Work Text:
Dream knows where he is as soon as he enters the dream, as he is aware of all dreamscapes. It is the trees and open fields and woodsmoke of Hob’s childhood home, golden in the late summer sun and hazy with nostalgia and old age.
He walks in the direction of Hob’s sleeping mind, looking around. It is a familiar scene of rural England but also new to him - he has never had a reason or inclination to visit this place in Hob’s memories. It is colored with a child’s sense of whimsy where the forest has deeper shadows than would be found in this thin stand of trees in the Waking, and the river burbles quickly into the horizon, clear and cool. Dream can see where the hardships have crept in, however: the grass tinted brown and dry with drought, the lack of any type of fruit on the trees.
“Who are you?” comes a high pitched voice above him. It is spoken in Middle English, in an accent almost lost to time.
Dream tips his head back and spots a small boy perched in a forked tree branch, feet dangling. He has visited Hob’s dreams many times now and found him in various types of fashions of bygone years, but this is the first time Hob has looked like anything but himself, frozen in time for so many centuries. “Hob Gadling,” Dream greets him.
“I know everyone in the village, and the river traders,” Hob says, a hint of pride in his voice, “but I never seen you before.”
“Have you not?” Dream asks, replying in the same language and curious as to whether Hob’s dreaming mind will allow him to recognize Dream, either as friend or in his role as Lord of Dreams.
Hob tilts his head, confused, but doesn’t answer. He shimmies down the tree trunk, landing with a light thump at the base of the tree. “Where’re you going? I can help you find it!”
“I was looking for a place to rest and eat and enjoy the day,” Dream says, smoothly lying.
Hob thinks for a second, considering the matter seriously, and then lights up with a smile. Hob yells, “Follow me!” and takes off in a run.
Dream does as he is bid and follows at a more leisurely pace left and toward the river, long legs keeping the small boy in sight. It’s a short trip, although it is difficult for even Dream to tell whether it is due to the nature of the dream or whether the spot was indeed close by.
A small tributary bubbles over smooth rocks in a light dappled clearing. The bank is coated in reeds and moss, next to a recess of cool dirt and several logs that look as if they have often been used for seats. “My sister’s favorite spot,” Hob says, watching Dream closely for his reaction.
“This will do nicely,” Dream says, watching as Hob puffs up with pride at Dream’s approval. He reaches his hand into a pocket that did not exist before he needed it and pulls out a white handkerchief that Hob will so praise in more than a century's time. He shakes it out, one hand on either corner of the fabric, and it expands into a large swathe of fabric. He lifts, and it settles in a flat layer on the ground, dishes and food dotted across the surface. It’s a feast pulled from Hob’s recollection of his mother’s cooking, those memories closer to the surface with him in this form.
Hob’s breath catches at the abundance, but doesn’t seem concerned with Dream pulling an entire meal from his pocket. Dream sits, legs tucked elegantly beneath him, and selects a strawberry. “Will you join me?” Dream asks. “There is plenty for two.”
Hob bites his lip. “Are you sure?” He scuffs a toe along the damp ground, looking uncertain for the first time. “I can’t pay nothing.”
“I need no payment,” Dream says. “But if you don’t join me, it will go to waste.”
Hob flops down on the cloth with a grin, grabs one of the venison pasties, and takes a huge bite. “Thanks!” He says as he chews.
They fall into the usual routine, Hob talking enthusiastically as he eats while Dream listens attentively, albeit in Middle English this time. He learns that: Hob has three little sisters and two brothers, one older and one still a babe; Hob himself is approximately ten years old, which is older than Dream would have guessed based on his size; Hob often goes hungry in order to ensure his sisters can eat; Hob’s father and older brother have gone to war, and Hob fears for them and longs to join them in equal measure.
“Da taught my brother how to use a sword before he left, at least a bit, but there’s nobody left to teach me,” Hob says, uncharacteristically gloomy.
Dream also has suspicions about the purpose of this dream, given the vulnerability inherent in Hob as a child and the complete lack of other individuals in this dreamscape.
He feels no guilt in subverting the intended purpose toward more diverting pursuits.
“I can teach you,” Dream offers. Hob turns big eyes on him, pleading despite Dream already having offered. “But this space is far too small. Do you know of a wide area where we may move?”
Hob bites his lip as he thinks. “There’s a few fallow fields farther out, but they’re at least an hour's walk from here.”
“Hmm,” Dream says. Hob has finished with the food, merely picking at the fruit and occasionally stuffing a piece of bread or other sturdy morsel into his pocket. Dream stands, and Hob scrambles up after him. Dream bends and picks up a corner of the fabric. The food disappears, and it shrinks back down into a handkerchief for Dream to return to his pocket. Then he strides from the clearing with Hob at his heels.
Out of the trees a short way and back on the main village path waits two horses. Well, one horse, tall and black and thin, and a little brown pony next to it, exactly the size an undersized ten year old boy might ride.
Behind him, Hob’s breath catches on a gasp.
“Shall we ride out?” Dream asks, placing a gentle hand on the nose of his horse.
Hob is still gawking. His pony noses over to him and tries to steal some of the nibbles from Hob’s pocket. Hob produces a small piece of carrot but then looks up cautiously at Dream. “May I?”
Dream dips his chin in agreement, and Hob beams as the little pony lips over his fingers gently to find and take the offering, placidly crunching the carrot. Hob pets her reverently as she chews.
“What’s her name?” Hob asks, now brushing his fingers through her mane.
“She does not have one,” Dream says. Hob doesn’t say anything but his expression eloquently speaks of his disapproval. “You may give her one, if you like?”
Hob thinks about this, studying her while he gently scratches at the space between her ears with grubby fingers. “Olive,” he finally decides.
“Olive,” Dream agrees, resigning himself to keeping this particular pony in the Dreaming even after this dream ends.
The horses are already wearing their saddles and bridles, so Dream mounts. “Do you know how?” he asks mildly.
Hob’s small face screws up in determination, and he launches himself into the pony’s saddle with more enthusiasm than skill. Here in the dreaming, it does not matter, and Hob is seated on his pony in short order.
“Lead the way,” Dream bids him.
Hob flashes him a mischievous smile and directs his pony to take off at a run. He lets out a whoop of joy at the sudden speed, and Dream follows effortlessly behind him.
It’s an enjoyable ride. Hob follows trails that are hardly visible but clearly known to him, Olive matching his enthusiasm by galloping forward on her tiny legs. Dream is content to watch them, a hint of a smile on his face that widens when Hob glances back religiously to make sure he’s still behind.
They reach the field just as the ride would begin to feel tedious, distances in the Dreaming not meaning much of anything. Hob and Dream dismount, Hob’s cheeks flushed with the ride.
“Does she need anything?” Hob asks. “How do I take care of her?”
“Olive is fine,” Dream assures him, watching Olive stand close to his much larger mount and nip affectionately at a black shoulder. Dream’s horse huffs, ears flicking toward her, but doesn’t otherwise react. “She will need water when we return, but nothing for now.”
“Okay,” Hob says, and tugs at his tunic, seemingly at a loss for the first time. The fallow field around them is covered in patchwork grass, small clumps that reach Hob’s thighs, but the dirt is a smooth surface that won’t lead to them tripping. It is, as Hob had desired it, a perfect place to practice with a blade.
Dream strides around to the far side of his mount and unties two wooden swords. One is significantly shorter and lighter than the other, in warm gold wood tones instead of a shiny ebony black. The wooden blades are blunted, and although they would still be dangerous in the Waking world, here they will not cause any damage.
He throws the smaller sword to Hob, who catches it a bit clumsily but then immediately grips the hilt correctly with two hands - clearly he retains at least a small fraction of his former knowledge.
Dream leads them further from the horses. Hob is nearly vibrating with excitement, so Dream does not attempt a lecture. He stands in a guard position, which Hob quickly imitates.
“Now,” Dream says, suppressing a smirk, “try to hit me.”
Hob looks taken aback, but he only hesitates for a second before coming at Dream full-tilt. His slashes are wild and not without force behind them, but Dream is able to block them all easily without having to draw on his power. He lets Hob go for a few minutes, stepping back a few times to take advantage of his longer reach, but does not return the attacks.
Eventually, when Hob begins to think strategically instead of merely waving his sword around, his initial energy spent, Dream blocks again but spins the blades so that Hob’s short sword is wrenched from his grasp and thrown a few meters away.
Hob gapes at him, mouth open, and then smiles. “That was awesome!” Hob cries, running over to pick up his sword, and indeed there is awe in his face as he returns.
Dream nods in acknowledgement. “Now that you have seen how effective blocking is, I’ll show you how.”
This is probably not the best way to teach someone the blade - a real lesson would probably start with strength training and learning to fall, not to mention how to maintain and respect the equipment. But Hob is not a real child learning a lesson that needs to serve him well in the future - this is for fun.
And it is fun. He telegraphs attacks that come from above, the easiest way for an adult to attack a child, slowed down so that Hob can practice blocking them. Hob grins through the entire lesson, even when Dream gently corrects him or reminds him to move his feet. Hob even has occasional flashes of insight that speak of skills beyond his beginner level.
It makes Dream want to square up against Hob in truth and see what happens when neither of them hold back.
Eventually the sun has lowered and Hob starts to flag with exhaustion. Dream instructs him to drink from the water flask attached to Olive’s saddle, and they begin the ride home.
Hob is no less reverent of Olive, even if he is much less enthused than on the trip out. He nibbles on a bread roll from his pocket, still fresh and unharmed by two pony rides and a bout of sword training. When that’s gone, Hob’s eyelids grow heavy, and the gentle sway of Olive’s steps rock him back and forth. Hob’s head begins to nod forward, only to snap up at the last second to catch himself from falling.
Dream watches this happen three times before he intervenes, reaching down and grasping the back of Hob’s clothing, lifting him easily from his perch on Olive and into Dream’s lap, continuing to ride back to the river and Hob’s family home.
Hob’s small hand reaches out and tangles itself in his shirt, a warm weight that Dream can feel through the fabric. It reminds him of his son, who had ridden with him like this in Dreaming more times than he can count, on horseback, and dragon, and eldritch creatures without name.
Dream thought it would hurt, and the old ache of his son’s passing is there, but a part of him is also unexpectedly soothed. Hob’s trusting warmth in his arms is a balm to the part of him that thought he would never again hold a child, beloved and drowsy and in need of his care.
He watches Hob’s sleepy face and feels tender and protective and all manner of things he swore he would not face again, but the sting is removed by the knowledge of Hob’s identity outside of this dream, an adult, an immortal, a being that can handle Dream’s excess and come out the other side smiling. He cannot hurt Hob as easily as his childlike form suggests.
The sun is setting behind him, and Hob is drawing close to waking when Dream says, “Hob.”
“Yeah?” Hob asks, still mostly asleep.
“You will wake soon. I have enjoyed this dream, but I came to tell you that I would join you this evening in the Waking.”
Hob blinks up at him. “This evening in the Waking,” he repeats. “I get to see you again?” The hope in his high voice is unmistakable.
“Yes,” Dream says and forces himself to let go before Hob is snatched from him. “For now, this dream is over.”