[A century hadn’t seemed like so very long ago, prior to his entrapment. Indeed, when one measured time in terms of eons, Morpheus had arrogantly not thought anything of Hob’s protestations that life was worth living for the first few centuries of his existence. Of course he could find enough to entertain himself with, early on. Of course he’d rail in the glory. No, it was only when true suffering hit that Morpheus’s interest had been piqued in another manner.
Hope. It existed despite Hob’s wretched state. The defiance was so pure, a ghastly humor. Death, but a mug’s game. Arrogant, indeed.
But then, hadn’t Morpheus been called as much by others?
Hob’s pointing out that Morpheus cared had stung precisely because it was a truth Morpheus hadn’t wanted to face. One that had curdled inside of himself, at war with his duties and responsibilities, while imprisoned in Madoc’s chamber. Somehow he had managed to keep track of the passing of time. He had known precisely when he was meant to meet Hob.
There was the irony, there. Had Morpheus not been imprisoned, had he not had the experiences he’d had after, his pride might have kept him from attending, anyway.
Yet it was that precise imprisonment that had made him tardy.
Morpheus hadn’t really touched upon the specifics, but he knew that the effects of his entrapment and quest afterwards had left him changed. So many had noted it, while he was still sorting out what it meant. He did know though that he took to heart dearly his purpose. If he might serve them better… it was humbling, but he was willing to learn.
Which meant having breakfast with Hob, on a new schedule, at the new inn. It was a warm Saturday, unseasonably warm even for summer, but Morpheus was still dressed in his black pants, t-shirt, coat, and boots. He’d made it a point to arrive early, and a steaming cup of untouched coffee sat in front of him. He sat still, posture perfect, sensing the nodding off heads around him while he waited. When Hob arrived he didn’t stand but he gave a slight nod of his head. He slid the undrunk coffee across the table as a greeting.] I didn’t put anything in it, in case your tastes had changed. [After all, he was used to procuring a bottle of wine if not harder in their meetings.]
@ 100more
Hope. It existed despite Hob’s wretched state. The defiance was so pure, a ghastly humor. Death, but a mug’s game. Arrogant, indeed.
But then, hadn’t Morpheus been called as much by others?
Hob’s pointing out that Morpheus cared had stung precisely because it was a truth Morpheus hadn’t wanted to face. One that had curdled inside of himself, at war with his duties and responsibilities, while imprisoned in Madoc’s chamber. Somehow he had managed to keep track of the passing of time. He had known precisely when he was meant to meet Hob.
There was the irony, there. Had Morpheus not been imprisoned, had he not had the experiences he’d had after, his pride might have kept him from attending, anyway.
Yet it was that precise imprisonment that had made him tardy.
Morpheus hadn’t really touched upon the specifics, but he knew that the effects of his entrapment and quest afterwards had left him changed. So many had noted it, while he was still sorting out what it meant. He did know though that he took to heart dearly his purpose. If he might serve them better… it was humbling, but he was willing to learn.
Which meant having breakfast with Hob, on a new schedule, at the new inn. It was a warm Saturday, unseasonably warm even for summer, but Morpheus was still dressed in his black pants, t-shirt, coat, and boots. He’d made it a point to arrive early, and a steaming cup of untouched coffee sat in front of him. He sat still, posture perfect, sensing the nodding off heads around him while he waited. When Hob arrived he didn’t stand but he gave a slight nod of his head. He slid the undrunk coffee across the table as a greeting.] I didn’t put anything in it, in case your tastes had changed. [After all, he was used to procuring a bottle of wine if not harder in their meetings.]