Sunday afternoon, and there wasn't much on the mind of the immortal Hob Gadling. He was in his flat above the New Inn, entering the test scores for his students on the class webpage. Something he should have done earlier in the week but, well. And he didn't mind too much- the weather outside was black with an early spring thunderstorm, so he wasn't missing out on a nice day; cooped up was the better place to be in London at such a time. No, Hob did not envy the poor buggers trying to do errands in such weather- getting up on seven centuries of life now, and he never stopped appreciating the value of creature comforts. A mug of tea, soft music playing through the Bluetooth speaker, a bit of work to keep his hands busy…
The thunder outside boomed especially loud, and the music warbled like a scratched disk, then shut off completely. The lights flickered, turning the shadows sharp- and then, with the high whine of electric overcharge, they died completely. Power outage.
"Bloody hell," Hob said to the quiet of his apartment. The dim ambient light from thundering clouds was now the brightest thing in the room, after the blue glow of his computer screen, which was telling him quite firmly that it was no longer connected to a power source, or for that matter the Internet. So much for that afternoon plan, then.
Hob moved the computer from his lap to the coffee table, and then he saw it; a motion. There was a shadow gliding across the floor.
…a shadow with no apparent source.
The room was suddenly growing cold, and far faster than the outage could account for; indeed, it was suddenly cold enough for Hob's next breath to form in the air before his face. The darkness of the room grew deeper- all the shadows were moving, reaching out from their nooks and crannies like living things, hungry to pull more of the world into their depths. The storm outside had not abated, indeed, it only grew more ferocious- the rain lashed at the windows like it wished to break the glass, and the thunder boomed on in one long, continuous roar, a sound that could have come from the mouth of a tremendous, world-ending beast, a star-swallower like in the works of H.P. Lovecraft.
"...arrogant, overstepping little insects…"
A wall of darkness with two pinpricks of light; the barely consolidated form of slender human limbs and raven's wings.
"Usurpers…daring to sully what they should rightfully worship…daring to touch…!"
"Hello, Nightmare," Hob murmured under his breath, the words drowned out by another deafening boom of thunder.
Dream's white hands were curled into claws, fingers contorted as though they itched to throttle someone. His fangs were bared, the fangs Hob knew only appeared when he was especially angry- and Hob saw he was shaking with it this time. A rage so hot it was bringing the lightning down outside.
"Clutching filth- a stain that has outgrown its lowly place…"
Hob stood slowly. Dream didn't seem to be talking to him- the king paced the circle of Hob's living room floor, spitting whispers that sounded like poison, sharp enough to cut. In his wake the shadows in the room twisted and writhed, whether in anguish or ecstacy Hob couldn't tell. The whole room had begun to smell of something burnt, of blackened desert. The ruby on Dream's chest gleamed like a malignant eye.
"Hey, honey," Hob said, approaching with his hands raised, the way another might confront a hostile animal. "What's the matter…?"
He made the mistake of stepping on the edge of Dream's cloak, which felt like the shell of a razorclam under his socked foot; Dream whipped around with a terrible hiss and Hob stumbled back, letting out a little yelp, surprised to find he hadn't cut himself.
"Humans have crawled above their station," Dream spat, pointing an accusing finger at Hob's chest. "Thinking the world is owed to them- that they can take anything they want! The paragon of selfishness, of depraved, degenerate insolence-!"
"Woah, woah, easy there," Dream had never hurt Hob before- not physically, not in any world- but he looked almost on the verge of violence now, as though at the slightest provocation those fangs might sink into Hob's throat, those claws tear across his face. Slice his skin open with all those beautiful black feathers. A reminder, if his words weren't enough, that this creature Hob loved was not human at all. "I'm human too, remember? Look-"
"No! I won't stand for it- not anymore!"
"-yeah, it's our nature to always reach for more, and to make mistakes-"
"Silence! I won't have it!"
Dream looked like he was going to catch fire- like he might hurt Hob, sure, but also very much like he might hurt himself. That thought was enough to put some bravery back in Hob's chest, and so he reached out to catch Dream by those thin white wrists, forcing him to stop his frantic pacing, forcing those star-fire eyes to meet his. Not the position he had expected to find himself in today- preaching a defence of the human race to an insanely powerful and clearly bloodthirsty god.
"-but we always learn, don't we?"
"Release me."
There was definitely murder written across that sharp face.
"Not 'til you settle down, baby."
"Release. Me."
"Tell me what's wrong-"
"THEY RAPED HER!"
Dream jerked back in Hob's grip, freeing himself with ease and knocking Hob to the floor in the process. He whirled around in the writhe of darkness that had grown around him, and- as Hob had feared- the claws came up to his own head, tearing at the feathers there, gouging across his scalp and down his neck.
"THEY LOCKED HER AWAY IN A CAGE AND THEY RAPED HER, TOOK WHAT THEY WANTED LIKE IT BELONGED TO THEM-"
The scream devolved into words no longer recognizable as English- Hob thought it might, in fact, be Greek. He forced himself back to his feet and approached again, catching those contorted fingers before they could do any more damage, pulling Dream to his chest. Even like this, powerful and at his most enraged, Dream's physical form weighed little more than a bird.
"Hey! Easy! Hey, there."
Hob pressed Dream's head to his shoulder and heard angry jaws slice shut near the skin of his throat. Yikes- that was a close one. Well, there was nothing for it.
"It's alright. It's alright now, love."
"No, it isn't."
The words came out nearly a sob.
Dream stopped thrashing in his arms, stopped straining back against his grip, and it was with no small amount of relief that Hob felt his companion's rigid figure begin to melt against him. Hob knelt slowly, bringing Dream down to the floor with him. The wind and thunder were settling outside, though not the rain, which poured straight down from the sky in an expression of unextinguished misery.
"What happened?" Hob murmured to Dream's ear, letting his restraining grip shift into a comforting embrace. "Tell me…who-?"
"Calliope."
A name that sounded like music- but Hob didn't recognize it. In Dream's sharp mouth, the word was tender.
"Calliope. Okay. And someone…she was imprisoned?"
Hob didn't want to say it- didn't want to echo back that unclean, dreaded verb- perhaps that was cowardice.
"By conceited human men. Erasmus Fry. Richard Maddoc. Roderick Burgess…"
The last name was a whisper; Dream twitched in his arms, clawed fingers grabbing a handful of Hob's shirt.
(Something terrible settled in Hob's stomach, a suspicion he hadn't entertained before- too horrible to even contemplate.)
"Their punishment will be eternal."
"Okay. It's okay, sweetheart."
Dream's edges seemed to have softened some, so Hob thought it safe to bring a hand up to his hair, to stroke him soothingly there. Hob could hear his breathing, high and fast in his chest, too much both these things to sound comfortable. Slowly, Dream's tearing grip on his clothes began to lessen.
"I didn't even know…for the longest time, I didn't…"
"It's alright. It's not your fault."
Hob would say anything to settle him, but this was surely true.
"We haven't spoken, not since…since we were married…"
Ah.
"Where is she now?"
Dream let out a shuddering sigh.
"Free."
"Good," Hob said, and he pressed a kiss to Dream's cool forehead. "That's good."
Hob felt otherworldly eyes on him, a gaze that prickled against his skin like fire. He smoothed a palm down Dream's hair again, and in it he was unable to find any wounds from the fit; either they had healed already, or they had never existed. Dream's breathing was still too fast, Hob could feel it against his own chest- that shuddering breathing that reminded him of how Dream had been only once before, when Hob had freed him from the glass prison.
(One of those three names…)
"Hob Gadling."
"Yeah?"
Hob woke with a start on the couch and nearly dropped his laptop; he caught it just in time and looked around himself, surprised to find all the lights in the apartment on, the pleasant music still playing on the speaker. Google was open to the class notes page, the last submission asking for his confirmation. He could only have dozed off for an instant. The storm outside the window looked positively tame, compared to the one in his dream.
If it had been his dream. Ever since the 1920s, whose dream Hob was dreaming at any given time had become a little unclear.
Hob clicked the 'Accept' button on the webpage, and then put the screen of his laptop down, looking around the room. Of course, nothing was amiss- nothing was any different from how he remembered it.
"Dream? Are you still here, love?"
But he received no reply.
Hob waited in the quiet for a moment more, and when nothing stirred he opened is laptop again. On Google he opened a new tab, and into the search bar he typed the word 'Calliope'.
A keyboard musical instrument resembling an organ and consisting of a series of whistles sounded by steam or compressed air.
Or:
The Greek muse of heroic poetry.
Of this latter figure there was a picture, a painting by some Renaissance artist- a beautiful young woman with flowing curls of brown hair. She wore a white robe, and carried a book.
Hob selected the 'Images' tab. Those that weren't of an instrument were all similar- a woman with a book or, more commonly, a scroll; sometimes she had a pen. In most pictures she wore a simple golden crown. Always lovely, always austere. Most certainly real.
Hob opened her Wikipedia article.
(Yes, his students were forbidden from using it as a source. And?)
There wasn't much. It said Calliope was the youngest muse, presiding over eloquence and poetry. The reportedly divine inspiration for some of history's greatest poets: Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Hesiod…
'Children:' declared one tab in clean blue letters, catching Hob's eye. 'Linus and Orpheus, by either Oneiros or King Oeagrus of Thrace.'
Oneiros. Hob's cursor hovered over the name. Strange, that so many years had passed since the advent of the Internet, and he'd never thought to search for this before.
…but the cursor, as if of its own volition, drifted slowly to the left, and clicked on the link to 'Orpheus' instead.
And so Hob read that story.
After a while he set aside the laptop, and went to the window to watch the storm.
He wasn't sure what he felt, having acquired this new information. Perhaps, a little guilty- his friend had ever been so secretive, it felt wrong to discover such a thing without it coming from those white lips. There was a hollowness, too, an empathy that felt like a strike against a clay gourd. An echo of his own old grief.
Hob knew very well the pain of losing a child.
The storm outside seemed to be settling down. Just in time to see the sunset.
Hob returned to the laptop, and this time he searched for human names. Erasmus Fry and Richard Maddoc. For the first, he found only a list of works, and an obituary. A moderately successful author, dead two years since.
For the second, the first result was an online Guardian article, published the morning previous. It said that the highly esteemed and bestselling novelist, Ric Maddoc, had suffered a severe mental breakdown during a lecture, and had consequently been transferred to a private mental hospital.
Hob's fingertips felt cold on the keyboard.
(Eternal punishment.)
He exited out of all the tabs not related to work, and when this was done he powered down the computer for the evening.
That was enough of the forbidden fruit for him.
~
The darkness was wet and flat, man-made. Hob breathed in the mildewed air of the dungeon. He could hear the water of the moat churning, slopping faintly against its stone walls. There came a gurgle from some far-off grate. Other than this, the silence of the room was oppressive. It ground on Hob's ears like a millstone.
In the center of the room, there was the glass ball.
Hob approached, his own footsteps making no sound. The light inside the cage was almost blinding, obscuring what lay within until he was right beside it- but there were no surprises here.
Dream, Hob tried to say, but though his mouth formed the word his voice made no sound. Dream. Dream.
Dream sat in the center of the cage, cold-white and curled against the world, all the angles of his limbs hostile. He did not turn to see Hob. His stillness was so complete it looked agonized.
Dream-!
Oh, that's right- this was a dream.
Hob pulled his fist back and struck the glass. Such a thing would have broken his bones in the waking world- but this was not the waking world. Yes, Hob was, by now, a practiced lucid dreamer. Instantly and painlessly, the glass shattered.
But it did not fall to the ground, instead remaining suspended, like an astronaut's things in space. Hob pushed his way through the floating glass and found Dream curled on the floor still, now covered in his thin black cloak, head bent to examine something Hob could not see.
"Dream," he tried again, and this time his voice worked as intended. "Dream, love, I'm sorry."
There came no response.
"But I would never do this to you. You know that, right?"
Hob approached, and put a gentle hand to Dream's shoulder.
"We're not all like them- those men. I mean, too many of us are, but…not all. Not most."
Hob knelt, his hand shifting to run down the line of Dream's elegant spine. Still, his companion's gaze turned down, fixated by the thing he cradled in his lap- Hob looked. It was a broken lyre.
"Oh, Dream-"
Hob woke with a start to the sound of his alarm clock. It was Monday morning- he had a class to attend in an hour's time.
"Oh, fuck me," Hob groaned, rolling over in bed to shut off the sound. Once quiet fell he seriously considered going back to sleep- he didn't want to leave Dream alone, not given his current state. Though of course, there was no guarantee at all that he would be able to find Dream again, even if he did fall back asleep- no amount of self-imposed lucid dream training could ever compare to the King of Dreams and Nightmares. A creature who, Hob had long learned, tended to hide himself away in dark places when he was in pain.
And getting a sub this last minute would be trouble for Linda, the school secretary.
And he had a meeting to attend with Jenny's parents, regarding her recent drop in performance.
And so, well.
"I'll be back tonight, love," Hob said to the empty air- perhaps, to the alarm clock. "I hope you'll be up for talking then. Or whatever."
~
A month passed in which Hob had no dreams beyond the ordinary. Dreams about work, or about work he used to do in the past, or about wandering downtown London in his underwear, unsure of how he'd come to be there and unable to find his way home.
(Hob had mind to ask Dream about that one. He'd been having it since the fourteenth century.)
A month was not so very long, Hob knew, not in the scope of his life and certainly not in that of Dream. Even since their relationship had become closer, to wait a month or more between otherworldly appearances was hardly abnormal. Still, Hob couldn't help but worry a little.
Sunday afternoon again. The day was warm and bright, almost idyllic, all the trees budding in promise of the coming summer. Hob was behind on work again (when was he not?) but the day was too pleasant to waste away indoors, so he took his stack of ungraded papers to the park, and set up shop on a picnic bench under a tree.
He was not the only one in the park by far- plenty of families were out walking, children and little white dogs, balls being kicked and laughter drifting across the grass. The sounds of humanity at their best; Hob found nothing more comforting.
Hob ruefully crossed out one student's misnamed queen with a red pen, and then realized suddenly that he was not alone. He looked up.
A young woman stood before his picnic bench, and though Hob was certain he had never seen her before, something in him recognized her still. She had very long, flowing brown hair kept back by a plain yellow headband, and wore a simple white summer dress. She was undoubtedly very beautiful. When she saw him looking she smiled- a quiet, almost sad smile.
"Are you writing something, Robert Gadling?" she asked, in a voice that sounded almost like song. Accented. Hob floundered a moment; sitting before her rather felt like being bathed in a ray of the purest sunlight.
"Er…oh, no. I'm a teacher, these are my students' papers." He waggled his red pen in the air, and then the words she had spoken actually landed.
At the moment, after all, he was supposed to be Richard Gadson- or Dick, to his colleagues and certain recalcitrant students.
"But you know my name."
Not necessarily a good sign, that.
Hob gave her a shrewd look and the woman smiled again, apologetically this time. Hob didn't think she looked malicious- not that that meant anything. Again, he wondered why he felt he recognized her- the way one recognizes actors from one film to the next, or a model in different advertisements.
"May I sit?" she asked him, gesturing to the picnic table.
"By all means."
The stranger sat, picking up one of the corrected pages as she did so, and her eyes crinkled in amusement at the first few lines. Really, stunningly beautiful. A beauty that was soft and warm.
(Hob, of course, tended to find himself preferring beauties that were sharp and cold.)
"You teach history?" she asked with clear amusement, and Hob nodded. "That is a good occupation for an immortal."
"I see you know a fair bit about me," Hob said, trying for jovial. "Shouldn't I get to know something about you?"
As though that logic had ever applied to otherworldly beings! But-
"Oh, I'm sorry," said the woman, her eyes widening. "I do not wish to be rude. My name is Calliope. I am a goddess."
(And that was where he recognized her from- the paintings that came up on her Google search, many clearly a good likeness.)
Hob noticed the slight defensiveness in her tone at that last declaration and so he inclined his head as he held out his hand for her to shake, a knight's deference.
"Well, it's good to meet you," he said honestly. "And my name is Hob. Only my father ever called me Robert- and, well, he's long gone."
"Hob," Calliope echoed with another smile, and she shook his offered hand once, with dainty grace.
"So…" Hob wasn't sure how to broach this one, or even if he should. "Are you…alright? I mean, how are you holding up?"
The smile faded, and Calliope's eyes went wide. Oops. Poking the all-powerful bears, Hob Gadling, you just can't help yourself, can you?
"Sorry. He told me what happened, is all."
Calliope shook her head, still wide-eyed, watching him as though he were some rare and marvellous creature she had encountered by chance in an enchanted forest. Which was strange, given that the opposite should be more true- between the two of them, he was the ordinary man.
"Oneiros confides in you," Calliope said wondrously. "That is…"
"Shocking?"
"Rare."
Hob dropped the self-deprecating grin, shuffling his shoulders a little self-consciously.
"Well, not really," he said. "He didn't tell me his name until- well- just about a hundred years ago, now."
Calliope shook her head, but she was smiling again, another blindingly warm smile.
"But he told you," she said. "And he confides in you. That is not nothing, Hob Gadling. When I had him- when Olympus was at its most powerful- he was unparalleled in his arrogance. And in his cruelty."
"But you loved him anyway?" No sense in pretending he wasn't curious about that.
"I do," she said with a fine shrug. "Though at times his wickedness was…unsavoury. But…"
And now something in her smile surprised him- it curled at her lips knowingly, almost salaciously, and Hob felt his own eyebrows rising towards his hairline.
"...he is very beautiful, is he not?"
"Ahem- yup."
No sense arguing with that one.
Calliope chuckled, and looked out across the park. The mirth on her face faded slightly- Hob thought something about it became faintly sad. Whatever she was thinking of, Hob might guess but did not ask; even his uncautious prying had its limits.
"I wanted to meet you," Calliope continued after a moment. "To see what kind of man you were. See if a human could have truly affected him so."
"Affected?"
Calliope smiled again.
"Oneiros is much changed," she murmured. Hob thought about what she'd said- unparalleled cruelty. Well.
"For better, or for worse?" Hob had to know.
"For better, I think."
Calliope stood then, brushing her skirt down. She turned her head towards the laughing children, that warm smile playing on her lips anew.
"He is sensitive, even if he would prefer not to be," she said. "So, please take care of him for me- our sweet Dream."
"Of course," Hob agreed, the answer obvious; but before the second word could even pass his lips Calliope was gone. There had been no light, no smoke or bang- she had vanished into the air, as though she had never been there at all.
Hob stared at the place where she had stood, and realized she had never answered his question. She hadn't said if she was alright.
Hob watched the children play for a few minutes, and then returned to his work.
~
Monday. The sun was setting when Hob finished up in the classroom; the students had all long gone home, of course, but he'd had a few meetings, and an assignment to write up. He had just zipped up his bag when he was greeted by an unexpected visitor- the second in so many days.
A long-furred black cat had jumped gracefully onto his desk and now stalked across it, bottle-brush tail held high as it wound about his papers and trinkets. It meowed plaintively, a high and tiny sound, and so Hob held out a hand for it to sniff.
"Why, hello there," Hob said to it cheerfully. "Where did you come from, pretty kitty?"
The cat seemed to have approved of him and so he ran a hand through its silky fur, winning the prize of a low-rumbling purr.
"Did Sykes leave the door open?"
(Sykes being the school janitor.)
Hob checked the cat for a collar, but it had none. It didn't look like a stray to him, though, the long fur was too well-maintained. Moreover it was far too friendly to be feral, the way it rubbed back against his hands- almost demanding to be pet.
"Are you lost? Is that it, huh? Poor little kitty…poor kitty-kitty…"
The cat looked up at him, and Hob saw that it had blue eyes, with stars in their pupils.
"Ah- oh."
Hob froze, unsure of what to do; this was an unprecedented occurrence. The cat butt its head insistently into the palm of his hand, and slowly he started to pat it again, scratching under its chin and behind its ears. The purr started up even more vigorously, vibrating under Hob's fingers.
"...you like this? Alright, then…"
Hob pet the cat a moment more, not sure if he dared stop, until the tail flicked dismissively under his chin and it jumped down from the desk, stalking towards the door. Long resigned to his fate, Hob finished packing his bag and followed it.
The cat wound through the shadows ahead of him, pausing occasionally to sniff at something on the floor or air; it didn't behave like a human at all. Nor did it speak, though Hob had every reason to expect it to.
As they passed the still-lit main office, Hob raised his hand to the secretary.
"Goodnight, Linda!"
"See you tomorrow, Dick- oooh!"
The explanation for her sudden excitement was obvious; a beautiful black cat was winding its way about Hob's legs. Linda was an elderly woman, and owned three cats herself- Hob had frequently been reminded of their names, habits, and appearances during breaks in the staff room.
"Who's that?" Linda cooed, approaching from around the desk with her hands on her knees. The black cat looked at her with what was clearly deep disapproval- yes, Hob would recognize that expression anywhere, on any creature's face.
"Oh, uh, he's…" Hob floundered a moment, and in that time Linda came closer and the disapproving gaze turned to him. "...he's mine. And he doesn't really like being touched- not good with strangers."
The cat reinforced this statement by curling closer to Hob's legs and hissing, baring long and delicate white fangs.
(Could it be- yes. Hob had seen those fangs before, on Nightmare.)
"Ohhh, he's a rescue, is he?" Linda sighed in a tone of utmost understanding. Hob laughed out loud.
"Yeah, something like that," he agreed.
(Was he not?)
"What's his name?"
"Er," Hob looked down at the cat, who meowed once, likely in complaint. "...his name's King."
"Oh, that's perfect," said Linda with relish. "You certainly look like a little king, don't you, King?"
"Yeah, well," Hob shrugged. How had he arrived in this predicament, again? Something about boasting in a tavern… "We'd best be getting home."
"Of course, of course. See you in the morning!"
"You know, everyone's going to want pictures of you when I get in tomorrow," Hob said to the cat once they were safely in the parking lot. He was ignored, the cat simply trotting up to his car and waiting by the driver's side door, sniffing curiously along the tire.
Once Hob got it unlocked the cat jumped immediately into the passenger's seat, examined a chip that had been lost from Hob's lunch, and then ate it, crunching away with those sharp teeth.
"You really are a cat like this," Hob said to it, amused. "You know, usually I have you pegged as a bird."
The only response he received was a haughty look. That much, he was certainly used to.
Once Hob had started driving the cat crossed over the cupholders and curled into the warmth of Hob's lap. It was small and light enough that it didn't disturb his driving at all- but he did notice that its pelt gave off no animal heat. If there had been any lingering doubts in his mind about who- or rather what- this was, they faded then.
"I saw your ex the other day," Hob said quietly. "She was…really nice, honestly."
There came no response, verbal or otherwise.
"You know…" Hob struggled for a moment in the red of a stoplight, chewing on his words. "...you can tell me anything, right?"
Silence. The cat was so still it didn't even seem to be breathing anymore. Hob thought of all the worst things he had suspected, and then pushed the thoughts away.
"You don't have to- not if you don't want. But…"
Here, Hob chanced taking a hand from the steering wheel to rub comfortingly at the ruff of the cat's neck.
"I'm always here, if you need to talk."
A pause. Then, as though a switch had been flipped, the purring started up again.
"Okay, okay."
Hob pet the cat until they reached the New Inn, and there it hopped from his lap to lead him up the stairs to his flat.
Inside, the apartment was dark; Hob closed the door behind himself and in that instant the black cat was a cat no more, instead a pale and beautiful man who pushed Hob against the wall and kissed his cheek, his throat, his mouth.
"Woah, there," Hob gasped, and Dream pressed his face into the hollow between Hob's neck and shoulder; Hob's hand ran down his bare back- nope, no clothing at all- he hadn't even bothered with a conceit of modesty. Perhaps, he had forgotten he no longer had fur. "What's gotten into you?"
"The cold," Dream whispered, and something in his voice sounded too honest, too desperate for Hob not to see it: this wasn't an entirely lighthearted social call. Something in Hob's heart twinged, just as it warmed. There was a tenderness beneath the worry.
Sensitive, she had called him. Hob knew it was true. For all their untold power and tempestuous natures, dreams could be fragile things, as lovely and delicate as spun glass.
"You want me to warm you up?" Hob kissed Dream's forehead, cupped his sharp jaw in a palm to bring his mouth up for another. "Yeah, I can do that."
Dream made a sound into the kiss, low and contented in his throat. Why, 'twas strange Hob had never noticed it before-
He purred like this, too.