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scifrey · 11 months

Text

Deleted Scene: Take Root

For those who love the "Cling Fast" / Hob Adherent series: this is, regrettably, not a new story. The series still ends where it ended.

However, it used to have a different ending. In that different version, instead of "Hold Tight" and "Keepsakes: A Plane Ticket", I planned to resolve the Daniel Hall and Orpheus storylines by writing a much longer multi-chapter fic about Hob finding out he still has living descendants through another TV show. In this story, Morpheus would have gotten jealous of Hob's living children, and spend more and more time asleep, with Daniel, until Despair & Desire finally came to Hob to tell him the truth about Orpheus.

I wrote this first chapter and then really, really struggled with the story after that. A long conversation with @late-to-the-magnus-archives led me to realize that if I did the Walkers/Daniel/Orpheus thing this way, by making them a negative thing in Hob's life, by choosing to stretch the trope of miscommunication between lovers, and by basically reverse-uno-ing all the work Hob did to grieve his brief mortal family, then I was doing a disservice to events and character growth in "Cling Fast".

Thematically it might have been a good fit, but it was perilously close to manufacturing unrealistic dissent for the sake of drama, and not because this is how the characters would have actually reacted in this situation.

So, I abandoned this tale, found better, kinder ways to resolve the Walkers/Daniel/Orpheus storylines, and reworked the series to be as it currently stands.

However.

I am still a little in love with this tiny fragment of a tale, and wanted to share it with you. Just for funsies.

Happy reading!

-J

Status: Deleted Scene from a story I won't be completing.

Series: the Hob Adherent series.

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse, but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Gen

Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death.

Relationships: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Matthew the Raven, Destruction of the Endless, Patrick the Bartender, Harriet Butler, Maisie Hampstead

TAKE ROOT

When the camera crew walks into The New Inn, Hob assumes it has something to do with Cardenio. The filming request had come through Harriet, and as Hob trusts her not to chuck him into any situation that would endanger him, or his husband, and their secret, he'd said yes without really looking into the details of the television program.

They'd asked to film inside the pub, and to interview him on camera. As this was just one in a long line of such requests, he'd set the date, and thought nothing more about it.

(When this lifetime was over, Hob was going to have to ask for a very heavy favour from little Daniel Hall, to ensure that no one remembered that his face matches that of Robert Gadlen the Sixth, sometime media darling of the mediaeval history studies world. Dream of the Endless had already pledged to make his uncles' transition as smooth as was in his power, thank goodness, but Hob was still nervous about all the footage floating around out there.)

What Hob didn't expect was for the crew to come in full guns blazing, so to speak.

"Oh, hello," he says, standing up from the banquette as a steady-cam, followed by the operator holding it, enter the pub. "Welcome to The New Inn."

The red light at the camera's lens is on, warning the world that it's recording. He's suddenly very glad he let Matthew talk him into wearing his hot-professor outfit, and the very light makeup required for this sort of thing. His hair is still shorter than he’d like, the scar on the left side of his head from a gunshot wound finally hidden by the longer style, for which he’s grateful. He wouldn’t want anyone to see it and worry.

Hob had kind of assumed that the crew would be dolling him up, but in the years since Elizabethan Manor he's learned that it never hurts to be camera-ready, just in case.

A man in a wireless headset enters behind the camera operator and waves at him, then points at the red light.

Yeah, I got that, Hob thinks but doesn't say. He's not sure why they're filming right away, but he doesn't want to spoil whatever shot they have planned. Maybe they spoke to Surinder and found out what a terrible actor Hob is, and have decided that it's far better to get his First Reactions on camera than to ask him to pretend.

Hob doesn't mind, but it would have been nice to be warned first.

Actually, if he bothered to read Harriet's email with any kind of depth, he probably was.

Patrick, the only other person in the pub at present, drops behind the bar like a WWI private tripping into a trench, and then scuttles into the kitchen, presumably to warn Destruction to stay hidden if he doesn't want to be filmed. Dee is in the middle of making the day's crusty loaf, so nothing will pull the Endless from the kitchen, unless it's serious.

Dee means business when he bakes.

"Thank you!" a young woman behind the PA says. She ducks around the other two folks, who are lingering in the doorway, and moves purposefully across the pub. Once she's firmly within the shot, she sticks out her hand. "I'm Maisie Hampstead."

"Hi Maisie, I'm Bob," Hob offers, shaking and then holding out a chair at his usual two-top for her because he's a gentleman, and old habits tend to kick in when he's wrong-footed. "What brings you to my humble pub?"

Maisie sets a heavy leather folder on the table between them, and for a second, Hob is terrified that this is a set up. That someone had hacked Harri's email, got him cornered, is about to reveal his terrible truth to a live-streamed audience, with a phalanx of nondescript cars and government scientists waiting in his front garden if he tries to run.

He reminds himself that the literal god of warriors is just one wall away, covered up to his elbows in flour, and that even if he was taken out of here against his will, his inlaws are the most powerful and immutable forces in the universe. Nothing and no one can harm him. Also, he can't die, which makes him ruthless and vicious when it comes to protecting himself—he doesn't have to avoid injury the way other people do when engaging in combat. While bullet and stab wounds hurt, they can be ignored in favour of finishing a fight.

But Maisie just smiles at him, flush with genuine excitement, and flips back the cover of the folder to reveal a… a family tree.

Okay, so not a clandestine setup or sting operation.

But something just as fraught.

Hob's eyes go wide as he skims the names on it, he knows they do, and he's pretty sure he must look absolutely pole-axed, because that's how he feels. He knew the BBC Historics department had mocked up a family tree for Elizabethan Manor, but he's never had occasion or desire to sit down and study it. He was already chastined enough by the fact that they found him in the first place. He had no patience to read in black and white where exactly he screwed up in hiding his past identities.

Hindsight, as the saying goes, is 20/20.

But the cameras are on him and he can’t exactly snap the cover shut and shout them all out the door. Not after he’d told Hari that he’d be game. So he reads on.

At the top of the tree, in computer-generated font, it reads:

Hob's breath catches in his throat as he runs the tips of his fingers over first Eleanor's, then Robyn and Wee John's names. It's taken a lot of work, but he's proud that he's able to have this out-of-the-blue reminder of their love and loss, and not immediately react negatively. He is joyfully reminded of that time of his life, seeing their names, instead of triggered.

But… no, wait, something's different…

"There's a… there's another line here," Hob croaks, following the dots downward from Robyn's box. This wasn't part of the graphic when they shared it on the show. "There shouldn't be another line here. He never…" Hob flattens his palm over the next row down on the family tree, not ready to read it yet.

Instead, he looks up at the young woman across from him, drinking in the sight of her like a parched man at a wholly unexpected, but nonetheless welcome, oasis.

She's blonde, hair flaxen-yellow and straight as a pin. But her eyes are dark, soulful brown, crinkling just enough at the corner to put her in her late twenties, he guesses. Detached earlobes. Complexion a few shades darker than his own, but still within the realm of olive-skinned. She's wearing light makeup, eyelashes mascaraed dark and lips painted and funky plum red. They curl on one side when she realises what he's doing, what he's looking for, the smile secret and mischievous in one corner.

And she has a cleft chin.

"Oh my god," Hob breathes. His eyes burn. There's a lump in his throat the size of a fist. He swallows hard. Excitement and fear and confusion swirl up in his middle, nauseating and fluttery.

He wants to reach out and grab her face between his hands, and hold her there, cataloguing everything. He wants to shove away from the table and race up the stairs and start shouting at the framed sketches of Robyn over his bed. He wants to curl up under a weighted blanket and hide from the truth until his husband coaxes him out.

Instead he just sits at the table, mouth hanging open like a landed fish.

He wishes Morph was here, and at the same time is unaccountably glad that his husband is in the middle of his daily ramble through the nearby Wapping Woods park. This is, he thinks, something he wants to discover on his own, first. Something to cherish and to hold, just for him, before he has to share it with the wider world.

Entirely on camera, of course.

Like all his major emotional revelations lately, it seems.

Ha.

"You… he… did he…?"

"See for yourself," Maisie coaxes him gently.

Slowly, tremblingly, Hob lifts his hand away from the paper.

"Robyn had a son," Hob whispers, voice wavering. His hands are shaking. He presses them between his thighs, under the table, where the camera can't see. "I had a—" he cuts himself off with a choked noise, wet and thick with longing.

"They weren't married," Maisie explains, not oblivious to his surprise and distress, and quick to reassure. Though, from her perspective, he guesses it must be very odd, to see someone falling to pieces over family revelations that are already centuries past. "They never got the chance to."

She slides another piece of paper out from under the family tree, a copy of a handwritten letter, and Hob snatches it from her hands perhaps too eagerly. It's an account of a fight in the alleyway behind a tavern, written from the perspective of a bystander—no, not a bystander. A witness.

A patron at the tavern the night Robyn died.

There's a sentence highlighted but the letters blur and slide across the page.

Hob wipes at his eyes. "I… sorry, can you read it to me…?"

Maisie takes the letter back and reads:

Young master Gadlen protested that he had no quarrel with the brothers of the distraught maid. He shewed that he had drawn neither dagger nor mayde a fiste. He did then call them brothers of his owne and did swear his intent to wed, but his oath came too layte for a knife had been thruste under his rib. Martha did wail and forswear the murderer as her kin, and held fast the lad until his heartsbloode had ceased to flow into the street. Mister Hampsted took his daughter awaye inside to the warmth. The undertaker was called for piteous master Gadlen and the lad was borne awaye to the house of his lamented father.

Hob remembers that night with the clarity that four hundred years of reliving it in his nightmares, and wishing he could have found a way to prevent it, has gifted him with. The smell of the tobacco he'd been smoking in the study mixed with the fatty funk of the tallow candles; the squeak of the undertaker's cart wheels as they bumped up the drive; the crunch of boots on the gravel as Rob's friends accompanied his body in an honour guard of misery; the gasp of horror Fletcher quickly stifled when he caught sight of the solemn procession; the taste of the claret Hob had been enjoying turning to sour bile on the back of his tongue.

Maisie mistakes his grave silence for incomprehension of the archaic English.

"The night Robyn Gadlen found out that Martha was pregnant, it looks like her brother jumped him for taking her virtue," Maisie explains gently. "Martha said in later letters that Robyn had proposed marriage as soon as she'd told him, and they'd conspired to elope. But her brothers stopped them as they were sneaking out the back of the tavern. They never made it."

I never knew, Hob realises. There was a child out there, Robyn's child, and I never even knew it. I failed Robyn. I failed this little Harry. I was so busy wallowing in my own grief and self pity, too busy getting drunk each night with Despair, too busy calling for and rebuffing Death, that I never… did she bring the child to the house? Was I too insensible, too pathetic to even be sober long enough to see the baby when I had the opportunity—

Hob's breath shudders out of him in a soft moan. "Why did… why did she never bring the babe to Robyn's father?"

"Her own father sent her away to a convent that same night," Maisie says. "Here, here's another letter. She wrote often to a cousin during her confinement. She says that she would have fled to Gadlen House if she could, but her brothers had carried her off so quick that she was in a nun's cell before the blood was dry on her hands."

"Oh Christ," Hob groans, both a prayer for that poor girl, and a curse against those who had kept her from him. He is awash in relief that he hadn't actively driven his grandson and his mother away, and both regret and anger in equal measure that the baby was hidden from him. "And after the birth?"

"Martha returned home with little Harry and married a man who agreed to care for them both so long as Harry's parentage was never mentioned. The man took over her father-in-law's tavern eventually, but he died of cholera a few years later."

"Hampstead," Hob repeats dully, his brain clicking over slowly, like his gears were filled with fluffy, grief-coloured cotton. "That was… that was the proprietor. Of the White Horse."

"Yes."

He looks up, feels the blood draining from his face. "Robyn died in the White Horse?"

Maisie cuts a confused glance at the camera, not sure what this has to do with the conversation they're clearly supposed to be having. "Yes."

Hob fists his hand in his shirt, over his heart. Surely, surely, he was going to die now.

This had to be it, after six hundred and sixty-some-odd years. Surely, there was no way to survive a heartbreak like this. "I thought… they said a tavern brawl, but they never said which one, and I—"

Maisie reaches out as if to touch his arm, and then stops halfway across the table, unsure of her welcome. "I'm sorry, do you need a minute?"

"Yes," Hob hiccups, and stands from the banquette. He doesn't look at the camera, doesn't make eye contact with the PA. He just walks straight back to the kitchen, pushes open the door, and zombie-shuffles right into the arms of Destruction, who has clearly been waiting for him.

The door has barely shut behind him before his face crumples and his lungs seize up. "He died in the White Horse," Hob sobs quietly. "Right there, where I—"

"I'm so sorry, Hob," Dee says, and rubs his back.

"All that time, I never marked it or… I feel like I should have known. I should have felt it."

"He went to the Sunless Lands in peace, Hob. There was nothing of your son remaining in that place for you to have felt. Don't feel guilty about that."

"I wish I'd known."

Dee hums gently, soothing, and hugs Hob harder as he weeps. Being hugged by Dee is like being gently crushed by tree-trunks. Hob presses his face against his brother-in-law's chest and lets Dee squeeze his soul back into his body.

After a few long minutes, Hob steps back and gives Dee a grateful pat on the arm. "Where's Patrick?"

"I sent him out for lemons," Dee rumbles.

"I bought a whole bag yesterday."

"I know."

"Thank you."

Dee studies his face. He must not like what he sees there because he says, "Do you want me to kick them out?"

"No," Hob replies. He sighs and scrubs his mouth, tries to pat down his hair. "No, no, it's fine. It was just… unexpected. Serves me right for not reading Harri's email more thoroughly."

Dee peers out of the porthole window in the kitchen door at the film crew. Hob can hear the murmur of their discussion, but not the contents of it. "Still, that's a hell of a thing to spring on a guy."

"I'll say," Hob snorts. "Oh, hey look, it's noon. I can drink now."

"Don't go overboard," Dee says, eyeing him.

"Don't worry," Hob reassures him, patting his massive forearm again. "I'm not going to fall back into my self-destructive ways. I spend enough time with you as it is, new-new kid."

Destruction snorts. "I was more thinking about how Despair would worry about you. She hovers like a brooding chicken."

Hob chuckles at the image, which was likely the point, and appreciates Dee's concern for his well being. Hob finishes putting himself to rights, squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath, and shoves the rest of his freak-out down, down, down to share with Morpheus when his husband gets back. And the cameras are gone.

On his way back to his table, he stops at the bar to scoop up four champagne flutes, and pulls one of the nicer bottles of prosecco out of the back of the fridge.

"Well," he says, feeling if not settled then at least more centred, when he sets his glasses down on the table beside Maisie's folder. "I think I can guess what happens next in the story, and if I'm right, then I figure we'll have something to toast to."

Maisie lights up, and Hob can see it, right there, in the way her eyes sparkle—here is his son's many-times granddaughter, come back to him. His blood, in her veins, seeking him out like a loadstone.

Oh christ, Hob thinks, falling a little bit in love with the kid on the spot. I'm going to have to let her dictate the pace of our family bonding, or else I'm going to be selfish and grabby.

"To be fair," Maisie says, "until we found some new documents, I thought I was a Fletcher."

"The Steward?" Hob asks, startled.

"After Martha's husband died, the tavern went to one of Martha's brothers and she came perilously close to abject poverty. She had other children to feed, and thought it was time for Robert Gadlen to know about his grandson. But by then they say the man had fully gone mad, and the Steward decided it was unsafe for the kid to live with him," Maisie explains, sliding the corresponding photocopy of a much older document out of the pile to show him.

It seems I owe that filthy cheating thief my gratitude for this, at least, Hob thinks as he pursues the paper. I absolutely was not in my right mind and this would have absolutely made it worse.

"When Fletcher just showed up at the civil courts one day with a kid, everyone assumed the little boy was actually his. Up until a month ago, my whole family thought we were the illegitimate descendants of the Steward. But the dates weren't adding up, and… well, then we joined the show and they did some digging. The historian found Martha's letters in the Gadlen Fell Crate papers, along with the documentation from the Court of Chancery, and suddenly it all made sense."

"Chancery?" Hob echoes, startled. "Little Harry was a ward of the Councillor?"

"Oh, you know what that is!" Maisie says, delighted. "I didn't."

Hob chances a look up at the P.A., who shrugs, and gives a go-head wave. He taps the family tree still between them, bringing her attention to the fake younger brother he had invented for himself in the early 1700s, Richard Gadlen.

"Maisie, besides what it says on the family tree, did they tell you who I am?"

"Just that Richard Gadlen was my, uh, eight-times great uncle," Maisie says, blithely unaware of how Hob's heart is threatening to burst apart behind his ribs. "Which means you're my, um, no wait, we figured this out, my ninth cousin, once removed because you're one generation older than me."

Hob huffs a chuckle. More than one generation, he thinks.

He's taken to putting silver at his temples in the last year, just a speckle of bleach with a toothbrush, followed by some of the grey-pastel dye that the kids are into these days. He used to have to do this with chalk, so it's much nicer to not shed faux dandruff every time he turns his head. Morph, peacock that he is, isn't ready to start putting on airs of age. Doesn't matter, though—his hair is so black most people already assume it's coloured.

"And did they tell you what I do for a living?" he asks, reaching for the prosecco and unwrapping the foil.

"No," Maisie says, looking around The New Inn. "I assume you're a publican?"

"Well, yeah, but that's not my full-time gig." He works the cage off the bottle neck, and shoots a look at the camera operator. They give him a thumbs up, prepared for the loud noise. He begins to wiggle the cork. "I'm a professor at the University of York. I teach Medieval and Early Modern History and Language. My name is Doctor Robert Gadlen—"

"The sixth!" Maisie squeals in delight, finally putting all the clues together. "Oh my gosh! You're the Witch Knight!"

Hob groans. "We are not calling me that," he says, just as the cork jumps free with a delicious little pop.

#losyark #cling fast adjecent #cling fast #the hob adherent series #hob x dream #hob adherent #dreamling week #dreamling #centennial husbands #centennial boyfriends #deleted scene #the sand man #sandman #dreamling fanfic #dreamling fic #lord morpheus #feel free to fanfic my fanfic

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landwriter · 1 year

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🍇

I know there are the Sandman fandom faves, but curious if you have any scenes/volumes/moments you particularly love or any you think could use more rep.

fruit fic asks!

🍇 Is there a particular scene/episode/book/etc that you want to just write a million fics about, over and over? Which one?

Such a thoughtful question dude, thank you! Terrible confession to make: I have not actually watched a single episode of The Sandman since first watching the show. At most I've scrubbed through for screencaps or dialogue, and before writing the Corinthian for the first time I watched a YouTube compilation of all his scenes haha 😅

I have also not read the comics, although I have definitely peeked at some panels and have a familiarity-by-osmosis of the events.

Further excluding fandom faves (Season of the Mists toast, Corinthian dark mirror lines, Dream's battleskirt, all show scenes featuring Hob Gadling), I am thinking HARD and can offer the following for bits I adore/am constantly wanting to write about:

The Corinthian's dialogue to Lucienne re: Dream as he leaves the Dreaming in S1E2: “You can’t change him. You can’t save him either.” This is a fucken LEITMOTIF to me from the moment I heard again (did not even take notice on the first watch! It sure hits differently with wider canon knowledge!). Change is a huge theme in The Sandman, but I'm particularly obsessed with how Dream's views on changeability are expressed through his relationships with his creations and the words they say too. Compare with Hob's fateful line in 1889: “I think it’s you that’s changed.”

Humanity as the explicit catalyst for said change is an absolute brainworm to me - see also Gault, Dream's relationship with Hob, Dream's forced imprisonment within the Waking - but in particular, holding this in mind while considering the Corinthian's lines about his justification for the cereal serial killing: “Do you know why I do it? So I can taste what it’s like to be human. You don’t care about humanity.” When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. When all you have is teeth, everything looks like a meal, right? Coupled with the unexpectedly heart-aching delivery here it feels like The Corinthian is out doing what Dream needs to do: being curious, and reaching out to humanity - albeit in an unacceptable way. But I don't think Dream made the Corinthian too hungry. I think he made him too curious. His sin is wanting to know, and how can that possibly be treated with sympathy from an equally arrogant being that harbours the collective unconscious? Dream believes he knows everything already and cannot abide wanting more himself. He's a study in self-denial and repression for the sake of his function. But who else is willing to challenge the fundamental laws of his existence to chase his appetite for more? Who else wants to taste all of life? It's so tragic to me - it feels inevitable through and through, and when you put the desires that got the Corinthian unmade next to the desires that got Hob Gadling all his living...ow.

The opening monologue/narration in S1E1. I just think it's neat! It's such a good example of Dream's character voice and epistemology all at once. By the time Charles Dance was on the screen I was fully and wholly sold on Sandman. I would love to write some fics about the ol' Demon King sometime.

Okay fuck it I know you said excluding fandom faves but I have to be honest and say every single word that came out of Hob's mouth in 1389

#asks #fruit fic asks #an essay #meta #been meaning to write an essay about The Corinthian and Hob Gadling and Dream for AGES and it's started leaking out oh no #the sandman #the corinthian #hob gadling #dream of the endless

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azi-sings-calliope · 9 months

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Hi! For the “Give Me a Character” Meme, how about Lord Morpheus himself, Dream? 💭

Oooh boy. Oh boy. Thank you so much for asking this, cos this is gonna be a ride.

*spoilers for the entire sandman comics, long post, be warned*

I consider Dream's character to be a can of worms except some are real worms and some are gummies.

In this post I'll talk about themes of what he was owed, what he owed others, hope, and the inherent agony of his existence.

Thoughts on Dream:

I think he was doomed from the start.

So. Morpheus is a character who I consider to be deeply realistic. Now, this is gonna sound strange, but allow me to elaborate.

Dream was created as an embodiment of hope and wonder in a universe that consistently destroys it. (This is just my interpretation). He's told he's omnipotent but comes to learn there are rules that bind him like any other creature.

But he's hopeful. So he forms relationships, loves, hopes, but the universe is wired against him, his function, and by extension, all the Endless.

So, these experiences make Dream bitter. He hates the universe, the mortals that resemble the ones he used to love, and Desire (we know why).

Now, like so many other beings, he's nearly hopeless. He's heartbroken and vengeful and cruel. He throws himself into his work. I think he's never able to do it fully. This is because he doesn't show himself to mortals, tries not to care about them, when his entire existence is meant to help them.

His work and detachment shows him how powerful he is. He becomes entitled, and I think that some part of Dream, whether that be conscious or unconscious (ha), feels as if he is owed something. Owed a stable function, owed some form of compensation for the agony of his existence.

But his work is what he exists for, he cares about it deeply, obsessively. Then he gets captured. In my interpretation, this imprisonment is when he realizes that he will never get compensated. It will always hurt. He's depressed, and hits the point of exhaustion, anhedonia. He realizes he's not invincible, his work can be compromised, he's owed nothing, and he spirals. He's obsessive again, he hunts for his tools, punishes people.

He jumps from obsession to obsession, trying to ward off creeping grief and apathy.

Through the help of other characters and the reality of who he once was, he begins to believe he can change.

He gets faced with his crimes, like Nada, and is hit with who he once was, and does what he can to fix the injustice he committed against her. At this point, he believes in change, in improving himself.

But then shit hits the fan, and in an attempt to help Delirium and Destruction, to get them what they are owed, he has to kill his son.

Orpheus is a point in his past that carries great grief, but moments - which are rare in Dream's life - of love and happiness. And he has to destroy that part. He gave Orpheus what he was owed.

He has atoned for his sins, and in doing so lost what he loved. Those sins always needed to be atoned for, but there was no other way to do it. Which is why I said he was doomed from the start.

His past sins, his change, his obsession with his function have left him hollowed out, exhausted, apathetic. I think of that Bilbo quote, "I feel like butter spread too thinly over bread." I think that's how Dream feels in the end.

As I've said a lot, Dream represents hope in a way. And he lost his hope continuously.

The universe beat him down, he beat himself down, he beat others down to the point he didn't have anything in him left to hope.

He believed he was owed compensation for his pain. He ended up giving others what he owed them.

(I interpret Daniel as a hopeful version of Dream, solidifying the whole hope message of the serious. But considering this is about the Morpheus aspect, I won't get into that here.)

Onto the thing I said at the start about him being realistic, while of course Morpheus' eternal existence is hard to relate to, I look at him, a being in that much pain with that much power, and be unable to do anything about it, and I think, how could you not be like that?

So, to sum up, a character who was destroyed by the universe, became cruel and vengeful, had to atone for their sins which were near inevitable by the very nature of their existence, then had to give up the unimaginable to atone for them, and in doing so lost everything and didn't care, because that was how much Hope lost his hope.

Dream was doomed from the start.

On that cheerful note, onto the other points!

Who I ship him with:

Dream x therapy

I love Morphienne, like I said before, it's just such a beautiful relationship built on trust and mutual respect and admiration I love it so much.

Dream and Calliope, please, they were so cute together before and during Orpheus, and they need to heal together.

And last but certainly not least, Dream x Lucifer. Now I have no platonic explanation for whatever Dreams description of them during Season of Mists was, but there was several layers of grief in that interaction. Plus they have great chemistry.

Non-Romantic otp:

Basically, all the ships but platonic, except Dream x Lucifer. I'm not picky.

But imma be honest and say Matthew, or, hot take, Bast, if she ever got over that crush. I just think their mutual love of cats would be adorable.

Unpopular opinion:

Even though I listed my ships, those are just wishful thinking. I think before Morpheus gets into another relationship, he needs to do some serious self reflection and improvement. I think canon proved jumping into relationships is something Morpheus' has a problem with. I don't think I'll be able to read a fic that immediately starts as a love story, and disregards Morpheus' flaws. (That being said this is just my opinion, all fics are amazing) His problems won't be solved by another person, no matter how cute they are together. He needs to work on himself.

What I wish had happened in canon:

This is actually difficult, because I genuinely think Dream's story is absolutely integral, and his character arc is mapped out exactly how it should be (in my opinion).

However, I wish there was a scene, maybe several, maybe a plotline, of Dream and Calliope working through their grief together. I would also like a scene, in the Kindly Ones, where Dream says goodbye to Lucien/Lucienne, because I think their relationship was too deep for it to go unsaid.

Well, I hope you liked my very cheerful answers, thanks again for asking!!

Note: everything I said was my interpretation or opinion.

#the sandman #dream ask #mild character study?

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loyalhorror · 7 months

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uhh, the ask emoji fandom thing but whichever ones you want to answer for RDR, Black Sails, and Sandman, with a bonus side question of have you done any of the Manderville quest stuff in ff14

OUGH. marxz i am so fond of you (not just for sending this ask i prommy). let's see.

Have you done any of the Manderville quest stuff in ff14?

I DEFINITELY HAVE but I don't remember it at all... maybe @notjusthespongenextdoor can tell me what the fuck I did sdlfksndfkjg it was so long ago

👿Least favorite character

RDR: hmmm I can't really think of anyone I genuinely dislike as a character, at least within the main 'cast'? obviously everybody fucking hates Micah but I love him as a character even if I think in some respects he's sort of WAY too obvious as a villain in a way that makes some gang members look like idiots for allowing him to stay... but then on the other hand I think that's kind of the point + it's proof of how much control Dutch has over everyone. HANDWAVES.

BS: Fucking Vane. I don't like the shit he did in-universe to Max (though I will accept that that was a poorly written plotline in general... or at the very least one that made it just really hard to empathise with anyone responsible afterwards) AND I feel that his redemption arc was kind of "eh". But mostly I think fandom kind of burnt me out on him because I just don't get the hype around him.

SM: hmm it probably depends on what version we're talking about... I don't really like show!Lyta (whereas I love comics!Lyta) but I think that's just because like. The acting and writing in the show isn't always Great(TM). I can't think of anyone where I just HATE them when they're onscreen or anything in either version... with the show I don't like the scenes with Desire+Despair but that's because their dynamic creeps me out as someone who is VERY squicked by codependent sibling relationships in media, I love both characters individually.

WAIT. I JUST REMEMBERED. In the show it's definitely Joha.nna Constantine I'm sorry I just. Do not like the actress much to begin with. I also don't really like what they did with Constantine's gender-swapped design, so to speak - she doesn't look like Constantine at all aside from the trenchcoat. They couldn't make her a cocky blonde gal (preferably with short hair, give me butch sapphic Constantine or else)? I know they were probably going off what they wanted from the acting rather than anything appearance-based, and it's better to have a good actor who looks different than a bad one who matches the comics version, but. GESTURES. I wish it'd been ANY other actress skldfndkjfng. I'm picky with my cocky English people. The wrong vibe can turn it rancid.

😍Character you have the biggest crush on

RDR: HMM good question. it used to be Dutch (yeah yeah I know) but nowadays I have no idea, once a character becomes my blorbo/I start writing them longterm I tend to lose whatever 'crush' I had on them... BS: [head in hands] it's hal gates. i am not immune to fat old men. i want him to [REDACTED] S: HM depends on the day and it depends on which character(s) I'm relating to the most on a personal level. Tends to rotate between Dream, Lucien(ne), and lately, Hob.

💐Comfort character

RDR: John my beloved... BS: Somehow it's Silver, but that's mostly because of what I've written with my friend Seras over the past several years with him + Seras' Horst. S: Dream, most of the time. Sometimes it's the Corinthian (specifically pre-runaway era Corinthian) but not often.

❤️‍🩹Character who deserved better

RDR: Abigail... I feel so fucking bad for her in so many different ways. Not in a "John was sooo shitty omg" way (though he WAS a dick) but just like, man, what a tragedy of a life. BS: MAX. The s1 abuse arc was awful in a thousand different ways but primarily I just don't think it was sensitively written at all. It's not necessarily that I think they shouldn't have included it, but holy FUCK the like... implications that it leaves about every other character who stood back and allowed that to happen or was otherwise complicit in it is uhhh. Not great. S: Dream but also not at all because I think the tragedy of his story is my favourite thing about it. Like Abigail, it's "he deserved better if we look at it in-universe but from a narrative standpoint the agony is so fucking tasty and I wouldn't change it at all".

#rat.exe #rdrblogging #flintblogging #sandblogging #THANK YOU MARXZ

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subtlehysteria · 1 year

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Pour Me Another (And Talk The Night Away) (3629 words) by subtlehysteria Chapters: 1/6 Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022), The Sandman (Comics) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling, Death of the Endless & Dream of the Endless Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Lucien | Lucienne (The Sandman), Matthew the Raven, Death of the Endless, Desire of the Endless, Mervyn Pumpkinhead Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Human, Bartender Dream, Professor Hob Gadling, the dreaming is a cocktail club but it’s still just as magical, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Slow Burn, Hob Gadling Needs A Hug, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus Needs A Hug, Romantic Comedy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, the inherent romanticism of sharing a drink and exchanging intense eye contact across a bar, Socially Awkward Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, he's trying really hard for Hob's sake, and we love him for it

Summary:

But this man is looking at him so hopefully, no malice or annoyance in his expression from being kept waiting, merely interest and curiosity. This must be his first time seeing mixology in action if the slight shuffling in his seat and wandering eyes are any indications.

Resigning himself to the situation, Dream shucks off his suit jacket, draping it over the rung of a nearby shelf ladder. He tilts his head as he considers his customer and does not miss the man’s eyes trailing up and down Dream’s form in return, nor how they fixate on Dream’s hands as he neatly rolls up his shirt sleeves.

Placing his hands on the counter, Dream takes a second to relish the feeling of being behind a bar again, before turning his full attention to the man.

“Do you know what you’d like to drink?” Dream Endelais hasn't picked up a pair of shakers for a customer since his cocktail bar, The Dreaming, rose to fame overnight. That is until a particular brown-eyed stranger asks for a drink.

Or… Five times Dream made Hob a drink and the one time he didn’t have to.

#dreamling #dreamling fanfic #my writing #modern au #bartender au #dream of the endless #hob gadling #the sandman #the sandman fanfic

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thenightmistress · 2 years

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Updated Version of: “Love is Irrelevant to people like Us.” ~Part 3

Paring: Dream of the endless/Morpheus x Vampire/hybrid OC Fem!Reader, Hob Gadling x reader

18+ You have been warned! Proceed with caution!

A/N: I have unfortunately have not read the comics, so it will be based on the show and mythology that surrounds the characters.

Warnings: Blood, violence, dead person, alcohol, consumption of blood, mentions of other TV show characters like in Good Omens, TVD, and Tom Ellis’s Lucifer along with the Sandmans Lucifer, Morpheus cause he is his own warning, eventual smut, slow burn, Hob being the best wingman, Matthew cause why not, Not really enemies to lovers but not friends to lovers, idk.

Summary: Life is a strange thing, so fragile, yet gives us the courage to keep going. It’s what makes us human, after all. Ultimately, we all end up in the same place in the loving embrace of death, helping us move on to the next life, but what happens to those who come back? What happens to the undead? The ones who escaped the clutches of death yet are quite alive? Life is a strange thing; so much to learn, so much to love, and so many dreams to explore, but there is always a price to life, even immortal ones. Mother Nature will always claim what is rightfully hers, and no one, not even the Endless, can say no.

Word count: 4,659

This is a Longer Chapter so get ready!

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Not My Gif

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The dreaming was colder and darker than before. Nightmares roamed where dreams were supposed to be because of their master, The King of Dreams and Nightmares. Everyone was terrified of Morpheus while they were Dreaming. Since he got back from the waking world, he has had everyone on their toes. Merv does anything in his power to avoid his lord, Cain and Abel find ways to keep themselves busy so they don’t have to run into Morpheus, but poor Lucienne and Jessamy had it worse.

Because Lucienne is the Loyal Liberian, she was at his beckon call for any book or text that mentioned anything about a person in the dead of night assaulting a man.

Morpheus and his dramatic ares, like he has Desire in his family, yet he is the dramatic one. Poor Lucienne asked her Lord to clarify what exactly he meant because that topic could open a whole new can of worms which would definitely traumatize her.

And Jessamy was beyond exhausted. Morpheus had sent her to the path in which the incident happened every night for the past two weeks to see if the assailant would return but nothing.

Morpheus was getting angrier by the second. “How could a mere mortal disappear without a single trace!!” “My lord, if I may” “What, Lucienne!?” “What if the person isn’t mortal? Could they be a god or perhaps another deity?”

Morpheus sank down into his throne and placed his hand on his frustrated temple. Through gritted teeth, he spoke, “No, I do not believe this was the work of another god or deity! I would have recognized them and them me. So they have to be mortal!” Those words laced with venom. Lucienne looked back at her king; she hadn’t seen him this upset in ages.

“I shall return to my Library and see what I find” “Very well then. Go.” With that, Lucienne headed towards the door when she stopped.

“My Lord?” “Yes?” She turned around and walked toward the king. “You said you didn’t recognize the mortal correct?” “Yes, but I do not see what that has to do with anythi—“ “Exactly, how is it possible for you not to know the person? When all humans dream and when they dream, their stories and themselves end up here.”

How did he not realize that? It didn’t click in the moment, but when he saw you, his mind went blank. Who were you? He knew every mortal who has ever lived, but you, there was nothing. Lucienne looked at her king for an answer but could see nothing. “You are right, Lucienne; it had never occurred to me to question my knowledge of this particular mortal. You may go. I need to take care of something.” “Of course, my lord.”

With that, Lucienne left smugly to her library, knowing in truth that she was right and Morpheus had been going about this all wrong.

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The gardens were beautiful this season. Since winter is nearing its end, spring is coming to welcome the world with new harvests and brighter days. The air was still crisp. But flowers were starting to be seen in the fields. Whenever spring came, it brought you comfort. You remembered the stories your father would tell you when you were a child, you remembered the way you and your siblings would listen, imagining what it would be like to be part of those stories.

Oh, how you missed those days. The days before worry, the days before all the war, betrayal, and bloodshed. The days in which escaping reality was still possible, now when you close your eyes, you see all the pain and devastation that has become you. You see a broken version of the person you used to be, a version of yourself that not even you recognize not unless you’re in the warm embrace of darkness drenched in its acceptance of the monster you truly are.

Was there a time before this? Something you’ve asked yourself for a long time, or do parents hide it from their children so they may sleep better at night? You guess it’s both, and the stories of old remind you of this. You know of all the gods of old and new, but you always took a liking to the Greeks.

Their stories captivated you the most. Even as a child, you would always find their stories compelling. The Egyptians were terrific, Nordic fascinating, everything having to do with folklore was your muse, and you, its willing teller.

The change of the season was one of your favorite stories, one filled with woe and a tragical romance and all. You were just happy to see Demeter bringing life back to the earth so her daughter may run free through the fields until the next season begins.

You and Lord Gadling had been there for quite some time. The sun was starting to set, but you and he had not realized how much you enjoyed the other company.

You, compared to his pale, ravened haired friend, were like fresh air in the midst of plague. He finally had someone that could relate to being immortal, what the pain and tragedy brought, but also relish on the good and prosperity that came with it. It also helped that he found you attractive, not that he would say it to your face, maybe in his dreams, but you were a beauty to behold.

The man in front of you was fascinating. How could one live so long and keep all the good with them? How can someone cling to life so much? But you knew the answer. His humanity. That’s what made everything so grand for him, and you were happy for him, granted jealous but happy. He had not seen the true reflection of humanity, he had not seen the atrocities created in the name of man, and for that, you were envious.

You hadn’t realized you were staring at the man until he called you out. He cleared his throat; you shook your head to get rid of your thoughts. “Ser Drakos? Did you hear what I asked?” Oh, no, had you really not heard a thing? “I’m sorry, Lord Gadling, I didn’t hear a thing.” “May I say something?” “Of course” “I don’t want to sound rude, but it seems as though you get lost in your head a lot” You opened your mouth to say something but no words came out. It took you a moment until you spoke once more, “You’ve noticed that,” you said, looking at him. He slightly nods his head. “I find comfort in it; there are so many thoughts, so many ideas, so many stories waiting to be told that I lose touch with reality.” You took a deep breath and turned to look at the horizon. “I understand what it’s like to be lost inside your head it's - its” “Liberating” “Yes, liberating” You turned back to look at him. The sky had turned a shade of pastel, and he glowed in it.

She turned to look at me; she looked into my eyes, and I hers. I felt safe, I felt a connection, and this lighting made her look like one of those paintings of old; she was ethereal. I hadn’t noticed how close were where to each other until I could feel her breath on my face. My heart was pounding out of my chest. I wonder if she could hear it.

You two were so close you didn’t realize this until you could feel his breath on your face. It’s as though the rest of the world went quiet, but in this quiet, you could hear his heart beating out of his chest, his breathing becoming more erratic, and before anything could happen between the two of you, a certain someone more like someones came barging in.

The doors open from behind you, and you hear, “Ser Drakos, I was wondering if you wanted —” Shit! You and Lord Gadling shuffled back so fast that it looked like an unknown force pulled you two apart. You cleared your throat and looked at the two. “We apologize, Ser Drakos; we didn’t mean to interrupt” “No! No, it’s quite alright! You haven’t interrupted anything, Lord Baylos. What were you going to say, Ser Cole?” “Oh, I was wondering if you wanted to head back now unless there is something else you have to tend to?”

Ser Criston Cole and Lord Baylos looked between the both of you. “Um,” you looked back at Lord Gadling with pleading eyes, which he reciprocated. “No. I was just about to leave and find you two.” You said, looking at the two. “Well, Lord Gadling, It's been a pleasure!” You said turing to look at him, and he looked at you “ Pleasure is all mine.” He said with a smile. You bowed your head a bit, and he did the same. “Have a wonderful evening” “and you.” You walked up and gave him a kiss on the cheek, and left.

Ser Cole handed you your cloak, and they just stood there as you walked ahead of them. Lord Gadling was a bit flushed, and Ser Cole and Lord Baylos were taken back. You broke their train of thought. “Come now, boys, haven’t you heard? Much has changed since I was last here; the roads are dangerous! We must hurry if we want to make it back with our lives,” you snickered at them. Ser Cole and Lord Baylos turned from Lord Gadling, giving a small bow, and walked behind you.

You arrived at the stables where you horses where you mounted yours and them there's and off you three went. You were near the path from a fortnight ago when Ser Cole spoke, “That was one time when are you going to forget” You turned to your right, “Only when it stops being so dangerous!” You said with mockery. Your silly banter was broken by Lord Baylos on your left. “So you and Lord Gadling then?” “Huh, no, nothing has happened between us; he’s just a friend” “Hmm..,” he said with much uncertainty. You three started laughing when you reached the place you swallowed a handful of feathers. You swore you're still coughing them up. The two men saw your change. You sat straighter, more attentive, more alert. Ser Cole spoke, “Is something the matter?” “I’m not quite sure,” You said, stopping your horse and walking towards the bag of gold that was still there.

But you felt uneasy; you felt as though the man was watching you; Ser Cole and Lord Baylos stopped right next to you. “What is it Ser Drakos?” The older of the men said. “Nothing, I hope, but when I arrived, I passed through here and gave this man this pouch of gold as payment for almost running him over.” “Then what's the problem?” “The gold. It’s still here,” You said, putting it back in your pocket before remounting your horse. “We should go; the night is growing darker.” He was right. It was time to leave, but why wouldn’t the man take the gold? “Your right. We should leave.” You three road off when a certain raven who was standing watch started to follow you.

You three arrived at your estate. The men were about to ride off when you stopped them. “I believe you two should stay at least for the night.” “No need to worry about us” “I know, but as you said, there is much danger around these parts, and what kind of a friend would I be if I didn’t offer a room, food, and drinks? Plus, who would I have to banter with if you both are dead?” “Very well then, we accept.” You smiled and headed towards the stables and then inside.

The men admired your home. It was grand, yes, but different from other manors they had seen. It felt safe somewhere familiar but all too foreign, much like you. The men ate and drank. You and your siblings, well, the ones at the manor, listened and told stories while Henrik prepared the rooms. But something didn’t feel right, but what? Something felt out of place, as though you were being watched, but you tried to brush it off by convincing yourself that it was probably paranoia.

Everyone retired to their chambers, bidding everyone goodnight before heading towards tour own chambers. It has been a long day; you took a bath, then changed into a comfortable pair of trousers and blouse and readied for sleep with that same eerie feeling. You started reading, then slowly drifted off to sleep.

Back in the Dreaming, Lucienne had somehow convinced Lord Morpheus to take a break from his planning and take a walk through Fiddlers Green, so he did. It was claiming to say the least.

Meanwhile, Jessamy watched you from your window sleeping, so she decided it was the perfect time to go and alert her master. She flew back to the dreaming and found Lucienne.

“Ah, Jessamy, your back. Anything to report?” she squawked. “Yes, I need an audience with the King! Where is he?” “He’s in Fiddlers Green. Did you find them?” “I can’t say for certain, but I believe I have” With that, Lucienne told her to hurry. Morpheus was walking through his garden admiring his work when he saw his raven frantically looking for him. “Jessamy, do you have anything for me?” she squawked. “Yes, I believe I’ve found them.”

With that, everything changed. The dreaming turned dark, and his majesty looked colder. Before Jessamy could say anything else, her king interrupted, “Take me to them.” It wasn’t a request; it was a demand, one she couldn’t refuse. Morpheus went back to the palace to retrieve his helm and his sand, but before he used them, Jessamy spoke once more, “There is something you should know” “What is it?” Before Jessamy could say anything, Lucienne barged in. “I’m sorry, My lord, but I’ve searched for the name Jessamy told me, and there's nothing on Ser Drakos or the name Drakos at all. No record, no nothing; it’s as though they don’t exist in the dreaming,” she said, looking at her majesty with concern.

He looked at her and said, “Jessamy has found their location. We will return shortly; could you look for more information?” “Of course, my lord, best of luck!” She left the room, and with that, Morpheus threw the sand in the air to be consumed in it before appearing in front of the Manor, your manor.

Something felt off about this manor. He followed his raven towards the back and towards what he could assume was your window, but he felt nothing. This was odd. He felt people dreaming, but it wasn’t coming from your side. It was coming from a few windows down; with that, he entered those dreamers' minds.

The first was Ser Cristion Cole; he was dreaming of what most soldiers dream of a quiet and pleasant life, one filled with music and small children running around, his children, while his wife takes care of the youngest and he teaches the older ones a girl and boy how to wield a sword, which was too big and too heavy for them.

Morpheus couldn’t help but smile at this, but he felt a sting in his heart. Oh, how he wished he could have what this soldier so desperately dreams of but alas, the fates have other plans. He exits Ser Criston Cole’s dream by using his door, which resembles that of a palace door, only to find himself in the manor's corridor where he felt the second dreamer.

This dream belonged to Lord Breker Baylos. His dreams were simple but out of his reach. Lord Baylos dreamed of his wife and kids. This was normal, but Lord Baylos dreamt of them of a time before disaster, before the plague came and took them. Death had taken them, weighing heavy on his mortal heart. That is what Lord Baylos dreamt of a time when he, his wife, son, and daughter could run free in a field together. This broke the king of dreams and nightmares' heart. He knew this pain all too well and knew how hard this could be, so Morpheus decided it was time to leave not before summoning the most majestic of his animals to keep the children entertained. Morpheus saw their little reactions and affection towards them and couldn’t help but smile. He caught himself before returning to the stoic expression that remains permanent on his face.

He slowly closes the door behind him and heads towards your door, but something is different: the manor doesn’t sit right with him. He was going to touch the doorknob when he felt heat run through his veins, which he ignored, and the door opened. Morpheus felt heavier the moment he took one step into the room.

His breathing became deeper; he felt as though he was suffocating, his vision started to blur, and the pressure was too much. He felt as though his head would explode, and he fell to his knees. Hands-on his helm, trying to alleviate the pain to no avail. The veins on his forehead were starting to show.

It was Torcher, a slow and painful one. Not being able to form any coherent thoughts, he failed to notice when you woke up. The minute the door opened, you felt uneasy. It wasn’t uncommon for people to barge into your room unannounced, but it was usually people you knew. Your siblings, friends, and lovers. But this felt different. Unfamiliar but familiar. Known but unknown. Who or what was it?

You decided to stay still until the thing came close enough for you to attack. You let it enter, but you heard a thud, and you carefully slipped away from your bed. The room was dark. The only light that could be seen was from the windows. The windows allowed for the moon to cascade over you so whilst you slept, she could keep you in her loving embrace, and when the morning came, the sun would take you in theirs.

Morpheus couldn’t take it anymore. He could feel all the nerves in his body exploding at once. Jessamy was watching everything unfold from the tree out of your window. When she was Morpheus fell to his knees, she knew something was wrong. She began to panic, so she started flying up to the window and pecking her beak on the glass.

You were watching everything unfold. You stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. Was this actually happening? Was someone really that stupid to enter your home uninvited? It was amusing to you. The man thought; otherwise, you could hear his heart pounding out of his chest. He felt as though he was about to explode. After a few moments, you noticed something else, the bird at your window. You’ve seen it before, but you couldn’t tell from where and the man on the floor looked all too familiar, but where?

The strange man was starting from what could hear turning red from the lack of oxygen. He looked towards the window and then at you. You could tell he wanted to say something but couldn’t muster the words, so you said them for him. You stalked behind him whilst he was doubled over in pain; carefully, you grabbed your discarded sword from the chair you placed it on earlier. As if not to startle the thing, you crept behind it and took the hilt of your sword, and landed a mighty blow on the back of its head. The being went limp, and that's when you said, “You may enter.”

Everything stopped. There was no more pain, no more ear-bleeding noise; it was quiet. Morpheus was so distracted by the noise by the pain that he paid no mind to the person in the room or Jessamy at the window. He wanted to rid himself of everything that he failed to notice the other person in the room moving about. Jessamy, on the other hand, was quite aware of the situation, becoming more frantic with her taps. It wasn’t until there was a loud thud did Jessamy realize what happened. Her master was out cold on the ground, his assailant's sword in hand, and she could do nothing but watch. Jessamy decided to find a way in, but how and where?

What in the heavens is happing? You questioned. You stepped away from the man and put your sword on the table next to you. Before you could do anything, there was a knock on your door. Your attention shifted when the person spoke. “Ser Drakos? Is everything alright in there?” Dear Lord! “Ser Drakos, we heard a noise. Are you alright?” You looked at the unconscious man on the floor and then at your door. “Yes, everything is alright in here, Ser Cole and Lord Baylos; I couldn’t sleep, so I was making a few rearrangements. I apologize for waking you.” The men weren’t at all convinced, but who were they to question their host? They said good nights, and off they went back to their rooms to embrace sleep once more.

You waited to hear them go back and make sure they had left before doing anything else. You heard their chamber doors close and let out a breath of relief. Now time to deal with this monstrosity. The thing was out cold but still breathing from what you could hear, a strong heart which in any other situation would excite you, but right now, you had to remove this thing from your quarters. Jessamy, on the other hand, was beyond stressed. She found no way into the manor, and if there was, it was well covered. She was too busy trying to save her master trapped inside the manor that she didn’t realize what was happening inside,

You looked towards your window as to where a bird was, but it was no longer there. Odd is what you thought, but this day has been filled with surprises. You stepped over the being on the ground to a secret door on the opposite side of your room. You moved your dresser around a bit, careful not to alert anyone, and opened the door that led to a secret passageway out of the manor. In moments like these, you thank its previous paranoic, whorish owners for installing. With that, you walked back toward the unconscious man and picked him up to put over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You moved your arm a bit to make it more comfortable to carry, but mate, you thought to yourself, how is a being of this nature so light? You've carried children that weigh more, but you shrugged off that thought and headed towards the passageway. Before entering, you grabbed a candle and walked through the door while closing the door behind you.

You walked through the passageways, which led to many other places in the manor. Some of the passages led to chambers, some to the dining hall, the library, kitchen, painting/drawing room, attic, music room, the main corridor, cellar, outside, the stables, and many other rooms hidden deep within the walls of the manor which hide the most tragic and horrific stories far beyond any mans greatest nightmare.

You were walking down the stairs through the passageway which led to the stables. This was perfect; it was far enough from those who slept in the manor not to hear anything and gave you enough time to hide the body if necessary in the woods out back. With a few twists and turns, you arrived. Carefully opening the doors as if not to disturb the horses, you put the candle down and dropped the man to the ground with a slight thud. A small grone could be heard, but you paid no mind.

You stood there for a moment, assessing your options, but first, you needed to know what was under the strange mask. You went to take off his helm, which resembles that of a plague doctor's mask. Slowly and carefully, you slid it off; he looked pale, sickly, and cold. You turned to place the mask on the table and turned back to the man. You touched his pulse; he’s still alive yet is as cold as death. There was still frost in the air from winter, but the sun now warmed the land a bit more.

You almost felt sorry for what you were about to do, almost. You pulled a stool that was near the table and helped the man up from the ground. He was starting to regain consciousness but not to your liking, so you walked with the man using your shoulder for stability towards a large barrel of water which is used to clean the horses and grabbed the man by the hair on the back of his head and shoved it into the frigid water. You waited a couple of seconds, let him come for air, and dumped his head back in. You repeated this about six more times until he fully awoke.

Before Morpheus could fully realize what was happening, he felt a strong fore grab onto his hair and force him down into freezing cold water. What in the waking world was going on? Before he could do anything, he felt his head being lifted and then put back for what felt like an eternity. After you felt the man start to fight back, you pushed more like flung his back onto the floor.

To say this man was dumbfounded was an understatement; I mean, who would dare do such a thing? He saw as you moved from the barrel towards him. At this moment, you towered over him; all he could do was stare at you. A stare that would be embedded into your memory. You've seen this before, you know this man, and he knows you. The man whom you almost ran over. The mysterious rider who tried to kill me and my raven.

You both looked at each other, one with disbelief and the other with hatred mixed with confusion, but why? Why is this man here? You gave him a chance to remedy the situation with gold once before, but if he found you, surely they could too. So why let him live? He thought of a similar plan. This wretched being has caused more damage than they will ever know. They have gone unpunished for long enough! Get ready little one, for this is only the beginning.

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A/N: Hello! As promised, here is the compiled version of part three of the series. I finally was able to sit and finish. Hopefully, I will start to write part four sometime this week; if not, then next. We have a bit of drama and a bit of filtration going on; I mean, we don't know much about Ser Drakos (Drakos being her last name), but she has people attracted to her. Let's see what the next part will bring!

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ariel-seagull-wings · 10 months

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KEVIN ‘KEV’ TANAKA (IDW GHOSTBUSTERS COMICS)

@moonbeamelf @bixiebeet @spengnitzed @professorlehnsherr-almashy @angelixgutz @amalthea9

“Kevin Tanaka (also known as Kev) is the latest member of the Ghostbusters' New York branch support staff. Kevin is visually based on Ghostbusters Wiki administrator User:Mrmichaelt and his name name appears to be a nod to the male secretary of the same first name in the 2016 movie Ghostbusters: Answer the Call.”

“It's no secret that you love the ongoing IDW Ghostbusters series. What elements are you looking forward to continuing in the next year or two? What are your feelings on Kevin Tanaka?

It has its moments. I'm really conflicted about what I want to see. On one hand, I'm very eager to see the Ghostbusters go up against these Predators that Tiamat talked about in the Crossing Over maxi-series and will Ray figure out a way to safely remove Jenny Moran from the Containment Unit? I'm wondering if 2021 is finally the year Erik Burnham fulfills a promise to Dan to do a Christmas annual featuring Krampus. Or will Chi-You, Rodefhiri or the Sandman return to exact revenge? Could there be surprise returns by gods like Hel or Aibell, could be. Will Special Agent Holtzmann finally make her debut? And last but not least, there's my, I guess, unhealthy love for the Chicago Ghostbusters. I'm always down to see more of them. Of course, there's the white elephant in the room with Afterlife. I wouldn't object to seeing the comic integrate the gunner seat into Ecto-1. I can see Ray doing it just because it would be fun, not for any strategic reasons during a bust on the go.

On the other hand, I ended up really loving the Year One mini-series after some initial concerns that it could be too revisionist and hurt the movie canon. That anecdote of when Ray and Egon first met was really special and is in my top 3 favorite moments of the overall comic series since Erik took over as the writer. I'd kill to see more of Year One as there's so many other things they could explore in year one. They only explored the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the surge in calls they dealt with after catching Slimer. They could go explore when Peter and Ray first met. They could do a longer Janine story similar to Winston's issue and expanding on that 2 parter in Volume 2. Heck, they could do a Year Six or Seven mini-series set during/after the events of Ghostbusters II. They could do a Year Nine about the IDW canon's version of Ghostbusters: The Video Game. The possibilities are endless. Year One also satisfied my hope to see the series get back to basics so to speak and get away from the crossovers. I get the crossovers are IDW's bread and butter and they've saved the Ghostbusters comics over the years but I was burnt out on them and no real desire to see another one even though it's been almost a year since the finale of the most recent one, the Transformers one (sorry Erik!).

Kevin. Tanaka. Y'know, I still can't believe that happened. I'm just some dude that spends way too much time on a wiki. To be acknowledged like that and become a part of canon is both humbling and mind boggling. I didn't know that was going to happen. It was a complete surprise. Dan just asked me for a reference photo out of the blue. I figured I would be for a hard to see face in a crowd. Then Ghostbusters International #3 was about to come out. You [Devilmanozzy] sent me an email while you were going over the preview pages. I was intrigued and wanted to know what you were being so cryptic about. I got a panel! And Ghostbusters International #4 came out and I think my soul left its body temporarily when it was apparent Kevin would be a recurring character. I love Kevin, but he's an ideal version of me at best. It's scary how close his dialogue is to how I talk. I never told Erik this. But in that issue when he meets the ATC team and Erin flips out on Kevin and Kevin quips he gets by, I had a very similar experience of being mistaken for a different Michael but in a bar really close to when that issue came out in stores and I was weirded out. Or Dan, he only had like two reference photos of me and it was amazing yet again scary how close he got to making Kevin look like me. Not even considering my connection to Kevin, the backstory of his handicap and firefighter family was really intriguing. His love of Boston sports not so much.

(...)

I'd never beg Erik for it, but it would be cool if someday PCOC signs off on letting Kevin use the ghostbusting equipment. More so since Janine is now part of the machine.”

#ghostbusters #idw ghostbusters #comic books

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glaivenoct · 2 years

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!!!! how would the "i never felt abandoned" line translate over for nyxnoct sandman au? also any ideas for the other endless?

(The first NyxNoct Sandman AU ask) for anyone interested!

"How?" Noct would ask when they're still sitting on those crumbled steps together. "All those years without a word or sign of me. How did you have the heart to stay when others fled?"

"Others began to feel abandoned. I never did. Not to overstep, but," Nyx will look at him slowly, and Noctis' eyes will flick down quickly to pretend that he hasn't been staring at Nyx deeply this whole time, "I know your heart, Noctis." Fine fine fine, Noct will look at him again. "I know the care you put into this realm and for the people in it. You would never abandon it so carelessly or without reason. If you did, there would be nothing left. Not even these ruins before us. I held onto that. Told myself to keep going if I wanted to see the day you returned."

Noct will be silent for a minute, because again, the sentiment. I think the sentiment Nyx shares here might be a level that he's never really expressed. At least not so vulnerably or verbally. And then -

"Your perseverance is admirable, Dear Knight. I can't help but feel I'm in your debt."

"You owe me nothing. Besides," Nyx will lean back on the steps, relaxing and taking a breath, a crooked smile as he looks at Noct once more and, "it was worth the wait."

helllpppp, I love them ;u;

As for the other Endless, I'm going off of the ones I've seen in the show so far. I never read the comics before, and a quick google search tells me there's 7 altogether :o

For Death, maybe that could be Luna? Might sound funny given she's literally the whole white mage healer deal. But! I think the way Death really loves and takes pride/care in her work, and has this calming way with people are qualities that go well with Luna. And if Death is one of the siblings Dream really confides in and he values her insight so much? I'm here for it even more, give me big sis Luna for Noct to look up to!!

For Desire - Ok idk if this is gonna sound weird either! But I feel like if anyone from XV could match their energy, I think it'd be Loqi lol. I know he's barely even in the game but.. akdjsfkd I dunno!! Out of everyone else, I can just see him being the sibling that has some fuckery up his sleeve to derail/destroy Noct. Give me that scene of Noct pinning Loqi down in the AC Festival DLC but with much higher stakes and full on animosity lol.

For Despair - HMMM I'm actually stumped on that one lol. Not sure who would be a good pick to match that energy. Another excuse for a rewatch lol even tho Despair only has like two short appearances in the show so far.. am I remembering that correctly?? Idk!! But need to rewatch for sure lol.

If you have any other ideas or suggestions I'm totally open to them! :D

#nyxnoct asks #nyxnoct

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10moonymhrivertam · 2 years

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Hey this is a wild mishmash of comic!Sandman, TV!Sandman, and TV!Lucifer but I Had To (have fun spotting what is poorly meshing canon and what is just me not having read the comics in 8 years djdjdj)

Also, unedited straight from my phone notes because I Need To Share

Comics spoilers ahead!!

Lucifer-typical violence, discussions of familial death

Dream felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin. He’d just been trying to be nice - he had no idea how things usually worked on his sister’s days off, but clearly most souls found their own way to the Sunless Lands. He’d only wanted to sit with the girl until she felt brave enough to make the journey.

He hadn’t accounted for the assumptions the police would make, nor the fact that trying to watch his nephew made it much less of an option to simply slip into the Dreaming at the first sign of trouble. When he’d realized his sand was to be taken from him, he had been - well, not as rational as he would’ve liked, and had compounded his trouble by fighting the officer for it. Being surrounded by his own reflection since had not helped, although as long as he didn’t meet his own eyes, it was - easier than it might’ve been if he hadn’t lost Morpheus.

He fixed his gaze on his hands on the tabletop, just to be safe, picking at his sleeves. He was tempted to slip into the dreamscape of someone who had fallen asleep at their desk, but he knew Jed was still in another of these rooms or at the front desk, and his own comfort wasn’t a good enough reason to leave him behind. He looked up as the door opened to admit who must have been a detective and -

Dream’s hands curled into fists. Morpheus may have been on his path for a good while, but Dream had found in the time since that he resented being cornered into the choice, and there was an argument to be made that being given the key had been the point of no return. (Perhaps the real point of no return had been Jessamy’s death; perhaps he’d always had the option of turning back until Orpheus had asked his help. But to hold a grudge in Lucifer and Desire’s directions for a few centuries was oh-so-easy.)

“I’m Detective Chloe Decker. This is my partner, Lucifer.” She took a seat across from him. “Could you tell me why you chose to sit down in the middle of a crime scene like that? Especially with how upset you were making that kid?” There was a slight edge to the last question, but she seemed willing enough to listen. Still, he’d seen enough nightmares to know how the tide could change. And it would be so easy to do what Morpheus had done when faced with a situation where there *was* no right answer. But - silence would only guarantee his continued separation from Jed, and the boy had been through more than enough.

“I only meant it to be a vigil, of a sort. I don’t quite have the temperament to make it work like my big sister.” He found it in himself to flash a smile. “My nephew doesn’t know either of us very well, yet, and I’m afraid I didn’t stop to explain to him.”

“If you don’t know your nephew very well, why is he with you?” Detective Decker folded her hands on the table.

“My niece was insistent she get to know us outside the context of a wake.” This smile was thinner, but it took on a mean edge when he saw Lucifer shift in his seat. “She’s his guardian.”

“Where is she?”

“There are a few places she might be,” Dream remarked, sitting back. “Jed was the one who chose Hollywood for the trip, but Rose did most of the research. I was taking Jed back to the hotel because the next thing on the itinerary was Lux.” Dream leveled a look at Lucifer. Chloe’s eyebrows shot up and she turned to him.

“Do you two know each other?”

“Well, he didn’t exactly volunteer it, either,” Lucifer protested. “Is it just you and your elder sister in town?”

Dream nearly rolled his eyes. “She met us *all* at the wake, Morningstar. It’s everyone but your good friend.” That was a bit more contempt than he thought he had in him, which might be something he needed to look into.

“My, my, what did Desire ever do to you?”

“I hope you’re trying to be funny.”

“Hey.” Detective Decker held up a hand. “How long ago did you and your siblings split up?”

“We split up after a film; I wasn’t interested in getting near Lux. We were all walking. I wasn’t tracking the time.”

“So, no good for an alibi, then?” Lucifer asked cheerfully.

“Not unless Destiny’s word would do, no. Morningstar, you’d do well not to mistake me for a better person than I was a year ago.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Before Dream could bristle, Lucifer had leaned forward. “What do you desire, Daniel Hall?”

Lucifer jumped back as Dream lunged. Detective Decker yelled.

“I have broken no rules, Lucifer Morningstar. My sibling’s powers, my sibling’s borrowed powers, hold no sway over me.” The stars in his eyes burned and burst. “But since you are so desperate to know, I will tell you. I would like to tear you both to pieces for putting everyone around Morpheus through that. I would like to send Linda Martin a nightmare to remind you what I am capable of.” Lucifer’s eyes burned and he snarled. “I would like to get Jed home, I would like my pouch returned, and I would like to return to Matthew. Does that satisfy you, Morningstar?”

“Sit down!” Detective Decker barked, standing between them and holding up her hands. “Shut up, and sit down!”

Dream sank back into his chair, bowing his head. He should’ve kept his temper better. He might have to do something complicated, now, to get his sand and his nephew back. He heard Lucifer sit down, too.

“What the hell was that?” The detective asked, steel in her voice. Dream glanced up to see she was glaring at Lucifer. That was good, because he couldn’t excuse the threat he had made against her friend.

“That was…both of us being out of line.” Dream looked up to glare, but he went unnoticed.

“What happened with the mojo?”

“One of his siblings can do the same, I’m afraid the whole family is immune.”

“What did you do to his friend?”

“Stuck him with the key to Hell when I left.” Chloe Decker rolled her eyes, which was interesting but not necessarily a surprise. Her dreams were alternately entertaining the truth, or Lucifer’s ‘lies’ finally crumbling around him and revealing whoever he really was. “It worked itself out.”

“As I recall, Amenadiel wasn’t happy about ending up with it, either.”

“It’s the key to Hell, no one’s going to be happy with it. If you didn’t want it, perhaps you should’ve played the game more carefully.”

Really? Really? All because he had won the challenge that had arguably been in Lucifer’s favor? “Perhaps you should’ve changed the circumstances of the game.”

“There were rules to be followed, Dream.”

“I am not the one who summoned the audience,” he said pointedly.

“Well, you’ve summoned this audience; care to tell us a little about Roderick Burgess?” Lucifer shot back. Dream was tempted to leap across the table again. On the other hand, he could take the point - every demon present would’ve known his remark about Hell’s power was directed just as much at its first resident as its human ones. He swallowed back his reaction, his eyes flickering toward the mirror and then quickly away.

“You.” Dream glanced up to find the Detective was now addressing him. “You know Dr. Martin?”

“I know she knows Lucifer.” He knew she feared light and divinity, feared an unscrupulous past come to catch up to her when she received Death’s gift.

Detective Decker gave him a narrow-eyed look, but apparently decided to set that train of thought aside.

“What’s so special about this pouch?”

He was, unfortunately, saved from choosing between the vulnerable answer (that he was uncomfortable having it taken from him) and the unwise answer (that he wanted to keep them all safe from what had happened to Rachel Moodie).

“The pouch he punched Detective Douche over? The one he let be taken from him again, that pouch?”

“Shall I ask my sister if Uriel left any messages for you?” This time Dream was the one who had to leap back, and the Detective began shouting once more. She tried to hold Lucifer back, and Dream suspected he would normally allow it, but they were each fighting below the belt. The room was small, and there were only so many places he could go without slipping into the Dreaming. It was not exactly pleasant to be slammed into the wall, an arm against his throat, but he had nothing to be wary of, at the moment.

“Have you named them? Those new flowers?” Lucifer snarled, his eyes burning.

“It was what he asked of me,” Dream rasped. His true failure was millennia old, and it still ached, but he’d had more distance than Lucifer, and he would damn well use that.

“Lucifer - Lucifer!” They both became aware of the Detective tugging at Lucifer’s arm. “Let him go. Now!”

Dream caught himself on the wall to avoid completely crumpling. He tugged at his turtle neck, pulling it down and away. He wished it was only a show for sympathy, but this aspect seemed to carry this sort of thing with more reality than Morpheus - likely due to the fact that Morpheus hadn’t exactly had time to truly resolve his issues after Burgess, and the nagging flicker of humanity now at his core.

The Detective had pulled Lucifer across the room. He was standing with his head bowed and his hands shaking. He didn’t seem to hear whatever she was hissing to him.

#I just really wanted to write Dream loathing him #I’m pretty sure Dream is at least 50% more mature about it all in the comics #but I felt like giving him Rage #the sandman #lucifer #crossover fic #writing #fanfic

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iphigeniacomplex · 1 year

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voice asks, 13!!

13: i'll talk about my favorite character

[transcript: so i've answered this question like a ton of times, i have a lot of recordings of me answering this question in my little, um, recordings app, but, um, i keep getting off-topic because i love this character so much, but i'm going to be talking about delirium of the endless from the sandman. so the sandman is this 1980s comics series written by neil gaiman, um, notably the covers were done by dave mckean, who also did the art for arkham asylum: a serious house on serious earth, which is really...really spectacular. um, one of the first batman comics i ever read, uh, perhaps a bit unfortunately. um, but sandman is commonly thought of as a vertigo comic because it was published by vertigo starting with issue 47 (i have the wikipedia page open, i am cheating), um, but, uh, so in sandman there are these beings known as the endless. they're these metaphysical beings, um, made anthropomorphic, uh, and they are--the main character is dream, um, who rules over the realms of sleep and waking, and there's also destiny, death, desire, despair, destruction, and delirium, who used to be delight, and delirium is who i'm going to be talking about.] IT GETS LONGER. STRAP IN.

[transcript, continued: so, um, she is the youngest endless, despite the endless being "older than suns", as the comic says, older than god, older than gods, older than religion and belief and faith, older than the world and the concept of the world and the concept of time and will live past the concept of time as well, um, despite that, delirium is the youngest sister and is treated accordingly. um, she rules over the realms of sanity and insanity, reality and unreality; she's able to warp reality when she pleases, um, or sometimes when she's just feeling an emotion quite strongly. she, um, changes appearance pretty frequently, like every panel she looks kind of different, but in a way that's made clear to be very intentional, um, the only thing that remains the same are her eyes, which are heterochromatic, um, described in the comics as, um, one is emerald green, and one is "vein blue", um, which, i love that. vein blue. um, but so she used to be delight, as i've mentioned, and something unspeakably traumatic happened to her, and i say "unspeakably" because we don't actually know what it was, but something unspeakably traumatic happened to her that turned her into delirium. um, and throughout the comics we do get hints of what this...trauma may be---she doesn't like to be touched, she doesn't like people hitting on her, um, one person who hits on her she makes him, um, see things that aren't there for the rest of his life, and so we think we have this idea of what happened to her, but i think sandman does something that is so interesting in that ... um, she talks to her brother destiny at one point, um, destiny knows everything that's happened in the world because he's destiny, um, and she says, uh, "do you know why i stopped being delight, my brother? i do. there are things not in your book. there are paths outside this garden." like, telling the concept of destiny that there are things that are too horrific and too unknowable to ever be encountered by him, um, is just such a singular way to approach trauma in a work, and such an interesting way to do that, too, because you have to think like ... the comic does this thing where it tricks you into anthropomorphizing the characters, like...dream most especially, you think of dream and you're like, "well, he's a guy. like, he's a guy--he's a person!" but he's not, and his morals (or lack thereof) reflect that, because he is literally the concept of dreams. um, and, like, an endless does not have the morality of a person, an endless does not have the constitution of a person, the experiences of an endless are different from the experiences of a person. so you have to think, like, what could happen to the concept of delight that would alter her so much? like, something so terrible that it drove her from sanity. um, and this being someone who can tear apart the fabric of reality and will exist forever and ever. and i think not ever letting us know what happened to her is...a beautiful way to handle that, because, like, it's not our business. it's her story, it's her trauma, and it's not something that can or should or will ever belong to anyone else. it's .... i just, i love delirium so much. um, when she's on-panel, like, she speaks in these speech bubbles that are colorful and wavy and the typing is different, to indicate kind of a rambling type of speech, um, she often, uh, speaks in a very childlike way but also expresses, um, knowledge of things, like, far beyond any other characters in the series, um. like, she seems to know everything and just kind of not really care? and i think that's wonderful. end transcript]

#i could talk forever about her and sandman its flawed but i do have a deep place in my heart for it. shes so important to me #because i relate so deeply to her im nervous to see anyone else play her in the netflix adaptation. and im so real for that. like thats ME.#love letters

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ladykailitha · 2 years

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Let me just preface this by saying anyone can headcanon whatever the fuck they want. Your head, your universe. You can have the hottest of takes to the weirdest of theories. Do you. Love that for you.

But there are takes that I just want to shake the person and ask if they watched the same show as me. Where the headcanon is so out there that I can't fathom how the person got there.

Take the Sandman for example. Tom Sturridge has chemistry with almost everyone in the cast. From the natural ship notes of Johanna, Calliope, and even Hob. To the slightly out there like John Dee, Lucifer Morningstar and even the Corinthian. To the completely out there Death and Desire (they're siblings and even the actors who play those characters think that's gross, but again do you.)

But to look at Tom's Morpheus and say nope he doesn't experience sexual or romantic attraction just blows my mind. He practically exudes sex appeal. He's shown in two romantic relationships on screen. Nada and Calliope. He has a son. I know not every ace or aro is sex repulsed and that's possible.

And I know that a lot of this comes from people that haven't read the comics and can only base their theories on what they seen in the show. But in the comics all his lovers have said that he is an attentive and worshipful lover in and out of bed. He loves with all his being. Every time. He doesn't hold back with his lovers.

Which to be fair is why they don't last. Having that intensity all the time can't be easy if you don't feel the same. Which is why I think he last the longest with Calliope because she did love him just as much. She just wanted to change him and it was that failing that caused her to chose her son, Orpheus over him.

So yeah. I don't know. I've decided to do the smart thing and just block and blacklist any theory that upsets me like this. And no, that's not being rude or limiting. It's healthy. I'm setting my boundary, this and no further. But I still wanted to rant about it a bit before I go scorched earth and hopefully never see that particular take again. ;)

#ladykailtiha writes

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scifrey · 1 year

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Keepsakes: A Waster

Status: Ongoing Ficlet collection; unbeta’d

Series: the Hob Adherent series

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse (including the Good Omens and Lucifer television shows), but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Mature-ish.

Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death. Some sexytimes. Some whomp and hurt/comfort.

Relationships: Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Lyta Hall, Jed Walker, Daniel Hall, Rose Walker

Summary: Short ficlets set in the Hob Adherent world, based on prompts received from readers. Feel free to DM me or leave prompts in the comments, and if it resonates with me, I may write up a ficlet! Thank you for the inspiration in advance.

Set about five years post-Cling Fast.

READ ON AO3 OR READ BELOW:

A Waster

Inspired by a prompt from @theotherwillow on Tumblr.

It makes poetic sense that Jed Walker’s first summer job is at a Ren Faire in upstate New York. Being the grandson of the anthropomorphic personification of Desire, and nephew besides to the Prince of Stories, at sixteen years old he is both engaging enough to play a minor squire in the faux King’s court (with a little bit of daily story to carry for the visitors), and handsome enough that he has a small gaggle of heart-eyed tweens of all genders following him around like ducklings.

“Think we should go rescue him?” Hob asks, nudging his husband with his elbow. They’re leaning against the fencing of the tiltyard, within which Jed himself is busily arming a knight for the afternoon’s jousting demonstration. Blocking the gate in the fence itself, Jed’s fanclub is sighing and hollering at him in turns.

“And ruin his fun?” Morph asks, readjusting his grip on Daniel’s ankles. “No, I think not.”

Hob laughs, and hands Daniel, the most serious toddler on planet earth, another goldfish cracker. Perched on Morph’s shoulders as he is, Daniel takes it with a dainty curl of his pudgy fingers, and then immediately sprinkles orange dust in Morph’s hair when he crunches into it.

Rose and Lyta are probably walking back from the loos by now, and Hob hopes that Rose has her phone out and is capturing the moment. He doesn’t want to ruin it, or worse, potentially tip Morph off by looking around. Or by pulling out his own phone.

Hob didn’t think he could love his increasingly bizarre and growing found family more than he did when he made his vows to Morpheus, former King of Dreams and Nightmares. After being all alone in the world for seven centuries, being the only one of his kind, the only one who lived down and dirty in the ditches with the other humans yet staring up at the stars and dreaming, the only one who had to leave behind everything he was and everyone he loved over and over again, he was already overwhelmed with gratitude that upon Morph’s retirement, there would be even just one other human in the world like him.

Knowing that there was just one other human being who knew his sorrows and joys, who was as fascinated by humanity as he was and was swiftly learning to be as fascinated with life, made all the things he had to give up and leave behind all the more bearable. The anticipatory grief of a goodbye every handful of decades was weighed against the comfort of knowing that he would not be doing so alone. Hob, like the First Man, finally had his companion (although unlike Eve, Morph was only barely made in man’s image. Even now, he still held himself like a King, still moved like an ethereal creature, and still made love like a delicious nightmare.)

But more than just his companion in eternity, Hob now has, well, an Endless amount of bonus people in his life. People who care about him, and about whom he cares, and who won’t go away. Death may be a mug’s game, but his life, oh life is so much richer, so unbearably, marvelously wonderful now that he has people in it that he won’t have to hide from, or lie to, or bury.

He’s realized that while he’d been not-dying for the last seven hundred years, he is now, finally, living.

Morph’s former siblings, despite no longer being related to Hob’s husband, still consider him their family. And so Hob has sisters again. Brothers. Siblings. And though while he may be the youngest of the bunch (he was the eldest in his family, and has always by default been the oldest person in the room), instead of feeling condescended to or flippantly indulged, or babied, instead he feels included, and cherished, and watched-over.

And his bonus-people extend to more than just the Endless.

Now there are also the two Walkers, and the two Halls.

And the third being who both is Daniel Hall and is not, in the Waking. Who both is Morpheus, and is not any longer in the Dreaming. Who simply is Dream of the Endless, but is not simply anything.

Honestly, the best part of spending time with their honorary nephew Daniel in the Waking is that his little kid brain can’t hold everything that is Dream just yet. Out here, he’s just a kid, albeit a very observant, curious and calm one.

So, luckily, he isn’t sitting on Morph’s shoulders with the knowledge of what Hob looks like naked.

(Yes, that was something Hob worried about. When Morpheus informed him that in transferring all his power and self-ness to the new Dream of the Endless, he was also transferring all of his memories, Hob had needed clarification.

“What good,” Morpheus had asked, “would a Ruler of Humanity’s Dreaming be, if he recalled none of what Morpheus had done or achieved, or regretted, in the last several million years?”

“But, all your memories, including the ones of of me?” Hob had choked. “All of them, all of them?”

“Dream of the Endless is an adult, Hob Gadling,” Morpheus had assured him. “Memories of our fornications will not corrupt him.”

“But Daniel’s a baby!”

“Daniel will not have access to the knowledge or be cognizant that he is Dream until he comes of age. Until then, his Waking mind is separate from his Dreaming one.”

“Yeah, and when he turns twenty-one, or whatever you Endless dream to be ‘of age’, then he’s gonna know, intimately, what it’s like to fuck his uncle Hob!”

Morpheus had considered that and, after a moment, cleared his throat and said. “Perhaps I will not transfer all of my recollections to this new facet.”)

Out on the tiltyard, Jed has completed gearing up his knight. Hob is impressed with the kid’s speed–though he does this several times a day, so he should be well rehearsed by now–and with the quality of gear the actor heaving himself onto the horse is wearing. It’s not correct –nothing that is a historical interpretation can be one-hundred-percent correct–and Hob knows this as both a history professor and historical artifact himself. But it’s close.

The knight delivers a speech to the crowd as Jed walks back to the fence, winking and waving to his adoring audience. Hob misses the gist of the knight’s words, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not here for the story.

“Your hands flex on the fence rails,” Morph points out as the knight takes his mount through a few warm-up paces before the tilt, making sure that everything is laying correctly on both their bodies. “Do you wish it were you on the horse?”

“God, no,” Hob says, and passes Daniel more goldfish to keep said hands occupied. “Just… sense memory, you know? I can’t tell you how many hours I stood just like this, watching the bouts, studying the footwork, or the tactics of my favourite’s opponents, or the scoring. I feel like I should have a penny ale, a beard, and some fleas.”

“I find I am glad you do not,” Morph says, and leans over to press a kiss to Hob’s smooth cheeks.

“No, no, no,” Daniel protests as his own steed moves. “Wanna see.”

“We are not going anywhere, young master Hall,” Morph assures him as he straightens again.

“Did you ever do that?” Lyta asks, coming up beside Hob, and leaning her own arms against the wooden rail.

“Welcome back,” Hob greets, even as Daniel shouts “ Mama!” and pitches himself toward Lyta so fast that Hob has to spin on the spot and pluck the little daredevil out of the air so he doesn’t knock his mother on her arse.

“Thanks,” Lyta laughs as Hob hands her wiggling son off to her.

“Did you?” Rose asks, from her other side, accepting a mushed up goldfish from Daniel’s hand as he offers to share. She pretends to eat it with a “num num num” and drops the cracker flakes on the grass behind her.

“Nah,” Hob says, turning leaning into Morph and turning his eyes back to the knight’s demonstration of some skill-at-arms–namely, getting his lance through very tiny rings hung from posts at a full gallop. The man is scoring more than he’s missing, so he’s doing a decent job. “Wasn’t nobility, was I?”

“You were a knight,” Morpheus reminds him.

“Yeah, but not this kind,” Hob says, sliding his hand into Morph’s back pocket just to hold his husband close. “As soon as I was knighted, I was pretty much also a married man. Which meant no crusades, no warmongering, and at my wife’s insistence, no goofing off of a weekend with extremely sharp sticks for the fun of it.”

“Bet you could still lay this guy out, though,” Rose says.

Hob shrugs deprecatingly. “It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve properly held a sword,” he says.

There’s a shout of glee from beside their little group, and Jed comes to greet his family in character, trailing his groupies like a magnet. Jed capers and clowns for Daniel’s delight, and then scampers off to his next segment of story with a trail of sighing admirers in his wake.

For the rest of the afternoon, Hob dodges any other invasive questions about his time as either a knight or medieval peasant with as much good humor as possible. Even he’s not sure why he’s not being more effusive about it, especially since correcting misunderstandings and misapprehensions is literally one of his favourite things about his job, except that…

This isn’t the university.

This is a… theme park.

And it’s making light of some of the worst moments of his mortal life. Sure, yeah, there’s fun things–the jousting, the guy shouting “PICKLES” as he wheels around a barrel of them for sale, the cute costumes, and the marvelous roving musicians, and Hob got to teach Rose a dance he used to do with Eleanor.

But, but, there are also stocks. And folks are calling for beheadings as if they were a joke. And there is an actor playing the town drunkard and another playing the town crazy, and these were genuinely dangerous people in his day, in his life, and everything is…

Everything is too bright, too off-kilter, too circus-like. It’s wrong in just enough ways to be uncomfortably uncanny. It’s like when he’s lived overseas for so long that English has ceased to be the first language he spoke and thought in, and then returned to London. Then he hears English everywhere, and he can’t not pay attention to it because it’s so rare to hear, only it’s not rare, because he’s back in England, which makes it overwhelming and…

And Hob just reminds himself that they’re here for Jed. That’s it’s just two days, one with the Walkers and Halls, and one for themselves. It’s just one night, and it’s… for their nephew. Who specifically asked them to come. How could Hob say no to that?

And if Hob is hiding behind Daniel wherever he can, if he’s letting his husband stand between Hob and the costumed courtiers, if he’s squeezing his hand too tight, well, Morph hasn’t said anything about it. Though it doesn’t escape Hob’s notice, either, that Morph is looking increasingly uncomfortable as Rose and Lyta’s good-natured questioning continues.

Thank God Matthew isn’t here. He’d definitely be urging Hob to participate more in the day’s events and Hob just… just… no.

By dinner time, Hob is feeling prickly and very much like he’d like to go somewhere less peopley for a while. Consummate extrovert though he is, even Hob Gadling needs to rest and recharge sometimes.

Luckily, the park has begun to clear out. To avoid the inevitable meltdown that happens when Daniel’s sleep schedule is disrupted, Lyta and Rose take Daniel home as the long slow summer sunset begins to shade the world golden. Most of the other families have done likewise.

Hob feels like maybe he’s on the edge of a temper tantrum himself. Deciding this means he’s just hangry, he steers Morph to the outdoor food court, with the little restaurants in stone buildings built in a ring around a few dozen picnic tables. They’re shaded with tall, skinny trees, throwing lovely verdant green shadows, gilding all the handsome sharp angles of his husband’s face.

The people who are left are mostly attendees in costume settling down for a night of feasting, drinking, and bonfires in the campground of the park. Abdicated Kings don’t sleep on the ground, and there’s no way Hob’s paying someone for the privilege of doing so ever again, and so Dr. and Mr. Gadlen have rented a room at the nearby, ever-so-slightly sketchy motel. Besides the bed, its only redeeming feature is that it’s close enough to stumble through the trees to the park grounds.

Hob’s half tempted with the thought of just dragging Morph back to the room and curling up on his skinny chest for a while, until the weirdness goes away. Instead, they nab a picnic table near the melee grounds, and watch the knights give their final performance of the day in sword-to-shield brawl as they wait for the meals they ordered to be dropped off.

The melee itself doesn’t look very choreographed, from where Hob’s sitting, so it must be a bit of fun the actors are having with improvisation. All the same, he winces when the crack of a wooden sword shattering rings out. The knight whose blade is now fit only for kindling laughs, at least, as she retreats to the side of the fenced-off paddock, clearly disqualified.

Morph catches Hob’s flinch, and reaches out to offer his hand. Hob takes it gratefully.

Another crack of wood-on-metal makes Hob jump, and hands twitching for a weapon that he no longer carries. It sounds like a battle, like every battle, like all the battles Hob has ever suffered through. It has him at attention, on edge, looking for ambush and attack from all sides, and growing ever more antsy when none comes.

“You are hyperventilating, erasti,” Morph says gently, squeezing Hob’s hand to get his attention. “Are you having a panic attack?”

“No, no,” Hob insists. “It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s just…”

A serving wench, all boobs and hair, drops off their tankards and trenchers. Hob and Morph separate only because neither of their meals come with forks.

“Is it really so terrible, being here?” Morph asks, soft and low. He's picking at the meat pie he’d selected for his dinner. It isn’t venison, and he’s eating more of the crust than the content. But Hob is happy to see him eat that much. Morph never seems to be consuming enough calories to keep himself healthy, and yet the man hasn’t died of scurvy yet.

Hob sighs and wipes the grease from his turkey leg off on a paper napkin before scrubbing his free hand through his hair. “Look. I don’t hate it, okay? It’s just… very, very weird seeing my life turned into an idealized, rose-tinted glasses, sepia-toned nostalgia, distorted fun house. It’s not bad, I’ve just… felt one step to the left all day, you know?”

“Like a waking dream that you cannot seem to shake off,” Morph says with a nod.

“Yes,” Hob allows, charmed by the way that Morph still clings to describing the world as if the Waking was still just the lesser realm to his former kingdom. “I just gotta… I dunno, reset my brain or something. Then I’ll be fine. I’ll have fun.”

Morph looks up over his shoulder and says, “Speaking of fun.”

“Uncle Dream! Uncle Hob!” Jed says, skidding onto the seat next to Hob and slamming into his shoulder.

“Oof, watch it around the old men, young squire,” Hob chuckles, shoving Jed back a few inches playfully. The kid’s all limbs and wild hair, skinny as his uncle, despite being as handsome as his grandparent. “You’re meant to be the younger son of landed gentry. Decorum, please.”

“Sorry, yeah. So, cast party at the tavern tonight,” Jed plows on, oblivious to the way Morph is smirking, enjoying his excitement. “The King says you’re both welcome, and I want your opinion on how authentic it is.”

“How come everything has to be authentic? Why are you all so obsessed?” Hob riposts with a forced smile, waving around his giant turkey leg. He’s trying to be a good sport, he really is. He can’t blame Jed for his curiosity, especially not when he encourages it in his students. “Why can’t it just be fun? Take this, for example. Turkey. Never had that a day in my life when I was your age. Never even heard of the place.”

“Turkey is a bird, not a–ah, I see!” Jed laughs. “Didn’t know much about what was outside of the borders of England?”

“Jed, me lad,” Hob had said. “I couldn’t have told you much about what was outside the borders of my village before I followed old Buckingham to Burgundy. And I never even tasted turkey until the 1560s.”

“1562,” Morph had said, with his uncannily accurate memory of every dream Hob has ever had, even now that his brain is ostensibly a human one. “After a performance of Gorbadouc.”

“Ah, yes! They served it with the head and tail on, as was fashionable, and I dreamed about the damn thing chasing me through a park all night,” Hob chuckles, delighted by the memory, and filled with a fierce adoration for the fae creature he gets to call his own. “I wonder whose fault that was.”

Morph plasters on a look of faux innocence that’s so outlandish that it sets Hob laughing. It’s a good laugh, a hearty laugh, a cathartic laugh. It’s belly-deep, and eye-watering, and wonderful. It’s just what Hob needed.

It also sets off Jed, who in turn sets off Morph, whose noises make Hob laugh even harder. Because Morpheus, abdicated King of Dreams and Nightmares, former Prince of Stories, and ex-Endless has a truly awful, wheezing, terrible laugh.

Hob figures it’s the result of millennia of Morph hiding his emotions. From what Hob’s winkled out of Death and Despair, Dream of the Endless used to be a carefree, passionate, all-or-nothing kind of entity, before heartbreak after heartbreak had turned him into the closed-off, brooding, wounded creature that Hob had met in 1389.

That version of Dream, the wounded Morpheus God of Sleep, barely smiled, barely frowned, barely moved. He masked all his hurt, didn’t let happiness touch him, refused love and care from even the denizens closest to him, like Lucienne.

And so his laugh had become similarly repressed, a wheezing little “hzzzrrr hzzzrrr” rumble that sounded more like a backfiring cat than a free expression of joy. It wasn’t until after they were married that Hob finally heard Morph’s full-body laugh–the honking, snorting, wounded-donkey sound that just made Hob fall in love with him even more.

Hob sees this uncaged freedom-to-feel in the new Dream, in the way that Morpheus’ past hurts don’t haunt Daniel. This green-eyed incarnation says yes to everything, finds joy in all the small wonders of humanity, loves freely and unreservedly, praises his nightmares and gossips with his dreams, and makes Miko, his own albino raven, laugh with sly asides.

And without the mantle of his past-life sorrows and obligations to weigh on him, Hob is finding out that Morph is a curious, compassionate, expressive, loving creature. He truly adores humanity, in the same way that Hob adores it, though sometimes Hob wonders if it’s rather more like the way a sensitive, kind child adores the family dog. That is, that humans are clever and beloved pets, beneath Morpheus but no less beloved for it.

Well, he’s human now, as Hob keeps reminding him. He’s down here with the dogs, fleas and all, and there’s no reason not to join in the puppy piles and the playful wrestling, and the runs in the park, and the howling at the moon.

And boy, does Morph’s laugh howl.

When they’ve all got hold of themselves again, Morph and Hob reach for each other’s hands at the same time. One, two, three squeezes, and somehow Hob feels more present than he has all day.

“But you’ll come?” Jed presses, standing up. Their laughter has caught the attention of the last lingering members of his fan club, and Hob would bet his right arm that Jed’s planning to make a run for the cast-only area of the park.

“We’ll come. Text me the details!” Hob agrees, shouting the last thing to Jed’s retreating back.

Hob waits for the fan club to pass them by, and then and tears into his turkey leg one-handed. It’s gone cold, but that’s fine. Hob’s had plenty of cold-game dinners in his lifetimes. What’s one more?

“You are in better spirits,” Morph observes, once they’ve finished their meal, and are just lingering over the last of their beers. He rubs his thumb along the mound of Hob’s gently, a soothing touch that gratifyingly grounds Hob in the moment.

“I am,” Hob says. “Sorry for being out of sorts before. I just… I don’t like reliving the violence of it. I don’t like the glorification of the violence. But I think a good revel may be just what I need.”

“Excellent,” Morpheus says, with the firm headbob he uses when they’ve made a deal or a bet. “Then revel we shall.”

Hob’s about to suggest another round while they’re waiting for the park to close, but then Morph’s face transforms into an expression of sly guilt. He looks over his shoulder at someone approaching from the vendor stalls.

“With all that we have discussed, I am unsure how welcome this gift will be, erasti,” Morph confesses, as the woman stops by their table. She’s thickly muscled, and wearing a carpenter’s canvas apron. There are wood-shavings in her hair. “But this is for you.”

The vendor moves to hand something wrapped in a swag of hunter-green broadcloth to Morph, but he releases Hob’s hand and gestures at Hob instead.

“For me?” Hob asks, accepting the long cloth bundle.

There’s something hard inside it, but not heavy. Hob's not an idiot—he knows that it's sword-shaped. So his surprise when he lays it down carefully on the table, away from their greasy and crumb-flaked napkins, and flips back the cloth wrapper is not because of what his gift is so much as how fine it is.

"Lord in his heaven," Hob breathes. "This is gorgeous. "

And it is. It's ash wood, stained a pleasant ruddy colour, strong and positively gleaming with polish. The sword is carved to resemble his war-sword, the one he'd retrieved from the cache in Gadlen House. Hob grips the leather-wrapped hilt experimentally, and is pleasantly surprised to realize that it doesn't just resemble his war sword: the proportions are exactly the same.

It's lighter, of course, because it's not made of steel. But otherwise it's identical. There's even a soft leather sheath so he can wear it on his belt, exactly how it would have hung back when he was allowed to carry such a blade in the open public.

Well… almost identical. On the pommel, instead of just a series of concentric circles, the crafter has created a beautifully life-like carving of a sunflower.

“Thank you. Your husband commissioned it,” the carpenter says, with a wistful twinkle in her eye, which tells Hob just how romantic she thinks it is. "He sent me the photos and measurements, based on the Witch Knight's original arming-sword."

"We're not calling him that," Hob says on reflex, before his brain catches up with his mouth. Then he registers what she said, and jerks his head up to Morph. "You did?"

"I did," Morph intones.

"This… you couldn't have just done this in one day," Hob realizes, running his hand along the wooden blade, which has been sanded soft as silk.

"He emailed me weeks ago," the crafter agrees.

Morph smiles, the small pleased one that always makes Hob's heart flip over in his chest. "The same day we booked our flights."

"You ridiculous creature," Hob says, running his thumb over the sunflower on the heraldic badge. "I adore you, too."

The crafter bids them goodbye, after another round of effusive thanks and praise from Hob. As soon as she's out of earshot, Morpheus grows pensive.

"I love it," Hob reassures him. "My… weirdness about today aside, it's very thoughtful and very cool."

Morph huffs. "I thought, perhaps, you would be more enthusiastic about the pageantry. My nephew had mentioned that some spectators also don garb, and I assumed…" he gestures to the wooden sword, laying on the green swag.

Hob smiles gently. "You thought that I would be eager to dress up, and that your knight may be in want of his weapon, my liege?"

Morph squirms a little, cheeks and ear-tips flushing petal-pink. He always gets a bit hot under the collar when Hob uses his old titles on him, and Hob loves teasing him.

Hob rubs the back of his neck. It's a bit sunburned and prickles hotly. "It's a nice idea, but I didn't bring a costume."

Morph flushes pinker.

Hob sits upright, delighted. "Did you bring us costumes?"

Not wanting Morph's thoughtfulness to go to waste, and feeling much lighter after dinner, Hob decides that he can get over himself long enough to do a bit of playacting and mucking about. As the park closes for the night, they amble back to their motel room to don the garb Morph had brought along.

For Hob, Morph’s selected skin-tight brown leather trousers, far tighter and sinfully tailored than anything Hob actually wore in his life, knee-high boots in a darker shade, and (Morph’s favourite colour on his husband,) a hunter-green poet’s blouse with full sleeves. The outfit is finished with a matching leather waistcoat and a belt with pouches big enough for Hob’s wallet and phone, a clip for a fancy pair of riding gloves, and a space to hang the new wooden sword.

“I look like the porno version of Robin Hood,” Hob says, examining his whole arse on display in his reflection.

“Hmmm, yes,” Morph agrees, unrepentant. He crowds up behind Hob in the pokey washroom, hands cupping said arse, and presses a possessive, nibbling kiss just high enough on Hob’s neck that everyone will be able to see the bruise peeking out of his collar.

For himself, Morph is wearing his own black leather pants and calf-high boots, not needing to have those made when they were already in his closet. But he’s commissioned a gorgeously luxurious black-on-black brocade coat, with a tight mandarin collar, a gleaming row of tiny silver buttons, and well-fitted sleeves buttoned closed at the wrists. It falls to his knees in an ahistorical swallow-tail cut, showing off his slim hips. Over this, Morph has added a thigh-length, sleeved surcoate of rich ruby-red silk, trimmed with silver. The a waterfall of fabric hangs from his elbows in diamond-shaped bell sleeves that mimic the shape of the coat’s tail. It's cinched with a richly and intricately filigreed silver belt that Hob knows for a fact he last saw on Delirium.

Morph looks delicious.

Vain tart.

“I have to admit, there is actually something fun about wearing the fantasy version of all this stuff,” Hob allows, head tilted to the side to allow Morph access. He reaches back to squeeze Morph’s arse in retaliation.

“Mmmmf,” Morph agrees, his mouth full.

“No itchy wool,” Hob goes on, letting his head fall back to rest on Morph’s shoulder.

“Mmm…”

“No stiff leather.”

“Hm.”

“No fleas.”

“Mpfh.”

“No body odor ground into the fibers…”

“Hob, you are not being very romantic,” Morph complains.

“Oh, am I not? Is there something else I could be doing to set the mood, my liege?” Hob asks, raising his head to meet Morph’s eyes in the bathroom mirror.

“I can think of a few things,” Morph rumbles.

“So can I,” Hob says, with a wicked grin.

He pushes Morph back just enough to give him space to turn around and kneel. Morph braces his hands on the countertop, and then it’s Hob whose mouth is full.

As the Ren Faire is just far enough away from the next major city for the drive to be tedious, many of the actors and day-staff spend the weekends in their own part of the campground. Jed shares a janky old trailer with the other squires, watched over by some of the senior knights who’ve been working the Faire for a few years, and who can show the kids the ropes and make sure they don’t do anything too stupid with their free time.

Most of the vendors who’ve been working the Faire for decades have little apartments built above their stone-and-wood shops, and live there all summer. The miniature stone keep that serves as the background for the stage and courtyards contains bunk rooms and kitchens for the actors playing the members of the court, allowing them to cook for themselves (and the eternally-bottomless-pit teenagers on staff).

This means that the tavern on site, which is more of a sandwiches-and-a-coffee kind of place during the day, is licensed for liquor at night. Jed and the other actors partake of the canteen in the back of the building that keeps everyone fed during the day, and spend their evenings like ‘real’ medieval peasantry having a revel at the local pub.

“Reminds me of somewhere,” Hob says with a cheeky wink and a twinkle in his eye, when Hob and Morph approach the tavern an hour or so later.

“Hob, erasti,” Morpheus, murmurs. “Have fun tonight. And do not bully the bartender.”

“I don’t bully bartenders,” Hob lies, tugging on his ear. It’s not bullying, just… helpful critiques. It’s just sometimes hard to be in the profession and not want to offer the advice gleaned over nearly four decades of owning his own pub while in his cups.

They’re greeted with a “wah-hey!” from the crowd, and the actor playing the King–apparently the default den-mother around the place–jumps up to greet them.

“Welcome!” He says, sticking out a thick, calloused hand. Hob takes it, struck again by a wave of uncanniness as he realizes the man’s scars and rough spots match up with his own. It’s so rare that he shakes hands with anyone who’s trained with swords in this day and age. “I’m Grant. You’re Dr. Gadlen and, uhm, Mr. Gadlen, our Jed’s uncles, yeah?”

“Bob and Morph,” Hob corrects, “Yeah, we are. Nice to meet you.”

“Come in, come in,” Grant says, with all the gay magnanimity that Hob has seen him using during his performances today.

The tavern itself is a mix of the fantasy-version of historical architecture and hidden modern conveniences. The lamps glow golden-yellow, but are LED lights, clearly wired to a switch by the door. The furniture is handmade and solid, but the joining style is modern, and the cushions on the chairs and benches are obviously from the dollar-store and stain-proofed. The floor is packed-dirt strewn with reeds, but under that Hob can see stone tiling. A thousand other things jump out to him, not only as a literal expert in the era(s? It’s unclear what century this Ren Faire is trying to emulate, he can’t pin it to just one) but also as a pub owner, and as someone eyebrows deep trying to restore his own Ye Olde Timey pub.

The bar and its backing and stock itself is more analogous to the kind you would find in a modern pub, for all that it’s made from rough-hewn wood, and is tucked into the corner of the building around a few tar-black support beams.

Grant hustles them over to a table filled with the faux nobility, after a quick detour to furnish Hob with a tankard of draft beer and Morph with a metal goblet of sweet white wine. After introductions all around, where the queen–Jan–exclaims over their costumes and the Royal Mistress–Shel–admires Morph’s commitment to his noble posture, one of the courtiers–Mark–says, “Say, aren’t you the guy from TV?”

Jan turns to study Hob’s face. “Yeah, you are!”

“My husband is indeed Doctor Robert Gadlen the Sixth,” Morph confirms, the traitor.

“The Witch Knight!” Mark crows. “Hey, guys, it’s the Witch Knight!”

Half the pub cheers. The other half asks the first half if they should know who that is.

“We’re not calling him that,” Hob insists, but at this point it’s more of a running gag with the public than any real protestation. That horse is well and truly out of the barn.

Mark laughs, delighted that he’d recognized him. Everyone chats for a few minutes about the difference between historical recreation, as Hob and Harriet do, and historical reinterpretation, as the Faire does, when the last remaining person at the table finally speaks up.

The guy is dressed in the loose, sweaty underpadding of knight’s garb, the gambeson askew and the state of his shirtsleeves underneath frankly disgraceful. If Hob had ever shown up in public after a bout looking like that, El would have clapped his ears and sent him home to smarten up. The man’s light, thinning hair is askew, and his face is already ruddy with drink. He stares at Hob, a little beerily, and says: “You’re not a real knight.”

Hob and Morph exchange a smirk, and Hob raises his tankard in acknowledgement. “Nah,” he says. “Robert Gadlen the Third was the knight. I’m the same as you. I just play pretend.”

“I don’t play!” the knight snaps, slamming his own tankard on the table hard enough to rattle the metal cups.

“Shane, come on,” Grant says gently. “He didn’t mean it like that.”

“What, just because I’m an actor, you think it’s all fake?”

Hob holds up his hands, don’t shoot, trying to diffuse the situation. He’s still trying to figure out how this went from zero to sixty so quick. “Sorry, man. I saw how hard you worked out there today. I know it’s not easy–”

“You don’t have any idea,” Shane spits. “You just pranced around on TV, probably had a stunt guy do all your riding and fighting–”

Hob frowns. He should probably let the blow to his ego go, but Hob’s always clung to his pride in ways that are probably slightly unhealthy. “I’ll have you know that I did all the riding and fighting myself. The shooting, too! Bow and matchlock!”

“Erasti,” Morph murmurs calmingly, and lays his hand on Hob’s thigh. “Peace.”

“He started it–” Hob murmurs back, but then catches his own tone and bites his tongue. He sounds like a whining child.

“Tell us about that,” Jan jumps in, clearly desperate to turn the tide of the conversation. “We can’t have real firearms here, obviously, but I’ve always wanted to try firing a flintlock.”

“Matchlock,” Hob corrects gently, watching as Shane shoves away from the table and flounces theatrically over to the bar to get a refill. “You have to light it yourself. Flintlocks weren’t introduced until after the 1660s, and before that were snapchaunces, the snaplocks…”

Hob goes on, holding court for a few more minutes, flicking gazes at Shane often enough that Morph finally pinches his knee. “Enough,” Morph says into a lull, while Jane and Shel proclaim their intent to get the music started.

“But–”

“Enough,” Morph repeats. “Let it go. This is a command from your king.”

Hob snorts and pecks a kiss off Morph’s rosebud mouth, tickling the underside of Morph’s chin with a finger as he does so. “Not a king any more, duckie.”

“Your god, then.”

“Not a god, either.”

Morph raises one elegant hand to press his finger directly into the lovebite he’d left on Hob’s neck. Hob shivers in salacious understanding. “And yet, were you not just worshiping at my–”

“Hey, you came!” Jed interrupts from behind them, and Hob springs back from Morph like he’s been shocked.

Morph smirks. “No need to pantomime prudishness, beloved,” he rumbles. “Do recall who the boy’s grandparent is.”

“I’m still not making out with you in front of the kids,” Hob scolds him playfully, then scooches over to make space between Hob and Morph on the bench for Jed to squeeze into.

Grant welcomes Jed to the table, Jan and Shel head off to chivvy the musicians into picking up their instruments, and Hob peers into Jed’s tankard to make sure it’s just cola. Not that he doesn’t trust Jed, but he remembers what it was like to be young and peer-pressurable.

“I’m so glad you guys dressed up,” Jed enthuses. “What a cool sword!”

“It’s a waster, technically,” Hob says, unsheathing it for Jed to inspect. “Because it’s wooden. But I have no intention of wasting it in a practice session. It likely won’t splinter if I do spar a bit with it though, it’s too finely made.”

From the bar, Shane the wannabe knight scoffs.

Hob bites his cheek and continues to explain the sword to Jed, ignoring all the noises Shane makes. It isn’t until Morph is elaborating to Jed and Grant about the experience of being a foreign power at court, helping them construct an improv scenario for when an attendee is dressed in the royal fashion, that Shane finally saunters back to the table.

He leans on it heavily, squinting into Morph’s face.

“Aren’t you that author guy?” the man says, leaning too far into Morph’s personal bubble for Hob’s liking. Not because he’s a jealous, possessive asshole who needs to show the room that Morph belongs to him, but because he knows that being touched by strangers makes Morph uncomfortable. “The one who makes up those twisted-as-fuck fantasy books? That nightmare shit? What would you know?”

“My research is meticulous,” Morph says, face blank save for an archly raised eyebrow. All the same, he’s leaning back into Jed, trying to keep Shane’s sour breath off his face.

“ And he’s a New York Times best seller,” Jed pipes up, clearly proud of the hard work Morph has done in the last few years to establish himself as a different kind of Prince of Stories, now that he’s human.

“I wasn’t talking to you, maggot,” Shane snaps at Jed, without even looking up at him. “Squires don’t talk to their betters unless addressed first.”

Jed jolts, and hisses out, “Yes, sir.” He hangs his head and scrunches in on himself.

Hob whips a look over at Grant, who looks chagrined, but not particularly like he’s about to step up and call Shane to task. He’s not a real regent, after all. He has no actual power here.

Morph's face clouds over with thunderstorms, and Hob knows for a fact that if his husband were still Dream of the Endless, Shane would be suffering incurable night terrors for the rest of his pitiful life. As it is, he’s got no doubt that after Desire hears about this, the guy’s absolutely never getting laid again.

“Hey, back off,” Hob says, reaching around Jed to shove Shane back, if no one else is going to do something about his attitude.

For a second it looks like the pretender-knight won’t go, but then he straightens and saunters over to harass some of the younger women knotted together in the corner. Not a single one of them looks happy at his approach.

Hob sends another reproachful look at Grant, who tucks his tail between his legs and slinks off to the bar for his own refill with a muttered excuse.

Coward, Hob thinks. And just as bad as Shane, if he’s not calling it out.

“You okay?” Hob asks Jed softly, as Morph rises to follow Grant.

Hob doesn’t know what his husband is saying to the man, but from the ashamed expression growing on the king’s face, it’s nothing that’s letting him squirm out of his responsibility as a figurehead to set a good example.

“I’m fine,” Jed whispers, all his good cheer from earlier extinguished. “That’s normal.”

“That’s normal,” Hob repeats, flatly unimpressed. “What’s the deal with that asshole?”

Jed shrugs with one shoulder, looking a bit uncomfortable. “He’s just… really into all this, you know? Takes it seriously.”

“Well he’s seriously being a knobhead,” Hob mutters.

“He’s just passionate,” Jed protests.

“You don't have to make excuses for him, it’s not on you to apologize for his behavior,” Hob reassures Jed. “Even if you are his squire. And let me tell you, I never treated my squires the way he talks to you. No one did. You asked about accuracy? This shit’s not it.”

Jed finally looks up at Hob, big dark eyes shining in the golden lamplight. “Really?”

“Really. And you tell the other kids, too. What he’s doing, that’s not right, and you don’t have to take his abuse.” Hob pulls Jed into a fierce hug right there in the middle of the room. “You’ve suffered enough of that shit. You tell me if he doesn’t shape up after you guys push back, and I’ll come straight back here and fix it.”

“How?” Jed laughs, wiping at his face discreetly as Hob lets him go. “Challenge him to a duel?”

“Hell, yes,” Hob promises, taking a swig of his beer. “Then he’ll see who uses a stunt team.”

“That’ll make the girls happy.”

Hob narrows his eyes at that. “Explain.”

“Shel calls him a… what is it? A ‘busted step’?”

“Ah,” Hob says with a sinking understanding. “A broken stair.”

“He hasn’t done anything to me,” Jed says quickly. “But there’s a few of the girls who don’t want to work with him any more. Just because Shel plays the mistress, he thinks that she’s gotta, you know, really be that. It’s really starting to bug her.”

Before Hob can formulate an answer to that, Morph makes a distressed noise.

Hob is very, very attuned to all the sounds his husband makes, mostly because he’s usually so silent. Any sounds of Morph’s are meant to be treasured, cataloged, and hoarded away. This is not a sound he’s ever heard Morph make before. And it’s definitely not one Hob ever wants to hear him make again.

At the bar, Morph is leaning back against a pillar, cornered by Shane, who has his meaty hand on Morph’s waist, where it definitely should not fucking be. Morph turns his head to the side, away from Shane’s, and snarls something under his breath. Shane, the bastard, only throws his head back and laughs.

Morph, while a fighter, is not a brawler. He’s used to having unimaginable cosmic powers at his fingertips, so he sometimes forgets that he can shove creeps off.

Hob, though?

Hob has no problem with beating the shit out of someone who deserves it.

Hob sets down his beer hard. “That’s it, I’m kicking his ass.”

Jed straightens, eyes widening comically. “Uncle Hob–”

“You want authenticity, lad?” Hob asks, turning to get Shane in his sights. “Watch this.”

And then he strides across the pub, right up into Shane’s space. He grabs the lout’s shoulder hard, fisting his hand in the fabric of Shane’s disgraceful gambeson, and hauls him off Morph. Shane stumbles back as Hob yanks him around and to the side, feet going out from under him so the only thing holding him more-or-less vertical is his own grip on the bar and Hob’s hand in the undercoat.

Hob tugs one of the gloves folded over his belt free, and slaps Shane directly across the face.

“Outside, you sorry excuse for a man,” Hob snarls into the chorus of shocked gasps rising from everyone in the pub. “Now.”

And then Hob drops him into the dirt, where he belongs.

“Aren’t you worried about him?” Jan asks Morph as they detach themselves from Hob at the sidelines of the melee grounds.

“Not in the least,” Morph murmurs back, folding his arms over the rails of the fencing. Even as he walks into the small dusty field, Hob can tell that Morph is smirking with barely contained delight.

Hob kicks at the dirt a little as he crosses towards the far rail, where the props are stored. It hasn’t rained here in at least a week, judging by how powdery the dirt around the trampled grass is. The area closest to the audience has been laid with fine red sand, which will shift under his feet. He’ll have to watch his footing there.

Shane, who is plodding along one step behind and five feet away from Hob, isn’t surveying his environment.

Amateur.

No, worse than an amateur, because amateurs are keen to learn and grow.

Idiot.

Shane weaves straight over to the rack of metal swords, using a key slung around his neck to open the cage.

That also seems idiodic, Hob thinks. Who is trusting this guy with protecting the weapons?

For a moment, Hob considers fighting with his waster. He could use it handily against a steel sword, but Morph went to all the trouble, and likely expense, to have it made specifically for Hob. It would be a shame to nick or split it.

Instead, Hob follows Shane to the cage and selects a sword that looks beat up, but about the right weight for him. Shane sneers. He already has what Hob assumes is his own sword in his hand, a gleaming thing that is pretty but, based on how he’s holding it, all wrong for him.

Idiot!

Shane snatches up a shield from a bin to the side of the cage, a stereotypical crest-shaped one. With a shrug, Hob selects a round one with well-riveted handles and a smooth edge for deflecting blows. Hob can already spot a few pits in the edge of Shane’s shield that would be perfect for locking the blade of his own sword into.

Those dents should have been repaired as soon as Shane was off the tourney grounds. In a real battle, they could cost a man his life.

And this is why you don’t treat your squires like shit, Hob thinks maliciously.

While his anger had flared hot and fast in the tavern, now that he’s out under the summer night sky, Hob feels detached and calm. He’s not about to get cocky–after all, Shane’s been fighting with a sword and shield daily for months, if not years, while Hob himself hasn’t properly trained with these particular weapons in centuries.

But Shane has learned to fight for crowds, not for his life.

This is going to be a pleasure.

Properly armed, Hob moves to stand a few good wide paces from the fence, which is now groaning-heavy with actors and vendors, watching with a mix of fearful worry and tipsy amusement.

“This is your chance to apologize,” Hob shouts over to Shane, loud enough that everyone can hear it. The crowd goes silent, waiting for the response.

“Fuck off!”

A few people groan, but most look unsurprised.

“Apologize for how you spoke to my nephew, and for assaulting my husband, and for harassing the other actors, and I’ll let this go!” Hob demands again.

“I said fuck off,” Shane snarls.

Courtesy demands that Hob repeat his offer to stand down a third time, but before he can, Shane charges. Hob spares a moment to glance over at Morph, shrugging.

Morph gestures with one elegant moon-pale hand, which Hob takes to mean Kick his ass, baby.

So Hob does.

First, he lets Shane come to him. The man is taller than Hob, broader, but also drunker. Hob takes small steps, to the side, to the back, just enough to stay out of the bending compass of his swinging sword.

“Stand your ground and fight me!” Shane snarls after a few moments of Hob’s calm side-stepping.

“Why should I?” Hob asks, in a very even and non-confrontational tone, stepping, stepping, stepping aside. “You’re doing a marvelous job of fighting yourself for me.”

Shane catches Hob’s meaning, and goes still. Too still, too fast, which makes it easy for Hob to dart in and slap him on the ass with the flat of his blade.

“What the fuck, man,” Shane growls, spinning to try to track him.

“Oh come on, baby, don’t be like that. You know you liked it,” Hob sneers back.

Shane snarls again, and lunges showily, which Hob dodges just as showily, to the approving roar of the crowd.

“How heavy is that sword?” Hob asks, raising his shield to block a flurry of graceless, clubbing blows. “By the way your wrist keeps dipping, I’d say too heavy. It’s clearly too long for you, too. You know, swords aren’t like sports cars, no one’s going to think your dick is small just because your sword is–oop.”

Shane swings at Hob’s ankles, and Hob leaps back, but lands awkwardly. He manages to use the momentum to fling the weight of his shield around, roll onto it in the dirt like a little turtle, and use that same momentum to pull himself right back up into a crouch just in time to block Shane’s attempt to bash his head in with his own shield.

“Have you torn your shoulder yet? You will, if you keep over extending your swings the way you are–”

“Shut the fuck up and fight me,” Shane howls, stepping back and opening his arms wide in a ridiculously macho challenge.

Hob springs up and into a solid fighting stance. “Fine,” he says, with all the gravitas his fury deserves. “If that’s what you want.”

The first blow is delivered hard against Shane’s exposed inner elbow. If the swords were sharp, it would be enough to take his arm off at the joint. As it is, Shane just howls with pain and drops his shield. As he curls forward to cradle his arm, Hob steps into his body, turns on the ball of his foot to put his back to the prick, reaches up with the arm holding the shield, and clobbers him in the head.

Not hard enough to concuss, Hob hopes, but definitely hard enough to make Shane reel backward and stumble. Shane flails out with his sword, blood from a small cut on his forehead suddenly blinding him, and Hob ducks under it. He swings out his leg, and knocks Shane’s feet out from under him.

The brute lands hard on his arse, sword up to protect his face which is, really, just so stupid. It would be very, very easy for Hob to press into his wrist and make him stab himself through the eye. Instead, Hob slaps his sword arm aside with the flat of his blade, and steps on Shane’s chest to keep him in place.

“Now,” Hob says, loud enough to be heard over Shane’s harsh panting. “Are you going to apologize, or am I going to be calling the police and filing assault charges?”

“Assault charges!” Shane howls. “I’m bleeding! I should charge you!”

Hob bares his teeth at the little shit in a parody of a smile. “Go on, try it then,” Hob says, and crouches to get the tip of his sword right up under Shane’s chin, pushing a white divot into the soft flesh there. “I think you’ll find that there are going to be a lot more witnesses on my side than yours.”

Shane swallows hard, and Hob almost wishes the blade edge was sharp enough to nick him with the motion. It’d be poetic. Instead he rests more of his weight on Shane’s ribs, just enough to make it harder for him to breath.

“See, that’s the problem with being a complete and utter shithead,” Hob hisses into Shane’s face. “Nobody likes you, Shane. Nobody will stand up for you. Nobody will fight to keep you here, and most importantly, nobody will be sad when you quit and go home tonight. Do. You. Understand?”

“I understand!” Shane yelps, terror flashing through his eyes at what he sees in Hob’s. “I understand! Get off me, man!”

“I’ll know if you don’t leave,” Hob says, with one more dig of the tip of his sword against Shane’s neck.

“I’ll go! I’ll really go!”

“Good.” Hob slides the side of the sword up Shane’s cheek, taking with it the key to the weapons cages.

Hob straightens and turns to the gawp-mouthed, silent audience.

“Squire?” he calls out.

Jed leaps to attention. “Sir?”

“If you please,” Hob says graciously, holding out his sword, key dangling from the blade, and shield.

“Of course, sir!” Jed says, scrambling to climb over the rails of the fence and relieve him of his burdens.

“Good lad,” Hob says, scrubbing his hand through Jed’s hair. “Thank you.”

Jed jogs back to the cage.

Hob takes one step toward his husband. He sees what’s about to happen in Morph’s face before he hears the whistle of a sword cutting through the air. The way Morph's expression changes suddenly is enough warning, and Hob to lunges to the side.

Shane’s sword, instead of catching his neck, lands a solid blow against his ribs. Hob hears more than feels the crack. Red-hot pain radiates up his torso, and dusts his vision with white spots. But he’s already moving, turning under his own shoulder, dropping his hand to the hilt of the waster, sliding it free of the scabbard in one smooth motion.

Shane tips forward, overbalanced, and Hob pops up behind him. He and raps the hand holding the sword with his waster hard enough to break two of Shane’s fingers.

Snap, snap!

Shane yelps and drops the sword.

Pop! as Hob drives it into Shane’s foot, neatly breaking his big toe in his soft leather boots.

Thwack, goes the waster, as Hob snaps it’s against Shane’s temple just hard enough to stun him a little.

Hob raises the sword again, two-handed like his kendo sensei taught him, his rib absolutely screaming. But he schools his expression, keeps it passive.

“No!” Shane whines, cringing back. “No, I’m sorry, please–”

“Fucking right, you’re sorry. Pack your shit and get out, you disgrace,” Hob snarls.

For a moment, no one moves. Then a few of the other knights clamber over the fence to help Shane to his feet, and drag him toward the cast trailers. Not a single one of them is looking him in the eye.

Jed comes back for Shane’s abandoned weaponry, and then Morpheus is suddenly there, cool hand on the hilt of the sword over Hob’s rough fingers.

“It is over, my champion,” Morph intones softly. “You may stand at ease.”

“Can’t though,” Hob wheezes. “Cracked a rib. Take the sword?”

Morph removes the sword from his grip, replacing it lovingly in its soft sheath. Then he helps Hob lower his arms, supporting his left one, where the injured rib is, with a hand under the elbow.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Jed asks, when he returns.

“No,” Hob says. “Nothing to be done but to wrap it. I can do that myself.” Then he offers Jed a blinding wince, masquerading as a smile. “And it’s not like it can kill me.”

Morph and Jed walk Hob back through the trees to the motel, where he takes a hot shower with Morph holding him up, and a handful of painkillers that the site medic pressed on them along with a roll of tensor bandage and a sling.

A cracked rib is a bitch, but manageable. If it was truly broken he'd have to worry about bone shards and pierced organs, but a quick palpitation proves that everything is still where it ought to be. He's not looking forward to the flight home, though.

Hob wasn't blessed with supernaturally fast healing along with his supernaturally long life, but a good night's rest with Morph as his pillow, keeping him from rolling onto his bad side, and Hob feels much better than he thought he'd be. He doesn't remember his dreams, but figures he has Daniel to thank for the way his chest doesn't burn and spasm with every inhale.

A galaxy of bruises has bloomed on his torso overnight, and Morph takes extra care to kiss and soothe them in the syrupy morning light.

After they re-don their costumes, Hob feels up to the walk back to the park, though it's slow going and he has to lean on Morph's arm for stability. His husband deposits Hob at the picnic table nearest the melee grounds and goes off in search of something to break their fast.

The medic finds him before Morph returns, and has Hob's waistcoat off and his poet's shirt up over his head before he can bid her "good morning.” Hob knows better than to fight her as she inspects the bruising and rewraps the tensor, so must make quite a sight by the time Grant and Jed join them.

"Morning, gents," Hob says around his mouthful of fabric.

"How are you?" Grant asks.

"I'll live."

Jed snorts.

"How's Shane?" Hob asks, gracious in his victory, even if his voice is throttled by the medic tightening the wrap across his lungs.

“He left last night," Grant says, ashen through the gap in the green linen that Hob can see through.

"And he won’t be able to perform for the rest of the summer,” the medic adds. "Not until his fingers and foot heal."

“What a shame,” Hob replies, meaning the exact opposite. "His elbow?"

"Just bruised," the medic says. "You can put your arms down."

"Katya's the new head knight," Jed says, pointing to the person warming up in the field once Hob can see again. "They're great. I can't wait to work with them."

"Happy to hear it, my lad," Hob says, and he means it.

Grant clears his throat. "I, uh, I spoke to your husband last night and I want to… um, I want to offer my apologies that it came to…" he gestures to the sling the medic is tying around Hob's neck. "I'm the King, I've been here the longest. The cast looks to me to set the tone. I should have… well, I should have spoken up."

"And next time, you will," Hob says. Simple as that.

"Me too," Jed promises.

"Good. Now, don't you folks have somewhere to be? Some people to entertain?"

"Yes, but first," Jed says, reaching out to help Hob lever himself upright. "If you can manage it, you're wanted at the castle. Don't worry, I've already texted Uncle Dream to meet us there."

Hob, deciding he can do worse than let his nephew surprise him, and moreover to allow himself to enjoy it, lets Jed lead him to the stage by the keep.

The thing that Hob is wanted for, it turns out, is another damned knighting ceremony.

He's starting to collect the things.

The whole cast, most of the vendors, and a few dozen curious audience members applaud as Hob is led up the steps to stand before the king and accept his accolades. Grant is suitably vague about how and why Hob's being recognized, and he's just fine with that. He's had enough with being rewarded for hurting people.

The speech is heartfelt but brief, thankfully, but then Hob is expected to kneel.

"Godsbones," he gasps, trying to get down. Grant gestures that it's not necessary, but if Hob's going to do this, he's going to do it right.

Morph steps up and lends him an arm to cling to, and smirks the entire time he helps Hob kneel on a red velvet cushion.

What’s a few moments of pain weighed against the way it makes Jed grin, or Morph’s eyes twinkle, or the photographs that he’ll be able to look at a hundred years from now and recall the smell of this fresh morning, the feel of the cushion and the wooden stage under his knees, the kiss of Grant’s prop sword on his shoulder, tapping on the exact place where Morph had left his love bite.

When Hob rises again (slowly), now Sir Robert Gadlen the Sixth of the Court of Upstate New York Ren Faire, Jed throws his arms in the air and crows: "Three cheers for the Witch Knight!"

Lost in the huzzahs of the assembled hordes, Hob clutches his side and moans: "We're not calling me that!"

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