#daniel walker

Although the advent of carpet weaving in India predates his reign, it was the Mughal emperor Akbar (r. 1556–1605) who established imperial workshops for carpets, as well as a pattern of royal patronage. Carpet workshops were set up first at Fatehpur Sikri, the imperial capital only from 1571 to 1585, then at Lahore and Agra, and then, before 1640, at Kashmir.[1] Not all Indian carpets surviving from these early times necessarily suggest imperial manufacture, so commercial workshops must also have been in full production. Masters and workmen, many undoubtedly Iranian, are known to have come to India to help establish the workshops, and Persian carpets also clearly continued to be imported despite the high quality of local production.[2]

It should not be surprising, then, that this large carpet, representing production dating from late in the reign of Akbar, displays strong Persian influence. The most popular Persian convention was the symmetrical arrangement of scrolling vines with blossoms and leaves, but another approach was the use of pictorial patterns similar to those produced for paintings in royal manuscripts (the two conventions are combined in some examples). The field pattern here combines animals, birds, and vegetation in a pictorial way, that is, they are meant to be seen from one direction and without the matrix of a vine-scroll pattern to connect everything. Pictorial designs can be found in Persian carpets in a few examples of the small "Kashan" rugs and even more in a couple of pieces of the "Sanguszko" group; direct contact of some sort is also implied by the use of certain colors. Counterparts of several animals represented here may be seen in one of the Museum’s Persian rugs (no. 14.40.721), notably the leaping ibex, the combat between lion and ibex, and the leaping lion. Flames at the shoulders, indicating supernatural qualities, betray the ultimate Chinese origin of some of these figures, as transmitted to Iran in preceding centuries.

In many respects, however, this carpet is unmistakably Indian. In terms of structure, the cotton warps are eight-ply instead of the four-ply typically found in Persian carpets. As for color, the palette has a brightness, especially in the red, lacking in most Persian pieces, and there is a heavy use of ton-sur-ton coloring, juxtaposing similar colors such as red and pink, light and dark blue, and ocher and beige or off-white. The interlocking compartment design of the main border is related to borders found in Persian carpets (see MMA no. 1978.550), but here it takes a particularly Indian form in its geometricized compartments and the particular silhouette effect of the un-outlined red palmettes and vines set against the white ground. And the palm trees strike an Indian chord. As large as this carpet is, far larger ones are known to have come from Indian looms, including a pair of mid-seventeenth-century audience carpets, each about sixty-three feet long (approximately 19 meters).[3]

Daniel Walker in [Ekhtiar, Soucek, Canby, and Haidar 2011]

Footnotes:

1. Walker, Daniel. Flowers Underfoot: Indian Carpets of the Mughal Era. Exhibition catalogue, Metropolitan Museum, New York, 1997, pp. 7, 12.

2. Abu’l Fazl ‘Allami. The A’in-i Akbari by Abu’l Fazl ‘Allami. Translated by H[enry F.] Blochmann and H[enry] S. Jarrett; edited by D[ouglas] C[raven] Phillott. 3rd ed. 3 vols. 1927–49. Calcutta, 1977, vol. 1, p. 57.

Hob laughs, and hands Daniel, the most serious toddler on planet earth, another goldfish cracker. Perched on Morph’s shoulders as he is, Daniel takes it with a dainty curl of his pudgy fingers, and then immediately sprinkles orange dust in Morph’s hair when he crunches into it.

Rose and Lyta are probably walking back from the loos by now, and Hob hopes that Rose has her phone out and is capturing the moment. He doesn’t want to ruin it, or worse, potentially tip Morph off by looking around. Or by pulling out his own phone.

Hob didn’t think he could love his increasingly bizarre and growing found family more than he did when he made his vows to Morpheus, former King of Dreams and Nightmares. After being all alone in the world for seven centuries, being the only one of his kind, the only one who lived down and dirty in the ditches with the other humans yet staring up at the stars and dreaming, the only one who had to leave behind everything he was and everyone he loved over and over again, he was already overwhelmed with gratitude that upon Morph’s retirement, there would be even just one other human in the world like him.

Knowing that there was just one other human being who knew his sorrows and joys, who was as fascinated by humanity as he was and was swiftly learning to be as fascinated with life, made all the things he had to give up and leave behind all the more bearable. The anticipatory grief of a goodbye every handful of decades was weighed against the comfort of knowing that he would not be doing so alone. Hob, like the First Man, finally had his companion (although unlike Eve, Morph was only barely made in man’s image. Even now, he still held himself like a King, still moved like an ethereal creature, and still made love like a delicious nightmare.)

But more than just his companion in eternity, Hob now has, well, an Endless amount of bonus people in his life. People who care about him, and about whom he cares, and who won’t go away. Death may be a mug’s game, but his life, oh life is so much richer, so unbearably, marvelously wonderful now that he has people in it that he won’t have to hide from, or lie to, or bury. 

He’s realized that while he’d been not-dying for the last seven hundred years, he is now, finally, living.

Morph’s former siblings, despite no longer being related to Hob’s husband, still consider him their family. And so Hob has sisters again. Brothers. Siblings. And though while he may be the youngest of the bunch (he was the eldest in his family, and has always by default been the oldest person in the room), instead of feeling condescended to or flippantly indulged, or babied, instead he feels included, and cherished, and watched-over.

And his bonus-people extend to more than just the Endless.

Now there are also the two Walkers, and the two Halls. 

And the third being who both is Daniel Hall and is not, in the Waking. Who both is Morpheus, and is not any longer in the Dreaming. Who simply is Dream of the Endless, but is not simply anything.

Honestly, the best part of spending time with their honorary nephew Daniel in the Waking is that his little kid brain can’t hold everything that is Dream just yet. Out here, he’s just a kid, albeit a very observant, curious and calm one.

So, luckily, he isn’t sitting on Morph’s shoulders with the knowledge of what Hob looks like naked.

(Yes, that was something Hob worried about. When Morpheus informed him that in transferring all his power and self-ness to the new Dream of the Endless, he was also transferring all of his memories, Hob had needed clarification. 

“What good,” Morpheus had asked, “would a Ruler of Humanity’s Dreaming be, if he recalled none of what Morpheus had done or achieved, or regretted, in the last several million years?”

“But, all your memories, including the ones of of me?” Hob had choked. “All of them, all of them?”

“Dream of the Endless is an adult, Hob Gadling,” Morpheus had assured him. “Memories of our fornications will not corrupt him.”

“But Daniel’s a baby!”

“Daniel will not have access to the knowledge or be cognizant that he is Dream until he comes of age. Until then, his Waking mind is separate from his Dreaming one.”

“Yeah, and when he turns twenty-one, or whatever you Endless dream to be ‘of age’, then he’s gonna know, intimately, what it’s like to fuck his uncle Hob!”

Morpheus had considered that and, after a moment, cleared his throat and said. “Perhaps I will not transfer all of my recollections to this new facet.”)

Out on the tiltyard, Jed has completed gearing up his knight. Hob is impressed with the kid’s speed–though he does this several times a day, so he should be well rehearsed by now–and with the quality of gear the actor heaving himself onto the horse is wearing. It’s not correct –nothing that is a historical interpretation can be one-hundred-percent correct–and Hob knows this as both a history professor and historical artifact himself.  But it’s close.

The knight delivers a speech to the crowd as Jed walks back to the fence, winking and waving to his adoring audience. Hob misses the gist of the knight’s words, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not here for the story. 

“Your hands flex on the fence rails,” Morph points out as the knight takes his mount through a few warm-up paces before the tilt, making sure that everything is laying correctly on both their bodies. “Do you wish it were you on the horse?”

“God, no,” Hob says, and passes Daniel more goldfish to keep said hands occupied. “Just… sense memory, you know? I can’t tell you how many hours I stood just like this, watching the bouts, studying the footwork, or the tactics of my favourite’s opponents, or the scoring. I feel like I should have a penny ale, a beard, and some fleas.”

“I find I am glad you do not,” Morph says, and leans over to press a kiss to Hob’s smooth cheeks.

“No, no, no,” Daniel protests as his own steed moves. “Wanna see.”

“We are not going anywhere, young master Hall,” Morph assures him as he straightens again.

“Did you ever do that?” Lyta asks, coming up beside Hob, and leaning her own arms against the wooden rail.

“Welcome back,” Hob greets, even as Daniel shouts “ Mama!” and pitches himself toward Lyta so fast that Hob has to spin on the spot and pluck the little daredevil out of the air so he doesn’t knock his mother on her arse.

“Thanks,” Lyta laughs as Hob hands her wiggling son off to her.

“Did you?” Rose asks, from her other side, accepting a mushed up goldfish from Daniel’s hand as he offers to share. She pretends to eat it with a “num num num” and drops the cracker flakes on the grass behind her.

“Nah,” Hob says, turning leaning into Morph and turning his eyes back to the knight’s demonstration of some skill-at-arms–namely, getting his lance through very tiny rings hung from posts at a full gallop. The man is scoring more than he’s missing, so he’s doing a decent job. “Wasn’t nobility, was I?”

“You were a knight,” Morpheus reminds him.

“Yeah, but not this kind,” Hob says, sliding his hand into Morph’s back pocket just to hold his husband close. “As soon as I was knighted, I was pretty much also a married man. Which meant no crusades, no warmongering, and at my wife’s insistence, no goofing off of a weekend with extremely sharp sticks for the fun of it.”

“Bet you could still lay this guy out, though,” Rose says.

Hob shrugs deprecatingly. “It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve properly held a sword,” he says.

There’s a shout of glee from beside their little group, and Jed comes to greet his family in character, trailing his groupies like a magnet. Jed capers and clowns for Daniel’s delight, and then scampers off to his next segment of story with a trail of sighing admirers in his wake.

For the rest of the afternoon, Hob dodges any other invasive questions about his time as either a knight or medieval peasant with as much good humor as possible. Even he’s not sure why he’s not being more effusive about it, especially since correcting misunderstandings and misapprehensions is literally one of his favourite things about his job, except that…

This isn’t the university.

This is a… theme park.

And it’s making light of some of the worst moments of his mortal life. Sure, yeah, there’s fun things–the jousting, the guy shouting “PICKLES” as he wheels around a barrel of them for sale, the cute costumes, and the marvelous roving musicians, and Hob got to teach Rose a dance he used to do with Eleanor.

But, but, there are also stocks. And folks are calling for beheadings as if they were a joke. And there is an actor playing the town drunkard and another playing the town crazy, and these were genuinely dangerous people in his day, in his life, and everything is…

Everything is too bright, too off-kilter, too circus-like. It’s wrong in just enough ways to be uncomfortably uncanny. It’s like when he’s lived overseas for so long that English has ceased to be the first language he spoke and thought in, and then returned to London. Then he hears English everywhere, and he can’t not pay attention to it because it’s so rare to hear, only it’s not rare, because he’s back in England, which makes it overwhelming and…

And Hob just reminds himself that they’re here for Jed. That’s it’s just two days, one with the Walkers and Halls, and one for themselves. It’s just one night, and it’s… for their nephew. Who specifically asked them to come. How could Hob say no to that?

And if Hob is hiding behind Daniel wherever he can, if he’s letting his husband stand between Hob and the costumed courtiers, if he’s squeezing his hand too tight, well, Morph hasn’t said  anything about it. Though it doesn’t escape Hob’s notice, either, that Morph is looking increasingly uncomfortable as Rose and Lyta’s good-natured questioning continues.

Thank God Matthew isn’t here. He’d definitely be urging Hob to participate more in the day’s events and Hob just… just… no.

By dinner time, Hob is feeling prickly and very much like he’d like to go somewhere less peopley for a while. Consummate extrovert though he is, even Hob Gadling needs to rest and recharge sometimes.

Luckily, the park has begun to clear out.  To avoid the inevitable meltdown that happens when Daniel’s sleep schedule is disrupted, Lyta and Rose take Daniel home as the long slow summer sunset begins to shade the world golden. Most of the other families have done likewise. 

Hob feels like maybe he’s on the edge of a temper tantrum himself. Deciding this means he’s just hangry, he steers Morph to the outdoor food court, with the little restaurants in stone buildings built in a ring around a few dozen picnic tables. They’re shaded with tall, skinny trees, throwing lovely verdant green shadows, gilding all the handsome sharp angles of his husband’s face.

The people who are left are mostly attendees in costume settling down for a night of feasting, drinking, and bonfires in the campground of the park. Abdicated Kings don’t sleep on the ground, and there’s no way Hob’s paying someone for the privilege of doing so ever again, and so Dr. and Mr. Gadlen have rented a room at the nearby, ever-so-slightly sketchy motel. Besides the bed, its only redeeming feature is that it’s close enough to stumble through the trees to the park grounds.

Hob’s half tempted with the thought of just dragging Morph back to the room and curling up on his skinny chest for a while, until the weirdness goes away. Instead, they nab a picnic table near the melee grounds, and watch the knights give their final performance of the day in sword-to-shield brawl as they wait for the meals they ordered to be dropped off.

The melee itself doesn’t look very choreographed, from where Hob’s sitting, so it must be a bit of fun the actors are having with improvisation. All the same, he winces when the crack of a wooden sword shattering rings out. The knight whose blade is now fit only for kindling laughs, at least, as she retreats to the side of the fenced-off paddock, clearly disqualified.

Morph catches Hob’s flinch, and reaches out to offer his hand. Hob takes it gratefully.

Another crack of wood-on-metal makes Hob jump, and hands twitching for a weapon that he no longer carries. It sounds like a battle, like every battle, like all the battles Hob has ever suffered through. It has him at attention, on edge, looking for ambush and attack from all sides, and growing ever more antsy when none comes.

“You are hyperventilating, erasti,” Morph says gently, squeezing Hob’s hand to get his attention. “Are you having a panic attack?”

“No, no,” Hob insists. “It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s just…”

A serving wench, all boobs and hair, drops off their tankards and trenchers. Hob and Morph separate only because neither of their meals come with forks. 

“Is it really so terrible, being here?” Morph asks, soft and low. He's picking at the meat pie he’d selected for his dinner. It isn’t venison, and he’s eating more of the crust than the content. But Hob is happy to see him eat that much. Morph never seems to be consuming enough calories to keep himself healthy, and yet the man hasn’t died of scurvy yet.

Hob sighs and wipes the grease from his turkey leg off on a paper napkin before scrubbing his free hand through his hair. “Look. I don’t hate it, okay? It’s just… very, very weird seeing my life turned into an idealized, rose-tinted glasses, sepia-toned nostalgia, distorted fun house. It’s not bad, I’ve just… felt one step to the left all day, you know?”

“Like a waking dream that you cannot seem to shake off,” Morph says with a nod.

“Yes,” Hob allows, charmed by the way that Morph still clings to describing the world as if the Waking was still just the lesser realm to his former kingdom. “I just gotta… I dunno, reset my brain or something. Then I’ll be fine. I’ll have fun.”

Morph looks up over his shoulder and says, “Speaking of fun.”

“Uncle Dream! Uncle Hob!” Jed says, skidding onto the seat next to Hob and slamming into his shoulder.

“Oof, watch it around the old men, young squire,” Hob chuckles, shoving Jed back a few inches playfully. The kid’s all limbs and wild hair, skinny as his uncle, despite being as handsome as his grandparent. “You’re meant to be the younger son of landed gentry. Decorum, please.”

“Sorry, yeah. So, cast party at the tavern tonight,” Jed plows on, oblivious to the way Morph is smirking, enjoying his excitement. “The King says you’re both welcome, and I want your opinion on how authentic it is.”

“How come everything has to be authentic? Why are you all so obsessed?” Hob riposts with a forced smile, waving around his giant turkey leg. He’s trying to be a good sport, he really is. He can’t blame Jed for his curiosity, especially not when he encourages it in his students. “Why can’t it just be fun? Take this, for example. Turkey. Never had that a day in my life when I was your age. Never even heard of the place.”

“Turkey is a bird, not a–ah, I see!” Jed laughs. “Didn’t know much about what was outside of the borders of England?”

“Jed, me lad,” Hob had said. “I couldn’t have told you much about what was outside the borders of my village before I followed old Buckingham to Burgundy. And I never even tasted turkey until the 1560s.”

“1562,” Morph had said, with his uncannily accurate memory of every dream Hob has ever had, even now that his brain is ostensibly a human one. “After a performance of Gorbadouc.”

“Ah, yes! They served it with the head and tail on, as was fashionable, and I dreamed about the damn thing chasing me through a park all night,” Hob chuckles, delighted by the memory, and filled with a fierce adoration for the fae creature he gets to call his own. “I wonder whose fault that was.”

Morph plasters on a look of faux innocence that’s so outlandish that it sets Hob laughing. It’s a good laugh, a hearty laugh, a cathartic laugh. It’s belly-deep, and eye-watering, and wonderful. It’s just what Hob needed.

It also sets off Jed, who in turn sets off Morph, whose noises make Hob laugh even harder. Because Morpheus, abdicated King of Dreams and Nightmares, former Prince of Stories, and ex-Endless has a truly awful, wheezing, terrible laugh.

Hob figures it’s the result of millennia of Morph hiding his emotions. From what Hob’s winkled out of Death and Despair, Dream of the Endless used to be a carefree, passionate, all-or-nothing kind of entity, before heartbreak after heartbreak had turned him into the closed-off, brooding, wounded creature that Hob had met in 1389.

That version of Dream, the wounded Morpheus God of Sleep, barely smiled, barely frowned, barely moved. He masked all his hurt, didn’t let happiness touch him, refused love and care from even the denizens closest to him, like Lucienne.

And so his laugh had become similarly repressed, a wheezing little “hzzzrrr hzzzrrr” rumble that sounded more like a backfiring cat than a free expression of joy. It wasn’t until after they were married that Hob finally heard Morph’s full-body laugh–the honking, snorting, wounded-donkey sound that just made Hob fall in love with him even more.

Hob sees this uncaged freedom-to-feel in the new Dream, in the way that Morpheus’ past hurts don’t haunt Daniel. This green-eyed incarnation says yes to everything, finds joy in all the small wonders of humanity, loves freely and unreservedly, praises his nightmares and gossips with his dreams, and makes Miko, his own albino raven, laugh with sly asides.

And without the mantle of his past-life sorrows and obligations to weigh on him, Hob is finding out that Morph is a curious, compassionate, expressive, loving creature. He truly adores humanity, in the same way that Hob adores it, though sometimes Hob wonders if it’s rather more like the way a sensitive, kind child adores the family dog. That is, that humans are clever and beloved pets, beneath Morpheus but no less beloved for it.

Well, he’s human now, as Hob keeps reminding him. He’s down here with the dogs, fleas and all, and there’s no reason not to join in the puppy piles and the playful wrestling, and the runs in the park, and the howling at the moon.

And boy, does Morph’s laugh howl.

When they’ve all got hold of themselves again, Morph and Hob reach for each other’s hands at the same time. One, two, three squeezes, and somehow Hob feels more present than he has all day.

“But you’ll come?” Jed presses, standing up. Their laughter has caught the attention of the last lingering members of his fan club, and Hob would bet his right arm that Jed’s planning to make a run for the cast-only area of the park.

“We’ll come. Text me the details!” Hob agrees, shouting the last thing to Jed’s retreating back.

Hob waits for the fan club to pass them by, and then and tears into his turkey leg one-handed. It’s gone cold, but that’s fine. Hob’s had plenty of cold-game dinners in his lifetimes. What’s one more?

“You are in better spirits,” Morph observes, once they’ve finished their meal, and are just lingering over the last of their beers. He rubs his thumb along the mound of Hob’s gently, a soothing touch that gratifyingly grounds Hob in the moment.

“I am,” Hob says. “Sorry for being out of sorts before. I just… I don’t like reliving the violence of it. I don’t like the glorification of the violence. But I think a good revel may be just what I need.”

“Excellent,” Morpheus says, with the firm headbob he uses when they’ve made a deal or a bet. “Then revel we shall.”

Hob’s about to suggest another round while they’re waiting for the park to close, but then Morph’s face transforms into an expression of sly guilt. He looks over his shoulder at someone approaching from the vendor stalls.

“With all that we have discussed, I am unsure how welcome this gift will be, erasti,” Morph confesses, as the woman stops by their table. She’s thickly muscled, and wearing a carpenter’s canvas apron. There are wood-shavings in her hair. “But this is for you.”

The vendor moves to hand something wrapped in a swag of hunter-green broadcloth to Morph, but he releases Hob’s hand and gestures at Hob instead.

“For me?” Hob asks, accepting the long cloth bundle. 

There’s something hard inside it, but not heavy. Hob's not an idiot—he knows that it's sword-shaped. So his surprise when he lays it down carefully on the table, away from their greasy and crumb-flaked napkins, and flips back the cloth wrapper is not because of what his gift is so much as how fine it is.

"Lord in his heaven," Hob breathes. "This is gorgeous. "

And it is. It's ash wood, stained a pleasant ruddy colour, strong and positively gleaming with polish. The sword is carved to resemble his war-sword, the one he'd retrieved from the cache in Gadlen House. Hob grips the leather-wrapped hilt experimentally, and is pleasantly surprised to realize that it doesn't just resemble his war sword: the proportions are exactly the same.

It's lighter, of course, because it's not made of steel. But otherwise it's identical. There's even a soft leather sheath so he can wear it on his belt, exactly how it would have hung back when he was allowed to carry such a blade in the open public.

Well… almost identical. On the pommel, instead of just a series of concentric circles, the crafter has created a beautifully life-like carving of a sunflower.

“Thank you. Your husband commissioned it,” the carpenter says, with a wistful twinkle in her eye, which tells Hob just how romantic she thinks it is. "He sent me the photos and measurements, based on the Witch Knight's original arming-sword."

"We're not calling him that," Hob says on reflex, before his brain catches up with his mouth. Then he registers what she said, and jerks his head up to Morph. "You did?"

"I did," Morph intones.

"This… you couldn't have just done this in one day," Hob realizes, running his hand along the wooden blade, which has been sanded soft as silk.

"He emailed me weeks ago," the crafter agrees.

Morph smiles, the small pleased one that always makes Hob's heart flip over in his chest. "The same day we booked our flights."

"You ridiculous creature," Hob says, running his thumb over the sunflower on the heraldic badge. "I adore you, too."

The crafter bids them goodbye, after another round of effusive thanks and praise from Hob. As soon as she's out of earshot, Morpheus grows pensive.

"I love it," Hob reassures him. "My… weirdness about today aside, it's very thoughtful and very cool."

Morph huffs. "I thought, perhaps, you would be more enthusiastic about the pageantry. My nephew had mentioned that some spectators also don garb, and I assumed…" he gestures to the wooden sword, laying on the green swag.

Hob smiles gently. "You thought that I would be eager to dress up, and that your knight may be in want of his weapon, my liege?"

Morph squirms a little, cheeks and ear-tips flushing petal-pink. He always gets a bit hot under the collar when Hob uses his old titles on him, and Hob loves teasing him.

Hob rubs the back of his neck. It's a bit sunburned and prickles hotly. "It's a nice idea, but I didn't bring a costume."

Morph flushes pinker.

Hob sits upright, delighted. "Did you bring us costumes?"

Not wanting Morph's thoughtfulness to go to waste, and feeling much lighter after dinner, Hob decides that he can get over himself long enough to do a bit of playacting and mucking about. As the park closes for the night, they amble back to their motel room to don the garb Morph had brought along.

For Hob, Morph’s selected skin-tight brown leather trousers, far tighter and sinfully tailored than anything Hob actually wore in his life, knee-high boots in a darker shade, and (Morph’s favourite colour on his husband,) a hunter-green poet’s blouse with full sleeves. The outfit is finished with a matching leather waistcoat and a belt with pouches big enough for Hob’s wallet and phone, a clip for a fancy pair of riding gloves, and a space to hang the new wooden sword.

“I look like the porno version of Robin Hood,” Hob says, examining his whole arse on display in his reflection.

“Hmmm, yes,” Morph agrees, unrepentant. He crowds up behind Hob in the pokey washroom, hands cupping said arse, and presses a possessive, nibbling kiss just high enough on Hob’s neck that everyone will be able to see the bruise peeking out of his collar.

For himself, Morph is wearing his own black leather pants and calf-high boots, not needing to have those made when they were already in his closet. But he’s commissioned a gorgeously luxurious black-on-black brocade coat, with a tight mandarin collar, a gleaming row of tiny silver buttons, and well-fitted sleeves buttoned closed at the wrists. It falls to his knees in an ahistorical swallow-tail cut, showing off his slim hips. Over this, Morph has added a thigh-length, sleeved surcoate of rich ruby-red silk, trimmed with silver. The a waterfall of fabric hangs from his elbows in diamond-shaped bell sleeves that mimic the shape of the coat’s tail. It's cinched with a richly and intricately filigreed silver belt that Hob knows for a fact he last saw on Delirium.

Morph looks delicious.

Vain tart.

“I have to admit, there is actually something fun about wearing the fantasy version of all this stuff,” Hob allows, head tilted to the side to allow Morph access. He reaches back to squeeze Morph’s arse in retaliation.

“Mmmmf,” Morph agrees, his mouth full.

“No itchy wool,” Hob goes on, letting his head fall back to rest on Morph’s shoulder.

“Mmm…”

“No stiff leather.”

“Hm.”

“No fleas.”

“Mpfh.”

“No body odor ground into the fibers…”

“Hob, you are not being very romantic,” Morph complains.

“Oh, am I not? Is there something else I could be doing to set the mood, my liege?” Hob asks, raising his head to meet Morph’s eyes in the bathroom mirror.

“I can think of a few things,” Morph rumbles.

“So can I,” Hob says, with a wicked grin. 

He pushes Morph back just enough to give him space to turn around and kneel. Morph braces his hands on the countertop, and then it’s Hob whose mouth is full.

As the Ren Faire is just far enough away from the next major city for the drive to be tedious, many of the actors and day-staff spend the weekends in their own part of the campground. Jed shares a janky old trailer with the other squires, watched over by some of the senior knights who’ve been working the Faire for a few years, and who can show the kids the ropes and make sure they don’t do anything too stupid with their free time.

Most of the vendors who’ve been working the Faire for decades have little apartments built above their stone-and-wood shops, and live there all summer. The miniature stone keep that serves as the background for the stage and courtyards contains bunk rooms and kitchens for the actors playing the members of the court, allowing them to cook for themselves (and the eternally-bottomless-pit teenagers on staff).

This means that the tavern on site, which is more of a sandwiches-and-a-coffee kind of place during the day, is licensed for liquor at night. Jed and the other actors partake of the canteen in the back of the building that keeps everyone fed during the day, and spend their evenings like ‘real’ medieval peasantry having a revel at the local pub. 

“Reminds me of somewhere,” Hob says with a cheeky wink and a twinkle in his eye, when Hob and Morph approach the tavern an hour or so later. 

“Hob, erasti,” Morpheus, murmurs. “Have fun tonight. And do not bully the bartender.”

“I don’t bully bartenders,” Hob lies, tugging on his ear. It’s not bullying, just… helpful critiques. It’s just sometimes hard to be in the profession and not want to offer the advice gleaned over nearly four decades of owning his own pub while in his cups.

They’re greeted with a “wah-hey!” from the crowd, and the actor playing the King–apparently the default den-mother around the place–jumps up to greet them.

“Welcome!” He says, sticking out a thick, calloused hand. Hob takes it, struck again by a wave of uncanniness as he realizes the man’s scars and rough spots match up with his own. It’s so rare that he shakes hands with anyone who’s trained with swords in this day and age. “I’m Grant. You’re Dr. Gadlen and, uhm, Mr. Gadlen, our Jed’s uncles, yeah?”

“Bob and Morph,” Hob corrects, “Yeah, we are. Nice to meet you.”

“Come in, come in,” Grant says, with all the gay magnanimity that Hob has seen him using during his performances today.

The tavern itself is a mix of the fantasy-version of historical architecture and hidden modern conveniences. The lamps glow golden-yellow, but are LED lights, clearly wired to a switch by the door. The furniture is handmade and solid, but the joining style is modern, and the cushions on the chairs and benches are obviously from the dollar-store and stain-proofed. The floor is packed-dirt strewn with reeds, but under that Hob can see stone tiling. A thousand other things jump out to him, not only as a literal expert in the era(s? It’s unclear what century this Ren Faire is trying to emulate, he can’t pin it to just one) but also as a pub owner, and as someone eyebrows deep trying to restore his own Ye Olde Timey pub.

The bar and its backing and stock itself is more analogous to the kind you would find in a modern pub, for all that it’s made from rough-hewn wood, and is tucked into the corner of the building around a few tar-black support beams.

Grant hustles them over to a table filled with the faux nobility, after a quick detour to furnish Hob with a tankard of draft beer and Morph with a metal goblet of sweet white wine. After introductions all around, where the queen–Jan–exclaims over their costumes and the Royal Mistress–Shel–admires Morph’s commitment to his noble posture, one of the courtiers–Mark–says, “Say, aren’t you the guy from TV?”

Jan turns to study Hob’s face. “Yeah, you are!”

“My husband is indeed Doctor Robert Gadlen the Sixth,” Morph confirms, the traitor.

“The Witch Knight!” Mark crows. “Hey, guys, it’s the Witch Knight!”

Half the pub cheers. The other half asks the first half if they should know who that is.

“We’re not calling him that,” Hob insists, but at this point it’s more of a running gag with the public than any real protestation. That horse is well and truly out of the barn.

Mark laughs, delighted that he’d recognized him. Everyone chats for a few minutes about the difference between historical recreation, as Hob and Harriet do, and historical reinterpretation, as the Faire does, when the last remaining person at the table finally speaks up.

The guy is dressed in the loose, sweaty underpadding of knight’s garb, the gambeson askew and the state of his shirtsleeves underneath frankly disgraceful. If Hob had ever shown up in public after a bout looking like that, El would have clapped his ears and sent him home to smarten up. The man’s light, thinning hair is askew, and his face is already ruddy with drink. He stares at Hob, a little beerily, and says: “You’re not a real knight.”

Hob and Morph exchange a smirk, and Hob raises his tankard in acknowledgement. “Nah,” he says. “Robert Gadlen the Third was the knight. I’m the same as you. I just play pretend.”

“I don’t play!” the knight snaps, slamming his own tankard on the table hard enough to rattle the metal cups.

“Shane, come on,” Grant says gently. “He didn’t mean it like that.”

“What, just because I’m an actor, you think it’s all fake?”

Hob holds up his hands, don’t shoot, trying to diffuse the situation. He’s still trying to figure out how this went from zero to sixty so quick. “Sorry, man. I saw how hard you worked out there today. I know it’s not easy–”

“You don’t have any idea,” Shane spits. “You just pranced around on TV, probably had a stunt guy do all your riding and fighting–”

Hob frowns. He should probably let the blow to his ego go, but Hob’s always clung to his pride in ways that are probably slightly unhealthy. “I’ll have you know that I did all the riding and fighting myself. The shooting, too! Bow and matchlock!”

“Erasti,” Morph murmurs calmingly, and lays his hand on Hob’s thigh. “Peace.”

“He started it–” Hob murmurs back, but then catches his own tone and bites his tongue. He sounds like a whining child.

“Tell us about that,” Jan jumps in, clearly desperate to turn the tide of the conversation. “We can’t have real firearms here, obviously, but I’ve always wanted to try firing a flintlock.”

“Matchlock,” Hob corrects gently, watching as Shane shoves away from the table and flounces theatrically over to the bar to get a refill. “You have to light it yourself. Flintlocks weren’t introduced until after the 1660s, and before that were snapchaunces, the snaplocks…” 

Hob goes on, holding court for a few more minutes, flicking gazes at Shane often enough that Morph finally pinches his knee. “Enough,” Morph says into a lull, while Jane and Shel proclaim their intent to get the music started.

“But–”

“Enough,” Morph repeats. “Let it go. This is a command from your king.”

Hob snorts and pecks a kiss off Morph’s rosebud mouth, tickling the underside of Morph’s chin with a finger as he does so. “Not a king any more, duckie.”

“Your god, then.”

“Not a god, either.”

Morph raises one elegant hand to press his finger directly into the lovebite he’d left on Hob’s neck. Hob shivers in salacious understanding. “And yet, were you not just worshiping at my–”

“Hey, you came!” Jed interrupts from behind them, and Hob springs back from Morph like he’s been shocked.

Morph smirks. “No need to pantomime prudishness, beloved,” he rumbles. “Do recall who the boy’s grandparent is.”

“I’m still not making out with you in front of the kids,” Hob scolds him playfully, then scooches over to make space between Hob and Morph on the bench for Jed to squeeze into.

Grant welcomes Jed to the table, Jan and Shel head off to chivvy the musicians into picking up their instruments, and Hob peers into Jed’s tankard to make sure it’s just cola. Not that he doesn’t trust Jed, but he remembers what it was like to be young and peer-pressurable.

“I’m so glad you guys dressed up,” Jed enthuses. “What a cool sword!”

“It’s a waster, technically,” Hob says, unsheathing it for Jed to inspect. “Because it’s wooden. But I have no intention of wasting it in a practice session. It likely won’t splinter if I do spar a bit with it though, it’s too finely made.”

From the bar, Shane the wannabe knight scoffs.

Hob bites his cheek and continues to explain the sword to Jed, ignoring all the noises Shane makes. It isn’t until Morph is elaborating to Jed and Grant about the experience of being a foreign power at court, helping them construct an improv scenario for when an attendee is dressed in the royal fashion, that Shane finally saunters back to the table.

He leans on it heavily, squinting into Morph’s face.

 “Aren’t you that author guy?” the man says, leaning too far into Morph’s personal bubble for Hob’s liking. Not because he’s a jealous, possessive asshole who needs to show the room that Morph belongs to him, but because he knows that being touched by strangers makes Morph uncomfortable. “The one who makes up those twisted-as-fuck fantasy books? That nightmare shit? What would you know?”

“My research is meticulous,” Morph says, face blank save for an archly raised eyebrow. All the same, he’s leaning back into Jed, trying to keep Shane’s sour breath off his face.

“ And he’s a New York Times best seller,” Jed pipes up, clearly proud of the hard work Morph has done in the last few years to establish himself as a different kind of Prince of Stories, now that he’s human.

“I wasn’t talking to you, maggot,” Shane snaps at Jed, without even looking up at him. “Squires don’t talk to their betters unless addressed first.”

Jed jolts, and hisses out, “Yes, sir.” He hangs his head and scrunches in on himself.

Hob whips a look over at Grant, who looks chagrined, but not particularly like he’s about to step up and call Shane to task. He’s not a real regent, after all. He has no actual power here.

Morph's face clouds over with thunderstorms, and Hob knows for a fact that if his husband were still Dream of the Endless, Shane would be suffering incurable night terrors for the rest of his pitiful life. As it is, he’s got no doubt that after Desire hears about this, the guy’s absolutely never getting laid again.

“Hey, back off,” Hob says, reaching around Jed to shove Shane back, if no one else is going to do something about his attitude.

For a second it looks like the pretender-knight won’t go, but then he straightens and saunters over to harass some of the younger women knotted together in the corner. Not a single one of them looks happy at his approach.

Hob sends another reproachful look at Grant, who tucks his tail between his legs and slinks off to the bar for his own refill with a muttered excuse. 

Coward, Hob thinks. And just as bad as Shane, if he’s not calling it out.

“You okay?” Hob asks Jed softly, as Morph rises to follow Grant. 

Hob doesn’t know what his husband is saying to the man, but from the ashamed expression growing on the king’s face, it’s nothing that’s letting him squirm out of his responsibility as a figurehead to set a good example.

“I’m fine,” Jed whispers, all his good cheer from earlier extinguished. “That’s normal.”

“That’s normal,” Hob repeats, flatly unimpressed. “What’s the deal with that asshole?” 

Jed shrugs with one shoulder, looking a bit uncomfortable. “He’s just… really into all this, you know? Takes it seriously.”

“Well he’s seriously being a knobhead,” Hob mutters.

“He’s just passionate,” Jed protests. 

“You don't have to make excuses for him, it’s not on you to apologize for his behavior,” Hob reassures Jed. “Even if you are his squire. And let me tell you, I never treated my squires the way he talks to you. No one did. You asked about accuracy? This shit’s not it.”

Jed finally looks up at Hob, big dark eyes shining in the golden lamplight. “Really?”

“Really. And you tell the other kids, too. What he’s doing, that’s not right, and you don’t have to take his abuse.” Hob pulls Jed into a fierce hug right there in the middle of the room. “You’ve suffered enough of that shit. You tell me if he doesn’t shape up after you guys push back, and I’ll come straight back here and fix it.”

“How?” Jed laughs, wiping at his face discreetly as Hob lets him go. “Challenge him to a duel?”

“Hell, yes,” Hob promises, taking a swig of his beer. “Then he’ll see who uses a stunt team.”

“That’ll make the girls happy.”

Hob narrows his eyes at that. “Explain.”

“Shel calls him a… what is it? A ‘busted step’?”

“Ah,” Hob says with a sinking understanding. “A broken stair.”

“He hasn’t done anything to me,” Jed says quickly. “But there’s a few of the girls who don’t want to work with him any more. Just because Shel plays the mistress, he thinks that she’s gotta, you know, really be that. It’s really starting to bug her.”

Before Hob can formulate an answer to that, Morph makes a distressed noise.

Hob is very, very attuned to all the sounds his husband makes, mostly because he’s usually so silent. Any sounds of Morph’s are meant to be treasured, cataloged, and hoarded away. This is not a sound he’s ever heard Morph make before. And it’s definitely not one Hob ever wants to hear him make again.

At the bar, Morph is leaning back against a pillar, cornered by Shane, who has his meaty hand on Morph’s waist, where it definitely should not fucking be. Morph turns his head to the side, away from Shane’s, and snarls something under his breath. Shane, the bastard, only throws his head back and laughs.

Morph, while a fighter, is not a brawler. He’s used to having unimaginable cosmic powers at his fingertips, so he sometimes forgets that he can shove creeps off.

Hob, though?

Hob has no problem with beating the shit out of someone who deserves it.

Hob sets down his beer hard. “That’s it, I’m kicking his ass.”

Jed straightens, eyes widening comically. “Uncle Hob–”

“You want authenticity, lad?” Hob asks, turning to get Shane in his sights. “Watch this.”

And then he strides across the pub, right up into Shane’s space. He grabs the lout’s shoulder hard, fisting his hand in the fabric of Shane’s disgraceful gambeson, and hauls him off Morph. Shane stumbles back as Hob yanks him around and to the side, feet going out from under him so the only thing holding him more-or-less vertical is his own grip on the bar and Hob’s hand in the undercoat.

Hob tugs one of the gloves folded over his belt free, and slaps Shane directly across the face.

“Outside, you sorry excuse for a man,” Hob snarls into the chorus of shocked gasps rising from everyone in the pub. “Now.”

And then Hob drops him into the dirt, where he belongs.

“Aren’t you worried about him?” Jan asks Morph as they detach themselves from Hob at the sidelines of the melee grounds.

“Not in the least,” Morph murmurs back, folding his arms over the rails of the fencing. Even as he walks into the small dusty field, Hob can tell that Morph is smirking with barely contained delight.

Hob kicks at the dirt a little as he crosses towards the far rail, where the props are stored. It hasn’t rained here in at least a week, judging by how powdery the dirt around the trampled grass is. The area closest to the audience has been laid with fine red sand, which will shift under his feet. He’ll have to watch his footing there.

Shane, who is plodding along one step behind and five feet away from Hob, isn’t surveying his environment.

Amateur.

No, worse than an amateur, because amateurs are keen to learn and grow. 

Idiot.

Shane weaves straight over to the rack of metal swords, using a key slung around his neck to open the cage.

That also seems idiodic, Hob thinks. Who is trusting this guy with protecting the weapons?

For a moment, Hob considers fighting with his waster. He could use it handily against a steel sword, but Morph went to all the trouble, and likely expense, to have it made specifically for Hob. It would be a shame to nick or split it. 

Instead, Hob follows Shane to the cage and selects a sword that looks beat up, but about the right weight for him. Shane sneers. He already has what Hob assumes is his own sword in his hand, a gleaming thing that is pretty but, based on how he’s holding it, all wrong for him.

Idiot!

Shane snatches up a shield from a bin to the side of the cage, a stereotypical crest-shaped one. With a shrug, Hob selects a round one with well-riveted handles and a smooth edge for deflecting blows. Hob can already spot a few pits in the edge of Shane’s shield that would be perfect for locking the blade of his own sword into.

Those dents should have been repaired as soon as Shane was off the tourney grounds. In a real battle, they could cost a man his life.

And this is why you don’t treat your squires like shit, Hob thinks maliciously.

While his anger had flared hot and fast in the tavern, now that he’s out under the summer night sky, Hob feels detached and calm. He’s not about to get cocky–after all, Shane’s been fighting with a sword and shield daily for months, if not years, while Hob himself hasn’t properly trained with these particular weapons in centuries.

But Shane has learned to fight for crowds, not for his life.

This is going to be a pleasure.

Properly armed, Hob moves to stand a few good wide paces from the fence, which is now groaning-heavy with actors and vendors, watching with a mix of fearful worry and tipsy amusement. 

“This is your chance to apologize,” Hob shouts over to Shane, loud enough that everyone can hear it. The crowd goes silent, waiting for the response.

“Fuck off!”

A few people groan, but most look unsurprised.

“Apologize for how you spoke to my nephew, and for assaulting my husband, and for harassing the other actors, and I’ll let this go!” Hob demands again.

“I said fuck off,” Shane snarls.

Courtesy demands that Hob repeat his offer to stand down a third time, but before he can, Shane charges. Hob spares a moment to glance over at Morph, shrugging.

Morph gestures with one elegant moon-pale hand, which Hob takes to mean Kick his ass, baby.

So Hob does.

First, he lets Shane come to him. The man is taller than Hob, broader, but also drunker. Hob takes small steps, to the side, to the back, just enough to stay out of the bending compass of his swinging sword.

“Stand your ground and fight me!” Shane snarls after a few moments of Hob’s calm side-stepping.

“Why should I?” Hob asks, in a very even and non-confrontational tone, stepping, stepping, stepping aside. “You’re doing a marvelous job of fighting yourself for me.”

Shane catches Hob’s meaning, and goes still. Too still, too fast, which makes it easy for Hob to dart in and slap him on the ass with the flat of his blade.

“What the fuck, man,” Shane growls, spinning to try to track him.

“Oh come on, baby, don’t be like that. You know you liked it,” Hob sneers back.

Shane snarls again, and lunges showily, which Hob dodges just as showily, to the approving roar of the crowd.

“How heavy is that sword?” Hob asks, raising his shield to block a flurry of graceless, clubbing blows. “By the way your wrist keeps dipping, I’d say too heavy. It’s clearly too long for you, too. You know, swords aren’t like sports cars, no one’s going to think your dick is small just because your sword is–oop.”

Shane swings at Hob’s ankles, and Hob leaps back, but lands awkwardly. He manages to use the momentum to fling the weight of his shield around, roll onto it in the dirt like a little turtle, and use that same momentum to pull himself right back up into a crouch just in time to block Shane’s attempt to bash his head in with his own shield.

“Have you torn your shoulder yet? You will, if you keep over extending your swings the way you are–”

“Shut the fuck up and fight me,” Shane howls, stepping back and opening his arms wide in a ridiculously macho challenge.

Hob springs up and into a solid fighting stance. “Fine,” he says, with all the gravitas his fury deserves. “If that’s what you want.”

The first blow is delivered hard against Shane’s exposed inner elbow. If the swords were sharp, it would be enough to take his arm off at the joint. As it is, Shane just howls with pain and drops his shield. As he curls forward to cradle his arm, Hob steps into his body, turns on the ball of his foot to put his back to the prick, reaches up with the arm holding the shield, and clobbers him in the head.

Not hard enough to concuss, Hob hopes, but definitely hard enough to make Shane reel backward and stumble. Shane flails out with his sword, blood from a small cut on his forehead suddenly blinding him, and Hob ducks under it. He swings out his leg, and knocks Shane’s feet out from under him.

The brute lands hard on his arse, sword up to protect his face which is, really, just so stupid. It would be very, very easy for Hob to press into his wrist and make him stab himself through the eye. Instead, Hob slaps his sword arm aside with the flat of his blade, and steps on Shane’s chest to keep him in place.

“Now,” Hob says, loud enough to be heard over Shane’s harsh panting. “Are you going to apologize, or am I going to be calling the police and filing assault charges?”

“Assault charges!” Shane howls. “I’m bleeding! I should charge you!”

Hob bares his teeth at the little shit in a parody of a smile. “Go on, try it then,” Hob says, and crouches to get the tip of his sword right up under Shane’s chin, pushing a white divot into the soft flesh there. “I think you’ll find that there are going to be a lot more witnesses on my side than yours.”

Shane swallows hard, and Hob almost wishes the blade edge was sharp enough to nick him with the motion. It’d be poetic. Instead he rests more of his weight on Shane’s ribs, just enough to make it harder for him to breath.

“See, that’s the problem with being a complete and utter shithead,” Hob hisses into Shane’s face. “Nobody likes you, Shane. Nobody will stand up for you. Nobody will fight to keep you here, and most importantly, nobody will be sad when you quit and go home tonight. Do. You. Understand?”

“I understand!” Shane yelps, terror flashing through his eyes at what he sees in Hob’s. “I understand! Get off me, man!”

“I’ll know if you don’t leave,” Hob says, with one more dig of the tip of his sword against Shane’s neck.

“I’ll go! I’ll really go!”

“Good.” Hob slides the side of the sword up Shane’s cheek, taking with it the key to the weapons cages.

Hob straightens and turns to the gawp-mouthed, silent audience. 

“Squire?” he calls out. 

Jed leaps to attention. “Sir?”

“If you please,” Hob says graciously, holding out his sword, key dangling from the blade,  and shield.

“Of course, sir!” Jed says, scrambling to climb over the rails of the fence and relieve him of his burdens.

“Good lad,” Hob says, scrubbing his hand through Jed’s hair. “Thank you.”

Jed jogs back to the cage.

Hob takes one step toward his husband. He sees what’s about to happen in Morph’s face before he hears the whistle of a sword cutting through the air. The way Morph's expression changes suddenly is enough warning, and Hob to lunges to the side. 

Shane’s sword, instead of catching his neck, lands a solid blow against his ribs. Hob hears more than feels the crack. Red-hot pain radiates up his torso, and dusts his vision with white spots. But he’s already moving, turning under his own shoulder, dropping his hand to the hilt of the waster, sliding it free of the scabbard in one smooth motion.

Shane tips forward, overbalanced, and Hob pops up behind him. He and raps the hand holding the sword with his waster hard enough to break two of Shane’s fingers.

Snap, snap!

Shane yelps and drops the sword. 

Pop! as Hob drives it into Shane’s foot, neatly breaking his big toe in his soft leather boots.

Thwack, goes the waster, as Hob snaps it’s against Shane’s temple just hard enough to stun him a little.

Hob raises the sword again, two-handed like his kendo sensei taught him, his rib absolutely screaming. But he schools his expression, keeps it passive.

“No!” Shane whines, cringing back. “No, I’m sorry, please–” 

“Fucking right, you’re sorry. Pack your shit and get out, you disgrace,” Hob snarls.

For a moment, no one moves. Then a few of the other knights clamber over the fence to help Shane to his feet, and drag him toward the cast trailers. Not a single one of them is looking him in the eye.

Jed comes back for Shane’s abandoned weaponry, and then Morpheus is suddenly there, cool hand on the hilt of the sword over Hob’s rough fingers.

“It is over, my champion,” Morph intones softly. “You may stand at ease.”

“Can’t though,” Hob wheezes. “Cracked a rib. Take the sword?”

Morph removes the sword from his grip, replacing it lovingly in its soft sheath. Then he helps Hob lower his arms, supporting his left one, where the injured rib is, with a hand under the elbow.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Jed asks, when he returns.

“No,” Hob says. “Nothing to be done but to wrap it. I can do that myself.” Then he offers Jed a blinding wince, masquerading as a smile. “And it’s not like it can kill me.”

Morph and Jed walk Hob back through the trees to the motel, where he takes a hot shower with Morph holding him up, and a handful of painkillers that the site medic pressed on them along with a roll of tensor bandage and a sling.

A cracked rib is a bitch, but manageable. If it was truly broken he'd have to worry about bone shards and pierced organs, but a quick palpitation proves that everything is still where it ought to be. He's not looking forward to the flight home, though.

Hob wasn't blessed with supernaturally fast healing along with his supernaturally long life, but a good night's rest with Morph as his pillow, keeping him from rolling onto his bad side, and Hob feels much better than he thought he'd be. He doesn't remember his dreams, but figures he has Daniel to thank for the way his chest doesn't burn and spasm with every inhale.

A galaxy of bruises has bloomed on his torso overnight, and Morph takes extra care to kiss and soothe them in the syrupy morning light.

After they re-don their costumes, Hob feels up to the walk back to the park, though it's slow going and he has to lean on Morph's arm for stability. His husband deposits Hob at the picnic table nearest the melee grounds and goes off in search of something to break their fast.

The medic finds him before Morph returns, and has Hob's waistcoat off and his poet's shirt up over his head before he can bid her "good morning.” Hob knows better than to fight her as she inspects the bruising and rewraps the tensor, so must make quite a sight by the time Grant and Jed join them.

"Morning, gents," Hob says around his mouthful of fabric.

"How are you?" Grant asks.

"I'll live."

Jed snorts.

"How's Shane?" Hob asks, gracious in his victory, even if his voice is throttled by the medic tightening the wrap across his lungs.

“He left last night," Grant says, ashen through the gap in the green linen that Hob can see through.

"And he won’t be able to perform for the rest of the summer,” the medic adds. "Not until his fingers and foot heal."

“What a shame,” Hob replies, meaning the exact opposite. "His elbow?"

"Just bruised," the medic says. "You can put your arms down."

"Katya's the new head knight," Jed says, pointing to the person warming up in the field once Hob can see again. "They're great. I can't wait to work with them."

"Happy to hear it, my lad," Hob says, and he means it.

Grant clears his throat. "I, uh, I spoke to your husband last night and I want to… um, I want to offer my apologies that it came to…" he gestures to the sling the medic is tying around Hob's neck. "I'm the King, I've been here the longest. The cast looks to me to set the tone. I should have… well, I should have spoken up."

"And next time, you will," Hob says. Simple as that. 

"Me too," Jed promises.

"Good. Now, don't you folks have somewhere to be? Some people to entertain?"

"Yes, but first," Jed says, reaching out to help Hob lever himself upright. "If you can manage it, you're wanted at the castle. Don't worry, I've already texted Uncle Dream to meet us there."

Hob, deciding he can do worse than let his nephew surprise him, and moreover to allow himself to enjoy it, lets Jed lead him to the stage by the keep.

The thing that Hob is wanted for, it turns out, is another damned knighting ceremony.

He's starting to collect the things.

The whole cast, most of the vendors, and a few dozen curious audience members applaud as Hob is led up the steps to stand before the king and accept his accolades. Grant is suitably vague about how and why Hob's being recognized, and he's just fine with that. He's had enough with being rewarded for hurting people.

The speech is heartfelt but brief, thankfully, but then Hob is expected to kneel.

"Godsbones," he gasps, trying to get down. Grant gestures that it's not necessary, but if Hob's going to do this, he's going to do it right.

Morph steps up and lends him an arm to cling to, and smirks the entire time he helps Hob kneel on a red velvet cushion.

What’s a few moments of pain weighed against the way it makes Jed grin, or Morph’s eyes twinkle, or the photographs that he’ll be able to look at a hundred years from now and recall the smell of this fresh morning, the feel of the cushion and the wooden stage under his knees, the kiss of Grant’s prop sword on his shoulder, tapping on the exact place where Morph had left his love bite.

When Hob rises again (slowly), now Sir Robert Gadlen the Sixth of the Court of Upstate New York Ren Faire, Jed throws his arms in the air and crows: "Three cheers for the Witch Knight!"

Lost in the huzzahs of the assembled hordes, Hob clutches his side and moans: "We're not calling me that!"