𝓢𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓶𝓪𝓷'𝓼 𝓓𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶

𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒍 𝑻𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒔

Twenty Five

1689

Like every other century, Morpheus and I found ourselves occupying a table in the White Horse tavern. Once more, we were dressed in the latest fashion this year and had our hair styled to blend in - an all black suit for him and this massively layered blue gown for me.

Mine was tied in a bun with loads of tiny braids all around while Morpheus grew his hair longer than he's ever had and let it flow straight.

This time around, unlike the past centuries, we arrived earlier than whom we were supposed to meet.

"You sure I can't help you, sir?" A waitress approached Morpheus, completely ignoring my presence.

"No, thank you. I'm waiting for..."

Morpheus's words were paused by a frantic yell coming from the entrance of the tavern.

"Don't touch me! Fucking dungwit. Get out of my way!"

Morpheus and I turned to where Hob is and saw how he was being dragged by men acting as guards.

"Get back to the stews with the rest of the filth." One of the guards said.

"Stop. You're hurting him." I said.

"Let him be. He is my guest."

At Morpheus's request, they freed Hob who looked filthy indeed and thin and was only wearing what looked like a rice sack fashioned to keep him covered to endure all the weather there was.

Hob rushed to take the empty chair we reserved for him. "I knew you'd be here." He said in delight and started gobbling up the food and drink laid on the table.

Morpheus and I exchanged glances as Hob got to his third helping of stew.

"Do you know how hungry a man can get?" Hob managed to speak with all the food he stuffed in his mouth. "If he doesn't die but he doesn't eat?"

"What's happened to you?" I asked, worried.

He sighed deeply and left his food to sit back on his chair and face us. "I lost it all. My land. My gold. My Eleanor. She died in childbirth. The baby too. My boy, Robyn, died in a tavern brawl when he was 20. I didn't go out much after that." He sniffled.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that." I consoled him.

"They also tried to drown me as a witch," He continued, surprising us with more of his misery. "I've lived there 40 years, overconfident. I got out with my skin a little more. And then it got worse. And worse... and worse. I've hated every second of the last 80 years, every bloody second."

"So, do you still wish to live?" Morpheus asked our shared thoughts at that moment.

"Are you crazy?" Hob asked, chuckling without humor. "Death is a mug's game. I got so much to live for."

1789

"I heard something funny the other week. Bloke said to me, he said, 'If only the French nobles had played cricket with their men the way we do, they'd never have had this trouble.'" Hob welcomed us with his usual long stories as we met in the same tavern.

He prepared a feast for us as he arrived earlier, like he had been for past centuries except the last one, than Morpheus and I.

The table shrunk and was styled circular, just enough to nurse the three of us who were occupying it that night.

As the tavern has been renovated to comply with the changes that time allows for growth, our table was put in the innermost middle of the establishment, right under the big chandelier.