#sir robert gadlen

[mimisempai]

Repairing a huge mistake : the missing poster...

[scifrey]

you requested more Keepsakes prompts, and I have to say, I LOVE the way you write Eleanor. perhaps some little scene from her married life with Hob? general domestic bliss? or something less blissful, like getting into their first bad argument and figuring out how to deal with it?

alternatively, Hob and Morpheus go on holiday and Morph is very bad at taking vacations...

xo @hardly-an-escape

Oooooooooh. What an excellent prompt. Thank you!

Keepsakes: A Kissing Bough

Fandom: The Sandman Series: Hob Adherent Series Rating: Slightly Spicy. Please curate your experience accordingly. Pairing: Hob/Eleanor

Hob and his wife have been charged with finishing the decorations before Christmas Morning and the start of the Twelvetide celebrations.

Eleanor's parents call her 'Nell' at home. It is a common enough diminutive for Eleanor, as common as 'Hob' had been in the mid 1400s, when it seemed that every Robert he met went by it.

The problem is, Hob didn't know that was her nickname. They'd been married eleven months, and he'd been calling her 'El' the whole time.

But how was he to know? The Giffords only ever called her Eleanor in public, and called him the full 'Sir Gadlen' or, 'my son-in-law', even after his marrying into the family.

No friendly "Robert-my-boy!"s from Master Gifford as Hob had secretly hoped for, as his own father had once chortled while thumping him playfully on the shoulder. The man still resented Hob for his lack of old-family connections, for all that he'd mellowed toward Hob after seeing how seriously Hob took his duties as Husband and Father. And where Master Gifford led, his wife dutifully, dolefully followed. 

Not even a nice cordial "Robb dear" from Mistress Gifford in all those months.

So it is quite a surprise when, after the elder Mistress Gifford's after-supper lamp had finally burned down, and she declares her old eyes too weary to continue her needlework by firelight alone, she calls Eleanor 'Nell'.

Her husband had gone straight to bed after their meager supper, grumbling heartily about the privations of the Advent fast and how a morning of eggy pies and the Twelvetide feasts could not come fast enough.

With no husband to chivvy along before her, Mistress Gifford rises from her stately chair by the hearth in the Great Hall, and bestows each of the three Gadlens arrayed on the piled furs on the floor before it a fond kiss on the forehead. One to Hob, who helps steady her with a gentle hand on her elbow as she stoops, her own hand on his shoulder, to offer the kindness. Then one for her daughter, sat opposite him. And the last to her grandson, dozing with all the abandon of a small creature who knows that it is utterly safe and utterly loved, in his moses basket beside Hob's knee.

 As she kisses them, she murmurs, "Happy Christmas Robb, Nell, my wee little Redbreast."

"Nell?" Hob asks, as soon as his mother-in-law has creaked her way out of the room. "Why have you not told me you are called Nell?"

"It is grim," she pouts. "It sounds very much like knell , wouldn't you say?" This is accompanied by a theatrical shudder that makes her bosom jiggle, and so burns its way into Hob's memories for that alone. "Death knell."

"Ah, never mind that. Death's a mug's game," Hob says, and cups her fire-warmed cheeks in his palms to bestow his own kisses on his wife. "I'm never going to die, so you shall never need ring out for me." Eleanor giggles as he digs his fingers into her hips for leverage, and scoots her closer to him, so he can bury his face against the pleasing softness of her neck. "Though you may keen in other ways for me, should you like."

"Hob!" El laughs. "Pray, do not leave a mark , we have to sit at the top table with my father in the morn—"

He had promised El that he would tell her his secret when they'd been married forty years, but here, sitting by the fire in the Great Hall, surrounded by warmth and plenty, the proof of his devotion to this life wheezing out the sweetest little snores a babe could make, he was tempted to break that oath and confess all.

There was something about the Twelvetide that encouraged confession, even now as a Protestant celebration, without a confessional to be had in a Catholic church.

"Enough," El gasps at length, pink-cheeked and panting prettily. "We have work to do, and if you wake Robyn I will be very cross with you."

The elder Giffords had left their daughter and son-in-law, with their youthful energy, to finish the kissing boughs before Christmas morning. It was well on midnight now, the feeble light from the rush-tapers dwindling and the fire in the big stone hearth beginning to fade to nothing but toasty-red coal. It was just the right sort of fire for toast.

Hob says as much.

"It is always one appetite or another with you," El huffs with a roll of her eyes, but rises. "I shall go to the kitchen, but I will share not a morsel with you when I return if these last boughs are not woven when I return. And do not throw the remaining greenery into the fire to make it look like you finished, Robert Gadlen," she scolds, catching him thinking that very thing. "There are to be twelve Crowns of Green, and I know how to count."

Hob plucks the hem of her skirt off the furs, and brings it to his lips for a revenant kiss. "As my Queen commands." 

She frees herself with a smirk and an imperious tug, and sways away to the kitchen.

"There, Robyn my lad," Hob says to his son, who has opened his dark eyes just long enough to take in the spectacle of Hob's oath. "That is how you keep your wife happy. Learn the art from me, my fine wee apprentice, and you will make of me a very indulgent and biddable grandfather in no time at all."

Robyn smacks his lips, clearly unimpressed with his father's training, and returns to sleep.

Hob is in the process of tying off the ribbons of the final garland when El returns with a napkin bundle consisting of a fresh bottle of wine, an old loaf of bread, and a tiny pot of new butter. 

Hob prefers old butter, likes the tangy burst of salt on his tongue, and his darling wife knows this. As such, she has also nicked one of the leftover bundles of sea salt that are meant to be gifts for her father's servants at his annual St. Stephan's feast, so Hob can powder his toast as he likes.

This is what love is, he muses, as he cuts them slices of bread with his belt-knife, and El retrieves the toasting forks from their hook by the hearth. Old bread, and stolen salt, a sneaky taste of butter before the advent fast is officially over, and a babe sleeping with his little milk-pout mouth gaping open like a little boor.

As Hob threads the bread onto the fork tines, and holds them carefully over the coals, El busies herself by tidying up the leftover sprigs of greenery. Bringing the winter growth indoors to remind the world that no winter lasts forever, that life persists and waited under the snow even now, is a tradition older than Hob himself.

He's seen Twelvetide traditions come and go, but this one persists, as immutable and comforting as knowing that in a year ending with eighty-nine, Hob's Stranger will be waiting for him.

It is nice to be younger than something.

El bundles her posy of leftover holly and mistletoe, finishing it with a crimson-red ribbon, then stands and dangles it over his head to coax a kiss out of Hob. He leans back against her legs, tips his chin up obligingly, and lets her fold down to meet him.

"If you continue to distract me, I will burn the toast, dearest wife," Hob murmurs into her mouth.

"That would be a waste," El agrees. She releases Hob to his duties, but does not relinquish the posy.

They eat toast, and brush away the crumbs and butter grease on the napkin, and share the bottle of wine between them, and laugh, and whisper in hushed voices. El holds the posy over the moses basket, and they kiss Robyn's fat cheeks. She dangles it over her head, and Hob kisses her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the dear swell of her chin. She loops the ribbon on his belt, and takes him in her mouth. When he has come to his pleasure with his fist jammed in his own mouth to prevent waking the baby, he hooks the posy on her belt and breaks his fast in the cool darkness before the dawn.

In all, they have quite a splendid Christmas morning indeed.

Like her mother before her, El chivvies her boys up to bed before the night grows too light. Robyn wakes long enough to whimper for his own break of fast, and Hob cuddles El up between his legs on the bed so he can hook his chin over her shoulder and watch Robyn's eyelashes flutter as he drinks his fill.

Morning will come soon enough.

The Christmas cake would be served to mark the official end of Advent, Hob's father-in-law would get his eggy pie, and they would all go to church so Eleanor could show off her new son to her old parish. The days of the Saints would be filled with acts of charity, feasting, dancing and delight. Someone would find the Bean in the Bread and be named the Lord of Misrule, and they would play silly games, and drink too much, and wrestle, and jest, and sing. On the Twelveth Night, Hob would gift his wife with the handsome leather-bound notation book he'd commissioned for her, a place for her to record her favorite composition. To Robyn, who was too young to know what presents and Twelvetide were, he would gift a handsome toy duck he'd spent the Advent carving. It had slappy leather feet attached to little wheels with hobnails, which clattered and flapped when one towed it along on a string.

And then the decorations will be removed from the house in order to preserve the good luck accrued through the Twelvetide, and the Gadlens would bid the Giffords a Happy New Year, and tromp home to their estate on the unfashionable south bank. Hob would review the profits for the year with Mr. Fletcher, his steward, and visit his warehouses with a gift of ale and an afternoon's leisure for his dockworkers, and come Candlemas, he'd join his groundsmen in rolling up their sleeves and readying the fields to feed the estate anew on Plough Monday.

But for now, Hob will keep his peace.

Christmas is not a time for such a confession as the one that teased at him.

"Dearest Nell," he says. "Darling Nell. My sweet call to ruination."

"No, no, you brute, stop calling me that," she gasps as he wriggled the three of them down into a comfortable nest of feathered pillows and thick wool blankets.

"My ruin?" Hob asks, mouth resting against her nape as Robyn stretched and unlatched, offering his fist to his father now that his tummy is full and he is ready to be spoiled in other ways.

Eleanor rolls over to hand the baby to Hob to wind.

"That name, you wretched, wretched man," she complains, burying herself into his side as he pats Robyn's bottom obligingly. "Call me Nell again and I shall really make you regret it."

"If that is your command, my queen, my wife, my Eleanor." He kisses her crown, her forehead, her shoulder with each oath. "Sweet El."

He expects her to reply to him with haughty teasing, but when she does not, he shifts Robyn out of the way to look at her face. She is already asleep.

"You see, my wee lad?" Hob whispers to his son. "That is how it is done."

Robyn spits up on his shoulder to show his appreciation for the lesson.

[tryan-a-bex]

@paprotkarotka Could you reblog this with your Louise portrait for Eleanor? Pretty please?

Sir Robert Gadlen

[avelera]

Thinking about Hob Gadling in 1589, or rather in the decades leading up to 1589 when we see him as Sir Robert Gadlen

Thinking about how he went north, twice, to come back as his own son, presumably to build the myth of the Gadlen family. Before that, as a soldier, a brigand, and a tradesman in printing, he probably didn't have enough money to need to "leave it" to a son, because he'd had no real assets. No houses, no businesses, nothing besides his weapons and armor, the proverbial clothes on his back, and what spoils of war could be carried with him.

But to make money you have to spend it, you have to have it, you have to invest it. 1389, the year of Hob gaining immortality, corresponds to the birth year of Cosimo de' Medici, the man who would establish the great banking dynasty of Florence, Italy. I note this because this transformation in Europe corresponds with Hob's progress through immortality and rather roughly corresponds to when, as I see it, he would have moved from an individual soldier of fortune to make his living to needing some sort of continuity of identity if he was going to move beyond that.

In this instance, pretending to be his own son (or relative) would be a necessity to inherit his own wealth so he could carry it forward for the next 10-30 years, before he'd have to reinvent himself again. The money to buy a knighthood would be the work of generations.

I'm thinking about Hob building himself up from being a printer's apprentice (because printing was so new a trade that it was probably one of the few where he could get in as a man perpetually in his 30s, most apprenticeships would require you to begin as a child) to gaining his knighthood. By his own admission of faking his death twice by 1589, he'd be Robert Gadlen the Third, possibly the Fourth (not that this was a naming convention back then for commoners, but more to illustrate where 1589 Hob stood in the line of his own fictional family inheritance).

The first half of the 1500s in England under Henry VIII still saw a predominance of nobility holding the lion's share of power, but it did see something of a shift where you had noteworthy men rise to great heights from common origin, like Thomas Wolsey and Thomas Cromwell (yes, I'm rewatching Wolf Hall, why do you ask?).

But now to the point that got me thinking about this: imagine Hob in the 1500s. At the beginning of the century he is the first of his name, building his fortune. Robert Gadlen, who made his money in the printing business then invested it, through a great stroke of luck in to the powers-that-would-be that century: the Tudor shipyards. Hob building himself from very nearly nothing, peasant stock, nothing more than a soldier and a brigand before that. It's still grubby to build oneself up from trade, better to have been born to wealth of course, this isn't American Yankeedom and we're before the Puritans, where showing one's hard work was a virtue rather than an ugly necessity of the common people. But Hob still did it, with his own hands.

Imagining Robert Gadlen II, and Robert Gadlen III, the "scion" of a family on the rise, sniffing around the edges of the Tudor court, eventually finding his way in, having enough gold to buy himself a knighthood.

Imagining Robert Gadlen, meeting one of those common men in the service of Henry VIII, noting with chagrin their own common birth, the sons of blacksmiths and butchers, unlike Sir Robert, whose father was a man of means who left a growing fortune to his son.

And I can't help but imagine Hob smiling, a little slyly because he did it, he slipped passed the censors, no one knows of the fact he was born to peasant stock almost 200 years ago, and no one ever will. As far as anyone knows, he was born wealthy, a gentleman in the rising social consciousness that all it takes to be a gentleman is to have the money to act as one.

But I can't help but wonder if that smile would be just a little uncomfortable, too. Because no one will ever know. No one will ever know that Sir Robert Gadlen didn't inherit his money, that he's not some child of nepotism and generational wealth who has never worked and never starved. He is the founder of his own family, he built it himself and with each generation that goes by he has to leave more and more of that story behind him. Except with Dream.

[zzoomacroom]

Hob Gadling Headcanons

He has a big dick

He unironically loves "live laugh love" signs. I mean, it's his whole philosophy on life, right? He has several of these signs around his home and office. Back when he was Sir Robert Gadlen it was inscribed on his family crest. He coined the expression and he's only mildly annoyed that he can't take credit for it.

The song "All Star" by Smash Mouth has been his personal anthem for the past 20 years or so. The lyrics just really resonate with him and he listens to it every morning to get psyched up for his day.

He cried for hours the first time he saw the "Jurassic Bark" episode of Futurama. You know, the one with the dead dog? The ending just hit way too close to home for him.

His hatred of Shakespeare is actually justified, but not because he ruined his date with Dream. The two of them were casually acquainted and Shakespeare thought Hob was rather obnoxious and arrogant, so he wrote a character inspired by Hob into one of his plays. When Hob first saw A Midsummer Night's Dream he immediately recognized that Nick Bottom was a dig at him, but he couldn't say anything without looking like even more of, well, an ass. Why the name Bottom? Well, you see,

[valiantstarlights]

Enlightenment

CW: angst

If there's one thing that Hob's Stranger taught him that night in 1889, it's that he, Hob, has never had a single friend in his entire life.

Oh, he's had fellow mercenaries and comrades-in-arms, a wife and a son, torturers and shipmates and people he'd occasionally fuck, but he doesn't have friends.

And Hob, after a few months of being devastated after his Stranger leaves, finally gets it.

After 500 years, he finally gets it.

He is simply not friend material. That's all.

His fellow mercenaries from 1389 want him with them because he's good with the blade. The people he apprenticed for in the 1400s kept him on because of his good work ethic. The courtiers who flocked to him in court do so because he's polite in his savagery, and it amused them.

His purest relationship had been with the stray cats of London in the 1600s, who sometimes give him dead rats to eat, and who only used him for his warmth during winters.

And then it's back to being used by people again. His fellows in the shipping business like him because he doesn't ask questions and keeps his head down. And in 1889, Hob realizes that his Stranger is also just using him for the stories he tells. Not that he's any good at telling stories either.

Gods, but his Stranger must have been so bored, alone in his godly realm, that he'd stoop to listen to a dumb human go on and on about chimneys.

At least he found Shaxberd interesting.

In fact, why didn't his Stranger make Shaxberd immortal? If he had, the world would have been blessed with so many more wonderful plays. But instead the world gets Hob, who hasn't contributed a single good thing to society, and even took part in making good people suffer a lifetime in chains.

Hob thought about it, and the only reason he could think of why Shaxberd hadn't been made immortal is simply because he refused. His Stranger must have also offered him the chance to live forever, but unlike Hob, Shaxberd has the good sense to remain mortal, have a normal life, and die when it was time.

And when he refused, his poor Stranger had no choice but to continue meeting with Hob.

If only Hob had even the smallest bit of Shaxberd's storytelling prowess, his Stranger would have treated him better. He would have touched Hob's shoulder and walked close to him as the two of them exit the tavern, their heads bent together, already in deep conversation.

Shaxberd wouldn't have subjected his Stranger to shallow, meaningless talk about how the Queen stayed over.

Hob goes through life like a ghost, those first few weeks after he realized all this.

He would have had friends, he realizes, had he been less himself, whatever it is about him that made people not want to be friends with him.

As it was, he is only a tool for people to use. His skills, his money, his reputation--all of those make him someone worth tolerating. And stripped of it all, he is worth nothing.

Hadn't he learned from the 1600s? Why did it take for his Stranger to walk out on him before he realizes all this?

Then again, Hob has always been incredibly stupid.

His sham of a marriage with Eleanor proved that.

He thought she loved him. Or at least, liked him enough to want to spend the rest of her life with him. But she was using him, too.

She had been pregnant with another man's child when they wed. Hob hadn't known. Not then, anyway. He was too elated with the prospect of being married to a beautiful lady to even count the months when they had been wed to the month when Robyn had been born. No wonder Eleanor said yes to his proposal quickly.

And no one, not even the most gossip-loving servant, told him about their suspicion. What good would that have done? And anyway, they were probably too busy laughing behind his back.

The poor Sir Robert Gadlen. He has everything in the world but the good sense that God gave a turnip.

Hob thinks of all this, collects all the evidence, and eventually reaches an irrefutable conclusion: he is simply just a tool to be used, then quickly discarded after his usefulness expires. There is no redeeming quality about him. He is not smart, interesting, or good enough to be considered anyone's friend. The fact that he even thought he's worth befriending is laughable.

Of course other people would pick anyone else over him. Didn't his Stranger prove that when he left Hob for Shaxberd?

--

A hundred years later and true to his word, his Stranger does not show up.

A hundred years later and Hob finds out from the current barkeep that the place he and his Stranger have been meeting in is going to be torn down and renovated to something better. Something more useful.

'Finally,' Hob thinks. 'It's about damn time.'

The White Horse Tavern, like him, has ceased to be of use.

Hob doesn't even know why he thought to wait. Of course his Stranger wouldn't come back after he walked out on Hob in 1889. Why would he?

Hob is nothing to him.

[gabessquishytum]

If Sir Robert Gadlen paid for wine and lamb and venison pasties just to share with me, I would sit my leather clad butt down and enjoy it. RIP to Dream of the Endless but I'm different.

[best-wishes]

Don’t Look Back - Part 1: Original Run

CW: Major Character Death, blood and gore, interrogation, drowning, mourning

On the night between the 7th and 8th of June 1589, Hob Gadling got drunk like he never had been in Sir Robert Gadlen's life. In any of the three successive Robert Gadlen's lives, to be exact. Unlike any other previous night of debauchery, though, he did on excellent wine. He had ordered more than twice the amount he needed to get wasted, since he had assumed his patron would drink his share, but no, he had spurned Hob, preferring to spend the night with stupid talentless Will Shaxberd. What did the little punk have that Hob did not? He wasn't even good at writing! At least Hob knew better than to inflict his verses onto anyone.

The twentieth pasty was as delicious as the first one, though Hob had vomited some of them at one point. He felt full and drunk, and mysteriously still empty and enraged. He waved to the waitress to get more wine, and he saw hesitation in her eyes. He probably looked more drunk than he really was. Who cared? He was paying a small fortune for tonight's banquet, they could keep their judgments and serve him.

When he stumbled back to his room, it was after a difficult time of climbing the stairs and finding the right door. He fuddled with the doorknob and cursed the man who had made it, as if his ebriety wasn't the reason he struggled to open it. He finally managed to open it, entered the darkened room, and battled with the mechanism again to lock the door one handed, as his other hand was holding the candle. Then he turned toward the bed and froze.

There was someone in the room. A stranger was lounging on Hob's bed. At first, Hob's drunken brain told him it was a cardinal. They were dressed entirely in red. Then, the other part of Hob's brain caught up, suggesting maybe a cardinal wouldn't wear such suggestive garments. The dress was in a style that Hob had never seen, following closely the shape of the body in a way that was very close to indecent. Though the skirt fell down to the ankles, on each side a long slit went up to the waist, revealing the naked skin of the narrow hips. If the dress was definitely feminine, the body wearing it was a lot more ambiguous, with a flat chest and narrow waist.

"Hello, Hob Gadling," the stranger said.

They were smiling, though it looked more like a cat baring their teeth in front of a mouse.

"How…I am Sir Robert Gadlen. This must be a mistake. Please leave my room immediately."

They chuckled, and made no move.

"I know who you are, Hob Gadling. I've been watching you for centuries. Such a will to live, I couldn't resist."

Hob remained silent. The adrenaline rushing through his body was sobering him up fast. This person, whoever they were, knew about his secret. They were immortal as well. What did they want? Were they here because Hob's other patron had left?

"I know everything about your deal with my sibling, meeting him once a century to tell him about your pitiful human life. But he couldn't even sit and listen, could he? He was always shallow and selfish, only interested more in stories than in the people telling them or living them."

Sibling? Hob was dealing with a being not only immortal, then, but powerful enough to grant immortality… or take it away? He knew enough Greek and Roman mythology to fear being taken between a godly sibling rivalry. These stories never ended well for humans.

"What do you want?" he asked, finding a bit of courage in the ebriety that was leaving him.

"What do I want? That's not the question, is it? The question is what you want. Or rather, what will you want, you see. You wanted to save your only friend, you were ready to give up everything for him. How could I not deliver, when you wanted like that?"

What the hell was this? It was madness. Who were they talking about? Who was Hob's only friend that needed saving?

He was about to ask, but was interrupted. The stranger had gotten up from the bed, and was slowly walking to Hob. Instinctively, Hob backed off step by step until he hit the door. The door that he had locked earlier, not knowing the danger was already inside. Not that a lock would stop a god.

"Unlike my brother, I know how to show appreciation."

The mysterious being drew their hand back, as if preparing a blow. Hob steeled himself, unable to move under the gaze of the two golden eyes.

The blow never came. Instead, the hand passed right through his skin into his chest like a knife in water. It was not painful, though it was incredibly disturbing. The slender fingers moved underneath Hob's ribs and closed around his beating heart. Hob could feel them constrict it with each beat.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"Oh, no, Hob Gadling. I'm going to make you live. I'm going to give you every chance to get what you will. Enjoy."

There was something in their other hand. Hob had very little chance to see what it was before it disappeared into his chest. It had looked like the clock dials of the new German clocks, but bizarrely crooked and twisted. Then the cold metal came into direct contact with his beating heart, and Hob lost every thought and word.

The stranger had come closer, their cheek against Hob's and their mouth close to his ear. The position was intimate, but less than having both their hands burrowed inside his ribcage.

Painfully slowly, they pushed the metal apparatus into his heart until Hob felt like the two were, impossibly, occupying the same space. Hob's heart stopped, and Hob felt like it had imploded inside his chest. The cold seized him entirely, and he lost consciousness.

 ---

Hob Gadling died for the first time on the eleventh of November 1621, drowned in a lake.

He’d always thought he’d die by the sword, or most likely shitting himself to death in a ditch, somewhere along his life as a bandit. He had no shortage of possible causes of death, from tavern brawls to pitched battles, from dysentery to pox, from infected wounds to bad head injury. He’d been almost surprised to survive at all, to dodge death again and again with the most insane of luck. Almost, because he had defied Death, once, drunk as a skunk. He had claimed to everyone who would hear that Death was stupid and he would have no part of it. And somehow, Death had heard him, because from that day, Hob had survived every war, every epidemics, every accident thrown his way, until decades slowly turned to century and Hob’s hair remained obstinately brown.

Hob had even met Death twice again. Once in 1489, as agreed one hundred years before when they had struck their deal, and once in 1589, as they renewed their deal. Hob had told them, when the pain had become too unbearable. Described Death’s cold beauty, the thin black and white shape of a man with eyes too deep and smile too sharp. He’d told them Death was no Devil, they had said so. Yes, he made a bargain to gain immortality. No it didn’t involve the lives of his wife and son. He didn’t really know what it involved, except that he had to live forever and speak to Death once every hundred years. After days of never ending pain, and no sign of him dying, he’d told them everything he could think of.

That’s how Hob Gadling ended up chained and attached to a wooden perch, one cold morning of November. Big Humphrey, who was the miller’s son and the strongest man in the neighbourhood, was sitting in a rowboat on the lake and holding the perch above the water, ready to dunk Hob until he was either dead and innocent, or alive and guilty. What they would do, if he emerged alive and guilty, Hob did not dare imagine. Sitting next to Humphrey was Edward, the prosecutor, the man who’d relentlessly murmured question after question in Hob’s ear as Hob cried in pain. Hob didn’t think there was a thing in the world he hated and feared more than his deceptively soft voice, encouraging Hob to damn himself while he transcribed. The same soft voice sounded surreal in the fog, as it ordered Hob to be dunk into the water.

Hob protested. It was a mistake. His mouth was instantly filled with murky water, burning his lungs. Hob tried to cough, only to inhale more of it. The water was icy cold, seizing his muscles as he thrashed to escape his restraints. Hob could not die. It was impossible. He had a deal with Death. How long would it take, for the priest, to deem it enough? Every moment of it was agony.

It didn’t matter. Hob couldn’t die. He would have no part in it. He was over two hundred years old. He felt at peace. He would not die, because it was impossible. He only had to wait. He stopped himself from trying to breathe. He didn’t need to breathe. He was calm.

He was wrong.

[vachon-children]

Excuse me, may I speak to Edwin? Im looking to learn some protection spells. It might sound crazy, but are there any that protect against physical manifestations of nightmares?

- @sir-robert-gadlen

Oh yeah sure hold on he's grading papers right now-

I can answer this ask, Jean. Hello there. I've never had someone ask that specific question before, but there might be a spellbook for that in my vast library. Are you able to make it to Blackmore University? It's nearby New York City.

[quecksilvereyes]

songbird.

Sir Robert Gadlen is a brute and a cheat, and you have, in common tongue and common mouth, always been too beautiful by half to be his son. His hands are calloused where they hold you, and his hair is ever coarse. There is laughter in his throat most days, too loud and too sharp to be anything but a dog's bark, and his table is never clean.

Fine damask, finer silk, golden thread and silvered claws, a dog is still a dog no matter how you dress it. The teeth will not be filed, not by sugar nor decadene or courtly love. The muscle will not melt, not in heat nor years or little boys with scraped knees and hands made of cashmere. The claws do not dull, and the fur, groomed on iron-soaked fields and steel shavings, does not change its colour.

It is still brown, shorter by the throat than is fashionable, longer by the hind limbs than is decent, a coat made for scrapping. A dog, says the girl with the dark eyes and the pearl-stitched cap who once made of her palms an offering for your mouth to drink from. A mutt, says the steward, when your mother has retired and your father has taken the bow from the wall, hands twitching.

Mouth laughing.

Too much money, says one of the kitchen girls, red-aproned; red-mouthed, not enough sense. Her eyes are bright things, and her freckles stretch from the bloom of her forehead to the spread of her shoulders. Red-dotted, red-chested.

Your teeth are dull. Your hair is fine and soft with oils, the roof of your mouth is glutted on sugar. In the turning of your hands lies a childhood cushioned with care, and in the curling of your mouth lies a bird's song. In the flush of your skin lies your mother's legacy - a splotched blush, a spread of moles.

Little bird, says your father, his mouth pressed to the crown of your head. Little bird, flap your wings. His beard is wiry - sharp - and his voice is rough. His hands, callouses and all, are soft, soft things. Close your eyes. Laugh with him.

-

Lady Eleanor Gadlen is a marvel and a beauty, and you have, in truth and sleepless nights, always been too hot-headed to be her son. The parlour is never locked, no guest is turned away. There is ever ale in the pantry and soup on the stoves, and when asked for hospitality, the lady laughs and offers. She is, by grace of her husband, gold-capped and finely embroidered, cherished and warmed by the hearth lit in the dog's maw. She is, in spite of her husband, a noble thing, swan-delicate and fair as the first spring day of a cold year.

In the evenings, she curls into the roughness of Sir Gadlen like a homecoming, and drinks from his mouth his ever-present laughter. Hob, she says. Dearling. Into the undoing of her cap and the spill of the fine hair you both share, she does not flinch from claws or rough palms.

When she has warmed herself by the fire until the heat drips from her fingertips, she runs them through your curls. You rest your head against her chest, the beat of her steadfast heart. One-and-two.

Too good for him, says the girl, and the pearls drop from her cap into your parched mouth. When she smiles, they dissolve on your lips. A shame, says the steward into the frantic rush of the working kitchen, when your mother has donned her good riding boots in pursuit of your restless, chainless father.

She could have had her pick, says the courtier whose name is the same as the five men who have come to lament before him. Well-bred, and comely as she is, she might have had something pedigreed, instead. Your knuckles are wet and swollen by morning, and the courtier's throat is thick with bites only dull teeth can press into pompous skin.

The Lady Eleanor's smile is dimpled at the edges, and her hands are fine-boned and soft in the way of a woman who has never known labour. When she takes her dog to church, she talks with the parish after the service has ended, swaying skirts and sunlit eyes. Gifts smiles as easy as bread. Sir Gadlen lets her.

Lets her write and hunt and pick. Lets her collar and leash him. Laughing mouth, crow's feet around his eyes.

Your chest is bruised. Your lip is split. Your dull teeth have long since learned how to mine for copper in the depths of gossipping mouths. Your nails are short and bend where they grow, but your fingers are strong and your tongue is vicious.

Little songbird, says your mother, red-chested and crowing, will you sing a song of loving?

-

Come on. Open your beak and sweetly sing. With your ribs in bloom and your mother's soft hands wrapped around a dagger's end, with your father's brutishness in a sick boy's throat:

The wooden planks underneath you have had their fill of your blood. Soon, they will swell beyond a nail's grasp and leave stumbling blocks in their wake. The boy between your teeth makes a sound as a wounded, rabid thing does when it is trapped - thin wire and white-foamed mouth.

Let me go, he says. Let me up.

His hands are soft where they touch yours, trembling knuckles and sharp, sick steel. Your palms are all torn by now and every breath is a rattle. Drag him down, little songbird, and drink the foam from his lips. His mouth is a flood of ale and bile. His skin is cracked with salt.

Is this not a homecoming?

[timesorceror]

Day 9 - Bounce 👶

Hob, or rather, Sir Robert Gadlen, loved to hold his infant son. It was, perhaps, a little unusual, but the cheerful, bubbling laughter that escaped little Robyn as he bounced was well worth a few odd looks.

[secondjulia]

1589 Dream in fae form.

SO... 1589 Dream looks like the grown up version of the boys in Estranged, and I couldn't get it out of my head, AND it is 100% cannon that Dream has a form for pretty much every dreaming species (see the multitude of Dreams in Sandman Overture) so here's my attempt at faery Dream 🙂

Perhaps this is the one that hooked up with Titania? You can see how Shakespeare would be a step up, and perhaps Hob — sorry, Sir Robert Gadlen — a painful reminder of the vain, mercurial court life the Dream King had only just escaped...

[avelera]

Sir Robert Gadlen of Shere, Surrey?

So at one point for Giving Sanctuary and writing Hob in fics in general, I was looking for historical towns where he could have lived at various points in his life. Mostly (and to my increasing regret in Come live with me) I just eschew names entirely BUT there was one research rabbit hole I went down that was rather fun and made a good case for where Hob could have lived in 1589-roughly 1629.

In particular, I was looking for towns that were a workable distance from London, that is, close enough that one could reach the city for special occasions in a day or two using pre-modern travel but was far enough outside where one could have a sprawling estate. I wanted a town that was known for having Tudor mansions and, critically, I wanted it to be a town that had a river running through it for Hob's infamous drowning as a witch. Since I'm US not UK, all of this was educated guesses and I'm sure a native would find something laughable about my choice, but I eventually happened upon the town of Shere, in Surrey.

I had several reasons for why Shere in particular seemed a good fit for Hob's late 1500-early 1600s estate location:

The town is 25 mi/40 km outside London. Given the average cart speed was 4 mph/6 kmh especially when taking into account pre-modern roads. With a good horse you could do it in about a day's ride, with slower a more comfortable pace and breaks for water, half a day if you were in a hurry. It seemed the proper distance for a man on the rise in society like Hob would want to be, able to make frequent trips while still being landed with a country estate.

In the Medieval era the area was noted as being "one of the wildest in Surrey: sheep-stealers, smugglers, and poachers found a refuge in these remote hills. Some of the cottages have, still existing, very large cellars (excavated easily in the sandy hill), stated by H.E. Malden to have been "far too large for any honest purpose, and were no doubt made for storing smuggled goods till they could be conveniently taken on to London" (Source) - I was charmed by the idea that Hob would have known the area from his banditry days and that he in turn would be tickled by the idea of coming back to the site of his former ne'er-do-well stomping grounds, now with a purchased knighthood. Also couldn't hurt to know the area like the back of your hand (especially when on the run from witch hunters).

Shere is noted in the Domesday Book of 1086 which makes it old enough for Hob to have lived there then AND to this day it is known for its Tudor manors to this day which make it a popular filming location, with several Tudor estates and manor houses, one of which I like to imagine was Hob's during the days of his knighthood.

Here's a fun detail! "Shere has often been called one of the most beautiful villages in England; certainly few can surpass it in Surrey for a combination of those qualities that go to make up the ideal village… Shere is, therefore, the haunt of painters, many of them residents in and around, and samples of their handiwork may be inspected in the ancient Black Horse Inn." (Source) You can't tell me Hob wouldn't consider the town just because it has a Black Horse Inn, he would be giggle himself sick over that.

The River Tillingbourne runs through the center of the village. Particularly in Giving Sanctuary this was important to me because I imagined Hob being dragged from his estate into the center of town for his trial and drowning, for maximum dramatic effect, so I needed one close by that was deep enough to drown a man and sweep him away.

Now, there's one problem with Shere, which is that no witch trials happened there during James I's reign, which is when Hob would have been drowned...

... EXCEPT ONE:

"Despite James I's interest in witchcraft, just one case was brought before the Surrey Assizes in his reign, the outcome of which is unknown. There were probably others brought before the lesser court of Quarter Sessions, but the records for this period have not survived." (Source)

Perhaps since Surrey had no other witch trials, it was all the more reason for Hob to be "overconfident" that he had nothing to worry about? After all, what were the odds? And an unknown outcome, hmm, sure sounds like an excellent opportunity to fictionalize this as because Hob went back later and destroyed the records.

Anyway, this is the one town that fit all my requirements but in the end, I never ended up using the name (at least, not yet) in any of my fics. But I thought others might enjoy the outcome of my search!

[fishfingersandscarves]

I absolutely love your Sir Robert Gadlen painting!!! And your Dream and Nuala one!!! Dream's outfit looks so cool!!! And I love Nuala!!! ☺️

Ah thank you!!

[littledreamling]

Fluffbruary 50/50 Challenge: February 4 - Snow, Rest

Tags: canonical character death, heavy angst, death, grief/mourning, blood, child death, Catholicism, religion, mentions of Guy Fawkes Day, the Gunpowder Plot, bittersweet ending, more bitter than sweet

The church was cold. Still, it was warmer than outside, where the snow was ankle deep and climbing. By morning, it would be up to Hob’s knees. He shivered at the thought. His rag-thin pants and hole-ridden shoes were no match for the pervasive chill. The church held little warmth within its stone walls, but it was better than nothing.

Hob wasn’t there for the warmth. At least, he wasn’t there just for the warmth. He shuffled along the side of the church, avoiding the glow of the lanterns and candles as much as possible. The more hidden he was, the longer he could stay. As soon as they noticed him, he’d be kicked out. He didn’t belong here, not anymore. He hadn’t belonged here in thirty years. He hadn’t ever belonged here.

In the south transept, under a massive panel of stained glass, overlooked by a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of All Sorrows, were two stone inlays, sunken slightly into the tile floor. On them, carved into the surface for all to see, were thirty-four words each. He knew them by heart.

Here lies Lady Eleanor Gadlen

Eternally loving wife of Sir Robert Gadlen

She died on the twenty-second of November 

of the year fifteen hundred and ninety-four

May God have her in His Glory

Amen

And then, a foot to the left, another.

Here lies Robyn Gadlen

Son of Sir Robert and Lady Eleanor Gadlen

He died on the twenty-first of April 

of the year sixteen hundred and six

May God have him in His Glory

Amen

He dropped to his knees between them, the chill and grief deadening the impact, and traced the etching on Eleanor’s grave with one cold-numb fingertip. She had been buried with the baby in her arms, stillborn and unnamed. In a bout of righteous and petty anger, he had insisted on any mention of the baby being left off of the tombstone. He regretted it now. Her birth hadn’t been recorded and now, neither was her death. The only daughter Hob would ever have and all evidence of her existence had been scrubbed from history. At least Robyn’s name was carved, quite literally, in stone. The memory of his daughter lived on only in his own mind.

The anger had worn off, but the grief was still fresh. Four and a half decades had passed since that fateful night. The sound of Eleanor’s cries still rang in his ears on particularly cold, quiet dawns. He had held her hand the whole time, her grip tight enough to break bones, but he hadn’t cared. His pain had been nothing to hers. He had never seen so much blood staining white sheets and when the midwife had wrapped the tiny, silent bundle in white cloth, he had felt his heart seize in his chest. And then Eleanor’s hand had gone limp in his and the growing cold on her skin had leached all warmth from his own body.

He hadn’t felt true warmth since. The grief had crashed like an unending wave. For twelve years, he sank, a stone in a still pond, unable to keep himself afloat. And then-

Remember, remember, the Fifth of November , he thought wryly. He’d remember that night for as long as he lived.

“Oh, Eleanor,” he warbled, his voice stumbling over the cobbled street of anguish. “I tried, my love. I tried. You were gone and I… I lost my way. I was always lost without you, beloved. I did my best to raise him the way you would’ve wanted me to. He always had too much of my spirit in him. You left too soon. You were my temperance, my heart, but I couldn’t be that for him. I’m sorry.”

Hob himself had been born and raised Catholic, and in his heart, he had kept the Faith. It had weakened perhaps, but he had clung to it nonetheless, even through centuries of religious turmoil. Living at the center of a Protestant nation hadn’t kept him from passing his religious beliefs, diminished as they were, to his child. Evidently, his Robyn, his baby boy, had been a stronger believer than Hob had ever been. In the wake of Eleanor’s death, in the midst of his grief, Hob hadn’t noticed that faith fueling Robyn’s volatile nature. Nor did he notice the people who Robyn chose to listen to. He wished he had. He wished he had been able to stop it.

Nothing could’ve stopped Catesby, he knew. The man could’ve spoken a crowd into walking into the sea if he had really wanted to. Hob didn’t—couldn’t—blame his son for getting caught up in the frenzy of it all. He’d done stupider in his life. Indeed, he couldn’t find it in his heart to blame anybody , save God Himself. Save himself . 

“Robyn,” he said, his throat clenching around his son’s name, as if speaking it aloud in the soundless church would condemn the long-departed soul. He turned to read the name aligned with his left knee, only to find his vision blurred beyond sight. “I’m sorry, my boy. I- I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve stopped you. Should’ve-” He paused to take a deep, shaking breath. “I should’ve been a better father. For you. For her. Would that I could go back and change… Would that I had been a better man.”

He let his body fall, curling up on his side on top of Eleanor’s stone slab, his arm thrown over the carved words like he used to cradle her body when she was still alive. If he closed his eyes, he could feel the warmth of her body against his, the curve of her hip under his forearm. He knew that the clergy would find him, in the morning if he was lucky, far sooner if he wasn’t. He knew that he would be kicked out, back into the snow and ice, back into his nameless misery. For now, though, he could rest. Cradled between his wife and son, his mind, body, and soul utterly exhausted, sleep came more easily than it had in forty-four years. And when his mind slipped into darkness, it was to the sound of Eleanor’s sweet voice in his ear, humming Robyn’s favorite lilting lullaby.

Read on AO3!!