[Author's Note]: Inspired by Friends with the wind by Darkrystal Sky. It's a little different from Friends with the wind, mainly because I included the Alpha Kids and merged the story with William Joyce's Guardians of Childhood books. And, uh. The kids can interact with each other and it's less angsty.
There are probably some spelling and grammatical errors, sorry! (Also posted on my Archive of Our Own account linked on my Bio.)
Disclaimer: I claim no rights to the characters included in this story, they belong to their respective owners. I would, however, ask that this work not be posted elsewhere. Thank you for reading!
Her aspect is one of creation. In the palms of her hands, she carries the universe. Her breath heralds storms of stardust and whispers of new beginnings, every inch of her being mapped by constellations and slowly-turning celestial bodies. She is known as the Witch, praised and also feared for the limitless possibilities that her powers have given unto her. It is during the Golden Age, and they know that she is benevolent, that she created them, but they do not know for how long her generosity will last.
The Witch's home is made up of frost and snow, the odd greenish-teal bark of her planet's forests peeking out through the aimless snowfall. Red flowers poke up through the snow, delicate purple-feathered hummingbirds gracing over them. When the sky grows dark, the snowdrops appear like tiny, glittering stars against an expansive canvas of mottled black, pollen and seeds birthing flowers of divine light. The shadow men, the Fearlings and other fiendish perils of the gloom have never set foot upon the frosted soil of her forests, nor will they ever. There are murmurs of creation along the planet's edges; they wouldn't dare enter the Witch's domain.
Inside of the golden citadels, mercurial spires reaching high into the stars and circular mounts placed inside of intricate turning devices, the Witch is only spoken of in hushed whispers. She is revered here, in the Dreaming, not as a God nor as a higher power to be worshiped, but as a distant friend. The praise given to her is just as one would say to a friend who has done a very wonderful or appreciated favor.
The Witch rarely takes private audiences. It is only during immense change or struggle that she will pull back her starry curtain and allow someone to visit with her. There are none in this time who have, but there are several stories told by word-of-mouth that only reach the ears of those who are willing to hear it. They say that she spins stars in a large, rounded cauldron of moonbeams, that she is kind and good and fair. Her imagination, if these tales are to be believed, knows no bounds. She can craft entire worlds with a thought, and spin them 'round her fingertips, whisper words that cause vapors to fold, molten rock to flow, and frosts to spread. They say she is ever watchful of the universe, but wishes for her celestial garden to grow without her influence.
The appearance of evil and strife is only natural, and she does not accept any gifts that are brought and which some might lay before her red-slippered feet. She refuses to provide aid until she is certain that they cannot conquer the evil on their own, for she expects fairness and just cause to hold out until the very end. Some might picture her actions as cold-hearted, but certainly not cruel. After all, she has already spun out the fabric of Space for them. What more might they ask of her?
Over time, most stopped attempting to broach upon her isolation. It appeared to them that perhaps she had passed on, simply wished to be alone, or had gone away to new and more fruitful galaxies to weave her magic in. The elder stars and planets had been accepting of this news. The younglings, less so. As the darkness grew, eating away at dreams and hope, they became more desperate. Old legends and tales foretold of a Witch who could alter the very lining of the universe with deft fingers and a close eye, making threadbare strings new.
She has expected that the planets and stars would turn to her in a time of great trouble, with her allow-knowing powers, and they fear that she might turn them away. That they will be forced to return to their wavering lights, empty dreams and lost children is an outcome that could possibly spell the end of their eternal happiness. A select few set out to find her, glowing faintly across dark expanses of void and blackness, not even a wish or a laugh among their solemn group. In their scalloped, streaming star ships they flew to her icy wood
To their surprise, the Witch draws the curtain aside at the first approach of tentative footsteps. She smiles, green eyes deep and her blown pupils filled with the whole of creation, her cheeks speckled with burning white stars that spiral and turn in dizzying patterns. Her dress encompasses the entire night sky, comets and gentle lights sprinkling across the dark folds. Twin hoods stream from the back of her head, black hair spilling out the front in curls.
She gives them the means and ideas for a lead prison to encompass the evil, advising them to build it at the farthest reaches of her aspect.
It is not enough. But of course, she had expected this as well.
The sea churns and tosses, intangible lightning flaking across the shore from its violently whirling waves. Pink sands are washed over with what would be stinging, burning electricity, small marbled pebbles roiling through the damp muck, polished and melted again and again into various organic forms. The clouds are many-colored, beams of light raining down in a cascade of streaming, liquid colour. Great, enormous visions of sea creatures shining with an inner bio-phosphorescence swim through the wispy vapor, waving their zoologically dubious limbs about. The mournful, haunting, drowning sound of a violin playing can be heard.
Not many of those who live in the golden cities know of the Seer's domain. It is cleverly hidden at the center of a star, swirling golden light proving to be an excellent distraction from prying eyes. The Seer had created the star herself with intense focus and a secretive smile, thus cloaking all of her private matters and scrying. She is a very clandestine lady, always wanting to be mysterious and, depending on how one looks at it, a tad menacing. She is all about showmanship. The knitting needles she wields are evidence enough of that.
Shadows around her land flicker and deepen; they are not turned away, here, for shadow bears Fear, and Fear bears truth. The knowledge that walking through the jade-shadowed jungle during the night is dangerous, that hungry jaguars stalk the dew-slick wood. That the fire may be bright and affectionate with its lavishing of the log, but that the orange and yellow tongue leaves deep, blackened burns in its wake. The Seer hoards these tidbits of truth, gathering them up into her arms and leaving them upon doorsteps and weary brows. Her collection is enormous, but generously distributed.
The Seer can sometimes be seen. There are times where she will emerge from the Light, golden rays cupping the book cradled in her hands, a soft smirk playing about her dark-painted lips. Her orange-gold robes trail behind her, sky blue footsteps purposeful and soft. If stopped or spoken to, she will respond, a knowing glimmer in her eyes. These are her more peaceful outings, mostly within the safety of a kingdom well-defended from the darkness.
At other, more unfortunate times and places, the Seer can only be caught in brief glimpses, sparse and flickering, skin gone deathly grey and eyes a sickly, dripping white. Shadow men, Fearlings and dread creatures leak into the shining towns, feeding off of Fear and twisting sweet, golden dreams into nightmares. Dark sands trickle through gold leaf linings; the Seer spreads tales of large beasts roaming through the starry blackness, with teeth the size of jagged mountaintops and many blinking silver eyes, warning off star pilots and glowing ships which may draw near until the Golden Armies arrive.
In a sense, the Seer is a solemn protector, a beacon amongst the waves of a swirling storm. With a sly hint and a flick of her violinist's fingers, she directs travelers towards safety, sends them away from the bright white eyes and many hungry mouths that swim within the shadows, reaching out towards stray limbs and tangled hair.
She hears whispers of a general who managed to lock away the Fearlings in a grand cage made up of lead and the size of a planet. Her sister, the Rogue, joins him in watching over the cage.
When she turns her eyes heavenward, the remnants of the Golden Age fading and crackling all around her, the Seer sees the Moon Clipper shoot past in a swirl of intricate, gleaming sails, escaping the inky blackness that trails behind it. Curious, she follows it until they come upon a small green and blue planet, land and sea mingling together into a beautiful marbled surface.
There is a crash, and the Nightmare King's spear-like ship approaches, dark and tinged with screeching voices, festering and snarling with hunger. The fearsome specter at the prow is none other than Pitch Black, a harpoon in his grip and a wolfish smile on his lips. Many sharp teeth glitter and gleam, the large cowl of his cloak flaring out like some sort of bizarre flower, veined with poisonous shadow. Nightlight, the Witch's champion, a glowing boy clad in diamond armor, stands to fight.
Streaking out of the way, the Seer huddles down on the planet, watching the struggle from afar. She knows better than to interfere with fate. They scream and clash; the stars continue to disappear.
The sounds of battle fade when the darkness plummets to the Earth. A child stands alone on the moon, bluish dust hanging around him and settling about his shoulders. A single curl of hair sticks up from the top of his shiny bald head. Inexplicably, the Seer knows that the golden dreams will not end with the destruction of the Dreaming, that there will be a time when a plump man with fantastical, wild stardust hair will send sweet dreams and good rest to all of the little children of this world.
A wondrous song for the Witch's warrior resonates in the air, swells in her chest, banishes any unshed tears.
"Nightlight, bright light,
Sweet dreams I bestow.
Sleep tight, all night.
Forever I will glow."
Her eyelids drift shut. Blessed sleep overtakes her.
Mechanical whirring and clicks repeat, relentless and never-ending. Hundreds of rusting gears turn and jitter, noisily clanging together, shimmery heatwaves hanging over them. The lava below ripples, orange and red flame catching against the metal skeletons of incomplete structures and twisting them with a white-hot gleam. Somewhere, the heady sound of an invisible tap drips and drops.
Time, time, ticking by.
There has never been much to be said about the Land of Heat and Clockwork. It had always been there, much like the Witch's planet, and was an accepted constant in the cosmos. A man known as Father Time lived there, an ageless and solemn protector with a sword at his hip and large, dark shades. He was rarely seen walking through cities; although some claimed that they could see him leaping across rooftops at odd times of the endless night. Not many of the star men or constellation families knew much about him, either.
I've lied to you, dear reader. There was one thing they all knew about him. He was unbearably, overwhelmingly, stupendously cool. Quite possibly the coolest of the cool kids that existed in the known universe. His duties revolved around Time, and all things included thereof.
Tick, tock, watching the clock.
When the Dreaming began to fall into disrepair, Father Time had traveled back in Time to try and prevent it, desperate to preserve what remained of the new universe himself and his friends had created. Despite his best efforts, resulting in several identical corpses strewn about Time and Space, he was unable to do so. The stars became trapped in an endless, woebegone shadow. The Fearlings tore apart their precious creation, screeching stars and plumed smoke streaming across the galaxies. Surrounding the Land of Heat and Clockwork, dozens of tiny hands and milky white eyes blinking, teeth flashing, they hissed at the burning, still-beating heart of the planet.
The Knight stood at the center of it all, arms spread to encompass all of his land, listening to the ghosting murmurs of thousands of doomed timelines. His red cape flapped behind him on a silent wind.
He bowed his head, eyes dry until the very end.
When Kozmotis Pitchiner volunteers to guard the cage containing the Fearlings and other shadowy evils, so too goes the Rogue of Void.
Kozmotis is a hero of war, one of those brave few who took charge in the campaign against the darkness, and the champion of the Golden Armies. As the Lord High General of the Galaxies, Kozmotis is well-respected and he is even more so for offering to watch over their captured enemies for all eternity. He glitters as he walks to stand at his post, golden armor brilliant and shining, face solemn and gaunt. The Rogue remembers, then, that he has a daughter.
The planet where the Fearlings are being kept is black, like a pit amidst a sea of stars, a dark crevice plunging into the deepest and most secretive parts of the universe. The whispers of those held captive are chilling, tingling words that run featherlight caresses down the spine and which send needlepoint shivers through the body. But, they must not look away, nor listen to the promises and pleas. The Rogue is mostly untethered by this, but her companion is weak. She admires Pitchiner for managing to stand so tall beside a rampaging storm of shadow.
They are both terribly lonely. The Rogue, as a result of her aspect, is not visible to Pitchiner, barely a whisper of an image in the corner of his eye. Sometimes, she believes that he might actually see her. But, alas, she is not even visible to most of her fellow aspect-bearers. It is a shame, for she believes that they would have had much to talk about.
Her sister aspect, the Seer of Light, stops by to visit at times. She looks upon the cage with unease, but makes for good conversation. Her golden Light chases the whispers and shadows away for a time. Whenever she is near, Pitchiner seems more at ease than before, and the Fearlings fall silent. The Rogue enjoys her visits very much.
Dear, sweet, precious Seer, who was so excited to finally have a charge to look after! A bringer of dreams, she had told the Rogue, a stout star man with golden dress, fat cheeks and a warm smile. They had giggled and compared him to a sweet peach, fuzzy and soft. Of course, she had yet to meet him, but from one of her visions she had revealed all there was to know about him to the Rogue. She had thought it funny and a tad fanciful that her sister's future charge was to be called the Sandman.
But there were long years and months where her sister did not drop by to exchange a word or two. These were the most trying of times, and the Rogue found herself having difficulty with keeping vigil. It seemed almost impossible to her, to stare too long into the tumultuous sea of unblinking eyes, mumbling mouths and flashing dagger-like teeth, but she managed it. Only once did she turn her gaze away. And in that brief moment of weakness, unhindered by the deep stare of the Void, the Fearlings reached out to Kozmotis. Tricked him, cajoled him into foolishly opening their prison door, and swallowed him up.
On a terrible dark ship spreading a terrible dark nothingness, seeking out the light and devouring it in a great clashing of teeth and bared incisors, screams and pleas and so much Fear. Small, hapless dreams, like will-o-wisps glowing faintly in the gloaming ocean, warped and torn and fleshed out into scrabbling, biting insects with far too many clawed legs. Children, the children, all unsure and frightened and unaware until it is too late, all too late. Roaring blackness tearing apart everything in it's wake, lifeless Void parting the way for the never-ending wave of destruction, the clacking maw of death.
Stars, flickering lamps of dying suns and waning souls, disappear before her very eyes, devoured. There is so much screaming, clawing through her mind and scrabbling at the edges in a desperate bid to escape, flee, get out. The voices of children plead with her. She wishes that it would all stop, the sharp hoof beats and terrible sounds. She wishes for brighter days, days sitting in silence and peace in gently-flowing meadows, the Light, anything but this terrible cacophony of universal agony.
There is a flare, expanding rapidly and consuming everything in hungry flame. The Witch snarls, the sky closes, the endless sobbing stutters. Her golden dream collapses, meteors and comets blazing across the sky, star pilots wailing as they drop. The Nightmare King is falling, dredges of shadow marking his dark descent towards the marbled surface of the planet Earth, a diamond blade glittering from where it has been plunged into his chest. The Witch's champion has won. The Moon takes up its place in the night sky. The dust of cosmic battle settles.
The Rogue was overcome with grief, became inconsolable, and took full responsibility for what had happened, what terror she had unleashed on the dreams of children everywhere. She became so wrapped up in her fears and worries that she became entirely invisible, unseen and unheard, even by the Seer. Thousands and thousands of years, through the Dark Ages and onwards, plunging underneath beds and hunting dark sands.
Tormented by her own misery, the Rogue would spend most of her existence chasing after the King of Nightmares, trying to put a stop to what she had unwittingly begun.
A procession of torches and glinting eyes underneath heavy cloaks wanders through the dense jungle. Animals of all sorts track them through the undergrowth, howling and whining with sorrowful rage at those who have trapped their friend inside of a steel cage. Alongside them, deep in the thickets, two unseen shapes pass easily and silently through the gnarled branches and extensive roots. Not a word is said between them, not even of the girl with jade-colored wings who has been so unjustly captured. The treetops stir, jittery insects chirrup, and the sky above is barren of starlight.
They arrive at the palace of Punjam Hy Loo, the animals circling uneasily as they eye the flickering flames, eyes reflecting the luminous torchlight. A great trumpeting starts up from ahead, gigantic winged elephants stand in their path. Strong winds blow over them. A man, cloaked, steps forward to address the Sisters of Flight who live within the palace. He speaks of revenge and of the innocent young girl locked inside of the cage, who clutches a ruby-embezzled box to her chest. Her green eyes are wide with fright, chest rising in panic.
Then, he removes his cloak, revealing himself to be a loathsome, vile monkey. His eyes are dark beads underneath his heavily-wrinkled brow, filled with burning hatred. In a swift movement, he aims an arrow at the winged girl's heart.
The girl thinks of her parents, her hopes and dreams and the happiness of her childhood; the cage falls away around her, as if it had never existed.
In it's place, a mass of smaller winged creatures swarm around her, diminutive wing beats buzzing through the air like a hive of angry bees. They swoop at the so-called Monkey King, who screeches and rips at the air in an effort to fend them off. The Sisters of Flight bat the air with their wings, the torches shuddering out in a faint misting of smoke.
Toothiana wraps her fingers around the Monkey King's throat, hefting him into the air with ease, gazes wrathfully into his demented eyes; her ruby tooth box glows. In that moment she understands. She cannot kill the one who slaughtered her parents. Her eyes slide to the beasts of the jungle, prowling nearby, swathed partly in shadow, eyes gleaming under the cover of waxy leaves.
She releases him, and they descend upon his body, clawing and snarling and tearing flesh from bone. As she flies upwards towards the Sisters of Flight, the sound of his agonized screams rings in her ears.
When she tells them that her mother has been slain, the other bird women fly in a rapidly circling pattern, transmuting into wooden statues. For if one Sister dies, so do the rest, she is told.
A young woman is left in the company of empty wooden carvings, now a warrior queen, with an entire palace to look after. The pair of shadows from earlier, now standing in the nearby tall grasses, every individual rustle and every breath of warm night air noted, watch as the new Guardian of Memories cups her box of teeth within the palms of her hands.
One of the two, garbed in a light brown tailcoat with tattered wrappings surrounding her legs from the knee to her ankles, shoves her companion lightly to get his attention. He looks up from where he has been gazing with mild disgust at the Monkey King's corpse, green eyes widening and thick eyebrows quirking funnily.
The pair silently communicate with stilted and sharp hand motions, gesturing to the Moon and back again to the Warrior Queen of the Tooth Fairy Armies. The Page wishes to directly approach her, tell her of what she must do, but the Maid shakes her head. They will watch her from afar, through the memories of Life and the Hope that she once held. Her true purpose will come to her in time.
Finally, as the evening mist rose and fell, the pair disappeared with the slowly dusking indigo sky.
The Maid of Life stands at the edge of a frozen pond, her slippers wet with snow and digging down towards the soil she knows lies underneath.
When spring comes, she will revisit this place, and allow for new buds to rise through the melted frost. She can already feel the blooms and seedlings waiting for a gentle nudge to prompt them into breaking free from the soil, and a needlessly excited part of her yearns to call out to them. But for now, standing amongst the tall, winding shadows of this forest, she must attend to her duties.
Hills and rises of fresh snowfall are all around, white-pelted hares and ferrets darting in and out of their warm dens and through the prickly brush. There isn't a sound to be heard but the gentle lull of the wind, whistling between the branches and around the trunks of trees. In the distance, wooden structures and homes rise from between several sloping hills, grey smoke rising lazily from their chimney tops.
Above, the moon shines sure and true, a white circlet of faded light and dust surrounding it. The same image is reflected on the ice below, falling directly over where a single, jagged crack in the ice has appeared. The Maid stares at the dark pit, her cyan blue eyes boring into where the ice descends into freezing waters. This is where a new spirit will be born, raised from death and given an eternal purpose that they must discover. Her aspect, Life, will play a primary role in his resurrection.
At her side stands the still form of the Prince. His aspect is Heart, and it will be his job to give the boy his soul after he is risen. Pink fire, which jerks and stings all those who would dare to try and reach into a soul that is not their own, dances between his gloved hands. When he notices that she is watching him work, he inclines his head, raising a single brow at her. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards into a smile for the briefest of moments, and then it is gone. His focus returns to the soul caught between his calloused palms, pupils narrow and orange irises burning.
Her gaze shifts to the much younger Heir. He will be this sprite's constant companion from this moment onwards, known simply as the Wind or Breeze. His aspect is, predictably, Breath, and he is very excited for this moment. Although the risen child will not be able to see him, they will be linked by a profound and indiscernible link so that the boy may call out to the Heir when in dire need. The Maid smiles at him, and he returns it, hands and feet jittery with nervous excitement.
All at once, the moon shines brighter than it had been before, and the Maid steps forward. The Prince mirrors her movements, but defers to the raising of her hands, bowing his head to the side while he waits. A tingling sensation begins in the Maid's palms, thrumming throughout her fists, feet and behind her eyelids. As she focuses on the cold, frigid body curled in on itself below the ice, her hands clench. Blue fire erupts along her arms, seeping down into the water and encircling the dead child. It swells within his chest, turns his hair several shades off, and gives him a renewed vigor for Life. His icy blue eyes flutter open, but there is no passion there yet.
The Prince waves his hand, a seemingly idle motion that sends shock waves through the boy's ghostly white body, but which does him no harm. His Heart links up with his slowly stirring brain, and he remembers... but not quite. He remembers living amongst people, being loved and loving in return, but he does not remember how he came to be in this deep pool. It is for the best.
The winter spirit rises above the water effortlessly, eyes wide and staring, waving his arms about as if to prevent himself from falling backwards. His bare feet are several meters above the ground, and he kicks confusedly at the air, taking stock of his situation. A staff is clutched in his white-knuckled grip, his hair equally pale-stricken.
Jack Frost drifts forward, the breeze ruffling fondly through his hair, and the Wind boisterously moves to greet him.
The Maid grins.
Sanderson noticed the change at first.
The first signs of the slip were minor, hardly an issue. A few black granules here and there, mingling with and devouring their own sands, causing children to toss and turn in their sleep. A disturbance easily muffled with a dash of golden dust, gently sprinkled over a sleeping child's eyes.
Pitch Black, the Boogeyman, had been creating nightmares more often than usual. While herself and her dear Sandman generally tolerated this, for children learn from Fear, the Seer had still been wary. If the Nightmare King were to overstep his bounds, the dreams of children everywhere could be endangered. But, Pitch Black did not dare to encroach on the delicate balance for several years yet.
When the scales begin to tip in Fear's favor, however, she urges the Sandman to investigate.
Under the bluish-violet night sky, twinkling with the light of thousands of long dead stars, she observed placidly as Sandy's dreamsands began to form great and fantastical shapes. Wisps of Light intertwined with the sands, causing them to glow and imbuing them with purpose and meaning. Her lips pulled into a content smile, seated on the cloud of golden dust beside her charge as several sand sea creatures took on a livelier form and swam off into the night towards a child's windowsill. All around them, the Sandman's creations unfurl and disappear into the night, the stout little man himself waving his arms about as if directing an orchestra.
A tugging at her senses, a dark and treacherous finger trailing across a stream of their finest of sands, and the Seer is very much awake and aware. Smoothing down her orange robes, her eyes flicker to Sanderson, who has a troubled frown creasing his forehead. Something foul is afoot.
If she could communicate with him directly, the Seer would tell him to get a move on. Instead, she pushes the cloud they are seated on towards the disturbance's source using only a small amount of focus, prompting the Sandman into action. He brings up a pair of golden goggles, fastening them to his face, and the Seer has to unnecessarily stifle a giggle into the palm of her hand. It is not as if he can hear her; that is how it has always been. She highly doubts even the Man in the Moon realizes how much sway the Witch holds over him.
They arrive at the window of a bedroom, which is flung wide open. A cool breeze flows in from the chilled night air, stirring the rosy floral curtains, and the Seer tries to ignore the memory of just who that wind reminds her of. The home is two stories, the child's window being on the second floor with a large, gnarled beech tree barely scraping against the blue-painted siding outside. Below, light emanates from a kitchen window, illuminating a small part of the backyard in dim yellow.
The Sandman drifts in ahead of her, a warm golden glow smoothing over the child's room as he inspects their dream, and the Seer settles herself comfortably down onto the white-painted windowsill. She peers around at the various knickknacks under the darkness of the child's room, eyes lingering on the dimly colorful 'Squiddles!' posters.
There is a soft gasp that only she can hear, like the delicate batting of a moth's wing, and the Seer swiftly turns to look at whatever Sanderson has found. It is not often that he makes a sound, consciously or not, and so she assumes that it must be either very alarming or potentially interesting.
Incidentally enough, it is both.
Two yellow orbs peer out from under the child's bed from behind piles upon piles of stuffed toys and dirty old socks. They shift, slanting and narrowing into two pinpoints, before surging outward in a cloak of inky black shadow like watered silk. The darkness forms itself into a more angular, charcoal grey humanoid shape, tall and looming at the child's bedside. Pitch Black stands before the Sandman, who shakes a finger threateningly at him. A sliver of a smile, gleaming sickly yellow and sharp, spreads across the Nightmare King's face.
"Now, Sandman," he purrs, seeming more amused than threatened by Sandy's display. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"
To his credit, Sanderson doesn't appear ruffled at all, crossing his arms in defiance. Sand images form above his head, most of them having to do with punting Pitch out of the window. The Seer heartily approves, but the Boogeyman doesn't seem to be as tickled. The Seer watches him closely, noting how the color in his eyes shifts from silver to gold and back again, feeling very glad that he cannot see her.
If they were to come to blows, she would do more to make her presence known. God-tier beings, in their all-powerful splendor and glory, exhume a calming presence amongst most spirits that walk this planet. She supposes that it has something to do with how they were the ones to create them, some sort of subconscious deference or homage. Appearing for but an instant, even in their peripheral vision, would be enough to settle things down. For now, she will simply watch, fractals of contemplative gold swirling in her eyes.
The Nightmare King sneers haughtily down at Sanderson. "Of course. You and your precious Guardians, always searching for ways to be rid of me. Have you forgotten, dream weaver, of our similarities? It must be because of your old age," his eyes shift pointedly down towards the star man's rounded stomach, a single brow raising. "I can see that Santa isn't the only one being showered with treats and baubles over the years."
Sandman raises his balled fists, lips turning downwards and glittering cheeks puffing outward in challenge. He looks somewhat like a disgruntled marshmallow. The sands above his head create a scene in which an enormous, well-muscled Sandy snaps Pitch like a twig. The shade spirit regards him coolly, eventually scoffing and turning on his heel. The shadows track his movements. The Seer thinks she can see yellow eyes lurking in their depths, blinking like many fairy lights through a thick marsh fog.
Stalking over towards the wooden sill she sits upon, he glares out at the golden creatures prancing across the starry night, teeth bared in an ugly snarl and eyes flickering briefly to the Moon, before twisting around to snap at the Sandman again. Rose— no, she is not Rose, never will be again, — knits her fingers together underneath her chin, curious.
"At least you have belief to feed from. This skulking about in the shadows has become tiring," Pitch pauses again at the child's bedside, fingers trailing around the edge of the golden dream. His lips pluck upwards into a wicked look, pupils appearing like silvery twin eclipses against the soft glow of the sands. "I think that it is about time for the children to learn the true meaning of Fear, don't you? Bring about a... ah... another Dark Age, perhaps?"
It only takes an instant for the Seer to move to Sanderson's side, where the starman tensely scowls at the Boogeyman. A sadness swims in his amber-coloured eyes, watery but tinged with righteous fury, and the Seer reaches out to lightly pat his shoulder. He relaxes somewhat, for it wouldn't do to have an all-out brawl in a child's bedroom, but his hands still twitch with the urge to form his dreamsand whips.
For a moment, every figure in the room is perfectly still, caught in a stalemate. Pitch Black has close proximity and speed, the Seer thinks, but he knows that Mansnoozie is far more powerful. Not to mention the multiple boons provided by herself to ensure his victory. On the other end of the spectrum, Sanderson would rather not let any harm befall the child. Thus, it would be ultimately foolhardy for any one of them to make a rash decision.
Finally, the Nightmare King hums to himself and draws quickly away, smoothing down any visible ruffled edges. The Sandman sighs inaudibly, the supernatural tension in the room tapering out until there is nothing but a faint buzz of power left.
Looking much like a caged jungle cat, fluid and predatory, Pitch Black creeps along the edge of the bedroom wall, carefully watching the Sandman with a disdainful curl to his lip. In the blink of an eye, he is dashing underneath the bed and back into his realm of shadow. Tingling chills still persist at the edges of her senses, but the Seer breathes easily again.
With one last look around the child's bedroom and a toss of golden sands about their brow, they leave through the window.
The Seer can't help but cast a quick glance behind them, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone standing at the open window. There is no one there, however, and she slowly turns away.
The Knight trudges heavily through the snow of the North Pole, his boots and pajamas getting soaked clean through before freezing into a stiff sheet of fabric. Tugging mindlessly at his red cape, he looks up at the towering workshop looming in the distance, knowing that there will be warmth and excitement inside. He can already feel the reason for the season drawing near. A corner of his mouth tugs upwards into a smile.
As a child who dreamed once, he cannot deny the small, hesitant burst of giddiness in his chest when looking upon Santa Claus's workshop. His older brother, the Prince, would probably laugh at him for being swept away by childhood memories, but the Knight's affinity for Time cannot prevent such sentimental feelings. Besides, what does he care of the Prince's ridicule? That guy should learn to get a life. Maybe he can pinch one off of the Maid, the Heir's hot mom.
Oh, geez. Did he really just think that? Yikes, he hopes the Seer doesn't catch wind of such betraying thoughts. That would just be awkward and incredibly uncomfortable. The Knight shudders minutely, shrugging his leather shoulder pads a bit, and strides purposefully towards the workshop's entrance. He is able to easily slip inside without being noticed in a few sped-up steps, his shoes still covered in crunching slush and ice. Then, the Knight stops to take in his surroundings, red eyes widening behind his sunglasses.
Nicholas St. North's workshop is truly wondrous. The Knight loves coming here, even if just for a little while, to look around. Being Father Time isn't all it's cracked up to be, no offense to Rudolph and Baby New Year or any clay animation studios, and it is always nice to have a break every now and then. Even if the clocks are always relentlessly ticking at the back of his mind, gears grinding and turning and hissing electrical spite, the sight of mountains of children's toys in the making always manages to distract him from the inevitableness of Time.
Only, today, the Knight notices that he is not alone in seeking a distraction. Floating some feet away atop North's globe is the Witch of Space, her face intent and intelligent green eyes narrowed. Following the line of her gaze, he sees that she is staring at one of North's helpers, a yeti. The yeti seems to be hard at work in sewing together a bunch of cotton-filled animals. There are several stuffed dogs, plush with pricked ears and white all over, and the Knight remembers distantly that the Witch used to have a dog just like that.
Without even thinking, he stops Time, dropping forwards and swiping one of the stuffed dog toys out from under the yeti's hairy nose. Backing up and unfreezing Time with a flick of his wrists across invisible glowing symbols, the Knight ascends to stand beside the Witch in a few leaps. She looks at him, eyes wide and head canted curiously to the side, before her lips pull up into a delighted, buck-toothed grin. Her bright smile could probably outdo even the brightest star.
"Milady," the Knight says, doing an overwrought and totally goofy bow, aviator shades nearly spilling off of his nose.
He presents the stuffed dog with a flourish, and the Witch gratefully accepts it, hugging it tightly to her chest.
"Thanks, Dave!" she says, brightly, laughter bubbling out from her lips.
The Knight has to think for a few moments before remembering that this is his name.
When he had sworn to protect his charge, the Heir was mostly unconcerned by the matters that other Guardians faced. In his eyes, Jack Frost was to be free and unbound by rules or silly regulations, and it had seemed for a good spell that his charge had believed in this as well.
They had spent hundreds of years together, traveling all over the world and spreading wintry joy to small towns and children. Of course, adults had not been as appreciative of their combined efforts, but it was always nice to hear Frost call out to him to stir up a nice breeze to chill them to the bone. It was fun, rebellious and something that he enjoyed very much. An impish style wasn't exactly forbidden when it came to fun, and small tricks and pranks were exciting.
"Hey," Jack would cry, jubilant and with his staff swinging merrily. "Wind! Take me home!"
To say it was a surprise when his charge actually joined the Guardians of Childhood officially had been a colossal understatement. The Heir had been frightened by the nightmarish specters, certainly, but he had wanted to keep his charge free from harm, not send him directly into it. Their days were meant to be spent in relative isolation, away from all this world-saving business, away from danger and fear. Sure, the Heir liked the world quite a bit, but wouldn't it be easier to step aside and let the older Guardians handle it?
But the requests of the Man in the Moon are not to be ignored nor taken lightly, and soon they were caught out in a maelstrom of swirling darkness, suspended far above the ground and the grey storm clouds. The Heir knows that there is another like him following Pitch Black, he just does not know whom. He privately thinks that, if his charge were to become too dangerous to the happiness and dreams of children, he would have interfered by now.
He has seen the silent shadows that surround the nightmares. Occasionally, a slinking shape, moving with a careful purpose that reminds him of a cat, leaps through them, their touch ineffective and sliding right through. As if they cannot touch them. This form also rushes along behind the Boogeyman, seeming to be attempting to restrain him with jerky hand motions but utterly failing to do so. The Heir almost pities them, for having such a powerful charge as well as being so transparent. When he asks the Seer of Light who this other power is, she refers to her as the Rogue. A caretaker of the aspect Void.
He does not ask why the Seer gets a far-off, saddened look in her eyes when he brings it up.
It is only when a dark arrow strikes the Sandman through the heart that he sees her fully. She is less dark and foreboding than he had imagined, dressed in dark blues and with hair even whiter than Jack's, her entire body nearly invisible when she draws near. He sees mostly her shadow, reaching out and grasping desperately at the golden sands that quickly shift and churn into black, but he cannot mistake the look in her eyes for shadow. They are pink, ringed with a whitish fire that trickles down the side of her face in thick droplets, and filled with a heart-wrenching sorrow as the Seer screams.
She looks at him, her expression suddenly lacking and empty and so very lost, before she is swallowed up in furls of dark sand.
Rocks of all shapes and sizes, with carved-out whorls and designs sprawled across their surfaces, are covered in a soft splattering of sunlight. The grass is soft, the moss green, and the river runs with all the colors of the rainbow. Tiny eggs, small legs peeking out from under their rounded shapes, teeter around the water's edge, occasionally toppling in and resurfacing with a totally new color scheme.
The Easter Bunny, E. Aster Bunnymund, is coaxing flowers into sprouting from the earth. Small colorful blooms poke up out of the soil around his paws, petals flaring out before settling at a nice spread towards the sun. He will use these plants to paint the eggshells with, many different natural colors and dyes mingling together to create the perfect tone or pattern.
There is so much here to do, so much movement and excitement and rolling eggs, and the Page of Hope adores every last inch of it! Every work his charge makes is a masterpiece, signed off with a swish of his brush and a little push. Leap! Bound! Down the rabbit hole and back out again, for there is still so much work to be done.
A child! Such a lovely child, a wild tangle of blonde hair and wide, delighted eyes. The Page springs around her as his charge investigates the young girl, taking in the rest of the Guardians as he half-skips to a halt beside the grey-furred Pooka. Stone sentinels turn to watch, undersides grinding gratingly against the ground.
The large, formidable man with soft eyes, North, he remembers, has a sprinkling of influence from the Knight and the Prince on him, lending speed to his work and passion, for nothing worthwhile can be accomplished without Heart. Beside him, the Tooth Fairy titters and her emerald wings flutter. He recalls a distant memory in which he and the Maid joined efforts to give those wings their iridescent shine, the bird woman's eyes their excitable fervor, and a Life bursting with new Hope. They made her into a warrior. None of these other patrons of the aspects are present. He wonders why.
But who is this? A young man clad in a blue ensemble, windsock hood flowing with the breeze, a black cowlick struggling to break free from where it is squashed over the crown of his head. He follows the Guardian boy named Jack Frost around, butter yellow shoes soft and silent. The Page thinks that this may be the Heir of Breath, and waves belatedly at the other so that he may catch his eye. The Heir looks startled to see him, eyes wide and filled with sky blue untainted by poufy clouds, and grins shyly.
But quickly now! The grindstone is turning, and Easter is fast approaching! What is this? A whisper of ominous darkness across the way? Slithering, odious and crawling into their Warren. Fear charges through the air, hooves stamping and sharp howls piercing their eardrums, black sands coursing through the body of a great, grassy green beast, a terrible infectious slime that consumes everything.
His Pooka charge stamps his foot twice on the ground, a tunnel portal opening up beneath his footpaws, and the Page leaps after him with a jubilant whoop.
Adventure sings in his blood.
Her charge is dead.
The Seer could never have predicted this, could never have prevented it. Her entire being reels from the revelation, mentally backpedaling away until she cannot see those last grains of golden light being turned to black any longer. She shudders, the Light within her becoming small and as fragile as the bones of a baby bird. This cannot be happening to her. She has been around for such a long time, surely she would be able to come to terms with the death of a loved one.
But that's just it, isn't it? Sanderson was the very last person she considered close enough to her to be almost family, for the Knight and Prince are always distant and the Rogue... the Rogue. If only that blasted cage had been left shut, if only her dear sister had never stepped up to watch over it, if only the Rogue had been more careful— but she shouldn't be so caught up in the tethers of her past. The Seer can already feel her Light dimming, turning into a dead, barren grey. Nightmarish visions call out to her from the dark.
For a time after the Sandman's passing, she had been able to cope, holing away in a pocket of Light, of what remained of her planet from the Golden Age of stars, celestials and massive gilded ships. The Witch, she knows, has tried her best to bring bits and pieces from their past lands to this new world, but the Seer is afraid. She is afraid that she cannot console herself with just a tiny shower of gleaming rain sliding down her skin, nor with a droplet from a pinkish sea churning with particles from a long dead star, an aurora borealis that was all her own, hers to keep and preside over.
From where she curls desperately around a gleaming ball of sunshine from the defunct Land of Light and Rain, deep within a cave somewhere in the snowy Himalayas, the Seer shakes and sobs. Darkness closes in around her, coiling tightly around her Light, her being, her everything; inky black seeps into her and stains her skin a charcoal grey.
She remembers the perfect and many whispers, the forced blankness of her caged mind, turning colors, red blood and a black and white checkerboard. Slowly flying higher, too late, no light, the Heir bleeds onto the battlefield, stinging blade ripping through her skin and—
Cool, gentle fingers touch against her forehead, two pinpoints of pure feeling that revive her.
It is no surprise to the Seer that, when she opens her lavender eyes with a momentous effort, the Maid of Life is crouched over her prone form. Her eyes are narrowed with concern, her hands brushing stray wisps of hair out of the Seer's face. The Maid's stare is severe, but not unkind.
"I can bring him back," she says, voice akin to rain falling from the heavens, rushing down a slick-stoned brook before warbling outwards.
Clasping the Maid's hand in her own, joyful tears spring to the Seer's eyes.
The wind whistles in his ears loudly in warning, and Jack Frost spins away from the ball of soft-packed snow that flies past his head. Eyes wide, he turns to see the beaming brown-haired child who has been able to so deftly get a drop on him, only to have to dodge yet another snowball thrown at him.
He kicks off into the air, bare feet never once feeling the bitter cold, and grins back at Jamie. "That was great, you almost got me that time!"
It has been a little over two weeks since they had defeated Pitch, sending him and his nightmares crawling back to his lair, and Jack's feeling good. Great, even. He has made good friends out of his believers, like Jamie and his little sister Sophie, and even gets to hang out with them whenever a convenient bout of snowfall cancels a school day. The Guardians, too, have become almost like family to him. Even the grouchy kangaroo has started to warm up to the idea of him hanging around.
It doesn't make up for three hundred years of solitude and harrowing isolation. It doesn't amend the fact that he was alone and hurting for so very long and not one other spirit thought to try and spend time with him. And it definitely doesn't fix the gaping hole in his chest that grew each and every day that he tried and failed to discover who he really was and what his purpose in existing was.
Now, however, that pit is growing smaller, little acts of kindness trickling in and building up a new foundation there for him to rely on. Now, he has friends who believe in him. Now, he has a family who loves him. And, hey, eventually? That apprehension, that lingering feeling that everyone might just pick up and leave him one day, will disappear with a gust of Wind.
He knows it will, because there's a comforting Breeze on his thoughts that tells him everything is going to be alright. Even when he was all alone, that Breeze was always there to assure him of his value, to say that he was meant for great things, to rifle gently through his hair when he was at his worst and most vulnerable.
Jack realizes now that he was never truly alone. He smiles at empty air, floating several feet above the ground with laughing children scrambling about below him.
"Thanks," he says, perhaps a little bit sadly.
There's no actual response, and he doubts that there is going to be one. Of course not. The Wind doesn't have a voice, a throat, a tongue. He must be imagining things for his own pitiful benefit.
But then the Wind unexpectedly stirs around him, and for a moment he swears he can hear the sound of a boy laughing at his side.
Jack turns, but there is no one there.
Now that the battle is over and their enemy defeated, the Seer grows restless. The sands become jittery, charged with far too much power, and more than once a child will awaken with a shout after a particularly vivid dream of sky-diving or winning the lottery, only to become severely disappointed when it turns out to be only a dream.
As if sensing her displeasure, the Sandman also grows steadily more irate towards his fellow Guardians, throwing himself into his work and creating bigger and brighter dreams than ever before. But, there is a lurking shadow over their thoughts, and soon it must be addressed.
The golden sands guide her to a dank and dark series of chambers deep within the bowels of the earth, and the Seer trails listlessly along after her brilliant, shining charge, eyes roving along the empty corridors and cage-filled chambers. Occasionally they happen upon a steep drop, like a cliff's edge that plunges down into nothing but empty, slightly jagged darkness. It feels almost as if there could be some untold horror skulking about below. An unwelcoming chill settles over them, and the Seer begins to understand just how abysmal the Nightmare King's lair is after several hours of aimless wandering. It's all rather spartan.
Finally, they hear a scuffling of sharp hooves around a corner and what sounds like a congested snort. Hurrying along on his short little legs, the Sandman is just in time to see a Nightmare dashing off into the shadows.
A whip appears in his hand, long and strikingly golden, and with a crack he lashes it around the fearsome horse's leg. When the horse continues on it's merry way, Sanderson is dragged behind her into the dark with a liquid, slick 'pop'. Without even considering the consequences, the Seer sets off after him in hot pursuit, plunging directly into the portal.
It is a quick, stomach-clenching drop, and then she is standing beside the Sandman in seemingly yet another empty corridor. Every visible surface is covered in a different shade of grey, lifeless and dull. The Seer wonders how anyone could stand living in such a place.
A shadow whisks along the wall, tall and imposing, and they are both immediately on their guard. Pitch Black had proven himself in combat before, but in his weakened state he shouldn't be too much of a threat. She assumes this, at least, and desperately hopes that it will be true.
"Have you come to rub your little victory in, Sandman?" A voice snaps, although the remark doesn't have much venom behind it. As the Boogeyman slinks out from the shadows, it becomes apparent to the Seer that he isn't cut out for a fight just yet. He is bedraggled, eyes duller than normal and he looks at the Sandman with something like resignation. Only the tiniest glint of malice lingers in his gaze.
Not for the first time since Pitch's defeat, the Seer wonders just what kind of torture he has been subjected to after his Nightmares dragged him beneath the ground. Perhaps she will never know.
The Sandman, bless him, stares pityingly at the once proud Nightmare King, waving his arms about to form comforting shapes much to the shade spirit's annoyance.
Then, she hears it. A faint sniffling, coming from just over the edge of yet another jarring stairwell. If there had been any other sound but the empty silence, she would have missed it.
Her curiosity burning, the Seer meanders over to peer over the side of the drop, expecting another Nightmare or a wayward Fearling. What she finds, however, is neither; lavender eyes meet watery pink.
A glittering myriad of golden butterflies appears suddenly, flapping delicately about and sending the Nightmare King into a deep sleep much to Sandy's surprise. When he looks around for their cause, because those certainly weren't his sands, he finds none that are apparent.
With a sigh, he settles down onto the cold floor beside Pitch, gently patting the other dream spirit's head as he snores.
They will speak when he wakes.