Sometimes, sometimes it's the silence that speaks the loudest, Jack learns somewhere around his first century. Sitting on the cliff edge hanging over his pond, he doesn't bother opening his eyes or turning his head, but a smirk is all the greeting that is needed as his guest sits next to him and joins in listening to the Choir of Winter. The music is so soft, so delicate, that anyone without the patience that silence provides would miss it. Softly, eventually, Jack starts to hum a melody that blends so well with the Choir of Winter, it's as if the part was made for him, and it was, a long, long time ago. His guest nods along, his own silent harmony only heard by those that could truly listen. Their elements dance under the moon's light, sand and frost mixing to create something greater than its parts, something more beautiful than anything that could be touched, but could be felt in their very souls.
Nodding to himself, the guest looks at this new creation, knowing that it would give wonderful dreams, more beautiful than countless that he had given before or since, and Jack holds out his hand, a single spark landing on his finger. His frostling, his child, is more precious than anything He has created before. The joy it will bring to the child that is blessed with this new hybrid of powers.
Jack wants to ask, but he doesn't. He already knows why the other is here, he can feel it in the air. The moon is full tonight and the pull is stronger than any other night. The moon calls for magic to be done, for wonder to be spread to become joy come first light. Belief is one thing that he has never felt personally, but has heard the importance of over his many, many years. He has heard the wind speak of it, where the lights of faith are so bright they could warm even his frozen heart, making it beat once more. That it could give voice to the mute and sight to the blind. That it could make the lame walk and miracles and impossibilities happen where otherwise it could not. So Jack helps, spreading joy to accent the dreams, making belief even brighter to where even his unseeing eyes could almost sense it.
"Its beautiful." Jack murmurs, breaking the Winter Song and he hears sand shifting in the distinctive way that he knows that the Sandman is nodding. His silent hum agreeing with the child.
After all, who could believe that a blind child could be friends with an ancient deaf-mute?