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The year was 1687, and it was the coldest winter London had recorded in history.
Hob Gadling was starving and had been for... longer than he could remember.
He still looked hale, and hearty, and his back was strong.
But he was starving, and the clawing hunger that gnawed at him until he was numb and begging for the test of more than acrid water was his closest friend.
However, tonight? Tonight, he had been granted solace. The briefest solance. A thin blanket for his shoulders that did nothing but remind of him of what had once been warmth, and hard work for his aching back. The sacks of grain that he had brought up three tall wooden staircases had been heavier than he wanted to contemplate. But he had brought up all ten of them, as requested, and had earned his place by the fire.
No food, no water.
But warmth, and the reminder that not even the cold here, lasted forever.
He shuddered and clung tighter to the scrap of fabric that was an excuse for the blanket, his body curved in a concave position, facing the fire to warm as much of him as possible. Hob had forgotten what it felt like not to be frozen through to the bone. Behind him, the scent of fresh bread baking reminded him of the gnawing hunger, but he could ignore it in favor of the fire.
Across the street, the cathedral bells began to ring and a long-forgotten part of his mind was reminded of Eleanor and Robyn, taking them to church on Sunday morning, swinging their boy between them as he laughed with joy. His misery now was the price he was paying for such happiness. He would never make the same mistake again. He did not need it. There were other things. Better things.
Hob carefully shoved himself upright and onto his knees, clasping his hands in front of him. Behind him, there was an approving grunt at his position, but Hob had learned that the floor would bleed more heat than keep it. Kneeling in front of the fire, Hob could allow himself to keep the heat for as long as possible. He had nothing left to pray to. Nothing left to pray for. He had his life, and that was enough, and far more than any other had.
Clasping his hands together, flexing his fingers to ensure the feeling slowly worked back into them, Hob began to whisper the familiarity of his prayers. He had his life. He had his health. He had his gift. That was more than others had, and it was at the hand of a Stranger whose name he would never know, but in two mere years, he would see again. His Stranger.
Hob blinked slowly, lazily, staring into the depths of the fire. He licked his lips, trying to focus once more. Focusing became more and more difficult as time went on. He closed his eyes to repeat the prayers again and again. Two more years until he would see his friend again, he just needed to make it there. That was all. He needed to make it there, and he would. He would make it there.
The warmth of the fire gave way to the sound of birds and rushing water and Hob wanted to laugh, because if there was ever proof that he was Dreaming, it was the sound of rushing water, and warmth that suffused his entire body. He had not been warm for so long that here it felt far more fake than real.
The world rippled around him for precious few seconds and suddenly the sound of rushing water faded into the background, and the birds were quieted. It was peaceful. Keeping his eyes closed so he did not dispel the illusion, Hob tipped his head back to the warmth of the sun. As long as he could feel the warmth of the sun, the cold would not seem so bad when it returned.
"Hob Gadling."
Despite his promise to himself to keep his eyes shut, his eyes slammed open and Hob stared at his Stranger, who was standing in front of him, in an empty field, head tilted curiously. He looked far more otherworldly than he did during their meetings, nothing more than a black robe tangled loosely around him, his chest bare, ruby shining bright on the golden necklace. Hob swallowed and tears prickled in his eyes as he hung his head, trying not to laugh weakly.
"You do not need to kneel for me."
Hob looked up again and then down at himself, the rags that he had clothed himself in, his beard, his hair, all of it was a testament to how he had fallen. "It is right to kneel before a king," he said, his voice soft and rough. It had been so long since he had used it for something other than shouting. He hung his head. "Forgive me."
His Stranger shifted. "There is no need to ask for forgiveness here. You have earned your softness, and your rest."
Hob blinked his eyes open as long fingers sank into his hair, his mouth falling open in a soft moan, shuddering. It'd been decades since anyone had touched him with any sort of gentleness and it had tears gathering in his eyes. "Have I?" he asked.
"All can earn their rest," the Stranger said.
"Would," Hob chuckled faintly, still drunk on the pleasure of fingers combing through his hair. It might have been his imagination, but the grime was slipping from him in slow waves and it was... agonizingly freeing. He would be clean. "Would rather earn your name, stranger."
A considering hum was all he received in response, and Hob lost himself to the comfort and warmth of the dream around him. Soft touches, caring fingers, even the press of lips to his forehead eased the tension from his body until the memory of snow and ice and cold had faded. Such a perfect dream, he would have to remember it for the moments when he needed it most. What he needed it for, he didn't know, but he would need it, he was sure.
"You know my name."
The voice echoed and Hob struggled to open his eyes, but the soothing touches were back and he sagged into the strong arms holding him close.
"You greet me every night. You dream of simple things. Warmth, comfort, good company. And I await you here. To cradle you and keep you safe. It is my purpose. I am what you do."
Hob wanted to accuse his stranger of riddles, but the last sentence rang in his mind, even as the softness surrounding him began to fade away. "I am what you do." His Stranger was a Dream. Perhaps the best kind of Dream, one that would keep him going through the next two years until their meeting.
Hob blinked himself to full wakefulness at the crack of the fire in front of him. He shook himself and took a deep breath, shifting to warm another part of him. "What a strange dream," he whispered to himself.