Chapter Text
Chapter Thirteen:
Within the Realm of Dreams
The transition between the Waking and the Dreaming is almost non-existent. There are moments of darkness that seem to stretch out for eternity, accompanied by a kind of free-fall and a faint feeling somewhere in his head, distant enough to be of curiosity instead of consequence, that suggests he'd fallen asleep. The darkness becomes a distant memory when he suddenly finds himself standing somewhere else, somewhere that isn't his living room.
Around him stand shelves of books, some old and withered and some that look freshly printed. The shelves climb high enough that he has to crane his neck to see the topmost shelves, and even then, it's a struggle. The ceiling is arched, the entire room impossibly grand. Fractals of light pours in from tall-standing stained glass windows, painting the room in colours Hob can't name. There's something in the air that reminds him of The New Inn, something whimsical and hazy. Dream-like, though he supposes if the jewel worked and this place is the Dreaming, then that only makes sense.
It's wonderful. Hob has never seen anything like this before. Books line every shelf, some leather-bound and others hardback, some that look heavy and others smaller. He makes a mental note to return here sometime. Despite his immortality, he's not entirely sure he has enough time to read through them all, but he could certainly try.
Behind him, somebody clears their throat. He whirls around, heart racing for a second.
Between two bookshelves stands a woman wearing a well-tailored navy suit Hob finds himself just a little jealous of. Her reading glasses sit low on her nose, and she looks at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
At first sight, she looks normal, until Hob notices the pointed ears. The sight is a bit of a shock, and Hob grins - it had to have worked, then. An impossibly wonderful place and a woman with pointed ears - he certainly isn’t in the Waking anymore, at the very least. “Hello,” he says after the silence stretches too long. “I’m Hob Gadling.”
Surprised, she blinks. Whatever suspicion she had held falls away from her face, and she gives him a welcoming grin. “Oh, of course. We’ve been expecting you, actually.”
Hob raises a brow. “Expecting me?”
“Yes.” She gives a short nod, entirely too formal for him. “My name is Lucienne. It is nice to meet you, Robert Gadling.”
“Lucienne,” Hob echoes, delighted. “This - this is your library, then?”
Pride shines through her smile as she inclines her head. “Yes, indeed it is.”
Beaming, Hob turns on the spot, taking in the wonder of this place once more. Morpheus had told him about this, about the library that holds every book that has ever and will ever exist. Hob had imagined it to be something out of a fantasy, and he's pleased to find he hadn't been wrong. “It’s beautiful,” he says, hoping his honesty is obvious in his voice.
It must be, for she smiles wider. “Lord Morpheus believed you would appreciate this place. I am glad to see he is right.”
Hob chuckles quietly to himself. Lord Morpheus. How pretentious, and incredibly dramatic. Does Lucienne refer to him as 'your majesty' during their conferences too?
Lucienne sobers, just a little, the smile replaced by something more solemn. Hob finds himself reminded of the reasons for this visit with sudden force. “Though, I do wish you chose a better time to visit, perhaps. Regardless, I’m sure he would love to see you. Follow me, if you will.”
Before Hob gets a chance to ask what’s wrong with this particular time, Lucienne turns and begins to walk away briskly. Her steps are even and sure, her gait a little hurried. It isn’t hard to stay in step with her, and for that, Hob’s glad. The library is vast, seemingly endless. She leads him down a good many rows of shelves before they walk through a long corridor of architectural beauty. It’s so much brighter than Hob had anticipated Morpheus’s home to be, so at odds with his usual stormy demeanour, with light pouring in from even more stained glass windows lining the walls, bathing the dark stone in those impossible colours.
Navigation here is an impossible thing. They wander down seemingly endless corridors before stepping down winding staircases that weren't there previously, and they take so many turns that this place begins to seem more of an impractical maze than anything else. One day, perhaps, he’ll learn how this works. For now, he’s content to follow behind Lucienne to wherever Morpheus waits and admire the beauty of this place, until Lucienne comes to a stop outside two grand double doors.
The doors are twice the size of him, the wood engraved with unrecognisable figures. Hob stares longer than he means to, for the figures almost appear to be in motion, dancing across the wood in elegant movements. It seems to be telling some kind of story, but Lucienne clears her throat before he can decipher it.
Sheepishly, he grins, tearing his gaze from the door. “I - sorry. This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”
Amused, Lucienne smiles once more. “I should think so. The Dreaming is impossibilities come to life, after all. It would be strange for such things to exist in the Waking.”
“I suppose so.” He inclines his head towards the doors, suddenly nervous. This is Morpheus’s home. The realm of which he’s sovereign, the impossibilities he contains within himself. It’s bewitching in its beauty; being here feels a little like a wonderful dream come true. Perhaps it is. After all, how many centuries has he waited to know more about his Morpheus, who had been nothing more than a stranger most of the time Hob has known him? “And he’s through there?”
“He is,” Lucienne replies. “The doors will open when you are ready, Robert Gadling.”
“Just Hob, please.” He grins. “Robert makes me feel old.”
Her lips quirk upwards, amused, as she inclines her head. “Very well. Hob, then.”
He returns his attention to the doors. The depictions seem to have changed, now, but he doesn’t study them for long. He has a reason for being here beyond seeing Morpheus’s realm, as glorious as it clearly is. Deeply, he breathes in (does he need to breathe here? Does this count as a dream?) and steels his spine, unsure what he’s preparing himself for but doing so anyway.
He raises a hand to the door, unsure and hesitant. This is the Dreaming, a realm of impossibilities come to life, so he’d probably be able to open these doors even if he couldn’t in the Waking. On the chance he can’t, well. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Lucienne on their first meeting.
Fortunately, when he places his palm to the wood, they open for him with no effort on his part. They groan open, far more dramatic than they need to be, and Hob laughs to himself. What else could he expect from Morpheus, really?
Behind the doors lies a grand room. If there had been any doubt that this place was of Morpheus’s making, it is gone, now. He steps forward, his purpose in the Dreaming long forgotten, and forgets how to breathe for a second in the.
The dark stone of the floor is illuminated by the three stained glass windows that overlook a raised dais upon which sits a throne. Its position before the windows means the throne itself is more of a silhouette than a concrete part of the room. A long, winding staircase leads up to it, and upon the stairs sits his dear Morpheus, a leather-bound book in his hands.
Slowly, Hob cranes his neck upwards. The ceiling might not be a true ceiling despite the arched rafters, for the thing that might be the ceiling is a shifting night sky of galaxies and stars and suns, eternal and ethereal.
Awed, Hob Gadling steps forward. In such a cavernous space, his footsteps echo.
Slowly, Morpheus looks up. Immediately, his gaze lands on Hob, and those eyes of his fix Hob in place in ways words never could.
Morpheus is different here. Golden sunlight pours in from the windows on either side of the room, bathing him in wonderful light. Somehow, his skin is even paler, though this time, the paleness highlights his inhumanity more than it gives the sense of somebody who hasn’t seen the sun in too many years. Here, the blue of Morpheus’s eyes is gone, swallowed by ink-like darkness of night. Two stars shine in place of pupils, and Hob is frozen under their stare.
Slowly, Morpheus stands, pale fingers pushing shut the book in his hands. He descends the steps languidly, rosebud lips curling into a small smile. His usual coat is gone, replaced instead by a long cloak with flames licking up the hem and shifting galaxies lining the inside. The distance between them closes almost too fast, and beneath Hob’s chest, his heart is a wild, wanting thing.
He stops only a few steps before Hob, but even that distance feels far too large. Unlike the Waking, where they are the same height, Morpheus towers over him, now. In all his years of living, Hob doesn't think he's ever felt so small before. “Hob Gadling,” Morpheus greets. There’s a weight to his voice, unspeakable power resonating through every word despite how quiet the words are.
Perhaps, if Hob were a smarter man, he might be a little terrified in the face of such inhumanity and power. Hob has never been a particularly smart man, though, not when it came to Morpheus. Terror is the furthest thing from his mind.
Here in the throne room of the King of Dreams, Hob realises that, for how much he already loves this being before them, there’s still aspects of him Hob doesn’t know. He wants to, though. He wants to see all the ethereal, wonderful parts of Morpheus, the terrifying and the brilliant, the shadow and the starlight. He wants to see it all and love each part just as much.
When he speaks, his voice is a breathy thing, betraying his awe, his wonderment. This is the being he holds so close to his heart, the being that happens to be the sole holder of Hob Gadling’s eternal devotion. This is the being that visits him on the regular and presses reverent kisses to the pulse beating inside his wrists. “Hello, Morpheus.”
Before his eyes, Morpheus shifts until he stands at his usual height. Those twin stars remain fixated on him. This close, Hob thinks he can see the birthing of stars within that inky darkness, and this must be what it feels like to witness the dawning of a universe.
“I did not expect to see you here today, Hob Gadling,” Morpheus murmurs, his voice a lover’s caress. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
To be completely fucking honest, Hob’s completely forgot his original purpose here. It had been important, he knows that much, but in the face of all this, he can’t quite remember. “It’ll come back to me eventually,” he tells Morpheus quietly. “I…It is surprising. To see you like this.”
It’s a misstep, one Hob hadn't anticipated. Morpheus’s smile slips, and he frowns. “I do apologise, Hob Gadling. I do not appear as human, here. If it upsets you, I am able to alter this form somewhat.”
Hob shakes his head immediately, backtracking. “No! No, don’t do that! I - I like it. It…suits you."
The smile returns slowly, like the sun rising at dawn. “I confess, that is pleasing to hear.”
Remembering his purpose here, or at least part of it, Hob raises a brow. “And...how are you? You look well.” Or maybe that's just the difference between this otherworldly appearance skewing Hob's perspective. He's honestly not entirely sure. "And the issue you mentioned?"
“It is under control. For now.” Before Hob can comment on how ominous ‘for now’ inherently sounds, Morpheus stretches out his hand, palm up. “What do you think of my palace, dear heart?”
"It's wonderful," Hob breathes. "I see why you’re proud of it."
Morpheus frowns, something heavy resting on his shoulders suddenly. "I once said I would show you this place, as my guest. Unfortunately, the lands beyond these walls are a little...turbulent, currently. I should like to show you my kingdom from somewhere safer, however."
Well, that doesn't sound particularly good, does it? Turbulent lands. What the fuck does that even mean? "And...what's making the lands beyond unsafe, Morpheus?"
The frown lines on Morpheus's forehead deepen. "You are a guest in my kingdom, Hob Gadling. I would not concern you with such matters."
When Hob had agreed to whatever the two of them share, he had anticipated the difficulty that would arise when getting Morpheus to tell him anything, and it's a tad disheartening to be proven correct. Still, Hob is a stubborn man and doesn't give up easily. "Alright, then," he agrees easily, deciding to humour Morpheus and bring this up again later. It isn't an entirely selfless act of agreement, however - despite the concern, Hob's curiosity is building. He could never pass up on the chance to learn more of his dear Morpheus, after all. "I would like to see your kingdom, in that case."
In a gesture that somehow manages to be incredibly grand despite its simplicity, Morpheus offers his hand to Hob, sharp obsidian nails catching the light of the windows.
And though he's unsure what happens once he takes Morpheus's hand, he does it anyway. In a way, there had never been any other choice. Trusting Morpheus is a thing that comes so naturally, so intrinsically, for a good many years. Hob doesn't think he's capable of anything else, even after everything.
Morpheus grasps his hand. The contact is strange, here. In the Waking, Morpheus's skin is the absence of warmth, a chill reminiscent of the harshest of winters. In the Dreaming, there is no temperature to his skin, an absence of both heat and cold. He pulls Hob closer, and without warning, the two are surrounded by sand that came from nowhere. Hob's stomach drops in panic.
Unlike the first time Morpheus had done this particular method of travel back in Fawney Rig, there's no disconnection, no tearing and subsequent piecing together of his body or his mind. One minute, they stand in Morpheus's throne room, and the next, they're somewhere else. A bedroom, in fact, and if Hob were to guess whose, he'd say Morpheus's. It might be the four-poster bed, well-made with dark sheets and pillows, midnight blue gossamer curtains twinkling with stars Hob wants to say are fake but has little way of knowing if that's true. Or maybe it's because this place somehow feels just as grand as the throne room had.
Thankfully, Hob's organs seem to be in the right places this time, and Hob raises a brow in Morpheus's direction. Morpheus has yet to let go of Hob's hand, and when they're this close, Morpheus's eyes are fathomless things, a glimpse of the endless and undying. "For one who doesn't sleep, you have a nice bed."
Morpheus's lips quirk upwards. When he speaks, Hob is fairly sure he catches a glimpse of too-sharp canines but doesn't mention it. "I do not sleep. But sometimes I do need...rest."
It's comical, perhaps, how disdainful Morpheus sounds over the concept as resting. "Have you ever rested a day in your life?"
"I did so earlier," Morpheus points out, sounding a tad baffled by the question. "At The New Inn."
"I believe that counted more as 'passing out' than it did resting, but alright." He glances around the room once more. "I don't think I'm going to get very much sightseeing done here."
Morpheus huffs a little laugh, tugging on Hob's hand once before leading him over to another set of double doors, these ones of a far more reasonable size than the doors that led to the throne room.
The doors swing open soundlessly, and Morpheus leads Hob outside onto a balcony made of light stone. The sunlight warms Hob's face and catches stray hairs that had fallen into Morpheus's face. The amusement behind the bed hair Morpheus wears staying with him even here, with his appearance so different, makes Hob huff a quiet laugh as he brushes those stray hairs away from Morpheus's forehead.
Morpheus leans into the touch, that faint smile tugging at his lips once more. He tilts his head to the railings after a minute or two, though makes no movement to pull away from Hob's touch. "My kingdom, Hob Gadling."
Taking the hint for what it is, Hob walks over to the railings, hands braced on the smooth stone, and looks beyond. A city stretches out beneath them with buildings of various colours and architectural styles and roads of dark stones. There's a bridge leading up to the palace, held up by two great stone hands protruding from a river of the deepest blue. It looks like something out of a fairytale, and Hob can't contain his gasp. "It's...wow. You built all of this?"
"I did," Morpheus confirms, standing close enough to Hob so that their shoulders brush against one another's. Pride shines through his voice. “My…absence led a lot of this to be destroyed. Even now, it is not at its former glory. There is still much to be done.”
The city looks wonderful as it is. Hob can’t really imagine what it would look like at its full glory, but takes Morpheus’s word for it.
"I will show it to you properly, one day," Morpheus tells him. “Not from up here.”
"I would love that," Hob tells him, glancing at Morpheus long enough to spot the smile in his eyes before turning back around.
There's something on the horizon, beyond the gates. It looks out of place, and it makes Hob's eyes narrow. "Is that - smoke?" he asks, and as soon as the question falls from his lips, his stomach drops. Because yes, that is smoke, grey and reaching high. It reminds him a little of smoke from battles he’d fought in long ago, and that’s a particularly concerning thought. "Morpheus, why is there smoke?"
"A mere side effect," Morpheus tells him, though Hob can hear the worry in his voice. Whatever the smoke is from, Morpheus is downplaying it, making it seem less important than it is. "Of the issue encountered there. It is being fixed as we speak."
‘A fight,' Matthew had said. He hadn't given Hob anything more than that, but in the face of the smoke, well, 'a fight' suddenly sounds far more dramatic. "Morpheus. What happened?" When Morpheus opens his mouth to speak, Hob turns to him fully and cuts him off. "No. None of this 'you need not worry' bullshit. I'm worried. And I want to help you."
Morpheus's eyes narrow, something dangerous slipping into his voice. It is, Hob thinks, the voice of a being unused to being questioned and cut off. "What happens in this realm need not be your concern, Hob Gadling."
Scoffing, Hob shakes his head. "It is," he insists. "You passed out on my couch. Whatever is happening over there caught you off guard, exhausted you enough to push you to rest, which you never do, and you came to me. That makes this my problem, too. I'm your..."
His words trail off. Hob doesn't actually know what he is to Morpheus. He knows what he'd like to be, yes, but they haven't given anything a name. Pushing Morpheus into naming this thing between them is the last thing he'd ever want to do, and besides, Hob had asked them to take things slow.
Expectantly, Morpheus raises a brow. "You are my what, Hob Gadling?"
"Well." Hob shrugs, a little awkwardly. "I guess I'm whatever you want me to be to you. Your friend. Your partner. Should you want me."
"You are not my friend, Hob. You are..." Morpheus's throat bobs, and he averts his gaze. Even after the last three months of slowly introducing the concept of talking about feelings to Morpheus, he's still just as awkward at it. Though he hasn't sanded away yet, so Hob will take that as a win. "You're more than that. To me."
Brightly, Hob smiles. "Well, that's a relief. What does that make me, then?"
The twin stars of his eyes rest on Hob's face once more. Ethereal as they are, they still somehow look hesitant. Unsure. "Mine. My lover. My partner. If you...If you would want to be."
In his chest, Hob's heart skips a beat or two; his throat is suddenly dry. He hadn't been sure what to expect from the Dreaming. Somehow, it wasn't this. "Is that what you want?" he asks quietly, because, God, he'd never forgive himself if Morpheus offered him this because he thought Hob might want it. He remembers how terrified Morpheus looked after their kiss back in December, and how sorrowful he'd looked while talking of the fates of his past loves.
He nods once. "It is. I..." Taking Hob's hand, Morpheus murmurs, "It...It would be a risk. For you. But I wish to...to try."
Laughing quietly, Hob cups Morpheus's jaw in his hand, watching as Morpheus leans into the touch, turning his head to place a kiss to the inside of Hob's wrist. This time, Hob is definitely certain he catches sight of too-sharp teeth. "If that was an attempt to deter me, love, you'd have to try harder than that." He takes a step closer, a soft smile on his face. He can’t bring himself to worry about the risks, not now. Not when Morpheus is telling him what he wants properly, not when that involves them being together, and not when it’s everything Hob has ever wanted. "I've wanted this a long fucking time, Morpheus. You aren't getting rid of me now."
Morpheus hums softly. “Even after seeing this? This form? It does not bother you to be with something so...unknowable?”
“Bother me?” Hob echoes, incredulous. Had Morpheus not felt the awe that had hit him like a fucking punch to the stomach when Morpheus's eyes had met his back in the throne room? Does he not feel the lack of fear, the absolute adoration? “I assure you, I'm the furthest thing from 'bothered' right now. I fucking adore you. This form. Your Waking form. Whatever else you have in store for me, because something tells me this isn't entirely it, I'll love that just as much.” There's never been any other choice, not when it comes to Morpheus, has there? He's always going to be so utterly consumed by this wanting, this love, when it comes to him. Somehow, that isn't as terrifying for Hob as it perhaps should be.
Wonder blooms on his face, and Morpheus stares at him, twin stars bright. “You,” he breathes, “are a strange man, Hob Gadling.”
After everything, Hob can’t really deny that. “Oh, definitely,” he agrees easily, his grin wide. “If I kiss you now, are you going to sand away again?”
"Sand away," Morpheus repeats, incredulous, before sobering up. “No. I shall not do that to you again, Hob Gadling."
The honesty in his voice, the conviction, makes Hob's grin widen. It's been three months. Even after everything, after the running away and the waiting and the awkward talks - Hob trusts him. He really does. "Well, thank God," he says, elation creeping into his voice. "Because I really would like to kiss you."
Morpheus's arm snakes around Hob's waist, tugging Hob towards him. There's little space between them, now. Hob loves it. His lips curve into a soft smile. "Then you may do so, dear heart," Morpheus tells him, and Hob really doesn't need more than that, does he?
Pressing his lips to Morpheus's for the second time somehow feels a little like coming home. Like greeting an old friend once more. Morpheus holds him close with that arm around his waist, lithe fingers gripping tight, his lips gentle against Hob's, and Hob's hand moves into his raven hair. And though it's tender, though it's tentative, it's full of the love Morpheus has yet to put into words and the devotion Hob has already professed. It's an apology for past mistakes and an oath to not repeat them, a confession and a prayer, and Hob Gadling loves him. He loves him, and he's drunk on the knowledge that his love is returned.
He doesn't need to breathe, not here in the Dreaming. He pulls away on impulse, though, out of habit. It's overwhelming, in the best way possible, and he laughs quietly when Morpheus presses a soft kiss to the base of Hob's jaw, and another just below that. "I-"
Whatever he was about to say gets interrupted. It might've been another love confession, because Hob can't really help himself when Morpheus holds him so close, like he's a lifeline. It might've been something else entirely. He'll never know, for rushed footsteps echo on marble floors behind them, and a second later, Lucienne appears in the doorway.
"My Lord," she says, and though she looks apologetic for the interruption, he can see the worry in her eyes clearly.. "I apologise, my Lord, but-"
Morpheus steps away from Hob. He doesn't really have the room to feel dismayed about that, not with Lucienne looking as worried as she is. "Lucienne," Morpheus says, and it's...strange. Before, his voice had been gentle, mirthful, while talking to Hob. Now, it's the voice of the King he is, commanding and used to being listened to. "What is it?"
"There is a messenger from Hell, my Lord, and they wish to speak with you."
-------
End of Part I: Of Flowers and Starlight
-------