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qqueenofhades · 2 years

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Had an great angsty Dreamling idea - somehow either Hob or Dream gets trapped in Hell and instead of playing the oldest game with whoever is breaking the other out, Lucifer forces Dream to experience what his son had to: to walk back through Hell, his love behind him, unable to check if he's still there. And no doubt Lucifer would pull out all the stops to make the leader look back. I think it'd hurt so much more for Dream to lead too, but either way would be So Painful.

The sky is the smeared grey of ash and soot and a world that never sees the sun, that never feels the touch of warmth or the taste of joy, and endless burned cinders sift down like snow. High on the hill, the dark citadel stands alone, towers buried in the sulphuric clouds, and Dream forces himself to keep to a steady pace, his expression cold and unmoved, even as Squatterbloat snickers and hisses and cracks his whip. "Come on, Dreamlord! Move your eternal arse! You aren't going to keep the Morningstar waiting, are you?"

"Of course not." Dream can hear moaning and whispering and wailing from the catacombs that surround them, shadows flickering just at the edge of perception, weird and wild monsters that have waited an eternity for just such a chance as this. He does not turn his head, he does not look left or right. "Lead on, Gatekeeper."

Squatterbloat looks disappointed that he's being deprived of the chance for some high-quality taunting, but Lucifer must really be impatient, because the demon mutters, clacks his teeth, and speeds up again. They climb the narrow, winding stair, where a freezing wind is blowing so hard that Dream staggers, almost losing his balance. For a terrifying instant, he sees nothing but the endless black-rock abyss and the hordes of chittering, howling, hungry demons gathered at the foot of the mountain, burning torches and beating drums, slavering for blood. If he is so unfortunate as to fall, he will not be getting up again.

In a few more moments, however, the dreadful ascent is over, and Squatterbloat pulls the bell-rope. The torches burn with greenish, eerie flame, the portcullis rattles up, and the Gatekeeper proceeds inside, Dream following close on his heels. "My lady," Squatterbloat announces, in the odious, groveling persona of extreme deference that he adopts around his infernal mistress. "He's here."

"Ah. Dream of the Endless, at last." Lucifer Morningstar turns from where She stands in icy majesty, Her wings black against the white silk of Her robe. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

Dream has no time for this. "Morningstar," he growls, low and dark as the storms of hell itself. "Where is Hob Gadling?"

"He's there." Lucifer points with one carelessly elegant hand. "You have my word, I have visited no undue harm upon him. Yet."

Dream hardly hears Her. He races toward the dark cage that stands at the far side of the throne room, watched gloatingly by the Lilim, Mazikeen, who doubtless is hankering to practice her torturer's art upon the occupant. Dream reaches out, grasping desperately at -- yes, it's Hob, he is scruffy and dirty and freezing and frightened, but at least he is in one piece and he is breathing, and does not appear to have been used as a demon's chew toy. Dream's voice is more frantic than he has ever heard it. "Hob. Hob, are you all right?"

"Alive, at least." Hob manages a smile, but Dream can see the abject terror in his eyes. "So, any chance of us getting the fuck out of here?"

"I'll attend to that," Dream promises, with one more quick squeeze of Hob's hand. Then he lets go and turns around, facing down the Devil Herself with just as much cold imperiousness. "Our quarrel has nothing to do with the human, Morningstar. Release him."

"Oh, I promised that you would regret the day that you tricked me and stole your helm back, Dreamlord." Lucifer's voice remains smooth as satin, deadly as poison. "You thought yourself so clever, in summoning hope to beat me? So, how powerful is it really, do you think? Do you actually trust in it yourself, or was that all a clever lie?"

A chill goes down Dream's back, which has nothing to do with the bone-deep cold of hell. (The humans always think it's hot, but they know nothing.) He stands as straight as he can, staring Her in the eye, unflinching. "If it is a contest you intend, name your terms."

"Not a contest in the traditional sense, no." Lucifer paces toward him, Her elegant robe whispering secrets to the black-polished floorstones. "I'll indeed let the human go, and you with him. On only one condition."

"And?"

"You must face the same trial that your son did. Orpheus." Her voice drips with barely concealed relish. "You must walk out of hell, Hob Gadling behind you, without ever looking back to make sure that he is still following. If you can manage it, he will be free to return to the waking world, untroubled by me. But if you look back -- well, doubtless you recall what happened with Eurydice. Truly, you should."

Dream opens his mouth, stands like that for a long moment, then shuts it. He feels as if he's been hit by lightning, as if he can't catch his breath, as if he can hardly stand upright or remember his own name. It is, of course, diabolically perfect on any number of levels, a piece of exquisite artistry worthy of Lucifer's craft, but he has never been so terrified of anything, ever. "I don't -- "

"Yes or no, Dreamlord?" Lucifer's voice has turned even more silken, dripping with self-satisfaction. She could not be enjoying this more if She tried, and indeed, it is fitting. Force him to hope, to trust, to put his money where his mouth is, and prove that last time he beat Her fair and square, or replay the oldest and most irrevocable tragedy that he has ever known, that lost his son and his wife and everything else, because -- it's a sad song, but we sing it anyway -- everyone knows how it went. Giving in to a single moment of weakness, Orpheus looked back to make sure Eurydice was still following him out of the Underworld, and then in that instant, forever, she was gone.

"Hey," Hob says, from the cage. "Oy, Dream. Listen to me. We can do it, all right? We can."

Dream still can't muster up a response, even as the seconds continue to drain by. The longer Hob spends down here, the harder it will be for him to leave; even an immortal human cannot resist Hell's baneful power forever. So Dream lifts his head and stares Lucifer down. "Very well, Morningstar," he breathes in a voice absolutely dripping with snow and steel. "Since it pleases you to set those terms, we accept."

"Very good, Dreamlord." Lucifer beckons with the same languid carelessness, and Mazikeen moves to unlock Hob's cage. He falls out hard, and Dream makes a reflexive move to go to him, but Lucifer shakes Her shining blonde head. "Ah-ah-ah. No bending the rules before we have even begun to play. You cannot touch him, you cannot speak to him, you cannot look from the moment your climb begins, from the instant you cross the threshold of my citadel. Is that clear?"

I will kill you, Dream thinks. I will rend even your angelic bones into dust, burn you as you did at the Fall, throw you to your own demons and bid them feast. What he says is, "Yes."

"I'm all right," Hob says bracingly. For a man born a medieval peasant who has now been plunged bodily into Hell, thus to serve as a pawn in the long-running feud between his immortal lover and the literal bloody Devil, he seems to be handling it rather well. That, of course, is just Hob for you. How perverse that Hob's own fate should hang on whether Dream can feel even a modicum of the hope that Hob himself feels all the time, in the worst of circumstances, the darkest of hours. I must do this, Dream thinks, close to panic. I must not fail.

"Well?" Lucifer asks. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." Hob straightens up, wipes the blood off his chin, and gives Dream a long, desperately intense look -- trust me, trust me. "We are."

"Very good." She waves a hand, and the portcullis opens. "Your test begins now, Dreamlord. It ends when you both reach the waking world, or you fail, and Hob returns here, as my prisoner, forever."

"Understood." Dream's voice is ice, but his insides are water. He paces smoothly across the floor and under the gate, and back into the teeth of the scouring, screaming wind. It takes every inch of his self-control and then some not to turn his head, to see if Hob is following him down the narrow, cracked steps, or if he has been blown off to the eager demonic hordes far, far below. One step after another, through the split, sliding rocks, steep and sharp-edged and dangerous. There are a thousand and one perils for a human here, even a deathless one. The demons' roars sound like the susurration of waves on a distant shore, and geysers of smoke and steam jet up through the broken ground. That isn't even to mention the looming prospect of the catacombs, and what Dream already knows will be waiting for Hob in there. At the least, Eleanor and Robyn, the wife and son he lost just as Morpheus lost Calliope and Orpheus. Perhaps more. Hob has had a long life, and a great deal of heartbreak. It might just be Hell's phantasms, poisoned illusions, but those can be very convincing.

The wind is still blowing too hard for Dream to hear any sound of footsteps behind him, and he knows that it will not abate for this very reason. He keeps walking, head held high, even as his nerves are shredded. I must do this, he repeats to himself. I must avenge Orpheus, even as much as I must save Hob. I must. I must.

Dream enters the catacombs, and walks past the cells with the flickering shadows, the whispers, the wails, the weeping. His head aches with the effort to hold it still, to not even turn it the merest suggestion of an inch. Dust and bones and other dark things crunch beneath his feet. Far off, water drips like the tears of a heartbroken lover, and the chill is deep and savage. Fuck, this is impossible for a human to make it through without losing their mind. If he just --

No. No moments of weaknesses, no faltering or failures. Step by step by step by step. If you want to walk out of hell, you're going to have to prove it, before gods and men. His heart is thundering in his ears, his breathing echoes wildly. Step by step by step. It is very, very dark.

On the far side of the catacombs, Dream crosses the plains scattered with wind-bleached bones, his coat whipping against his legs. The slope starts upward, and Dream hunkers down and climbs steadily. Dust stings viciously in his eyes, and for a terrible moment, trying to shield his face, he almost looks back. He can hear a distant, disembodied screaming that probably isn't Hob, but sounds just close enough that he can't discount the possibility entirely. Oh gods. Oh gods, this is torture. Torture beyond torture, worse than anything he ever thought. Orpheus, forgive me. Forgive me.

At last, at the top of the slope, Dream knows that they're close now, they're almost out, he can sense the veil between worlds, and the compulsion to look back is almost overwhelming. It buckles his bones, it rattles his teeth, it twists his chest, it tears at him like skeletal fingers, trying to drag him back down with the dead. Hope, he chants to himself. There is hope in hell, you know there is. It is the very thing that even the Devil Herself cannot overcome. Hope. Hope. Hope.

Up ahead, the veil shimmers. Dream staggers, hands on his knees, desperately careful to not look back even as he does. His mouth tastes like chaff and ash. He is so -- very -- close.

The screaming is louder. It sounds terribly like Hob. Lucifer must have tricked him -- must have sent Squatterbloat or the other legions after them both -- doubt comes in, darkness falls --

Dream of the Endless straightens up and runs for it.

He runs with everything he is, everything he has, arms over his head, eyes closed, so he cannot be tempted even for a moment, but still does not even make the motion. He has no hope, not really. He does not know how. But he has Hob, and Hob is hope, and he asked Dream not to fail him, and Dream cannot, he cannot, he cannot. He feels something shimmer, then part and tear, and all at once --

Warm, humid air hits him, and a scatter of rain, and then the sound of traffic rumbling down the road nearby, and Dream sprawls headlong on very hard concrete. Even for an Endless, it hurts to fall on it, and it hurts even more when something heavy lands directly on top of him. They roll over and over, sending nearby rubbish bins flying. The bins are helpfully emblazoned with LONDON BOROUGH OF CAMDEN -- it's here, they're back, they're in the waking world, and they --

Fuck, is it Hob or is it something much worse? What came out of Hell with him, what is here, what has been unleashed -- if Lucifer broke Her bargain, or tricked Dream more than even he knew-- what if it was just a demon that looked like Hob, and Hob himself is long, long gone --

"Dream," a rough voice is gasping, and dirty hands are clutching at his face, and Dream stares up to see Hob Gadling, in the flesh, grabbing at him desperately. "Dream. Fuck. Fuck."

Dream sits upright, as Hob pulls him, and they clutch hold of each other right there in the alley, shivering and shaking and sobbing so hard that they barely make a sound. Hob's arms wrap around Dream almost twice, and Dream fists handfuls of Hob's filthy shirt, and they kiss once and then again, again, not caring who might see them or about anything else at all. It tastes like salt and smoke and sulfur. "Is it -- " Dream can barely get the words out. "Is it you?"

"Aye, love." The London sky is cloudy, as usual, but Hob Gadling's smile is brighter than the sun, brighter than life. "It's me."

#patchworkgargoyle #ask #dreamling #dreamling ff #AS I SAID #SO RUDE #SO VERY RUDE #(thank you a+ bless)

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