#losyark

The night is warm enough, and Hob's magical shoes are comfortable enough, that the two hour walk to Hither Green and Gadlen House is a pleasure. It also means that Matthew gets to join them.

"Aww, come on, Hobsie," Matthew wheedles from Hob's shoulder, preening his hair out of its carefully pomaded fall as they approach the gardens. "The boss showed me the opening shot. It wouldn't be half as good if I wasn't in it."

"True," Hob allows, as they follow the winding path to the front gates. “But I don’t think I can pass you off as a service animal.”

Matthew tugs on Hob's hair threateningly.

"Okay, fine!" Hob relents. "We'll try. But stand on the very edge of my shoulder, like that, yeah. Stay on the opposite side of Morpheus. Glenn taught me this for photos—always make sure there's empty air around your body so you don't look squashed against another person. Don’t be offended if they don’t let you into the house, okay?"

"Okay!" Matthew croaks. "I'm gonna be a star, baby!" 

Matthew holds his head high, and puffs then smooths the lay of his feathers. If a raven can suck it in, then he's definitely sucking it in.

"You spoil him," Morpheus says indulgently.

Hob takes his hand and entwines their fingers. "I spoil you both, and I don't see you complaining. Now, shhh, Matthew."

They join the back of the line, waiting for their turn to present their ID badges and gain entry to the grounds.

Security is tight at Gadlen House tonight, and every who's-who of the entertainment news world has been invited. Most of them aren't sure what they're there for—it's just the dinky little premiere of a dinky little docuseries after all—but the muckety-mucks at the BBC had insisted. Hob's sure they're all going to be really glad they were part of the first wave of outlets who get to break the big news in about three hours.

The plan tonight is to screen the first episode, followed up with a bit of a talk from Harinder. Then there’ll be a thirty minute Q&A with Hob, Harriet, and Glenn, and a quick presentation from Shami about the future of digital archeology and historical document interactivity. And then, when everyone was thoroughly bored to tears, the piece de resistance: ten minutes of uncut footage of Hob and Glenn goofing around and cataloging the contents of the Gadlen Fell Crate Papers, until Glenn goes parchment white and starts screaming like a teeny bopper at a Beatles concert.

At which point, the experts would be stepping in to present the actual quarto to the press. Hob is sure that’s right around when social media is going to lose its goddamn mind. Hob himself plans to take full and unashamed advantage of both the media melee that will result and his lover's eldritch nature, and sneak away before anyone tries to buttonhole him.

When they reach the front of the line, the bored guard at the door doesn't even glance up at them. He just holds his hand out for Hob's work badge, and checks it against his list.

"Gadlen, plus one?"

"Yes," Hob says.

"Have fun, guv." He waves them through and is on to the next person behind them before they’ve rounded his little podium.

Past the gates, Hob is met with event PAs and coordinators who eye up Matthew, but don't say anything. They're probably used to way weirder things when it comes to celebrities, and Hob is hardly that.

They're asked to hold a moment, as the small group before them—Harinder and the direction team, it looks like—clears the first bank of photographers and reporters. A gauntlet of a half dozen similar clusters are between Hob’s party and the front door.

Hob takes a moment to marvel at the way that Gadlen House has once again been transformed.

The drive has been overlaid with low metal risers, which are themselves smothered in a literal red carpet. To one side, the press is contained by long strands of red velvet rope, protecting the grass from being trampled. On the other side of the carpet, an eight-foot wall of temporary flats has been erected, uplit to ensure the repeating pattern of BBC Historics and National Trust logos are visible in each photo.

Up by the house, the front courtyard has been transformed into a little cocktail bar. Elegant stand lights show off the fountains to best advantage, and penguin-suited waiters in absurd tudor-era flat-cap bonnets topped with ridiculous ostrich feathers are circulating with trays. Hob's been told that the grand entry hall has been filled with tiered seating and a large cinematic screen, as well a podium from which the evening's host will crack tired jokes and try to keep folks entertained between setups.

It's all a bit much for a silly little historical docudrama, but Hob knows that the prize at the bottom of the crackerjack box is worth the hullabaloo.

"Alright," the P.A. at the top of the carpet says, after conferring with someone on a headset. "When I say go, walk out to the middle of that first group. My colleague there—see, he's waving—he'll let you know when you're good to stop. Pose for the cameras, and speak to the reporter on the carpet. She'll ask you two or three questions, might have you give a little spin. Then my colleague will pass you on to the next one down the line. Feel free to decline to answer any questions you don't want to, and don't let the bird shit on anything."

"Excuse you —" Matthew squawks.

"Go!"

Morpheus takes Hob by the hand and swivels forward like he's planning to seduce the whole crowd.

He probably is.

"Doc Bob!" someone in the crowd shouts, then "Witch Knight!"

"We're not calling him that!" Hob shouts back.

 Another says "Sir Gadlen!"

"You're off by three," Hob ripostes, and the scrum chuckles, charmed.

They stop at the new PA, who says, “Welcome to the madhouse, Dr. Gadlen, and Mr…" 

"Oneiros," Morpheus offers up.

"Right-o, sirs,” the PA says. "If you'll both just stand here on the tape mark…"

They do. Hob is not even remotely surprised that Morpheus knows how to work a camera. He must be tapping into the dreams of every model in London right now. He tugs Hob into a few poses gently, directing him subtly. Hob feels like a complete tit but trusts his lover to do right by him.

The photo he’s most looking forward to is the one where Morpheus is staring down the photographers, hip cocked and a come get me look on his face. Hob only catches it because he’s too overwhelmed with adoration for this ridiculous, vainglorious, delightful creature that he gets to call his own, that he’s utterly failing to look at the camera himself. Instead, he’s staring at Morpheus like a mooncalf. He can’t help reaching up to run one hand along the arm that Morpheus has perched artfully along his own shoulder.

By the lord and savior, and all the saints combined, does Hob want to kiss Morpheus right now. He even seriously thinks about it, wonders how Morpheus and the press would react to such a blatant PDA, starts to lean in–

But then the PA introduces the reporter. Hob vaguely recognizes her from one of the late night chat shows, and Hob has to break away from Morpheus to shake her hand.

The reporter asks about Hob's experience on set ("Uh, yeah, cool, really cool," is all Hob answers to his mortification); what he's wearing ("McQueen," Morpheus intones when Hob shoots him a helpless look); and if the bird is real or a fashion accessory.

"Real!" Matthew protests.

"Real," Hob echoes, resisting the urge to pluck out one of Matthew's tailfeathers. "And an excellent mimic when he wants to be. He insisted on coming along."

"How adorable! Is he friendly? Can I pet your crow?"

"Raven," Hob corrects. "And technically, it's his bird," Hob says, jerking his thumb at Morpheus. "But Matthew likes me better."

"Matthew would appreciate your attention, yes," Morpheus allows magnanimously. "Pet his breast, or gently along his beak."

And that is how Morpheus becomes boyfriend of the year for figuring out how to keep all the attention off of Hob and his terrible interview answers, and Matthew becomes the unequivocal favorite of the evening.

CLING FAST

Hob Gadling is a clingy bastard, and he’s not ashamed to admit it. He clings to life. He clings to hope. He clings to his love of humanity. He clings to his Stranger. He also, unfortunately, has a habit of clinging to his name.

Which means, when the BBC is looking for a new pet history expert to appear in their educational docudrama series “Elizabethan Manor,” they’re overjoyed to find a professor who (according to their meticulous research) is actually descended from the Master of the National Trust building they’re filming in - Gadlen House.

Only Hob knows how right they are.

Picks up a few hours after the end of Season 01 Episode 6.

CARPE DIEM

Hob turns six hundred and sixty-six, invites some fellow Immortals to his pub to celebrate, and receives a gift from Satan themself. Or, the Key to Hell was always going to Be a Problem(tm).

Set between the epilogue and chapter one of Cling Fast.

HOLD TIGHT

Hob is tasked with his first quest as Vassal of the Endless, Morpheus is bad at using his words, Destiny thinks he's so clever, Desire makes a confession, Rose Walker meets her Uncle's boyfriend, and Lyta Hall punches Dream of the Endless in the nose. Or, the one where Hob Gadling turns into everyone's therapist, and honestly, he ain't mad about it.

Set at the end of Cling Fast - after the premiere of “Elizabethan Manor”, but before the Epilogue.

KEEPSAKES

Short ficlets set in the Hob Adherent world, based on prompts received from readers. Includes tales of how Hob and Eleanor met and wed, Hob being a badass at a Ren Faire, some hurt/comfort and sleepy smut, and the story of how Hob met Orpheus.

TAKE ROOT

Her husband had gone straight to bed after their meager supper, grumbling heartily about the privations of the Advent fast and how a morning of eggy pies and the Twelvetide feasts could not come fast enough.

With no husband to chivvy along before her, Mistress Gifford rises from her stately chair by the hearth in the Great Hall, and bestows each of the three Gadlens arrayed on the piled furs on the floor before it a fond kiss on the forehead. One to Hob, who helps steady her with a gentle hand on her elbow as she stoops, her own hand on his shoulder, to offer the kindness. Then one for her daughter, sat opposite him. And the last to her grandson, dozing with all the abandon of a small creature who knows that it is utterly safe and utterly loved, in his moses basket beside Hob's knee.

 As she kisses them, she murmurs, "Happy Christmas Robb, Nell, my wee little Redbreast."

"Nell?" Hob asks, as soon as his mother-in-law has creaked her way out of the room. "Why have you not told me you are called Nell?"

"It is grim," she pouts. "It sounds very much like knell , wouldn't you say?" This is accompanied by a theatrical shudder that makes her bosom jiggle, and so burns its way into Hob's memories for that alone. "Death knell."

"Ah, never mind that. Death's a mug's game," Hob says, and cups her fire-warmed cheeks in his palms to bestow his own kisses on his wife. "I'm never going to die, so you shall never need ring out for me." Eleanor giggles as he digs his fingers into her hips for leverage, and scoots her closer to him, so he can bury his face against the pleasing softness of her neck. "Though you may keen in other ways for me, should you like."

"Hob!" El laughs. "Pray, do not leave a mark , we have to sit at the top table with my father in the morn—"

He had promised El that he would tell her his secret when they'd been married forty years, but here, sitting by the fire in the Great Hall, surrounded by warmth and plenty, the proof of his devotion to this life wheezing out the sweetest little snores a babe could make, he was tempted to break that oath and confess all.

There was something about the Twelvetide that encouraged confession, even now as a Protestant celebration, without a confessional to be had in a Catholic church.

"Enough," El gasps at length, pink-cheeked and panting prettily. "We have work to do, and if you wake Robyn I will be very cross with you."

The elder Giffords had left their daughter and son-in-law, with their youthful energy, to finish the kissing boughs before Christmas morning. It was well on midnight now, the feeble light from the rush-tapers dwindling and the fire in the big stone hearth beginning to fade to nothing but toasty-red coal. It was just the right sort of fire for toast.

Hob says as much.

"It is always one appetite or another with you," El huffs with a roll of her eyes, but rises. "I shall go to the kitchen, but I will share not a morsel with you when I return if these last boughs are not woven when I return. And do not throw the remaining greenery into the fire to make it look like you finished, Robert Gadlen," she scolds, catching him thinking that very thing. "There are to be twelve Crowns of Green, and I know how to count."

Hob plucks the hem of her skirt off the furs, and brings it to his lips for a revenant kiss. "As my Queen commands." 

She frees herself with a smirk and an imperious tug, and sways away to the kitchen.

"There, Robyn my lad," Hob says to his son, who has opened his dark eyes just long enough to take in the spectacle of Hob's oath. "That is how you keep your wife happy. Learn the art from me, my fine wee apprentice, and you will make of me a very indulgent and biddable grandfather in no time at all."

Robyn smacks his lips, clearly unimpressed with his father's training, and returns to sleep.

Hob is in the process of tying off the ribbons of the final garland when El returns with a napkin bundle consisting of a fresh bottle of wine, an old loaf of bread, and a tiny pot of new butter. 

Hob prefers old butter, likes the tangy burst of salt on his tongue, and his darling wife knows this. As such, she has also nicked one of the leftover bundles of sea salt that are meant to be gifts for her father's servants at his annual St. Stephan's feast, so Hob can powder his toast as he likes.

This is what love is, he muses, as he cuts them slices of bread with his belt-knife, and El retrieves the toasting forks from their hook by the hearth. Old bread, and stolen salt, a sneaky taste of butter before the advent fast is officially over, and a babe sleeping with his little milk-pout mouth gaping open like a little boor.

As Hob threads the bread onto the fork tines, and holds them carefully over the coals, El busies herself by tidying up the leftover sprigs of greenery. Bringing the winter growth indoors to remind the world that no winter lasts forever, that life persists and waited under the snow even now, is a tradition older than Hob himself.

He's seen Twelvetide traditions come and go, but this one persists, as immutable and comforting as knowing that in a year ending with eighty-nine, Hob's Stranger will be waiting for him.

It is nice to be younger than something.

El bundles her posy of leftover holly and mistletoe, finishing it with a crimson-red ribbon, then stands and dangles it over his head to coax a kiss out of Hob. He leans back against her legs, tips his chin up obligingly, and lets her fold down to meet him.

"If you continue to distract me, I will burn the toast, dearest wife," Hob murmurs into her mouth.

"That would be a waste," El agrees. She releases Hob to his duties, but does not relinquish the posy.

They eat toast, and brush away the crumbs and butter grease on the napkin, and share the bottle of wine between them, and laugh, and whisper in hushed voices. El holds the posy over the moses basket, and they kiss Robyn's fat cheeks. She dangles it over her head, and Hob kisses her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the dear swell of her chin. She loops the ribbon on his belt, and takes him in her mouth. When he has come to his pleasure with his fist jammed in his own mouth to prevent waking the baby, he hooks the posy on her belt and breaks his fast in the cool darkness before the dawn.

In all, they have quite a splendid Christmas morning indeed.

Like her mother before her, El chivvies her boys up to bed before the night grows too light. Robyn wakes long enough to whimper for his own break of fast, and Hob cuddles El up between his legs on the bed so he can hook his chin over her shoulder and watch Robyn's eyelashes flutter as he drinks his fill.

Morning will come soon enough.

The Christmas cake would be served to mark the official end of Advent, Hob's father-in-law would get his eggy pie, and they would all go to church so Eleanor could show off her new son to her old parish. The days of the Saints would be filled with acts of charity, feasting, dancing and delight. Someone would find the Bean in the Bread and be named the Lord of Misrule, and they would play silly games, and drink too much, and wrestle, and jest, and sing. On the Twelveth Night, Hob would gift his wife with the handsome leather-bound notation book he'd commissioned for her, a place for her to record her favorite composition. To Robyn, who was too young to know what presents and Twelvetide were, he would gift a handsome toy duck he'd spent the Advent carving. It had slappy leather feet attached to little wheels with hobnails, which clattered and flapped when one towed it along on a string.

And then the decorations will be removed from the house in order to preserve the good luck accrued through the Twelvetide, and the Gadlens would bid the Giffords a Happy New Year, and tromp home to their estate on the unfashionable south bank. Hob would review the profits for the year with Mr. Fletcher, his steward, and visit his warehouses with a gift of ale and an afternoon's leisure for his dockworkers, and come Candlemas, he'd join his groundsmen in rolling up their sleeves and readying the fields to feed the estate anew on Plough Monday.

But for now, Hob will keep his peace.

Christmas is not a time for such a confession as the one that teased at him.

"Dearest Nell," he says. "Darling Nell. My sweet call to ruination."

"No, no, you brute, stop calling me that," she gasps as he wriggled the three of them down into a comfortable nest of feathered pillows and thick wool blankets.

"My ruin?" Hob asks, mouth resting against her nape as Robyn stretched and unlatched, offering his fist to his father now that his tummy is full and he is ready to be spoiled in other ways.

Eleanor rolls over to hand the baby to Hob to wind.

"That name, you wretched, wretched man," she complains, burying herself into his side as he pats Robyn's bottom obligingly. "Call me Nell again and I shall really make you regret it."

"If that is your command, my queen, my wife, my Eleanor." He kisses her crown, her forehead, her shoulder with each oath. "Sweet El."

He expects her to reply to him with haughty teasing, but when she does not, he shifts Robyn out of the way to look at her face. She is already asleep.

"You see, my wee lad?" Hob whispers to his son. "That is how it is done."