting turns into an ache. All it takes it time.”
“Which is the one thing I am running out of.”
Hob cocked his head. “What do you mean?” Time was the one thing he was sure his friend had, in abundance.
Dream said nothing, though, but simply stepped back. Hob let him go reluctantly, missing his presence in his arms almost immediately. However, rather than withdrawing completely, Dream raised his hand, and placed his cool palm against Hob’s burning cheek.
Hob’s heart flipped in his chest. With that one, simple gesture, Hob knew. He knew. It wasn’t in his imagination, or in his fantasies. There was a spark, a something between them, a reason more than curiosity or loneliness that kept bringing Dream back to him.
Any other day, any other time, Hob would’ve leaned forward, closed the gap of centuries that lay between them, and kissed Dream’s perfect lips. He wanted to taste the salt of his tears, promise him that he’d protect him, no matter what, even if Hob was a mere mortal and Dream was some beautiful cosmic being caught up in forces beyond Hob’s comprehension.
But today was not the day. Today was the day that Hob had buried a lady-love, and that Dream had come to him as a mourning father. Their shared grief shadowed every word, every touch, both of their hearts as raw as scraped skin.
Instead, Hob raised his hand and covered Dream’s, pressing it against his cheek even harder, as if to imprint it on his flesh. He smiled softly, saying without words that he understood, he cared…
He loved.
They stood like that for what felt like an eternity, but also a fleeting moment, before Dream slid his hand away from Hob’s face. Hob let his hand drop, as well.
“Thank you, Hob,” Dream said quietly. Despite all the tears he’d shed, his face looked as smooth and pale as it had before. If Hob had cried like that, he’d be a mottled mess of puffy red skin, snot, and tears.
“Any time, my friend.”
Dream turned his head to look out at the grey afternoon light shining through the curtained window. “I should go.”
Hob’s heart twisted again. “You don’t—don’t have to. You could stay. With me, if you need a place to lay low for a bit. Whatever trouble’s following you, I bet they won’t look for you in some messy flat in London.”
“If only it were so easy,” Dream said softly, and Hob didn’t miss the genuine longing in his words. He turned back to Hob, a different sort of sadness on his face. “Good-bye, Hob Gadling.”
It took all of Hob’s self-control not to lunge at Dream, to try to persuade him to stay, make him tell him what was really going on. None of it would work. He knew it by now. When Dream’s mind was made up, that was that. So, instead, he gave his oldest friend a little nod, and a crooked smile.
“Until next time,” Hob said, forcing optimism in his voice.
Dream’s eyes never left him as he faded away, particles of his body whisking away like sand on the wind. Hob had never seen Dream evaporate like that, and it made him shiver deep into his soul. He knew his friend was supernatural, but he’d never actually seen anything more than him incapacitating their would-be-kidnappers during their 18th century meeting.
See? Dream was a powerful entity. He would be fine. Hob would see Dream again, and when he did, maybe, finally, they could admit what it was that had drawn them together again and again throughout the centuries.
There was time. There always was, with Dream.