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Chapter Text

“So do you still wish to live?”

“Are you crazy? Death is a mug's game, I got so much to live for!”

Dream of the Endless has always found his meetings with Hob Gadling amusing. The man had such a strong will to live Dream almost envied him. Hob was also a pretty good storyteller, but he would need at least another hundred years to perfect this skill.

Dream stood up, but before he could say his goodbyes, Hob stopped him.

“Could you please stay a little longer? They'll throw me out once you step out of the door.”

It was a simple request, but Hob still whispered it so nobody would hear it. There was still pride in the broken man. Just looking at him, Dream didn't feel pity. He felt responsibility. If it weren't for him and Death, Hob would have been dead for over 200 years already. Not here suffering because of a bet.

“Eat and drink as much as you want, Hob Gadling. I will pay for everything tonight.”

“Thank you...” Hob smiled and continued his feast. This time, seemingly without guilt. Dream simply sat there, watching and sipping wine. Between the food, Hob told him stories. Mostly about people he's met. Dream knew why the man was more talkative than usual. Despite the feast being paid for by the king of dreams, Hob still felt guilty. He wanted to repay Dream with the only currency he had at the moment – stories. And Dream listened to every single one.

Hob was right. They would throw him out the moment Dream turned his back on him. They walked out of the inn together. Before they could properly part ways, Dream disappeared, leaving Hob alone in the dark streets of 17th-century London.

“Lucienne?” Dream's normally firm and cold voice has been tainted with something Lucienne couldn't decipher. Secrecy? Worry? All she knew was that this task was not going to be a usual one.

“Yes, sir?”

“I apologize for asking you this, but I need your assistance... I am in need of a raven.” Shivers ran down the first raven’s spine when Dream said that.

“Is Jessamy resigning, sir? Or is she no longer fit for this position?” Lucienne asked, hoping Dream wasn't asking her to take the mantel again. She had no desire to return to her former avian form. Black feathers and wings were a story of the past.

“Not at all. However, this is simply a task I cannot entrust to Jessamy. It requires utmost discretion. Jessamy is my official raven, and her presence could be seen as my interference.”

He needed a spy then. A spy in the Waking world. Lucienne couldn't even remember the last time she left the Dreaming. Ever since she passed the duty of a raven and became a librarian, the Dreaming has become her permanent residence.

“If I may, sir, why me?”

Dream glanced at her briefly. He hasn't looked at her once, keeping his eyes fixated on the floor. Was there a shame in his eyes? A shame to even consider this mysterious task.

“As I said, this task requires utmost discretion. I cannot reveal my interest in this person. You would need to visit the Waking world once in a while and report to me on his well-being.”

Lucienne smirked. Thankfully, Dream hasn't noticed, busy with not looking directly at her. Over the years, Lucienne noticed childish and sentimental streaks in her Lord. He would get interested in certain people, placed, or events, but never admiting to it. He thought of it as unworthy of his rank.

He knew what he was asking of her. Taking the form of a raven, and leaving the library for the Waking world was a big task. Especially since she has retired and never shown interest in returning.

“As you wish, sir.”

The answer surprised Dream. He knew Lucienne couldn't technically refuse, but he expected at least some pushback.

“I know I am asking a lot. You are no longer my raven, and I don't want to change anything about that. You will always be my librarian,” Dram said with a fleeting smile. A very rare sight.

Immortality, though Hob Gadling, was beginning to make him mad. Madness among beggars was quite common, but Hob considered himself to be more sane than his comrades. The steps of St Giles-without-Cripplegate were a safe place to beg. Unfortunately, due to the reconstruction of St. Paul’s Cathedral, which burned down a few years before, other major churches in London were always crowded. It was also the place where he first noticed the raven. It was a graceful bird with shiny black feathers and smart eyes. He was also growing more and more certain that this bird was following him.

“You are just seeing things, Hob. It's just a bird!” Henry laughed when Hob shared his paranoia, picked up a pebble from the ground, and threw it. It missed, but the bird flew away anyway.

Henry wasn't like the other beggars, and Hob was glad for this. At least he had someone to talk to. Henry was young and smart. Formerly a merchant's son, Henry became ill with falling sickness when he was fifteen. This led him to Bedlam Hospital, where, a few years later, infrequent erratic behaviour joined the terrifying spasms he already suffered from. Lunacy, possession, inner demons. His diagnosis had multiple names but no cure. When his family decided to stop paying for Bedlam, Henry ended up on the streets. He was only eighteen.

When they first met, Hob was naturally angry on Henry's behalf. But the young man seemed content. As if his family giving up on him meant he could give up too. Since then, Hob and Henry became almost inseparable. Henry craved connection beyond the voices in his head, and Hob still missed his son dearly.

The raven returned a few moments later, perching on the same window as before.

“Huh, weird. Maybe you're right, old man. The bird is following you, ready to drag your soul to the deepest of hells.” Henry once again started laughing maniacally before stopping himself. Sometimes he would forget himself and let the intrusive thoughts win. “Sorry, Hob.”

“Maybe you're right. Maybe it is my personal devil,” Hob smiled, still not taking eyes from the raven. There was something about it, and he was willing to figure out what. It wouldn't be the only weird thing in his exceptionally long life.

This was going to be a good day. It was only early morning, and Hob already managed to smooth-talk his way into getting stale bread. Nothing too fancy, but at least it was something. He headed towards the church. In one of the side alleys, he'd meet Henry and share this prize. He was there first, as usual. Except he wasn't. The raven has beaten him to it. Perched on a wooden beam, it was watching Hob with its black beady eyes.

“Morning. Looks like I won't be without my shadow today,” Hob smirked. The raven said nothing.

Taking advantage of being alone, Hob decided to continue: “I know you are following me. I am not crazy. Why are you doing this?”

The raven stayed silent.

“Fine, stay there. See if I care.”

The raven tilted its head to the side. Still nothing. Hob sat down on the ground. This street will not be busy for at least an hour or two. And even then, it would be mostly poor students, drunk patrons, and busy apprentices. Nobody will pay attention to a beggar. He looked at the bread, then at the bird.

“Do you want some?”

The raven ruffled its feathers. Hob tried to find a meaning in it, before shrugging, tearing a small piece from the loaf, and throwing it on the ground. This caught the bird's attention. It glided down and hungrily swallowed the piece of bread. To Hob's surprise, it stayed on the ground, not eyeing the bread in Hob's arms, but Hob himself. As if it was looking directly into his soul.

“You really are a strange one,” Hob chuckled. The raven cawed in an answer.

“You are like me, aren't you? I don't mean immortal, but... strange. I've lived long enough to know there are strange things beyond my comprehension. Like magic. Are you magical?”

To Hob's surprise, the raven cawed. Did this bird understand him?

“Morning, old man! I hope you haven't gone completely crazy talking to the raven!” Henry was late as always, but that was understandable considering he used to spend the nights further away. The raven hopped to Hob's side, but still stayed on the ground.

“Are you feeling well? You look exhausted,” Hob remarked with a frown. He had a feeling.

“Truth be told, I haven't slept. The brothels on the street were busier than usual. There was also a brawl or two.”

“Sit down, Henry.” Hob's voice was cold and authoritative. Maybe his hunch was wrong, but he didn't want to risk it. He hoped he was wrong.

“I feel fine, Hob. I can tell when-”

“Sit down!” Hob jumped up to make more space for the younger man. The raven hopped away, but it still hasn't taken off. It curiously tilted its head.

It happened quickly. Almost immediately after Henry sat down, his body began twitching, and the man lost consciousness. Hob knew what to do. It wasn't the first time he's witnessed Henry's falling sickness. Hob took off his coat, guided Henry to his side, and placed the clothing underneath his head.

“It sometimes happens when he's tired, but Henry doesn't want to admit it. He told me they did this in Bedlam, but nobody else would help him on the street.” Hob wasn't sure if the raven could understand him, but it made him feel better. The bird slowly walked over to him, looking at Hob, then at Henry lying on the ground.

“He'll be fine, don't worry.”

Lucienne only wished she could do something more for this man. Dream of the Endless would not approve of her meddling, but she knew he would be secretly glad for her intervention.

Even Henry had to admit now that Hob's raven was acting strangely. It was incredibly clever and loyal to Hob. Not in a way that it would listen to Hob's commands, but it somehow tried to help while keeping its freedom. This morning, it was waiting for them at the church with a turnip in its beak. It willingly dropped it into Hob's lap and flew away.

“Have you been secretly training it, Hob?”

“No, I just think it's a strange bird. Good kind of strange.” Hob looked over the turnip and handed it to Henry. With the impending winter, Henry looked worse and sickly. He needed all the food they could get. Hob could survive without. It wasn’t as if he could starve to death.

The raven was circling above their heads. Maybe it was a sign Hob was waiting for.

“Stay here, Henry. I'll be right back.”

Before Henry could say anything, Hob disappeared into one of the side alleys. It took him a few tries before he found an isolated place. It didn't take long for the raven to land on a barrel beside him.

“I need to talk to you,” Hob began, and immediately felt crazy. After all, he looked for privacy to talk to a bird. Nonetheless, the raven cawed back.

“I was thinking about you. I don't exactly attract magical beings, so why are you following me...” Then he lowered his voice: “Has He sent you? The man I meet every hundred years.”

It was the only thing that made sense. He still hasn't decided where he stands on the existence of hell and devils, but the bird wasn't malicious at all. The raven had to be either servant of his mysterious companion or Death itself.

“So you've figured it out.”

Hob's heart might have skipped a beat. He jumped when he heard that smooth female voice. There was nobody around, just the raven watching him with those deep black eyes.

“Please don't tell him of our conversation. Do not tell anyone about this. He wouldn’t approve.” The raven's beak wasn't moving; it was as if she was talking to him inside his head. The same way his stranger talked. His lips moved, but his voice had an echo from inside his mind.

“I knew it. Has he sent you? Can I see him?”

“My lord is a man of principle. He will see you in a hundred years, as agreed.” Lucienne spread her wings, ready to take off. She wasn't permitted to talk to Hob Gadling. He wasn't supposed to figure it out.

“Wait! I won't tell anyone. But can you please tell him that I miss him? I wish I could tell him myself.”

“Goodbye, Robert Gadling.” With those words, the raven took off, and Hob had a feeling he had messed up.

It's been a few months since Lucienne last visited Hob. She was waitingfor Dream to mention Hob and Lucienne’s conversation. Her task was supposed to have been a secret. That's why Dream sent her, his first and most trusted raven, instead of his regular one. But when she stopped reporting on Hob, Dream would get restless. She knew he wanted to ask about him, but his pride was holding him back.

Just a quick visit, she told herself. He won't even notice you, and you'll be back in no time. It was already dark when she arrived. She headed directly to Hob's usual evening spot.

“Hello, Raven. I was wondering whether you'd return. Hob will be back soon.” Henry's voice was quiet and raspy. “When I asked about you, Hob told me he said something he shouldn't have. That made you fly away.”

He coughed, but despite this, the raven hopped closer to the young man.

“I am going to die soon. I can feel it. When I do, please don't leave him again. It will break him. He's already lost a son before. He told me. He told me a lot of strange things.”

Henry extended his arm towards the raven and gently caressed the black feathers on its throat. He smiled when the bird hadn't flown away. It has never let him touch it.

Lucienne was unsure what to do. It would be a miracle if this man survived the night. Should she look for Hob? Someone to help? Where was he anyway?

“I'm back, Henry.” Hob appeared silently as a ghost. He's lost a lot of weight ever since the last time Lucienne saw him. He must have starved himself, knowing he wouldn't die.

“Hob, your raven's back.”

Hob smiled when he noticed the raven. He nodded and quietly sat next to Henry.

“No luck this time. I'm sorry I couldn’t find you a warm bed. I'll stay with you tonight.”

Henry sighed and let his head drop into Hob's lap. He was deathly pale, his lips having a blue tint from the cold and illness.

“Thank you... dad.”

Hob smiled, but still couldn't hold back tears. He knew Henry was getting worse. He wasn’t blind. Sometimes, it felt like the young man wasn’t completely present. His clear mind tonight scared Hob. Nobody gets suddenly better.

“He won't die, will he?” he turned to the raven while stroking Henry's matted hair. His breathing was shallow, but Hob didn't want to admit it. Admitting it would mean facing the reality that Henry was too sick. He's been witnessing people dying from winter fever for centuries now, with no cure in sight.

Who knows how long they've been sitting there like that. A frozen statue of two men and a black bird.

“Hello, Hob Gadling.”

He remembered that voice. So kind and calming. Yet hearing it filled him with dread. Lucienne recognized it immediately. Death of the Endless couldn't be mistaken for anyone.

“I am not here for you, Hob Gadling. Unless you wish me to take you away. But I have to take Henry.” She was so graceful, and that scared Hob.

“Please, he's so young-”

“I know. But it's his time.” She placed her hand on Hob's shoulder. “Don't worry, you won't remember this meeting. Just sleep, Hob Gadling.” When Hob's head dropped in blissful sleep, Death turned her attention to Henry.

“It's going to be fine. Hob's going to be fine.” She stroked his cheek. And it was done.

“I suppose Dream sent you to look after Hob. Such a sentimental fool.” A frown crossed Death’s beautiful face. But she wasn’t angry. Lucienne knew Death was often frustrated with her younger brother.

“I apologize. I didn't mean to interfere with your bet.”

And then Death started laughing. A genuine warming laugh that almost made Lucienne forget about everything that had happened during this night. “There is no bet, dear Lucienne. The bet lasted only for Hob's first hundred years. And he's been here for three hundred already. I'm pretty sure he's won by now. But Dream needs to tell himself that they've been meeting once a century because of a bet.” Death smiled at Lucienne and knelt down on her level. It made the raven feel seen, equal.

“Don't tell Dream that I've told you this, but I would be glad if you could continue looking after Hob. Not for me, but for Dream. I have a feeling he'd appreciate it.”

With that, she was gone. Lucienne pondered whether she should stay until the morning before deciding to leave for the Dreaming. She couldn't face Hob's suffering. This is why she didn't want to return to the Waking.

“Please, just let me talk to them. Their son died! They have to care!” Hob was getting desperate. Finding Henry's family proved to be difficult at first, but he managed to find the right house. There he was stopped by the family steward, a tall, serious man with not a glimpse of emotion in his face. There was no way he would let a filthy beggar talk to his employers.

“We have received the news. It's indeed a tragedy. This is the last time I'm telling you to leave.” And with that, the steward shut the door to Hob's face.

Hob wanted to scream. He wanted to break down the door and hold Henry's father accountable. If he weren't on the streets, he wouldn't have died of winter fever. Living in Bedlam wouldn't have been any better, but at least he would be alive.

Hob's plotting was disrupted by the sound of feathers and wings. His raven, always present, was perched on the door canopy.

“Raven! You're back!” A quick smile flashed across his face before the mourning returned. “I guess you already know what happened.”

“You want to blame someone. Will it help with your grief?”

Hob sighed, but internally, he was screaming. She was right. Henry was gone, and he was going to end up in a pauper's grave nevertheless.

“I've lived for so long, and it never gets easier. The worst thing is, I would have died as well if I were capable of death. He would understand.” Yes, he was practically begging this raven to arrange an early meeting with his stranger. It was shameless and desperate, but Hob didn't care.

“It's not in my power to break your arrangement. But I can lend you an ear. Talk to me, Robert Gadling, and I will relay your words.” It wasn't originally Lucienne's idea. Dream has dropped a few hints that he would appreciate it if Lucienne could tell him more about Hob's life. She wasn't sure if Dream was aware that the two of them talked to each other, but decided not to ask. As long as Dream was satisfied with her mission, she was satisfied as well.

“Fine. But not here. People might think I'm crazy.”

A few days later, Hob found a letter. He knew it was his raven who had delivered it. The handwriting was elegant, but he didn't recognize it. The letter simply contained an address, corresponding to the graveyard he'd visited with the raven, along with directions to a specific grave. To his surprise, he's found a new tombstone. Finally, he could grieve Henry properly.

Chapter Text

After the encounter with Lady Johanna Constantine, Hob Gadling decided to lie low for some time. Thankfully, a few months is but a drop in the ocean for an immortal. When it seemed she wasn't on Hob's tail, he allowed himself to attend social gatherings once more. After all, he had a reputation to maintain. And a particular raven to talk to.

He noticed her watching him as soon as he started to go out more frequently, no longer looking over his shoulder for Constantine's men. Hob wondered whether the raven knew what had happened during their last meeting. He desperately wanted to talk to her, but whenever he was alone, the raven was nowhere to be seen.

But not only Lady Constantine was on his mind. Hob felt like he's almost gotten an answer to the question he's been asking himself for the past 400 years. Who was his stranger? He was this close to finding out his name. And then came Lady Constantine... Hob had to admit that fighting her bodyguards was refreshing. A man of his social standing couldn't be seen brawling. Just like the old times when he was doing mercenary work, with some occasional banditry here and there. He almost missed it.

Besides sore knuckles, there was another thing the 1789 meeting left him with. Hob managed to collect some of the dust his mysterious stranger left behind when he made Lady Constantine see her inner demons. To Hob's eye, the substance reminded him of crumbled stone. But what kind he didn't know.

He even got his hands on a microscope, hoping he would find something unusual in the structure of the dust, when a soft tapping disrupted his work. There she was, his raven softly tapping her beak on the window.

“I was wondering when you'd visit me,” Hob smiled when he let her in. His apartment may have been humble, but it provided privacy. They could finally talk without getting weird looks.

“Hello, Robert Gadling. I have a message for you.” The raven perched on the chair, leaving the bed the only place for Hob to sit.

“Is it from Him?” Hob couldn't contain his joy. He knew it was childish, but he couldn't care less. His stranger wanted to talk to him, even if it was indirectly.

“He apologizes for cutting your last meeting short and hopes to meet you again in a century. Same place, same time.”

Expected, but slightly disappointing nonetheless. Hob hoped they could continue where they've left off in less than a century.

“You know, I've known him for 400 years and I still know nothing about him. I don't even know his name.” Hob knew the raven had a soft spot for him. He also knew convincing her to go against her master was useless, but he always liked to try.

“It is not my place to speak for him. He has to tell you on his own terms.” The raven's voice was firm, but sympathetic. She knew how frustrated Hob must have been.

“Don't worry. I decided to take this matter into my own hands.” Hob nodded towards the microscope and the samples of the dust. The raven curiously hopped onto the desk, examining his workplace closely.

“Are you going to tell him what I'm trying to do?” Hob asked.

“Do you wish me to?”

Hob smiled and shook his head mischievously. “I would prefer telling him myself when I next see him.”

“Then I will respect your wish.” Was Hob imagining it, or was there a hint or mischievous compliance in the raven's voice?

Robert Gadling had all kinds of contacts. One of them worked at a university where an enthusiastic mineralogist currently worked on his research. This professor was more than happy to analyze a sample of Hob's dust.

“Mr Gadling, I must inform you that your sample only contains a very basic sand.”

This was not what Hob wanted to hear. He hoped for some magical mineral. Maybe a philosopher's stone or something equally impressive.

“Sand?”

“Yes. It's a bit heavy on quartz, but otherwise it's a regular sand.”

Perhaps he needed to approach this problem from a different angle. If the magic wasn't in the sand, maybe it was in a technique. Or a spell. Hob has always avoided the occult. It was too risky and could easily reveal his immortality to the wrong people. He still had nightmares about being accused of being a witch. They bound him with ropes and chains and threw him into the Thames. His lungs were filling with water, but he couldn't die. Even now, deep water filled Hob with anxiety.

“Don't you dare. It's too dangerous.”

Hob didn't think the raven would have been so angry at him for merely mentioning interest in the occult between their conversations.

“I live my life as I please. Just like your master would have wanted.”

“There are people who would kill for your immortality,” the raven reminded him.

“I can't die, remember?”

While Hob couldn't die, he could be captured. It happened one seemingly peaceful evening. He didn't notice the two men following him. Perhaps he thought enough time had passed for Lady Constantine to lose interest in him.

How wrong he was.

They kept him in a basement. Bound and alone in the dark.

“It's just as you said, Lady Johanna. We haven't given him food or water for almost four weeks, and he hasn't perished.”

Just because Hob hadn't died didn't mean he wasn't starving. He didn't even have the energy to protest when the men took off the ropes.

Lady Johanna Constantine was as beautiful as last time. Delicate on the outside, but ruthless on the inside. He should have known a mere setback wouldn’t stop her. “So it is true. You don't die. You don't age. You cannot starve. I wonder what would happen...”

A sharp, thin blade attacked his side like a snake. It delved into his flesh, spilling blood all over the floor. Hob has been stabbed before. When he first became aware of his own immortality, he did experiments. Especially on the battlefield. Neither the wound nor the blood loss would kill him, but it still hurt like hell.

“Fuck,” Hob cursed under his breath, collapsing to the ground and instinctively clutching the stab wound.

“Based on your language, I assume you haven't always belonged to a good society. Care to explain who you are, Robert Gadling?”

“Maybe when I don't have a fucking hole in my body.” Hob gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. If he calmed down, it could speed up his healing. It would only stop the bleeding; the wound would still need weeks or months to fully heal. If he were lucky, it wouldn't leave a scar too visible.

“What do you know about the man you've been meeting at the White Horse Inn?”

Hob laughed at the question, even though it hurt. “Would you believe me if I said nothing? He doesn't talk about himself, only listens to me. For four hundred years, he's been listening to me rambling about wars and chimneys.”

“Why you?”

What a good question. One that Hob has been asking himself ever since he realized his immortality was real. Why would someone so powerful and graceful choose a loser like Hob?

“I don't know. I don't even know who he is, let alone why he chose me.”

A new emotion flashed across Lady Constantine's face. Sympathy broke the wall of coldness and frustration.

“You truly have no idea who you're dealing with?” Lady Constantine pulled a thin book out of her satchel and threw it at Hob's feet.

“Hans Christian Andersen? The fairytale writer? Surely not-” This must have been a joke. His stranger wasn’t Danish.

“Your companion’s name is Sandman.” Lady Constantine interrupted him. “The bringer of sleep and dreams.”

“Sandman? I thought it was just a fairytale.”

“So is the tale of the Wandering Jew. And yet here you are, Robert Gadling.” Then she turned to one of her men. “He doesn't know anything. Get rid of him before they start looking for him.”

They dropped Hob in the eastern part of London. Thankfully, he wasn't too far away from his apartment. It was raining, and the water tasted so sweet on his lips.

“Where have you been?”

“I am fine. Just give me a few minutes.” He rolled onto his back only to face the concerned bird.

“You are bleeding, “ the raven remarked. The wound on his side probably reopened. Truth be told, he almost didn’t notice the pain. It took Hob a lot of willpower to force himself into a sitting position with his back leaning against the wall. The raven hopped onto his leg and shook off the water from her feathers. She's never gotten so close, Hob thought.

“I had a rather unpleasant meeting with Lady Johanna Constantine. She imprisoned me, then we talked. Then she stabbed me... She also told me who He is.”

Hob lowered his arm for the raven to hop onto. And she did so. He didn't think she would actually do it. Despite being a bird, she had a strong sense of dignity. Hob pulled the raven closer so she could be on his eye level.

“She called him Sandman. But that's just a fairytale.”

“All fairytales are first and foremost stories.” The raven tilted her head. “Go home, Hob. You are hurt.”

Hob chuckled. “No more 'Robert Gadling'? I prefer 'Hob', you know. Always have. You can call me that.” Maybe it was the blood loss that was making him this sentimental. But the raven didn't seem to mind.

“Then you can call me Lucienne.”

Hob smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

Hob was pleasantly surprised that his shipping business was able to run itself during his month-long absence. The capture has given Hob time to think. Especially about his stranger and the advice he's given Hob at their last meeting. Was it truly Hob’s right to decide for other people what they do with their lives?

“Have you gone completely mad?” At first glance, Roger Barkley was a big, brute man and a seasoned captain. But he was also a skilled businessman with a knack for mathematics and accounting. He knew that money lay between Africa and America.

“My decision is final, Captain Barkley. We are not to be part of the slave trade.”

“And what do you suggest instead? The money is in sugar, tobacco, and negroes.”

That was true, but there was another venture. Canada. The local slavery was slowly crumbling. Hob expected it to be abolished in the next few years. They could export fur, which was highly sought after. The profit wouldn't be as high, but since Canada is a British territory, the taxes would be way more manageable. They would live comfortably. If only Hob could find a reliable business contact overseas.

That proved to be easier than Hob expected. The man was called Gilbert Marchant. A tall, dark-haired Canadian whose family mainly traded with the French. Thankfully, he was willing to make an exception for Hob's shipping company.

“You are a very interesting man, Robert Gadling. I can’t wait to get to know you better,” Marchant said after Hob had presented him with his proposal. Only a blind man wouldn't notice what was truly behind Marchant's willingness. He seemed to gravitate towards Hob. And Hob liked his company. He was flamboyant, confident, and so drunk on life itself. A compliment here, a fleeting touch there. The way he looked at Hob with admiration and desire. For more than 400 years, Hob Gadling has never been with a man. He's lain with so many women. Wed only one. But he has never given a chance to a man. When the right night came and both men were tipsy, Hob decided he had had enough of societal expectations.

Naturally, Lucienne noticed the young man who took an interest in Hob Gadling. She also noticed how physically similar he was to Dream. Curious. She knew she could never understand the relationship between Hob and Dream. But she was starting to understand Hob's obsession with his mysterious stranger.

“So he's decided to step out of the slave trade business.” Dream seemed to be extraordinarily pleased with her latest report. Or maybe he was simply pleased with Hob listening to his advice.

“Yes. He has decided to turn his attention to Canada. With the help of a Canadian businessman.”

Lucienne didn't even have to mention the nature of their relationship; Dream was jealous anyway. He couldn't hide the clenched jaw and furrowed brows.

“He lives his life as he chooses.”

“There's another thing, sir. He's been captured briefly.”

“Captured?” It sounded as if Dream himself was offended on Hob's behalf. He has warned him about this during their last meeting.

“He wasn't careful enough. I believe this was a learning experience for him.”

“Hob Gadling always wants to learn from his mistakes. And then he makes them again.”

After that, Dream went quiet, and Lucienne went back to work. She knew when to end the reports. After all, she had to keep some Hob's stories for another time. Collecting his stories wasn't so different from her librarian work. She still preferred the presence of books to the dirty streets of London. But they, too, were slowly growing on her.

It surprised her when Dream visited the library a few hours later. Something was clearly on his mind.

“I've been thinking, Lucienne. I made you my librarian, yet I make you cling to your past. It goes against my word. I can relieve you of these duties in the Waking world.”

Lucienne knew what this meant. It was Dream's way of saying 'I realized I forced you to do something, and now I feel guilty'. There was also a hint of 'I need you here'.

“If I may, sir. I quite enjoy these trips to the Waking. But if you feel that my duties here in the Dreaming stagnate, I shall correct my negligence.”

Dream smiled, satisfied with her answer. “Then I will eagerly anticipate your next report on the life of Hob Gadling.”

For Lucienne, this was Dream's admission that Hob Gadling was something more than his fleeting interest.

Marchant was not only a good companion. He was also a great lover. Hob found it very natural for him to share these vulnerable moments with a man. Over 400 years, and he still had so much to learn about himself.

“Why are you always so cold towards me, my friend?” Marchant asked him one evening over a glass of wine.

“It’s just new to me, Gilbert.”

His friend simply laughed and refilled Hob’s glass. “I simply want to let you know that I don’t believe in monogamy. I know there’s someone else on your mind.”

He wasn’t wrong. But every time Hob looked at Marchant, he was reminded of the Sandman. He hated that Lady Constantine might have been right. He hated that his stranger was simply a mythical trickster who put people to sleep with sand. There must have been something more to the ethereal being he was meeting every hundred years.

Sandman wasn’t the only reason why Hob kept his distance. It still felt too soon to be vulnerable. Dangerous too. People might talk and label both men as sodomites. Hob wouldn’t mind; he could just fake his death and return as his own son. But Marchant wouldn’t have such an opportunity.

They would just have to live like this. Always at arm's length in public, close in privacy. But never too close, so Hob wouldn’t get hurt. So he wouldn’t stop fantasizing about Sandman.

At least it didn’t hurt too much when Hob received a letter from Marchant’s family. His ship, bound for London, was lost at sea. He still grieved, because despite everything, Hob Gadling was still a human.