#the sandman comic spoilers

[teejaystumbles]

Illustration for @temve's fic Opus 89: Variations on a Dream for @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang!

This was very much fun to paint and I absolutely love the fic! ❤️

[ohraicodoll]

I’ll lay flowers on your gravestone

[themirokai]

This post may have gotten me to open up Brief Lives and look for Pharamond parts and I was struck by this sequence. (Side note: photographing glossy comic book pages will be the death of me.)

YOU CAN STOP BEING ANYTHING he says.

And when Delirium asks specifically about Destruction, DREAM DOESN’T RESPOND AND LOOKS LIKE THIS.

I think if you’re looking for some comics canon jumping off point for retired!Dream, this is a pretty darn good one.

[notallsandmen]

I made myself sad

[fleabagoftheendless]

This post talks about major comic spoilers. Please proceed at your own risk.

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Okay so, about Lyta Hall...I do understand that there is a certain amount of sexism involved when her character is discussed in the fandom. People tend to ignore that she was failed as a mother, as a grieving wife and that she would obviously protect her child in whatever way possible (Morpheus really needs to learn how to communicate better). But you have to understand that Lyta, in the end, is a complex character. She did end up killing Morpheus in the end and even took advantage of his realm (although she wasn't aware of what she was getting into). She also didn’t think about what killing Morpheus would do to her own child. Even in the show she asks Rose to just destroy Morpheus which would have literally led the whole universe to wipe out entirely.

Again, this is not an attack on her, I am just saying when complex characters are portrayed in media, the audience members have the right to like or dislike them (in the same way how Morpheus is either liked or hated by the audience). And it goes for characters of every gender. If you want more complex female characters you have to also be ready for the criticism they might receive (but also reject the sexist comments). Thank you.

[redshoes-blues]

Screaming and crying thinking of how Morpheus probably deeply regretted the way he and Hob last parted while he was held captive, because in Season of Mists he makes sure he bids Hob farewell just in case he doesn’t return from Hell

[ginoeh]

For the wip tag game, Liminal Spaces

A World's End AU

Hob stumbles into the Inn at the end of the world and becomes a Traveller. What would be more interesting, after all, than to see even more of what life has to offer in other realities than his own? He’s not only travelling dimensions, though, because Time is just really all whirly and loopy at the End of the World as we all know. So whenever he goes with one of the other stranded travellers, he not only jumps realms but also sometimes through time.

This is a 5+1 style story with one story for each realm/time. The connecting parts of all travels is Dream, in his various forms and tasks, as Hob slowly realizes that what he's seen across the sky was the funeral procession for his beloved stranger.

(Snipet under the cut)

The company at the Inn is, delicately speaking, diverse. Maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe he’s dreaming. But then, he encountered Sea Serpents, the Kraken and is an Immortal, so maybe he shouldn’t judge. Nonetheless, he hails down the one that is called Innkeeper.

“Oh, no. This is not the Dreaming, Mr. Gadling. We aren’t part of any realm and we have no monarch of our own. We are at the End of the World.”

“...so. This inn is at the end of the world? It’s a physical place?”

“It’s in-between. An Inn isn’t ever the endpoint, you see? It’s only a stop on the way.”

He does see, kind of. The White Horse was never the endpoint of any of his journeys either. Only a place in-between to rest and wait and tell stories. Meet his Stranger. A stopping point through the ages, even though it is - or has been, at least - a physical place. The New Inn is his White Horse but he’s come to suspect that the idea and function of the White Horse in his life could probably be transposed to just about anywhere else. 

“That doesn’t quite answer my questions though, does it? If it’s a waypoint, then there has to be a way it’s on.”

Hob feels a headache coming on. He’s quite sure that there are no Inns in this part of the hills he travelled - he knows them by heart, after all, and none of the routes through them would lead here. He’s heard of other places, soft places; he did grow up in an age where people believed in faes and fairies after all. Where the world was large stretches of terra incognita and sometimes, people got lost. He hadn’t thought of those stories in centuries; hadn’t heard them in nearly as long either. They had become rare, he guesses, after what is now called the Enlightenment. Nowadays, there are precious few if any places in the world truly unknown. 

The woman laughs.

“Too true. And it’s so very full tonight, so I’m guessing that there are a lot of roads that cross here at the moment. And then, of course, there’s the storm.”

She peers past him and over to one of the windows further back. A flash of lightning illuminates the old bottleglass window panes.

“The reality storms always wash up a lot of guests on these shores.” 

[littledreamling]

Comic spoilers and mentions of suicide!!

Something I’ve seen a lot of people saying (especially after reading the comics) is that it seems unreasonable and horrifying that Neil wrote a comic where the main character commits suicide (because Dream’s entire plan, from the moment he escaped from his glass prison, was to commit suicide and let another aspect take over). And I get it; a depressed person reading the comics might find themselves relating heavily to Morpheus as a character and recoil at the idea of him giving up so easily, of his only option being suicide.

But that’s not what Neil Gaiman intended (I can only assume), nor is it the message that’s being conveyed.

The purpose of Dream’s story is not to serve as a guideline. It’s not a how-to manual on getting out of depression. It’s not a kind word or a comforting blanket. It’s a fucking warning. It’s big red flashing signs that say “THIS IS HOW NOT TO DO IT!!”

The Sandman comics are about pain and trauma and death and feeling like you have nowhere else to go. But the message of them is the same message you may find yourself shouting at the pages: ask for help! talk to someone! don’t push people away! let people take care of you! let people in! don’t let your pride get in the way of your own health and happiness!

Those are the messages that the comics are trying to convey. Those are the messages you should be turning back to yourself (especially if you relate to Morpheus). Don’t criticize the comics because they’re dark and depressing; they’re supposed to be. Because life is dark and depressing. It’s up to you to make different choices, better choices, than the ones that lead Morpheus to his end. You can find the light, but you have to see what Morpheus couldn’t, and that’s why Neil wrote them

[yary-t]

#peak Dream behavior

[nanonews]

firstly, LOOK. First Orpheus beach scene and now this. I am not okay. [insert Kylo Ren MOOOORE gif]

secondly (more comics spoilers below):

Wanda's grave = A game of you storyline (early arc)

Wanda character is to be merged with Ruby DeLonge's character in the TV adaptation, as per the casting call description

Ruby = Brief Lives storyline (later arc)

in the original story, important aGoY events set stage for BL events

But Wanda = Ruby = Wanda means BL events have to happen *before* aGoY events

WHICH MEANS

Either they somehow wrote the script so that BL happens *before* aGoY, which would in turn mean they have to set up something completely different than Thessaly to be Dream's incentive to join Delirium's search for Destruction (which in turn means no Thessaly? I have to admit I thought I'd be happy about this because fvck Thessaly but now I'm not so sure...)

OR they scrap the events of aGoY alltogether except for the death of Wanda, including Hazel and Foxglove and George and The Cuckoo, and most importantly Wanda's relationship to Barbie isn't a thing, and so the sneak peak of The Land in Season 1 was a dead end, which means stuff like the origin of the Porpentine and Alianora never gets set up???

I don't know which of these I'm more afraid of happening

Gonna go with both

Or hopefully the third option that I haven't thought out yet which means we get all the stories and characters, anyone have any ideas?

Most importantly: Don't fvck this up Netflix

Addendum: Is Indya Moore the most perfect casting in this series yet? Because holy shit they look perfect

[landwriter]

I've been really enjoying hearing you talk about your writing :) But I was a bit ?! to hear that you've never read the comics, for no reason other than I love them and think you would enjoy them.

If you have the opportunity, I would 8000% recommend Season of Mists to you and your lovely followers. It's so fun, and has so many wonderful character cameos from Egyptian, Norse, Japanese mythology, plus the Fae, plus Angels!, plus OCs, PLUS Hob. And it's a fucking lovely storyline.

And I do think it's Dream at his most, well, Dream. The premise is literally just:

Desire: Honestly sending Nada to Hell was a dick move.

Dream: Oh, fuck off.

Death: I mean. It was though.

Dream: ??? Like, actually...???

Dream:

Dream:

Dream: Shit, my bad. Okay fuck it, guess I'm going to free Nada from Hell.

Everyone: You know Lucifer & co. are LITERALLY going to try to kill / imprison you, right? And like, will probably succeed?

Dream: ??? Okay, and...???

Thank you :) And I know, I know! I'm not averse to reading them at all but it's mostly a time thing. Maybe after next season or in preparation for it? I adore mythology and I'm sure I'd love it. Also that's an incredible pitch haha!

I did, actually, almost get into The Sandman comics once. It was a near miss. Years ago, I went on this date with a guy. From OkCupid. Remember OkCupid?? Longform online dating, what an era! And we had this super charming banter over messages. We talk about authors including Neil Gaiman (foreshadowing music). He riffs off of a dumb Shakespeare pun I had on my profile about my love for potatoes.* We decide to have a picnic.

There's a thunderstorm that day. Appropriately inauspicious. He invites me to his place to wait for the weather to improve. I head over to hang out.

It was not great. In hindsight, it was one of the worst dates of my life. (So far! Always room for improvement.) His personality was WILDLY divergent from what I had expected, and also generally enjoy being around. But I'm really good at muscling through awkward dates and really bad at being like "I never plan on seeing you again!" on the spot, so when he insisted on loaning me his Sandman comics as I was trying to leave, I took them. I took them. I'm sorry. I was in my early twenties. It's my only defense.

I went home, marinated, decided yes, I really do not want to go on another date with this guy, sent him a message politely saying as much, and said I'd return his books. He said he was home all weekend so I could just come by whenever. So I trek back to his a day or so later with the carrier bag of Sandman comics. I am not looking forward to this interaction. If the vibe wasn't so bad there would've been a second date you know? The vibe, it was bad.

But lo and behold, as I walk toward his apartment complex, I see someone a ways ahead going up the steps. I see them stop to fish out their keys. I see an opportunity. I walk faster. They open the door and go inside. I break into a Business Casual Sprint. I grab the door juuuust before it closes again. I'm breathing heavily. I try to breathe quieter. I tip-toe down the stairs to his basement unit (it was a basement unit) and delicately hang the bag on his doorknob like I'm playing a game of Operation. No buzzers go off. I turn on my heel and flee. My heart is soaring. The air tastes sweeter. I have pulled off my reverse heist. I text him from the warm comfort of public transportation that I left them outside his door.

And I never thought about The Sandman again for six years.

*'Stars, hide your fries' (He replied Let not oven black my deep desires. I mean, you can see why I went.)

[teejaystumbles]

The Sandman - Daniel/Hob comics AU Series: There's an Emerald in the Sky Part 1: Through a window in the dark (2/2) Part 2: I’ll cry and I’ll cry if your light ever dies (2/2)

Part 3: Kaleidoscope (1/?)

Hob lay on his back on the rough and dirty cobble and stared up at the burned and broken beams of the White Horse. He thought it would stand forever. Naive of him, really. It had stood for centuries and been well tended but a fire had destroyed the ancient wood structure and the White Horse was no more. Just like his stranger.

Daniel frets, so Matthew decides that his boss obviously needs him as an intermediary.

[ohraicodoll]

Flowers for Morpheus

[themirokai]

Mild spoilers for the Sandman comics (Brief Lives & The Kindly Ones specifically) and Season 2 of the show below but I promise this post/story isn’t a bummer. 

Over on this post, @orionsangel86 asked which comics character you would ship with comics!Dream. No hesitation, my answer is Pharamond. And the idea of this ship got lodged in my brain and then I wrote this. I think this story takes place some time around the beginning of The Kindly Ones when Morpheus is in his Everything Is Fine I Am Fulfilling My Function workaholic phase but it’s real dark and windy in the Dreaming. In this story Pharamond does NOT know how Morpheus's journey in the waking world ended. I’ve got more notes on how this relates to canon and my general thoughts on the ship at the end. With that said, I hope you enjoy 

An Interlude

Pharamond stood at the entrance to the Palace of the Dreaming and looked up at the three guardians. They were enormous, imposing creatures but he had seen worse. 

“Our lord is not receiving visitors at this time,” the wyvern rumbled. 

“I understand, Guardian.” Pharamond gave a wide smile. “But could I trouble you to let him know that Pharamond of Babylon is here? I thought he might appreciate… an interlude. And I brought wine. I will go if he doesn’t wish to see me, but getting here was no mean feat, even for one as skilled at travel as I.” 

“I will inquire.” The griffin went very still and Pharamond waited, gently tapping two fingers against the wine bottle. 

The griffin blinked. “Our lord will see you. Follow the path of lights and do not stray.” 

The huge doors to the castle creaked open. Pharamond bowed politely to all three guardians, and entered. 

The temptation to open one of the many doors, or part one of the curtains he passed was great. It was not Pharamond’s first time within the Palace of the Dreaming, but the last time he had been here was thousands of years ago when he had come with other members of his pantheon and he had not been as well-acquainted with his host as he was now. Pharamond would have loved to get just a peak at Lord Morpheus’s home. What did the King of Dreams keep closest to him in this fantastical place? But, Pharamond knew, it was not worth the risk. Besides, if things went as he was hoping, there may be other opportunities. Perhaps he could even ask for a tour. 

The lights ended in front of an intricately carved wooden door. Pharamond raised his fist to knock but before he could, Lord Morpheus’s voice sounded close by his ear. 

“Enter, Pharamond.” 

Pharamond spun around but he was alone in the hallway. He swallowed, gave the hem of his perfectly-tailored blazer a tug, fixed an easy smile on his face, and opened the door. 

The room was sparsely furnished, and Lord Morpheus was seated in one of two straight back chairs by a low table. He was wearing a gray t-shirt and black jeans, his feet bare. It made Pharamond question his own choice of clothing, but he knew the cut of his blue suit was extremely flattering and he was aiming to impress. He gave a sweeping bow. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Lord Morpheus.” 

“You are welcome here, Pharamond,” Lord Morpheus said quietly, “though I confess that I do not understand the nature of your visit. What sort of ‘interlude’ do you speak of?”

Pharamond smiled and held up the bottle he had brought. “I was hoping to tempt you with some wine. It’s from Astrapalagica and I think it will be to your taste, if I recall correctly.” 

Lord Morpheus gestured to the chair beside him. “Join me.” He waved his hand over the table and a decanter and two glasses appeared. 

Pharamond repositioned the chair to face his host before sitting. “I thank you, Lord.” He produced a corkscrew from inside his jacket and used it to open the bottle with a practiced hand. 

“Are you in some manner of difficulty, Pharamond?” 

Pharamond paused his pouring to raise an eyebrow at Lord Morpheus. “Not at all. My business flourishes. I am prosperous and content. Why do you ask?”

“On a prior occasion when we drank wine together you were in need of some advice.” Lord Morpheus picked up his wine glass. 

Pharamond took hold of his own glass with a smile. “I do recall, of course. Though that is not what brings me to you on this occasion.” He touched their glasses together. “To you, Lord. And to our continued… association.” 

Lord Morpheus peered at him but inclined his head and accepted the toast. 

They both tasted the wine and Lord Morpheus made a small appreciative sound. “This is quite pleasing.” 

Pharamond felt a warmth in his gut and his smile widened. “I’m very glad, Lord. I would be happy to procure more from Astrapalagica if you like. Or guide you if you’d like to visit yourself. Just say the word.” 

Lord Morpheus narrowed his eyes. “I will speak plainly, Pharamond. Why have you come, and why have you come in such a solicitous manner?” 

Pharamond sat back in his seat and set down his wine glass so he could hold out both hands, palms forward. “I assure you that I have no designs beyond the pleasure of your company. I will swear it on the names of my pantheon if you like.” 

“The pleasure of my company?” Lord Morpheus sounded skeptical. 

Pharamond smiled warmly. “I enjoyed seeing you those months ago. It made me want to renew our acquaintance before another thousand years passed.” He sat forward, elbows on his knees. “And I… have heard some rumors lately.”

“Rumors?” Lord Morpheus’s perfect posture stiffened. “What sort of rumors?”

 “Nothing scandalous, I assure you. Just that in the last few months the skies of the Dreaming have been dark and wind blown. I have no desire to pry, but I thought…” he trailed off, uncharacteristically hesitant under the weight of the black gaze. 

“You thought?” Lord Morpheus prompted. 

“I thought that you may appreciate some good wine and some conversation with an old friend.” Pharamond swallowed, hoping that his nonchalant tone adequately hid the beating of his heart.  

He knew that time worked differently in the Dreaming, but still the seconds seemed to stretch as Lord Morpheus regarded him in silence. Finally the Dream King took a sip of his wine and sat back in his seat. 

“An interlude consisting of wine and conversation?” he asked. 

“If you’ll allow it.” Pharamond’s confidence grew. 

“Hm.” Lord Morpheus took another sip of his wine. “I shall.” 

“Excellent.” Pharamond relaxed back in his seat and crossed his legs. “Shall I tell you of the last time I saw Enkidu? I know how you love a good tale.” 

Time, Pharamond knew, was passing. Possibly quite a lot of it. He told Lord Morpheus story after story and the King of Dreams shared a few tales of his own. Well, not of himself. Stories he knew, stories about others. But told in those deep, mesmerizing tones that kept Pharamond glued to his chair. 

Pharamond didn’t care about the time. He had set things at work so that he could take a vacation and this was the best place he could think of to be. At some point Pharamond had removed his jacket and slung it over the back of his chair, confident that his pale pink button down shirt clearly showed that his physique was as godlike as ever. 

He finished a story about a cruise he had arranged for some wood nymphs and reached for his wine glass, only to see that both it and the decanter were empty. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a second bottle? Pharamond looked up to see a tiny smile on graceful lips. 

“The wine is done,” Lord Morpheus said. “Does the interlude end with it?”

Could Pharamond read intent into that question? Perhaps he could dream it. 

“Only if you wish to be rid of me. I would stay as long as you permit me.”

Pharamond was nearly certain the smile grew by a fraction.

“Very well.” Lord Morpheus stood and Pharamond, thinking he was being dismissed, felt his stomach dip until Lord Morpheus held out his hand. “Will you step out onto the balcony with me? I believe the weather is pleasant this evening.” 

Hardly believing his luck, Pharamond took Lord Morpheus’s hand, and marveled at the strength in that thin frame as he was helped to his feet. He didn’t recall the room having a balcony before but he now saw large glass doors along one wall. As they headed that way, Pharamond thrilled at the feeling of Lord Morpheus’s hand on his back. 

The view from the balcony was breathtaking: a patchwork of dream landscapes stretched out below, each covered in its own version of night. Blues and blacks and purples stretched as far as the eye could see. Pharamond had seen much in his millennia on Earth and elsewhere but this rivaled the greatest wonders. 

“Magnificent,” he breathed. 

He looked up to see a starry sky, the kind he had not seen on Earth for hundreds of years, with clouds moving across, blown by a cool breeze. Pharamond turned his attention back to his host. Lord Morpheus was leaning against the stone railing, arms crossed over his chest, a pleased smirk on his lips. 

“You are impressed by my realm?”

Pharamond felt bold enough for a step forward. “I am. And it makes me that much more impressed with the magnificent being who is its creator.” 

Lord Morpheus’s eyes narrowed again and his head tipped to the side. “What is it that you want, Pharamond?” 

Pharamond took another step forward. Near enough to touch now, but he wouldn’t dare. Yet. 

“I thought I was making that very plain.” One more step. Only an inch separating them. “That night in Babylon. After the wine and the good advice. I suspect you recall.”

“Hm. You offered yourself to me.” Lord Morpheus’s voice was soft as velvet. 

Pharamond’s heart pounded in his chest. “I did. I do so again.”

“I am not a god.” Lord Morpheus brought a long thin finger up to stroke Pharamond’s cheek. “I require no offerings.” 

Through sheer force of will, Pharamond kept his voice steady. “And yet you accepted me in Babylon. I know you were pleased with that decision. Let me please you again.” 

Lord Morpheus’s hand came to rest on the back of Pharamond’s neck and he ran his thumb along his jawline. “And what will you ask in return?” Lord Morpheus purred. 

Pharamond swallowed, let himself lean closer to those perfect lips, nearly brushing them as he spoke. “The ecstasy of your body is its own reward. Thousands of years have passed and I can still feel you. That is all I want.” 

The silence stretched and Pharamond tried to prepare himself to be pushed away. 

“Hm. Very well.”

The pressure increased on the back of Pharamond’s neck, and then he was kissing Lord Morpheus. 

It was exactly as he remembered. The same sensation that had haunted his dreams and waking hours since Babylon. A burning cold, a feeling of being consumed by the void. A thousand stories and poems reeled through Pharamond’s mind, tales of lust and longing and beauty. He forced himself back to the physical, to the feel of cold lips and tongue and teeth exploring his mouth, hands exploring his body. Pharamond gasped as Lord Morpheus bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood. Long fingers pressed against the front of his trousers and his cock strained to meet them. 

“You came here to seduce me, Pharamond.” 

It was not a question, but still demanded a response. 

“Y-yes, Lord,” Pharamond panted. 

Lord Morpheus leaned his body against Pharamond’s but tipped his head back to make eye contact. “This is what you want.” 

Those black eyes. That long, graceful neck. The cold of his skin. Pharamond was undone. “This and more.” 

“Then show me,” Lord Morpheus breathed. 

Between one heartbeat and the next they were transported to a lushly furnished bedroom. Pharamond grinned and lowered himself to his knees on the thick carpet. 

“With pleasure, Lord.”

~~~

In terms of this story’s relationship to canon, I don’t think comics!Morpheus is okay enough following the events of Brief Lives for this story to happen so… idk. It’s either canon divergent in that Morpheus didn’t just kill Orpheus or it’s canon divergent in that it’s out of character for Morpheus. Pick which one you like best. 

I don’t think this ship has long-term relationship or soulmate potential. But I do love the idea of them being friends with benefits and getting together throughout the millennia for the occasional booty call. 

With all that said as of this posting there are 9 works that include Pharamond in any capacity on AO3, and there is no ship tag for Dream/Pharamond. My prediction is that when Season 2 of the show airs, that will change. So I’m staking my claim now. Come along on this rare pair ship with me, friends. 

Also, I almost never ask for reblogs, but there’s no way anyone is going to find this through tags, so I would be extremely grateful if you would spread this a bit and hopefully it will find people who want to read it. ♥️♥️

[notallsandmen]

Man, Dream REALLY does not like to be called someone’s friend

*bips Dream with a thousand baguettes*

[mentallyinvernation]

(〜 *◇*)〜 aaaaangst~

❛ you can’t save everyone. ❜

Right, so this one got incredibly out of hand, and the full fic is now gonna be on ao3 for the bingo adsfdgfh. But! Here's a snip with the angst prompt in it.

TW: discussion of canon deaths, mcd, and implied suicide.

Also, this has a lot of comic spoilers! It follows the events of The Wake, so be careful reading.

------

“Your wake was shit,” Hob tells the grave, sitting cross-legged and picking at the grass. “Don’t really remember much of it, if I’m being honest. That’s the trouble with dreams, I suppose. Heard the guest list was a right riot, though. A whole bloody universe. Christ. Had a flair for the dramatic even in death.” Hob’s lips twitch a little, a hearth of fondness smouldering away in him. “Hettie’s tried to reach out a couple of times. Don’t even really bloody know the woman. Keeps calling me Gadlink. Also met your sister. Feels a bit overdue, and the circumstances were buggered, but…she seems nice. Matthew has checked in a few times - he pops by when things get a bit much back home. Everything’s fine there. Matthew and Lucienne have it under control. They’re busy helping the new kid find his feet.” Something unhappy squirms and flips in his stomach. “Daniel. He’s doing his best. The Dreaming is - well, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay, I promise. I’m sure you already knew that…but ah, I thought I ought to let you know anyway. Just in case.”

Hob only remembers the details of Dream’s funeral through scattered increments, like rays of light reflecting off glass, of faceless crowds, a stone cathedral, and a chained book. Hettie claims to remember the whole affair in vivid detail, and Hob respectfully thinks she’s full of shit. The only reason Hob knows Dream is gone for certain is thanks to Death showing up at Ren Faire to confirm his worst nightmare. Losing Dream has always been so beyond the realm of probability - so outside the box of rational fate that Hob doesn’t really know where he's supposed to go from here. 

“You’ve always had a knack for the impossible,” Hob gives the grave a quick smile, aiming for lighthearted and landing somewhere in the ballpark of heartbroken, picking apart one unlucky blade of grass between his fingers. “Part of your nature, I s’pose. I’d say the sky's the limit, but not even the end of the universe was the limit when it came to you. If it can be dreamed or thought, it can be done, right?”

The orange glow of a sinking sunset frames the cross. Hob swallows.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is…a part of me was hoping you might pull this off. Just this one last impossible thing. And look, I know you’re not really here - Christ, I’m just talking to a piece of wood, but the thing is -“ Hob’s heart rushes up his throat. “I miss you.” He admits quietly, a gentle breeze tousling his hair. “I miss you so fucking much I can’t breathe sometimes. So, I’m asking you to do this one last impossible thing. For me. Come back. Please just - come back. I don’t know how to...” 

Hob's head hangs as he exhales sharply, wishing he knew what happened. Matthew’s kept his beak sealed shut about that - the little fucker disappeared out the kitchen window when Hob tried to interrogate him, demanding to know if there was someone to be held accountable. Anyone. Granted, one name, just one, would have sent him on a warpath to square off with whatever universe-bending force could have taken out someone like Dream. But still.

“Look, I can’t tell you, alright? It’s not that I don’t want to, I’m just not sure you’re in the best palace to hear it right now, man. And Daniel - It’s complicated.”

“Then un-complicate it, Matthew! Either he was murdered, or -”

Or.

Matthew had looked at him with so,  so  much sympathy and sorrow. Impressive, really, for a bird.

Regardless of the how or why, Hob still wishes he could have been there. To help. To stop it. To…to just be there, in Dream’s final moments.

You can’t save everyone, Hob. 

It’s a bitter pill to swallow. One he struggles with time and time again, dragging mangled bodies across battlefields in the hopes of reaching a medic in time, heedless of the bullets or steel tearing apart his own flesh. Or hiding out in a bunker as the Blitz rained down on the streets of London, clutching the hand of a dearly beloved as her heart gave out. Or of his own flesh and blood who smiled and waved goodbye at the door one evening to go to a tavern he would never return from.

“I’ve buried so many people, Dream.” Hob whispers, oblivious to the haunted note that strings through his voice, pulling his legs up to his chest and staring sightlessly at the ground. “So many. But I never thought - “ Something dislodges in his chest, and it punches a wounded sound from him, similar to the low keen of an animal that’s been shot. “I never thought I’d have to bury you .”

There wasn’t even a body. He buried a coat. 

The rickety dam in him cracks, and he clenches shut both eyes, tears trailing a scalding heat down his cheeks as he burrows his face between his knees, shoulders shaking as a series of silent sobs wrack through him. His chest aches. It hurts so much worse than any wound of the flesh could.

Hob stays like that for a long while, mourning a friend, his oldest friend. Perhaps more than that, if only they’d had more time - which feels like a selfish ask, all things considered. But Hob is greedy. He would have taken everything Dream was willing to give. Every century. Every second.

And now it's over.