seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Türkiye
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Bolivia
seen from China
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United Kingdom
seen from China
seen from India
“I hold you fast. I fear you not.
For you are my own love true…
For you are my friend…
For you are my home”
—Oaths, by @landwriter
5th post for @mr-sadman Week 2025. Prompt: Treasure.
Hand drawing + digital blending.
I’ve always wanted to Dreamlingfy this Millais painting as tribute to the amazing ‘Oaths’ by Landwriter. It is still on my favorite fics ever, and everyone should read it.
Fic: An Eternity of This (Chapter 3/4)
Dreamling, Teen and Up, Post-Canon, Fix-It, Grief and Mourning, Angst With a Happy Ending
Start from chapter 1 here
Chapter Summary:
"What happens next? Where do I go from here?" "Well, that's up to you." Death says. "Where do you want to go?" Dream frowns, uncomprehending. "I will face the consequences for what I have done. I will go where it is right for me to go. It is unjust that I should choose, when I took that choice from others." Death levels him with a flat stare. "I'm not sending you to Hell, if that's what you're getting at. It is your choice, but haven't you suffered enough already? You've been tormenting yourself for so long, I'm not sure you know any other way to be. But you've more than paid the price for your actions; at this point you're just getting swindled. Let yourself be at peace." "How can I be at peace," Dream scowls, affronted, "knowing that I have left my realm and my duties behind? How can I have peace when the Dreaming has been devastated?" "It's not your realm anymore," Death says gently. "The Dreaming is in good hands. You made sure of that, and now your responsibility is over. Your only duty now is to decide what you're going to do next, because you can't stay here forever. And if you don't choose soon, I'll do it for you." … Dream crashes at his sister’s place for a while.
Read below or on Ao3
One Week Earlier
He takes his sister's hand, and the relief is instantaneous. The entire Dreaming breathes one last sigh, and then… nothing. The pain, the agony, the grief, all finally gone. For a moment, or perhaps an eternity, there is only peaceful oblivion. He floats in the comforting void of the Night, incorporeal and insensate.
Then he feels the familiar lurch of being compressed and constricted into a single physical form. Gravity resumes existing and ground solidifies beneath his feet. The beating of wings, then silence.
Dream opens his eyes.
The dusky expanse of the Sunless Lands stretches out before him. He has only visited Death's realm a handful of times, and never as one of the dead. The place is unsettling in a way that he had never appreciated when he was of the Endless. The air is damp and stagnant, and it wavers like a heat mirage, skeletons of buildings quivering eerily in the gloom. He shivers and realizes he is still clad in the soaked t-shirt and jeans he wore when he faced the Kindly Ones.
"Come on," Death says beside him. "Let's go in and get you cleaned up."
Dream says nothing. He does not understand. Should he not have passed on to Hell, or simply ceased to exist altogether? Souls are not meant to remain in the Sunless Lands; it is a place between places. A bridge to allow the dead to pass safely on to their various afterlives. He does not know why he is still here, but he nevertheless follows his sister into her Gothic cathedral of a home.
"I'll make tea," Death announces, disappearing down a corridor and leaving Dream alone in the cavernous sitting room.
He has not been here in millennia, though it appears little has changed. There's still the same plush, modern furniture, the same shelves lined with books and baubles. Music plays softly, a fire roars in the hearth, and houseplants flourish under beams of illusory sunlight pouring in through the arched windows. All the human niceties of which his sister is so fond. Her home is much more inviting than his own palace, he thinks. He had not considered his subjects' comfort when he designed it. Lucienne would like it here. So would Hob.
Dream is struck by a fierce jolt of anguish. What has he done? How could he have turned his back on the people who love him, and whom he loves—if he is indeed capable of love—in return? He collapses into an armchair and stares into the fire.
"I know," Death says as she reenters, carrying two steaming mugs and a packet of biscuits under her arm. "It's a lot to take in."
Dream wraps his hands around the cup, savoring the way it warms his hands. He does not drink, but gazes at his reflection in the dark brew. He looks wretched, his skin sallow and dark bruises blooming beneath his eyes. The Kindly Ones did not inflict direct damage on his body as they did to the Dreaming, but one would never know it from looking at him. He looks like a corpse. He is, he supposes.
"What happens next? Where do I go from here?" he asks, his voice a croaking whisper as he speaks for the first time since accepting Death's gift.
"Well, that's up to you." Death blows on her tea and takes a sip. "Where do you want to go?"
Dream frowns, uncomprehending. He had not realized that he would have a say in this. That he would have to decide for himself which eternal punishment best befits his crimes.
"I will face the consequences for what I have done. I will go where it is right for me to go," he replies. "It is unjust that I should choose, when I took that choice from others."
Death levels him with a flat stare. "I'm not sending you to Hell, if that's what you're getting at," she says. "It is your choice, but haven't you suffered enough already? You've been tormenting yourself for so long, I'm not sure you know any other way to be. But you've more than paid the price for your actions; at this point you're just getting swindled. Let yourself be at peace."
"How can I be at peace," Dream scowls, affronted, "knowing that I have left my realm and my duties behind? How can I have peace when the Dreaming has been devastated?"
"It's not your realm anymore," Death says gently. "The Dreaming is in good hands. You made sure of that, and now your responsibility is over. Your only duty now is to decide what you're going to do next, because you can't stay here forever." She takes a bite of biscuit before adding, "And if you don't choose soon, I'll do it for you."
Dream scoffs and sets his tea on the side table so that he can cross his arms over his chest. "Very well, then. You decide."
Death sighs. "Why don't you take a bit to think on it? You can stay for a little while."
"I would not impose on you, sister."
"I offered. And I could use the company," she insists. "Come on, it'll be fun! I've got music and food and books. Take a little holiday before you settle into eternity."
Dream is tired. Far too tired to argue, so he merely rolls his eyes and picks up his mug of tea. He takes a sip and fails to stifle a hum of approval. It tastes exactly the way it does when Hob makes him tea. Death smiles, looking pleased with herself.
And that's how Dream, formerly of the Endless, proceeds to spend the next week camping out in Death's living room.
He does not know what to do with himself. The silence here—not only in the Sunless Lands, but within his own mind—is deafening. Maddening. He is completely severed from the collective unconscious, and the part that is left, the part that is him, is so small, so quiet. A single voice echoing in an empty hall. He does not recognize it. He cannot make sense of himself; what is he, who is he, when he is extricated from that which defined him?
He haunts the place, literally, alternating between sulking on the couch and walking the Sunless Lands. His sister's realm is strangely beautiful, really. It would make a fine backdrop for a nightmare, not that Dream will ever create another nightmare again. He talks to Slim and Wandsworth, Death's goldfish, though the conversation is entirely one-sided as he can no longer see their dreams. This "holiday" that Death has imposed on him seems quite pointless. Why will she not allow him to move on, to give him peace, as she claims to be so intent on doing?
Death is not often at home, Dream soon comes to realize. Her work keeps her almost constantly occupied, and he only sees her during the short intervals of rest that she has between jobs. He had never appreciated before how little time she spends in her own realm.
She finds him during one of these moments of respite, tucked away in a cozy chamber deep within the labyrinthine palace.
“I see you found the library. Enjoying it?” she asks.
“I am,” Dream replies. “Though it is rather modest compared to some other libraries I have seen,” he adds with a teasing smirk.
Death grins and shakes her head as she sits down beside him. “Hey now, we haven’t all got a Lucienne to keep things in order.”
Dream’s face falls at the mention of his—former—librarian.
“You miss her,” Death says, her smile softening.
“Yes. Terribly. I miss all of them.”
“She misses you, too. They all do.”
Dream shuts his book and looks up at his sister. “You have spoken with Lucienne? Have you been to the Dreaming?” he asks, unable to hide the alarm in his tone.
“No, but I see Abel most days, don’t I? He keeps me in the loop,” Death shrugs.
“I see. And how long have you been using him to spy on me?”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic! It’s nothing like that,” Death laughs. “He only told me that everyone in the Dreaming misses you. Matthew’s taking it pretty hard.” Dream feels a stab of guilt at the news. Death continues, “But Daniel—everyone’s still calling him Daniel, the name stuck—is doing really well so far. Mervyn loves him, apparently. Oh, and he promoted Lucienne to Prime Minister! Daniel I mean, not Merv.”
“Prime Minister. That seems fitting.” Why had he never thought to give her such a title?
“I thought so, too. And Nuala will be taking over as Librarian. Rumor is, she and Lucienne are an item.”
Hearing this news of his former subjects as third-hand gossip provokes an emotion that Dream cannot name. It is more insight into their personal lives than he ever had as their king. He smiles in spite of himself. “I am happy for them. Thank you, sister. For telling me.”
“Of course, little brother,” Death beams back at him, then abruptly slaps both palms against her knees. “So. Have you made a decision yet?”
Dream freezes. “I… had not—” he falters, but Death holds up a finger to silence him.
“Hold that thought,” she sighs. “Massive earthquake in the Philippines. I might be out a while.”
Before Dream can respond, she is gone.
She finds him again later, listening to records in the lounge as he leafs idly through a book. He has pondered her question, but in truth he has no idea what he should choose. He hopes she does not ask again now.
“Ah, Billie Holiday,” Death says as she strolls into the room. “Great choice.”
“Despair told me that Orpheus used to sing these songs to her,” Dream replies. “But it was Hob Gadling who properly introduced me to her music.”
“I spoke to him at the wake, you know,” she remarks. Dream’s terror must be evident on his face, because she hurries to add, “I didn’t take him, don’t worry. He still has no plans to die. He misses you, though.”
Hob has occupied Dream’s thoughts a great deal during his time in the Sunless Lands. He thinks of that night, of that kiss, of his own inability to contain his ardor for his friend any longer. How foolish he had been. How selfish, how cruel, to inflict his love on someone who already means such a great deal to him.
But oh, how sweet it had been when Hob kissed him back. He had felt his dreams, Hob’s passion for him matching and mirroring his own, their shared bliss echoing between them, amplifying, enveloping them. He cannot bring himself to regret it, even with the agony of knowing that he has likely broken his friend’s heart. As he does to everyone he loves, sooner or later. He takes some solace in knowing that he cannot hurt Hob now. Nevertheless, he wishes he could see him again once more, if only to apologize properly.
“I am finding that I miss him too,” Dream murmurs.
Death gives him a peculiar look then, as if she has just had an idea.
“What?” Dream asks blankly.
“Nothing,” she says. “I’m heading back out for a while. Keep thinking about what I asked you!”
The next time he encounters his sister is in the entry hall as he is on his way out for a walk around the grounds.
“Oh good, you’ve already got your coat and shoes on,” she says by way of greeting. He tilts his head, bemused, as she goes on, “If you could go anywhere in the waking world for just one day, where would you go?”
He blinks at her. Is this a riddle? He does not know the answer.
“Come on!” she urges. “I’ve got to get started soon. Answer the question.”
Dream thinks for a moment. He cannot imagine what to say, except…
“I would visit my friend. One last time.”
Death appears to be pleased with this answer. “Great! London it is, then.” She links her arm with his and steers them in the direction of the front door.
“Sister, what…?” Dream splutters as he is hauled along.
“Chop chop! No dawdling, I’ve got lots I want to do today and you’re coming with me. You’ve been sitting here moping for too long as it is. It’s time to find out what comes next.”
Dream plants his feet firmly on the floor and stares at her. “Now? You mean… I will see Hob and then… that’s it?”
When he first took Death’s hand, he had been so tired. So ready to meet his end. But now… now he is afraid. And he cannot guess what may be in store for him.
“Sort of, yeah,” Death says. “Don’t look at me like that! I already told you I’m not sending you anywhere horrible. Besides, it’s my day off, so no reaping for me.”
“Sister, will you at least tell me—”
“Nope!” she chirps, and resumes dragging him by the arm.
Dream heaves a resigned sigh and follows her. He supposes he has no choice in the matter, after all. Death opens the door and Dream squints at the unexpected flood of sunlight, painfully bright after his time in the darkness.
They step over the threshold and into the waking world, and Dream is alive.
He gasps, taking in a much-needed lungful of fresh air. He is overwhelmed, inundated by sensation and his apparent newfound need for oxygen. He feels dizzy. He cannot think with the cacophony that surrounds him—car horns, barking dogs, the shrill twittering of birds and insects, the grating clangor of machinery. And the smells—morning dew, engine exhaust fumes, and others that he cannot identify, some fragrant and some foul, all mingling together in a way that is both intoxicating and… he casts about for a word to describe this new, unpleasant feeling roiling in his gut.
Ah, yes. Nauseating. He leans over and, to his horror, vomits onto the grass.
“Sorry, should have warned you,” Death says, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “Human body; bit intense the first time. You’ll get used to it.”
“Human…” Dream repeats weakly.
Once Dream has caught his breath and Death has deemed him fit to proceed, they start walking in a seemingly random direction. They appear to be in a park, swathes of turf dotted with trees extending before them. In the distance the London skyline rises from the mist, tinted rose and gold from the last vestiges of dawn.
“What a gorgeous morning!” Death exclaims, closing her eyes and stretching her arms wide as she turns her face to the sun. “Do you know why I only take one day off every hundred years?”
“I do not understand why you do it at all,” Dream replies.
Death snorts. “Sure you do, you used to do the same thing. I spend one day each century as a human, you spent one day each century with a human.”
Dream rolls his eyes. That is not the same.
“Anyway,” Death continues, “Every time I take a day off, by the end of it I always wish it could have gone on forever. If I let myself have even a bit longer… well, I’m not sure I’d have the willpower to come back. You’ll see what I mean by the end of the day.”
Dream doubts that. It has been five minutes and he has already had enough of this human body. How his sister can enjoy this is beyond him. Yet he feels a newfound upwelling of compassion for her. Does she long for a purpose outside her function, as he did? As Destruction did? Does Death make friends on her days off? She must; everyone loves her. But she does not, to Dream’s knowledge, have anyone like Hob.
Dream gulps. Hob. They are here so that Dream can see his friend and… beg his forgiveness before leaving him yet again? This was a bad idea. He looks around and recognizes where they are now. This is the same park where Death threw a loaf of bread at him. That day feels so long ago. From here it is only a short walk to the New Inn, which is fortunate because Dream feels too weak to go on much longer, but also unfortunate because…
“Sister,” Dream says, the urgency of his tone betraying his apprehension, “I think… perhaps this is unwise. I do not know. If Hob…” he hesitates. How can he explain, without divulging his embarrassing behavior and his true feelings for his friend?
“You’re worried he won’t want to see you?” Death finishes for him.
“Our last meeting was. Somewhat more… turbulent than usual,” Dream admits. “I am unsure where I stand with him.”
“I’m not even going to ask what that means,” Death laughs, shaking her head, “but I promise you, he’s going to be thrilled.”
Dream heaves a grim sigh as the cheery facade of the New Inn looms into view. He hopes she is right.
💀💀💀💀💀
Thanks for reading! Reblogs, as well as kudos and comments on ao3 are appreciated! 💗
Im so slow but addition things for bby dream and sandman week Ice Cream | Shiver | Only one of you | Treasure
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022), The Sandman (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling Characters: Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Meowpheus - Character Additional Tags: Hob Gadling Loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Chronic Pain, Chronic Illness, Hob Gadling Has Chronic Pain, Hob Gadling Needs A Hug, Protective Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus Loves Hob Gadling, Dream of the endless wants hob to take his fucking medication, Pain, Sleepy Cuddles, Couch Cuddles, meowpheus, Actual Cat Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus Acts Like a Sad Wet Cat Summary:
Blue eyes, crystal clear, hold Hob's in wrought attention. He's blanketed in a warm jumper- black, of course, considering it belongs to his significant other. Dream doesn't necessarily have a smell, but he swears there is the faintest whiff of ozone, and the scent of a forest, soaked after a rainstorm. Speaking of the storm, the one raging outside is the exact reason they sit on Hob's worn sofa, curled together, Dream's presence a safe fortress where the pain still filters through.
Hob has a chronic pain flare up, Dream/ Meowpheus provides comfort. For Day 4 of belated Sadman week! (Prompt; Ice-Cream, Eye Contact, Blood)
Endless Dreams || Chapter 3: Potential and Possibilities
Summary
Hob wakes up in the middle of the woods, a voice inside his head giving him orders. While he doesn't understand where the voice came from or its reasons for ordering him around, Hob is sure he should be looking for something. And so he walks off the path.
Word Count: 8,170
Notes
For Tropetember 2025 | Prompts: Monstrous and Supernatural | @tropetember
(Chapter 1)
[Read on AO3]
---
The damp smell of earth and grass is the first thing that Hob notices as consciousness comes slowly to him. He blinks himself awake and groggily stands up, his muscles sore. Was there a battle last night?
“Greetings, Robert Gadling.”
Hob startles and turns around, looking for the source of the voice. He finds nothing, only trees surrounding him and a dirt path beneath his feet.
“Allow me to first congratulate you for emerging victorious in the war.”
“What—” Hob stumbles to a nearby tree and puts out a hand to steady himself as a wave of nausea comes over him. Memories flit past like raindrops caught in the wind, pelting his face too quickly for him to process.
“Your world is now free from the power of The Order of Ancient Mysteries.”
Hob blinks rapidly to steady his vision, takes a deep breath, and straightens up. Right, of course. The fall of Roderick Burgess. He remembers that. Why did he think there was a battle last night?
“Who are you?” Hob glances up at the trees for any hidden speakers or cameras, even magical runes like what he saw in the war, but he finds no sign of them.
“I am someone who wants to save your world. And I need your help in accomplishing it.”
Hob realises where the voice might be coming from, and panic begins to rise in his throat. “Are you inside my head?” Even the Magus didn’t have that kind of power.
“Yes. It is the only way I can communicate with you. Now listen to me.”
“Where the hell am I?”
“You’re on a path in the woods. And at the end of that path is a cabin. And in the basement of that cabin is a Prince. You’re here to slay him. If you don’t, it will be the end of the world.”
Hob looks down the path away from the woods, and in the distance there does seem to be a cabin. The sight of it tugs at something in his memory, and he furrows his eyebrows to try to recall it, but nothing comes to mind. Maybe it just looks like a cabin he had seen before; most cabins look similar to each other.
“No,” Hob says and turns away from the cabin. “I’m not gonna ‘slay’ anyone just because a voice in my head tells me to.”
“You do not understand. You have to do it.”
“I don’t have to do anything you say, mate,” Hob says distractedly, looking around the woods. He has this nagging feeling that he’s searching for something, something important. But he can’t quite remember what it’s supposed to be.
He starts walking deeper into the woods; following the path is as good a start as any.
“Robert Gadling. Must you turn around and leave? Do you even know where you’re going?”
“Somewhere else now.” Leaves crunch under his shoes, and stars twinkle in the night sky. Those look familiar too, the stars. But of course they would, Hob had seen stars many times before.
“Fine. Suit yourself.”
“I suppose it would be wrong to just start killing random people in cabins.”
Hob stops in his tracks. “Now who’s that?”
“It seems that your mind has not yet fully recovered from travelling across the realms. A part of your mind is still split from the rest.”
Hob knows that he should probably be more horrified at that, but somehow he digests that information with nothing more than the initial shock of it. Fighting in a magic war does that to a man.
“Great, maybe you can both talk to each other and leave me alone.”
“Where are we going? Did we get any orders?"
“You did. You’re just not following it.”
Hob sees a clearing and walks towards it, carefully stepping over rocks and pushing branches out of the way.
The clearing slopes upwards on a hill, and on top of that hill is…
“Strange. It looks like this path also leads to the cabin. Good to see that everything is back on track again. Perhaps the world can still be saved after all.”
Hob frowns. Did he get turned around somehow? But the path didn’t seem to curve or circle back anywhere. He turns around and walks back the way he came from, this time going off the path.
“You seem keen on wasting everyone’s time. It’s remarkably selfish. I have already told you that if you don’t fulfill your task, everyone in the world dies.”
Hob doesn’t bother replying. If the world really is at stake, no one would go to him to save it. He’s not even a magic user like the Constantines. And anyway, he’s supposed to be looking for something, not killing anyone. Now if he could only remember what he should be looking for.
He continues walking, keeping the path at his back so as to be sure not to accidentally return to it. There doesn’t seem to be much variation in the foliage, so it’s a bit tricky to find landmarks especially with the sun almost completely set by this time. Still, Hob keeps walking in the direction he chose. Surely he has to reach a different place some time.
The trees seem to be thinning ahead and Hob speeds up, stepping over roots and pushing branches out of the way. He steps into the clearing.
Bloody hell.
“Ah, you see? The universe itself is doing its best to bring you to your fated confrontation with the Prince.”
“Screw the universe. I’ll have to end up somewhere else at some point.” Hob turns around and walks off into a random direction.
“There is always a choice, but I will tell you now that you are making the wrong one for everyone who has ever lived, and everyone who ever will.”
Hob doesn’t answer. He can’t quite explain why, but he doesn’t trust that voice in his head. The fact that he can’t remember what he’s supposed to be looking for already means that he’s got some lost memories. He could have been enchanted by some sorcerer, maybe the same one who put this voice in his head. Is he looking for his comrades?
Little flickers in his periphery distract him from his thoughts. He looks around and glimpses familiar wooden structures through the leaves, and as he focuses on his surroundings he sees that they aren’t just a trick of starlight.
In every direction he can see, there is a path and a cabin. Not just any cabin. The cabin. An infinite number of paths and cabins stretched out no matter where he decides to go.
“W-What's going on?" Hob had almost forgotten about this other voice.
Hob huffs out an exasperated breath. There were sorcerers in the war who could do illusion magic, but he was never deployed with those who fought them. General Constantine’s platoon dealt with the most powerful sorcerers, so why weren’t any of them chosen to fulfill whatever madness this is?
“Even in the face of this you are going to be too stubborn, aren’t you? No matter how many paths or cabins appear around you, you’re just going to do whatever you can to shirk your responsibility. You care more about defying me than saving the world. You have doomed us all.”
“Obeying you would save the world? Don’t flatter yourself, mate.”
Hob weaves through the endless cabins appearing in his path, making sure to stay outdoors even when there seems to be more cabins than trees at this point. There’s a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he’s already been in the cabin before, and while his mind can’t remember what happened then, his body tenses at the shadow of the memory. He experienced pain in that cabin. And if he had already been there before and he’s still searching, then whatever he’s searching for must not have been in there.
Time stops making sense. Hob thinks his legs should probably be aching now that he’s been walking for quite a while, but his senses seem dulled. Pain as a measurement of time isn’t even an option in this situation. He isn’t out of breath either. The voices in his head haven’t said anything more, and the woods are growing quieter as well. The leaves stop making sounds beneath his boots. No birds nor bugs are chirping. The cabins are everywhere now but it doesn’t feel claustrophobic. It doesn’t really feel like anything. Is he even still walking?
It becomes harder to tell where the night sky ends and the woods begin. There aren’t any stars anymore. Everything seems to merge into everything else. Just one dark mass of weightlessness.
Is that a woman? The silver pendant around her neck glints, but what light is it reflecting? Her smile is kind and warm, but when Hob tries to reach for her, she takes a step back and puts her hands behind her back with a chuckle. Says Hob isn’t supposed to take her hand.
Darkness.
Hob wakes with a gasp, looking up at a starry night sky while lying on his back. He lifts his head and looks around, blinking at the trees that surround him.
“Greetings, Robert Gadling. Allow me to first congratulate you for emerging victorious in the war.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” Hob mutters and his head falls back onto the earth with a soft thud.
“Your world is now free from the power of The Order of Ancient Mysteries.”
“Back here again, aren’t we?” As soon as Hob says the words, he feels more certain that this isn’t the only reset he’s been in. He doesn’t remember anything further from the previous one when he felt like he should be searching for something, but this all feels too familiar to only be the second time around.
The voice continues speaking, but Hob tunes it out and just stares at the stars. He’s never been a sailor, so he never learned the constellations. And where he lived in the city, there was so much light pollution that he was lucky to see a few specks of stars on a clear night. He now wishes he learned a bit more of it, just so he could have a vague idea of where he could be in the world right now. Just knowing whether he was near the North or South Pole might make him feel better.
”... you understand?”
Hob sighs, still staring at the sky. “Let me guess, find the cabin and the Prince?”
”Precisely. And slay him.”
“How many times have I been here?” Hob tries.
“This is your first time in these woods.”
“If he doesn't remember what happened, then maybe it's best to keep it that way."
“I don’t know. I think it’s more fun if he knows what we’re thinking. He’s like a captive audience.”
Hob frowns. That voice is new. Does he get a new one for every reset?
“The entire world ending wasn’t enough to get rid of us. I don’t think there’s much he can do other than object. I wonder what else we can do to ruin his day.”
“You will not be just ‘ruining my day’, you will ruin everyone’s lives when the world ends if you don’t slay the Prince.”
“So the world really did end last time, didn’t it? We should be careful. For all we know we just got lucky.”
“The world has not ended yet. Push those insolent voices to the back of your mind, Robert Gadling, and stay focused on the task ahead.”
Hob gets to his feet and brushes off his clothes. So avoiding the cabin didn’t exactly work. Looks like the only way out of this is through. Hopefully he would at least get a clue of what he’s searching for when he gets to the cabin.
He glances up and notices the walls for the first time. Solid concrete, taller than the trees, and blocking the way deeper into the woods.
“Oh you’ve put up walls this time. Really forcing me to go to the cabin, eh?”
“Those walls have always been there, it just makes sense for them to be so. If not for the walls, someone might have gotten lost. Or even worse, someone other than you might have stumbled onto the Prince.”
“So there are other people around here, then?” Hob asks as he makes his way down the path.
“I certainly hope not.”
Hob wonders what the voice in his head really is, the one giving him orders. If Hob and the pieces of his mind can remember the resets, why can’t the voice? Anyway, it’s a good thing that the voice can’t really read his mind, as long as it’s just him thinking and not one of the broken off pieces of himself. Christ, it’s giving him a headache just thinking about it.
He can see the cabin in the distance, at the top of a small hill surrounded by the high concrete walls. There seems to be light coming from inside.
He stops at the bottom of the hill and stares at the cabin, dread forming in his stomach. He has no idea what to expect nor what to hope for.
“A warning, before you go any further. He will lie, he will cheat, and he will do everything in his power to stop you from slaying her. Don’t believe a word he says.”
“If we’re stuck going in there, maybe we should believe him. Maybe he isn’t a liar.”
“Ignore him.”
“I don’t know, doesn’t feel right to break into someone’s house and kill them. We don’t even know anything about the Prince.”
“I have told you all you need to know.”
Hob climbs the hill and walks up to the door. It opens and the creaking sounds off, like someone was trying to imitate the sound and doing it badly. He steps inside and immediately feels disoriented.
The cabin interior just feels wrong. It’s a confusing patchwork of many cabin interiors all projected across what’s almost the same space. But it’s all shifted—an inch there, a foot there, enough that the seams are never quite visible enough for the place to make any sense.
The window on the left is square and has a hole in the glass, like someone had thrown a rock through it, and the walls around it are made of stone and flat pieces of wood. The window on the right is arched and the glass is spotless, the pattern reminding Hob of a church window. The walls are both bricks and smooth concrete. The door in front of Hob—which he can somehow tell leads down into the basement—is made of an entirely different piece of wood, and doesn’t seem to fit properly on the walls of cobblestone and logs behind it. The floor is made of the same varying patchwork that it nearly gave him vertigo just looking at it.
To the right is a small wooden table that’s lopsided because its legs are of different lengths. Perched on it is a pristine blade, oddly vivid in its appearance and seems to be the only thing in the room that’s certain of what it should be.
“The blade is your implement. You’ll need it if you want to do this right.”
“If he wants us to take it, maybe we should just leave it to collect dust. Or better yet, grab it and throw it out the window! What good is a knife against a world-ending monstrosity anyway?”
“No, we’re taking the knife. Do you see this place? We have literally no idea what to expect, and no idea what we’re dealing with.”
“I have already told you what you are dealing with. You are dealing with a Prince. It is a simple and straightforward premise.”
“Simple and straightforward? Nothing in here feels that way at all.”
“Listen to me. My job is to guide you, and your job is to slay the Prince. And through that action, you shall save the entire world. You cannot let fear creep into your heart. You cannot lose yourself before you even get to him.”
“Oh now that’s interesting! What’s going to happen if we ‘lose ourself’?”
“Nothing, because that will not happen. Just ignore the odd appearance of the place and stay calm.”
“How can we ignore it? It’s not like we can close our eyes and walk around blindly in here.”
“You will just have to learn. You have a job to finish, and quickly.”
“Yes, take a deep breath. I’m all for getting under his skin, but we’ll miss out on loads of fun if we shrivel up into a ball and go insane the first time we see something weird. What you’re seeing here is obviously real. Don’t stay frozen thinking about it.”
“Okay. Okay. I’m fine.”
“Now, we’re all waiting for you to complete a very important task.”
Hob walks over to the table and takes the weapon. The weight in his hand feels familiar, and he dreads to think of what he could have done with the blade in a previous reset.
“Good. It would be difficult to slay the Prince and save the world without a weapon.”
“Okay, fine. You took the knife. But you really shouldn’t hold it like that.”
“Then how are we supposed to hold it?”
“The other way. Thumb at the bottom. We’ll look much more serious.”
“It does not matter how you hold the blade. As long as you use it to slay the Prince.”
Hob walks over to the window with a hole in it, and throws out the knife as far as he can, sending it flying into the night and down the hill.
“Haha! Yes!”
“Really now? Then I suppose you will just have to deal with the Prince without it.”
“We’ll be fine. What’s the worst that could happen? The world ends? We’ve just been through that.”
“I’m not so sure. This place is already messing with our head. It would be much better if we had a weapon.”
“What’s done is done. Good luck.”
Hob touches the door handle to the basement and takes a deep breath. He knows he had used the blade before, and he’s still here. It’s entirely possible that slaying the Prince did not help one bit. The voice in his head somehow just doesn’t remember that. He wants to try something else this time, though he hasn’t the faintest idea of what that could be.
The door opens with a similar discordant creak as the front door, and Hob nearly falls over upon seeing what’s on the other side.
A web of branching staircases spiral in curves and loops that all lead somewhere into a black abyss. Each staircase is built from some unidentifiable material; every time Hob tries to think of what it could be, it feels like his mind turns away and refuses to acknowledge it.
Nothing here seems to belong, and the closer Hob examines his surroundings, the more confused he gets, his head throbbing with the effort of making sense of this place. The stairs overlap so much that Hob isn’t even sure whether they lead anywhere, much less downwards. The air has a sickening, almost sludge-like miasma to it, the kind of indiscernible quality that comes from the blending together of every scent there is at once. An odor that’s simultaneously everything and yet coalescing into a thick, nauseating nothing.
“Do you understand now how terrible this place is? If the Prince lives here, slaying him would be doing him a favor.”
A voice comes up from below, a disquieting collage of tone and personality scraping and echoing along unseen walls with each word bouncing off each other.
“Hello? HI. What are you doing hErE? Are yOu heRe to—KILL.”
“Hmm. No. No thank you.”
“Oh don’t be such a child!”
“I don’t want to do this. Let’s just turn around and leave. This feels wrong, this feels like a trap, like whatever we do we’re gonna die. We don’t even have a weapon.”
“But we already tried turning around and leaving, didn’t we? And he threw up a wall. No way to go but forward, and whatever choice we make, whatever he is, we know one thing for sure.”
“And what’s that?”
“The fate of the world hinges on your success?”
“There’ll still be plenty of ways to ruin his day.”
Hob tries to tune out the voices as he decides on how to proceed. There are three staircases branching out from where he’s standing. The one on the left looks solid with sharp angles and edges, the center one looks the most plain, and the one on the right looks to be the softest.
Hob decides to take the right one. At least even if he gets dizzy and slips, he won’t cut his head open on a sharp edge.
The path feels soft and reassuring against his feet. The stairs almost seem to cradle him as he makes his way down, like they’re guiding his heels from one stop directly to the next. He barely has to extend any effort to descend, the stairway doing most of the work for him, and he doesn’t feel like there’s any concern that he might slip or tumble or lose his way.
The further he goes, the deeper he sinks in. First it’s like a lovely plush carpet, his shoes digging down and barely hitting any resistance at all. But soon enough he’s fighting just to keep his knees from sinking out of sight. The softness threatens to swallow him whole, to wrest control of his body and surround him in a false ethereal bliss, pretending to save him from the cruelties of choice and consequence.
Soft fluffy walls rise up on either side of him, closing in until they almost form a ceiling. Hob is grunting at every laborious step, fighting sleepiness and the temptation to just curl up and rest and be away from all of this. It’s slow-going, but he manages to fight against the overwhelming urge to fall back into the comfort and nothingness, the very struggle to continue forward consuming his every thought.
The walls of the staircase fade away, and instead he’s at the bottom of the hill. Looking up at the cabin. What?
Now he’s inside the cabin, the walls made of logs. A blade on a table.
Down a wooden staircase.
In the middle of the woods. But the shape of the trees seem blurry.
Back at the bottom of the hill. In the log cabin. Wooden stairs.
Time disappears. Hob feels himself begin to untether. In the middle of the woods that might as well be a sketch drawing for how undefined the shapes are. At the bottom of the hill. The surroundings are even less detailed. Inside a vaguely drawn log cabin. Blurry wooden staircase. Trees.
Physical sensations dull and then vanish. A child’s drawing of what could be a forest. The only things experienced are the endlessly repeating patterns and emotions of the journey. Hill. Log cabin. Outline of a staircase. A continuous march forward to a destination long forgotten. Trees. Hill. Cabin. Stairs. Trees. Hill. Cabin. Stairs. Trees. Hill. Cabin. Shadow of a staircase.
Nothingness.
A staircase made of thorns and muscle and sinew. Another one overlapping it, made of locks of hair and linked chains. Another one of nails and splintered wood. Another one of stones and water. Pine needles and strands of DNA.
Consumption and betrayal. Skepticism and blind devotion. Rivalry and submission. Terror and longing. Pain and unfamiliarity. And at the heart of it all, an emotion that can only be described as—
“Are you okay?” A fragile voice.
Hob gasps and stumbles and blinks. He’s standing inside a small and dark prison cell.
As his eyes adjust, he sees the figure sitting on the floor across from him. The man’s robe hangs loosely around his slender frame, pooling on the cold stone floor. Piercing blue eyes look at Hob through the darkness.
“What— What the hell was that?! What happened to us?”
“I feel so… strange. Like I’m fundamentally different, but also… still the same person I was at the top of the stairs. Oh well! That was a trip but now it’s over. Time to get back to our old devilish ways.”
Is this man the Prince? His eyes are bright but otherwise shrouded in darkness, watching Hob impatiently from where he sits.
“Don’t forget why you’re here.”
“And why are we here again? In case you weren’t listening, I’m afraid I lost myself on the way down.”
A sigh. “You’re here to—”
“He’s just being an ass. We remember. Though I’m still not sure if we should trust you. Let’s talk to him for a bit. Try and get our bearings. He seems… normal.”
“I’m sorry,” Hob finally gets out. The throbbing in his head dissipating to a dull ache. “I didn’t realise I was already here.” It feels like an understated explanation to what he just went through.
“That’s okay. Sometimes I forget where I am, too.” The Prince’s voice is just on this side of uncertain. He sounds as if his eyes would be darting around to every corner of the room and his hands would fidget at everything he could touch. But he remains still and just staring at Hob.
The shadows recede, revealing the Prince’s face. Gentle and angular, softened by the dark raven hair bathed in moonlight.
“He’s so warm. And friendly…”
“It is deception. Do not buy into it.”
For a moment there’s a sound like sand speeding through an hourglass. And in a blink the Prince’s appearance had shifted. The edges of his form seem to bleed into the shadows, smoky tendrils of darkness seeping out of him and reaching outwards. When he speaks again, his voice is sharper.
“How strange. So. Why are you here?”
“We can do that?! Did we do that? Change his form?”
“I don’t like this. It’s those cabins all over again. Can… Can we put him back?”
“You said you had been here before. What exactly happened then?” For the first time, the voice sounds unsure.
“Does it matter?”
“It does. But if you are to be stubborn about the details then I shall not waste any more time prying them out of you. It seems to me like you saw something you weren’t supposed to have seen. Whatever it was, unsee it. Whatever thoughts weaseled their way into your head, unthink them, if it is not already too late. You have a job to do here and you need to do it now.”
“New plan! Let’s see if we can change his form even more.”
“Who are you?” Hob asks.
“You can call me Prince, if you’d like,” he says in a friendly tone. “Prince,” he says again in his sharper voice, calculating.
“Right. Are you alright? Your form… It’s changing.”
“Do you need help? Not that there’s much I can do chained up like this, but I’m the only one down here. So if you need anything, I’ll do my best.” The Prince sounds sincerely concerned, though Hob doesn’t understand why he thinks Hob needs help.
Before Hob can reply, there’s the same sound of sand through an hourglass, and the Prince’s form blurs even more. He’s less humanoid now and more of a dark cloud. His blue eyes shifting from friendly to hostile and back again over and over, more tendrils of black smoke emanating from him and reaching the ceiling.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” The Prince’s voice is sharp and accusatory. “Are you trying to get under my skin?”
Hob frowns in confusion, he hasn't even said anything.
“I don’t like where this is going.”
“Neither do I. Which is why you need to slay him now before things get more complicated than they already are.”
“How would we even do that? Where would we start?”
“You could always start by retrieving the blade.”
“The one that he made us throw out the window?”
“I wasn’t the one who threw it.”
“Oh come on, you told us to! Don’t try to pass the blame now that it’s come back to bite us.”
“Well, if I’d known we’d be dealing with this, maybe I wouldn’t have been so hasty with my suggestions.”
“I don’t think we’re going to be able to put him back.”
“It kind of hurts to think about it all, doesn’t it? It’s like everything we say just makes him bigger.”
“It certainly looks that way. So please, stop asking him questions and stop stalling. You’re obviously just making things worse.”
Hob isn’t about to go back up those horrible stairs just to find a small blade that he didn’t want to use anyway.
“Getting down here was… unsettling,” Hob tells the Prince. “Like I was pulled apart and back together again. Do you know what happened to me?” If this Prince is some sort of deity, he might know what’s going on.
“I don’t know what happened to you, but you look like you’re in one piece now,” the Prince says reassuringly. “But I understand. Sometimes I feel like I’m being pulled apart, too. It’s so… terrifying down here. But at least now you’re not alone. And I’m not alone either.”
This time the sound is like an hourglass cracking and sand spilling out. The cloud of darkness surrounding the Prince grows even bigger, and what vague shape of the Prince remains in the center grows taller, looming over Hob.
“We’re probably stuck down here forever, aren’t we?” The fear and melancholy in the Prince’s voice catches Hob off-guard, such a stark contrast to his hulking appearance. “There’s no way out, and barely a way in…” A sharp edge creeps into his voice again. “I don’t remember what it was like before I was in this place. Why would I know what happened to you? You’re not really cut out for this, are you? Why are you even here?”
“Why are you here?” Hob asks the question back.
“You are wasting time—”
“Do you know why you’re down here?” Hob talks over the voice. He wants to know if the Prince is just as trapped as he is.
“I don’t know why I’m here, but there has to be a reason, right?” The Prince sounds fragile as fine china. “You don’t just lock a prince away in a place like this without a reason. I wish I knew what it was. But you know, right?” The Prince’s voice begins to lilt and shift in odd places, like a song that’s always one note wrong in each measure. “You’re the only other person I’ve ever seen, or at least the only one I can remember.” His eyes flash something dangerous, and Hob thinks he can glimpse sharp teeth and fangs flickering in places inside the cloud. “Don’t give me false hope. Please just end this already. One way or another, just do it.” He sounds equal parts pleading and taunting.
The unseen hourglass shatters and a gust of wind nearly throws Hob off his feet.
“Don’t be coy.”
There’s a sneer in the Prince’s voice even when there are no more facial features to be discerned. The dark cloud has filled more than half of the room, and there are brilliant blue eyes and sets of jagged teeth everywhere and nowhere at once. They glint in the corners of Hob’s vision, and disappear whenever he tries to look at them directly.
“We both know why I’m locked away here,” the Prince’s voice echoes off the stone walls, goading and mocking. “I’m a monster, and the second I get out of this place, I’M gOinG To eNd ThE enTIRE wOrLd.”
“This is reaching its breaking point,” the voice says urgently. “If you don’t act now, there will be nothing in here but him. Focus. You can do this.”
“But how do we decide what to do? Can there even be a right choice in a situation like this?”
“Stop overthinking it. Your drifting thoughts have clearly been part of the reason this situation has gotten out of hand. If you’re trying to do the right thing, there’s only ever been the one option, and that is to slay him.”
“Just do something! Do anything! Do all of it if that’s what you want. This place is hell and it’s only getting worse.”
Hob can’t argue with that. The smoky tendrils are reaching him and he can feel himself being pulled in all directions of possibilities. He wants to free the Prince. He wants to leave him in this basement. He wants to find the knife. He’s glad to be rid of it.
“Do something.”
Hob is trying, he really is, even though he can’t wrap his mind around a single decision. He takes a step forward, but his foot lands… different. He feels a firm footfall, a gentle tread, a confident stride. Hob can feel himself rupture. The room spins, his vision multiplies in a sickening kaleidoscope as his very self is pulled in unfathomably many directions.
The Prince is now a friendly human and a hostile creature and a deity beyond comprehension. The blade appears in Hob’s hands. All at once he uses it to strike the Prince and free him as Hob remains upstairs and slays the Prince and abandons him to languish in the basement. There are shards of glass and sand flying everywhere.
“Is this what the end of the world looks like this time? What an unbearable mess.”
Blue eyes and sharp fangs. The cloud of smoke suffocating and refreshing.
“But this— We can’t…”
Hob falls over, except he never does because he can’t tell up from down anymore.
“Do you not have anything to say? I could use a good bit of wit right now.”
Hob is caught in a tornado. He’s trapped in the center of it. There’s no difference anymore in being frozen and being ripped apart.
“No I don’t! Because this isn’t fun. How are we supposed to have fun if everything is happening at the same time? It’s the same as nothing happening, and nothing is excruciating!”
Hob hears a loud thud. Is that his body hitting the floor? The Prince? He doesn’t know. The basement collapses, the hill crumbles above. Hob is stuck. He’s soaring from a slingshot flying at light speed—
Darkness. Freefall. Floating.
The Prince is floating in front of him, an amalgamation of different forms coalesced into one indecipherable mass of robes and raven hair and blue eyes and pristine blades.
“We were never going to salvage this, were we?”
“WhAT hApPenEd To uS?” The Prince’s voice is disjointed and echoing, like there are many of him trying to speak all at once but can never agree on who will go first. He sounds scared and annoyed and scornful and fragile. “wHAt aRE We? tHeRe ARe pARts oF Us THat Are dEAd, ANd thE OthERs… ThEy JUst doN’t FiT.” The mass moves up and down and grows bigger and smaller, trying to make sense of itself. “wE CAn FeEL THem MOvInG aRouND iN sPAcEs ThEY doN’T bEloNG. iT’s aLL sO uNComFoRtAbLe.”
A number of blue eyes turn to Hob with a squelch. “DiD yOU dO ThiS? diD We dO tHiS? cAN… CaN yOU puLL Us bAcK apaRT? cAn YoU fiX uS?”
“We should help him. I think… we did this.”
“How surprisingly sincere.”
“I didn’t actually think our actions had consequences.”
“It’s a little late for regret, isn’t it?”
“pLeAsE?”
“It’s gonna be okay.” Hob is startled by how normal his voice sounds after everything. “Let me just think—”
A swirl of sand surrounds the Prince, engulfing him until he disappears in its depths.
Hob barely has time to be surprised before the sand takes him too.
He is weightless, and all at once he drops heavily on the ground.
He gasps for breath and blinks up at a grey sky. He hears the soft lapping of waves against a shore, and he sits up to look around. He’s on a beach, and with a grey sea and black sand stretching out for miles.
He feels something watching him, and he looks to his right to see a black smoky mass floating a few feet in front of him.
As he meets the twin lights in the middle of it, everything comes rushing back.
Finding the cabin for the first time. The Prince stabbing him in the chest. The reset. The Prince towering over him like an ancient god and offering protection. Hob accepting the Prince’s hand—
No, not the Prince. The vessel.
“It’s you,” Hob says in awe, recognising the creature in front of him. The true form of the Prince. For now. “I’m sorry it took so long,” he says as he stands up. “I had no memories when I returned to that place. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to be looking for,” he shakes his head, hearing the frustration in his voice.
“Time does not have a structure here. You need not worry about how long it takes you to get back.” The Prince’s voice is calm, and Hob nearly cries with the familiarity of it. The only genuinely friendly voice he’s heard ever since this madness started.
Hob doubts that the Prince even means to sound friendly, which makes it all the better. The Prince doesn’t feel like he would have any motivations to deceive or manipulate. His voice is a little different from that of his vessels, more solid and reliable somehow. Like Hob can trust it. And after getting his mind and body ripped apart a million times in that previous reset, Hob is glad for a comforting presence.
“Is that one of your vessels?” Hob stares at the mass of melded forms floating at the base of the Prince’s smoky shape. It’s not moving anymore, all the eyes are closed, and for the first time it looks peaceful. “I mean… is it a proper one?”
“Yes. It is fragile, but it is mine. A vessel is nerves and fibers to feel the worlds beyond this one. Perspectives to make my own. These ones are a contradiction. A winding kaleidoscope of paths unwalked. They are stretched into a shape not unlike me, but it is a shape they cannot hold. I am sorry that you met this vessel so early in your journey, but they will make for a rich and vibrant heart. Do not mourn them—for they will finally get to know themselves.”
“No, don’t apologise. I think… I think it’s my fault they became like that.” Hob watches as the vessel gets absorbed into the black smoke. The Prince’s eyes glow brighter for a moment, and his smoky form becomes darker and more tangible. “I avoided the cabin for as long as I could, I thought it was the right choice. Had to go through another reset after that one collapsed. And when I met your vessel it was like…” Hob furrows his eyebrows, searching for the right words. “Everything was happening all at once. When the world first ended it was just nothingness, and then the second time, it was everything. All decisions and possibilities. Does that make sense?”
The Prince is silent for a few moments. “You think your initial refusal to go to that cabin created a world where all decisions were made for you upon meeting my vessel?”
Hob nods thoughtfully. “I guess so, yeah. That’s why it became a mixture of different personalities and appearances. Wait, does that mean… Does that mean that your vessel’s shape would depend on the choices I make?” He frowns. He doesn’t know how he feels about that much of a responsibility.
“It would appear so. You expected my first vessel to be a powerful creature capable of protecting you even from magical elements, and so it manifested as such. You had not expected anything from this second vessel, and so it manifested into multiple possibilities you might expect.”
Hob tries to process all that. He still doesn’t know how he ended up in those woods, and now he can apparently influence the vessels of whatever deity the Prince is.
“If that vessel was made up of several possibilities, does that count as multiple vessels too? Are you more complete now than you would have been if I’d brought just a singular form?”
“No. This vessel is ultimately a mere possibility; none of the forms are fully realised. Yet I cherish it all the same.”
Hob feels himself practically deflate. “So that didn’t matter much, huh?”
“Why do you think so? He is my potential. Not many can say that they have met everything someone could possibly be and declare that all of it is still someone worth saving. You have seen everything I could be, and yet you are neither angry nor afraid. I am aware that you are only collecting my vessels so I can help you get home. Still. I am not so incomplete as to ignore that you have not been repulsed by me after what you have seen.”
Hob blinks at the Prince. It hadn’t even occurred to him to be afraid, much less repulsed. “Just because you could be something terrible doesn’t mean you will be. Humans are like that, too. And you haven’t done anything to make me fear you.”
“My first vessel stabbed you in the heart before you conceived him as a god.”
“Because apparently I expected him to be dangerous. And you said it yourself, that vessel is just one small part of you. How about we make you complete first and then I’ll decide whether I’m repulsed?” Hob said lightly. He’s done terrible things because of the war, and he can’t let any one of those define him. It won’t be fair not to extend the same grace to the Prince who doesn’t even have control over how his vessels treat Hob.
The smoky mass that is the Prince doesn’t have a mouth, but something in the air shifts and Hob somehow senses that he’s smiling.
“You, however, are complete. And I have decided that all of you is worth saving. It would be my honour to help get you back home as soon as it is within my power.”
Hob already knew that the Prince would be helping him, but hearing that still makes him unexpectedly warm inside. He chuckles and glances down at the sand. “I don’t know if you know all of me. I’m not even sure I know all of me.” He thinks about that new voice that he can’t seem to place. “There was a different voice in my head, in the last reset. It’s the only one that I’m not sure where it came from. I mean, I know it’s a part of my mind, because apparently my mind splits every reset? And it’s my voice. But I can’t place it like the others.”
“Your mind splits when you are back in that world?”
“Yeah. Something to do with travelling through realms or something.” If he thinks about it too much he gets a headache. “I was able to recognise the other voices. One was from when I was just starting out as a soldier, the other was from when I was homeless, but I’m not sure about the third one. He just kept contradicting that Destiny guy, the one giving me orders. Remember him? Your first vessel was able to detect him and drive him away somehow.”
“Yes. But I fear I do not know him beyond that.”
Hob sighs and sits cross-legged on the sand, facing the Prince. Hopefully after he brings in more vessels, the Prince would regain enough memory to help him figure things out.
“It troubles you that you do not know where that third voice is from.”
“I’m that easy to read, eh?” Hob smiles. “I guess… I’m not comfortable with not knowing all parts of me. Because what if it’s something bad, you know? And I’ve already inflicted that personality on people and I don’t even remember.” He ducks and massages his forehead. “Don’t mind me, it was just a stressful reset.” Not that the previous ones weren’t stressful. But that latest one was arguably the worst.
“Perhaps that voice is a potential.”
Hob furrows his eyebrows and looks at the Prince. “What do you mean?”
“Something you can be, if you wish it. If it is a part of your mind, it need not have come from one specific point in your life. It might have always been there.”
“Like a part of my personality?”
“Yes. You said it kept contradicting the voice that was giving you orders. Do you not have such tendencies back where you came from?”
Hob thinks about it. He didn't go against rules just for the sake of it, and that first split from his mind was already proof that when he was a new soldier he wanted having orders to follow, some structure to rely on. But he never liked being put inside a box, and even as a soldier he found ways of bending the rules whenever he thought an order wasn't very sound. Though that wasn't to say that he only had noble reasons for disliking rules or orders.
He suddenly remembers the night before they were to be deployed to London, and smiles at the memory.
“There was this one time,” Hob begins. “We had just survived a battle, and we got word that the troops in London needed reinforcements. At the time the war could go either way, and we were nervous. If they needed reinforcements, it must be pretty bad out there. So we were drinking a bit after dinner. I said something about how people only die because that's what everyone else does. And I've decided that I never planned on dying, no matter the battle, and they were welcome to join me.”
“Contradicting the inevitability of death itself.” Does the Prince sound fond? “And you wonder where that voice came from.”
“It doesn't seem so inevitable now, does it? Seeing as I'm still here,” Hob grins.
“Indeed. You have survived far beyond the battle that worried you.”
Hob falls silent for a moment. They did survive that battle, and it was harrowing and painful every step of the way. He looks at the water, small waves hitting the shore and receding. The black sand is soft under him. He idly takes a handful and lets the fine grains slide out of his palm.
“Can I stay here for a bit?” He looks at the Prince. “I’ll still find your vessels, of course. I just… want to rest for a while,” he sighs. He was pulled in all directions in the last reset, perhaps literally, and on several planes of existence.
He remembers practically giving up when faced with the first vessel. Being thrown into some magical timeloop right after a war made him just submit to the deity. He doesn't want a repeat of that, especially since he would most likely have his memories erased again when he goes back to those woods. He needs a bloody break.
“Of course. Though there is not much for you to do here.”
“Exactly.” Hob turns to face the sea, feeling the breeze on his face and in his hair.
He suddenly feels very tired. How long has it been since he's first been brought to those woods? He doesn't even know. He stifles a yawn with his hand.
There's a soft rustling sound and he turns to see that there's a blanket spread out on the sand to his left, and on top of it is a pillow.
"It appears that enough of my powers have returned for me to create small objects."
Hob turns to the Prince in surprise. "You didn't have to do that." The thought that some unfathomable deity like the Prince considers even those things for Hob makes something ache in his chest.
"It is the least I can do for what you go through to help me. Now rest."
Some sand must be getting into his eyes because Hob feels a bit like tearing up. "Thank you."
He settles in on the blanket; the fabric is so much softer than he imagined and does feel more comfortable than the grainy sand. When he lies down on the pillow, a sigh escapes him from how much better he already feels. A good blanket and pillow. Definitely some of the things that people take for granted until they can't have them anymore.
Hob isn't looking forward to going back to those woods with no memories again, but for now, he's safe and resting on a beach with the closest thing he has to a friend.
He closes his eyes and exhales as he lets his body relax.
---
Notes
It was a fun challenge incorporating the videogame visuals and spooky vibes into this chapter~. And I always enjoy writing the canon-divergent scenes of Hob hanging out with True Dream at the beach, and it always turns out softer and sweeter than I planned, haha. I love them <3
Thank you for reading!
---
<- Chapter 2
(Chapter Index)
(Tropetember 2025 Masterlist)
(Fanfic Masterlist)
Bringer of Hopes, Shaper of Dreams || Chapter 1: Knight at the Museum
Summary
Hob's small trip to the museum takes a distressing turn when one of the guests brings out out a dangerous power that could put innocent lives at risk. Now Hob has to figure out how to fight and stay alive long enough to protect the others.
Word Count: 2,199
Notes
For Sadman Week 2025 | Prompt: Secret Identities | @mr-sadman
For Tropetember 2025 | Prompt: Superhero/Supervillain | @tropetember
[Read on AO3]
---
Hob checked his watch as he walked out of the museum office; he still had plenty of time to look around before the exhibits closed. He hadn't been back here in at least a few years, and it would be good to see what the place looked like now before chaperoning the kids' field trip next month. That was part of the reason he volunteered to book the reservation, anyway.
He looked at the directory and headed towards the shipwreck section, since he didn't recognize it and seemed to be part of the newer additions.
There was soft blue lighting over the artefacts, and combined with the sunlight streaming in through the glass windows, it looked like they were underwater with the sun just breaking the surface. A large replica of a ship was in the middle of the room, and the sign said that parts of it were made from the original planks of the ship that was salvaged from more than a century ago.
In the glass cases lining the walls, the objects that were found in the ship were displayed; a telescope, a compass, a boot, and things that might be more interesting for Hob's teenage students like barnacle-encrusted cannonballs and a sword with the handle missing.
"Pretty, isn't it?" said the blond man with the sunglasses to another visitor walking by, nodding to the sword.
"I'm not an expert on blades," the guy stopped walking and smiled. "I'm sure you know more than I do."
The blond man shrugged. "Maybe." He punched the display case and shattered the glass.
Hob flinched at the sound along with the other visitors around him; they were only a few feet away and the sound was piercing in the quiet museum.
"What the hell are you doing?!" the guy asked as he stumbled backwards.
"I like knives," the blond man smiled and casually took the sword from its stand.
Two guards came running towards them.
"Sir, you're gonna have to come with us," one of them said.
"I don't think so," the blond man chuckled and grabbed the guy he'd been talking to, spinning him around and holding the sword to his neck. "You're gonna have to listen to me."
A guard pulled out a gun and aimed—
The blond man threw the sword at the guard and he dropped the gun with a pained yell, clutching his bleeding arm.
The blond man clicked his tongue disapprovingly, and Hob watched wide-eyed as the blond's hand morphed into a blade; far sharper-looking than the ancient sword. He pointed it at his hostage's neck. "That's not very nice. I wasn't done talking."
The other visitors screamed and started running for the exits, pushing past Hob and the display cases. Supervillains were not unheard of, but they were unpredictable. Most acted like the usual criminals and only used their powers for things like robberies and turf wars between gangs, but every once in a while there would be an attempt to take over an entire city without any care for casualties. And the masses never knew which villain was which until it was too late.
Superheroes had been there to stop them every time, but since both villains and heroes had their identities kept secret, there was no way to contact any hero whenever something like this happened. There was no telling how much damage would be done before superheroes even knew of it.
A fleeing group of visitors shoved past Hob and he stumbled onto a broken display case, getting a shard of glass deep into his palm. He got up and ran to a side corridor, leaning against the wall to get his bearings while the crowd kept shouting and sprinting for he nearest exits. He examined his hand and carefully pulled out the glass shard with a wince.
There was a fire exit down the corridor, and several people were running for it already. Hob could join them. No one would even know he'd been here when the attack happened; even the staff at the office would think that he left immediately after booking the reservation.
He glanced down at his hand, watching the wound close gradually until all that was left was a scar that could have been days old; there was still blood on his palm but no visible source.
Hob sighed. Grudgingly receiving lab-grown powers a month ago didn't make him a hero, and he certainly didn't feel super in any way. What chance did he have against a guy who could turn his limbs into blades at will?
Above the sound of the alarms blaring and more glasses breaking, Hob could hear the villaindemanding that the staff put as many objects as they could into their delivery truck parked outside.
Hob peeked around the corner, and he could see that around 50 people were crouched around the blond man—uniformed staff and visitors alike—covering their heads protectively. Several metal blades were embedded everywhere; it looked like the man wasn't letting anyone else leave until his demands were met.
Hob hid back behind the wall, taking steadying breaths. It was a weekend, and a lot of the hostages were kids. Some of those blades were taller than a grown man; what would happen if the villain aimed one at a child?
He could hear objects being carried outside, and the villain shouting that if those staff members didn't return within five minutes, he would start killing hostages. There were scattered whimpers and pleas, someone had started sobbing.
Hob couldn't risk being found out to have powers; it would put the people he cared about in danger of being kidnapped or otherwise leveraged against him by those who would extort him for his powers. It had happened to other supers before.
He glanced down the corridor. It was connected to the Medieval section and had paintings and swords hanging on the walls. A knight's suit of armour had toppled over during the onslaught of escaping visitors; its helmet had rolled off a few feet away from the body, next to a display case of medieval clothing.
It took about two minutes for Hob to get everything ready, and then he was walking towards the villain, feeling only a little bit ridiculous.
"Let them go," Hob's voice was muffled by the knight's helmet.
The villain raised an eyebrow, still holding a blade to his first hostage's neck. He didn't seem particularly intimidated, and Hob couldn't blame him.
Hob had worn the helmet to protect his identity, and he took one of the medieval vests from the display case and wore it over his white shirt to cover the school's logo. He was surprised that the vest didn't rip from how old it was, and the dust from the helmet had already made him sneeze twice before he could even wear it. With his improvised disguise combined with his jeans and sneakers, he looked nothing at all like those superheroes with fancy costumes in the news.
"Or what?" the villain asked with a smirk.
Hob took a step closer. "They've loaded up the truck with a lot of things already, right? You can just take those and drive away." He probably shouldn't be encouraging theft, but at the moment it was the best idea he had.
The villain tossed his hostage to the floor without taking his eyes off Hob. As he walked forward, his entire body began to change; his arms and legs turned into sharp steel, his clothes and hair melted into his body that had turned silver, and even his face had morphed into metal with jagged edges. By the time he stopped in front of Hob, he looked more like a stack of knives than anything human.
When he spoke, it was like metal scraping on concrete. "Or… what?" The closest hostages grimaced and covered their ears.
Hob pulled his arm back and punched the villain in the face. "Run!" he yelled at the hostages before landing another punch, the invisible forcefields he had formed around his fists protecting him from the blades.
The screaming and running started again, and Hob did his best to keep the villain distracted and prevent him from targeting civillians.
The villain recovered from the initial shock and began to dodge his punches, slashing with his sword-arms and sending knives flying Hob's way. Hob prioritised protecting his face and chest with the forcefields, so the blades got his arms and legs and ripped open part of the vest, cutting the skin on his stomach too.
Some of the shallower cuts would be healing already, but it barely made a difference because of all the new ones he was getting. And he was getting tired; it was only a matter of time before a blade would hit something vital.
He dodged his way towards the replica of the ship. A blade cut through the red rope prohibiting visitors from climbing aboard, and Hob ran inside, deflecting blades as he moved closer to the mast.
He reached its side and held his ground, managing to land a few punches and kicks as the villain moved in to corner him. He forced himself to keep dodging instead of deflecting, and when he heard a heavy creak, he darted behind the mast and threw his shoulder against it, using a forcefield to direct its momentum towards the villain.
The mast—broken and splintered in places from all the blades that had sliced it—fell heavily onto the ship. There was a loud screech of metal, and when the dust settled, the villain was pinned under the large hunk of wood, even his arms, and he struggled and flailed and tried to grow out more blades from his body, but he just ended up attaching himself to the mast even more.
Hob looked around, catching his breath and bleeding from multiple places, to see if any civillians still remained in the vicinity. Fortunately, all of them had the sense to escape through all that commotion.
He looked down at the villain, wondering if he should wait until the police or some supers showed up. He did participate in the destruction of multiple museum properties, so he wasn't eager to meet any police officers, and he didn't know when any supers would arrive. What was even the protocol for this kind of thing?
Suddenly the room turned darker, the shadows lengthening and pooling into the middle of the floor. There was a swirl of darkness, and when it dissipated, a figure was standing at the base of the ship.
Its head was a round metal thing with large red eyes, and what seemed to be a beak made out of bones protruded from the face. It was wearing a cloak as dark as the shadows that seemed to cling to it, and just looking at the figure made cold dread creep into Hob's chest, and he had the sense that whoever this was, they were more dangerous than what Hob had just faced.
The figure seemed to glide on shadows, its hands on its back as it moved closer to Hob.
Those red eyes seemed to bore into him, and Hob felt frozen in place as his deepest fears were scraped from inside him and thrown raw and gaping into the forefront of his mind.
Breaking his leg at the playground and fearing he would never walk again.
Drowning at the beach. His throat filling up with salty water and not knowing which way to the surface.
His family taken to blackmail him for his powers. His parents. His sisters. Gone and ripped from their own lives. Because of him.
Memories and fears of things that hadn't happened were mixing in his mind, stealing the breath from his lungs and making his eyes water. But he couldn't look away.
The figure reached Hob and his knees buckled, landing on the splintered deck of the ship. He wanted to hide. To run and never look back.
He looked up at the figure as it stopped in front of him.
Lord Shaper, he remembered.
Hob had only seen him in the news before, the elusive supervillain who never worked alone but sometimes showed up when other villains were causing chaos. No super had ever defeated him.
Hob glared at him through the knight's helmet, refusing to back down even as Lord Shaper's powers nearly choked him with his own fears.
Lord Shaper extended a hand, and Hob prepared himself for death.
But Lord Shaper was reaching out towards the villain under the mast; the shadows around them came alive, forming a cocoon that swirled and surrounded them both. When the shadows melted back into the ground, Hob was alone.
Hob could feel himself shaking even as the abnormal fear began to leave his mind. Tears were streaming down his face and his instincts were telling him to curl up into a ball right there on the ship, but he knew that he couldn't be caught in the middle of a destroyed exhibit that was also the room of a hostage-taking.
He forced himself up on unsteady legs, and stumbled off the ship and towards the fire exit.
---
Notes
I was low-key speedrunning this to post in time for the event, but I still like how it turned out and I had a lot of fun writing it <3 Especially The Corinthian's transformation, Hob's fighting style, and Dream's arrival~
Thank you for reading! <3
---
(Sadman Week 2025 Masterlist)
(Tropetember 2025 Masterlist)
(Fanfic Masterlist)
Dream coming back from the 1789 date so hot and bothered, even the wallpaper started sprouting roses.
___
Post for @mr-sadman’s week 2025.
Prompt: Velvet.
Fic: An Eternity of This (Chapter 2/4)
Dreamling, Teen and Up, Post-Canon, Fix-It, Grief and Mourning, Angst With a Happy Ending
Read chapter 1 here
Summary:
The next week is one of the worst of Hob's life. This is different from all the other losses. His guiding star has been snuffed out. He feels adrift in a way he hasn't in centuries, and he fluctuates between misery and rage. Rage at Dream for leaving, rage at the universe for taking him, rage at himself for being too bloody useless to save him. Some time later he gets a knock on his door. It shocks him halfway out of his drunken stupor, and with a pang of guilt he remembers he hasn't been downstairs in… days? Weeks? He makes no effort to get up and answer the door as the knocking continues to get louder and more urgent. He closes his eyes and hopes they go away, or that he passes out, or whatever will make the noise stop. He's got a ripping headache and he's quite busy feeling sorry for himself, so he's in no mood for whatever this is. The clamor eventually ceases, but before Hob can breathe a sigh of relief, the doorknob is turning. Bloody hell, is someone… picking the lock? ... Hob receives an unexpected visitor while mourning.
Read below or on Ao3
Hob awakes with a gasp.
Scattered images from the incredibly vivid nightmare he just had flash before his eyes. The funeral. The strange mourners—Mad Hettie and Johanna Constantine, loads of folks with pointy ears, queens and gods and, for some reason, that famous writer who had a mental breakdown a few months ago. His friend, encased in a shroud of stone, careening off the edge of a waterfall into an abyss. His conversations with Death and that Daniel bloke. The "new Dream." Still not Hob's Dream, even if he did seem a decent enough fellow.
As he sits up and blinks into full consciousness, the details of his dream don't dissolve away like they normally would. If anything, they grow more vivid the more he recalls.
It was real. It was all real. His dearest friend, his oldest love, is gone.
He's not coming back.
Hob hadn't believed him. How could he? Dream is—was—always doing that. Always saying he was leaving for good, and then showing up weeks or months or decades later, picking up right where they left off. But he always came back.
He should have believed him. Dream had seemed so hopeless last time they saw each other, so resigned. Hob hadn't felt the same, especially not after how the night had ended. Sure, he didn't appreciate the abrupt exit, but that's par for the course with Dream. Things were just beginning between the two of them. They had so much ahead of them. Together, Hob had thought. Hoped. Foolishly.
The horror of it all creeps in like choking vines, and Hob takes a shuddering inhale and sobs.
The next week is one of the worst of Hob's life, and that's saying something. The pain of losing Audrey was still fresh, and now the one person he thought he'd never lose, thought he'd always be able to come back to, is dead. This is different from all the other losses. His guiding star has been snuffed out. He feels adrift in a way he hasn't in centuries, and he fluctuates between misery and rage. Rage at Dream for leaving, rage at the universe for taking him, rage at himself for being too bloody useless to save him.
Hob simply doesn't have it in him to participate in his own life at present. He spends his days drinking, crying, and screaming into a pillow until he blacks out into a restless, dreamless sleep. He'd already taken his compassionate leave from work when Audrey passed, so he sends a cursory email stating that he's ill and won't be coming in for an indeterminate amount of time. He doesn't know if he receives a response. They can sack him, for all he cares. He reckons it’s time to start a fresh life, somewhere far away from here.
Some time later—Hob couldn’t say how long, as he's completely lost track of the days by now—he gets a knock on his door. It shocks him halfway out of his drunken stupor, and with a pang of guilt he remembers he hasn't been downstairs in… days? Weeks? So the staff at the Inn have no idea where he's been, and the insistent knocking is probably Chloe or one of the servers checking to see if he's still alive. Or possibly just needing him to sign off on a delivery.
Hob huffs a humorless laugh and looks down at himself where he's sprawled on the sofa. He's in nothing but boxers and a whiskey-stained dressing gown, and he can't recall the last time he showered or shaved. He can't answer the door in this state, or Chloe (if she doesn't run screaming) definitely won't believe him when he says he's fine, no need to worry, he just needs to sit here and cry and drink for another six months at least, so if she could handle all the pub business he'd appreciate it, ta very much.
He makes no effort to get up and answer the door as the knocking continues to get louder and more urgent. He closes his eyes and hopes they go away, or that he passes out, or whatever will make the noise stop. He's got a ripping headache and he's quite busy feeling sorry for himself, so he's in no mood for whatever this is.
The clamor eventually ceases, but before Hob can breathe a sigh of relief, the doorknob is turning. Bloody hell, is someone… picking the lock?
He groans, really not up to the task of fighting off an intruder, but nonetheless reaches for the cricket bat he keeps stashed under the sofa. Maybe a good, violent brawl will help snap him out of this funk.
He shuffles forward, bat raised and ready to strike, when suddenly the door swings open to reveal—
"Death?!" Hob gapes as the bat slips from his hands and clatters to the floor.
"Sorry," she grins, holding up a couple of twisted hairpins, "but you weren't answering, and I always wanted to try that."
Hob swallows back a wave of nausea. "What… why… ?" he sputters thickly.
Death beams at him, that same arresting smile she'd given him after the funeral, but there's something almost guileless about it this time. There's no undercurrent of danger, none of that primal, instinctual fear that he'd felt when she'd approached him on the bridge.
"It's my day off!" Death exclaims with all the exuberance of a child who's just been given a puppy for their birthday. "And look who I brought with me!"
She turns back towards the hall and yanks a pale arm into view.
"Dream," Hob breathes.
He looks dreadful (not that Hob is in any place to criticize at the moment). He's gaunt and ashen-faced, swaying where he stands like he might keel over any second. Hob quickly ushers them both inside, too shaken to apologize for the mess of empty bottles and takeaway boxes littering the space. He's about to ask what in the bleeding fuck is going on when Dream stumbles, his knees buckling and arms flailing for something to grab hold of.
"Easy there," Hob says, quickly catching him under one arm while Death grabs the other. "I've got you. We've got you."
Together they steer him to the sofa, where he flops gracelessly into the cushions. "Alright there, love?" Hob asks, the endearment slipping out before he can stop it, though he finds he’s too gobsmacked by this whole state of affairs to give a damn.
Dream looks up at him, dazed and glassy-eyed, his lips curling into a weak smile. "Hob," he rasps, then promptly loses consciousness, his eyes fluttering shut and his head lolling back against the armrest.
"I'm guessing you have a lot of questions," Death says. "Why don't you keep an eye on him while I go and make us some tea?"
"Er… okay…?" Hob replies dimly as she strides toward the kitchen, apparently already knowing exactly where it is.
He ducks out just long enough to pull on some joggers and a passably clean t-shirt, then bolts to the bathroom to splash some water on his face and gargle some mouthwash, all as fast as humanly possible. Dream is still out like a light when he returns. Hob takes a seat in an armchair across from him, surveying him for evidence of anything that might explain why he's back from the dead and snoozing on Hob's couch. He doesn't look injured or feverish, just… exhausted. His breathing is slow and even, his face almost serene, and something about that sends a shiver down Hob's spine. There's something vaguely uncanny about him that he can't quite put his finger on. No, he's got it backwards; there was always something uncanny about him before, and now there isn't.
"So, what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, old friend?" Hob murmurs.
🌟🌟🌟🌟
Just a short update this time to tide you over until the next chapter, where we'll find out what Dream has been up to ever since he died.
Also, big thanks to everyone who has left kudos and comments! I've had an early version of this story sitting in my drafts for two years, so I'm really excited to finally share it with you all, and I'm so glad you're enjoying it! 💗💗💗
