Hay thur~ As you may have been aware, Rochi and I just started up school again and therefore hadn't had much time to do the thing, so sorry for the wait. This is the longest chapter so far, methinks so maybe it was all worth it *shrugs*. Great. Glad we had that talk. On a much lighter note, I'M TELLING YOU RIGHT NOW THAT IF YOU HAVE NOT READ A LIFE LONG FORGOTTEN BY XXROCHIRYUZAKIXX THEN I'M KINDA WORRIED ABOUT YOUR LISTENING SKILLS BECAUSE I'VE TOLD YOU TO DO IT. SO GO. BEFORE YOU READ THIS CHAPTER. GO DO THE THING. A'KAY? WE ALL CLEAR? GOOD. LETS GET THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD THEN.

Returning from his trip, Sanderson was on high alert. He landed the plane, and began to cautiously make his way through the tunnels, glancing over his shoulder and peering into every nook in the hall. He'd really brought this one down upon himself. There was no way he'd be able to calm the Nightmare King this time. He would pound him into the sand. Literally.

About halfway down the hall, he noticed the dark sand curling it's way down the walls and floor. He shrank the width of the tunnel so he could touch both walls at the same time. Closing his eyes, Sandy channeled as much strength as he could into pushing the angry angst sand back into the main room so as not to affect the rest of the castle. He began walking down the hall, chasing every bit of the darker color behind the ornate doors at the end of the now rather small tunnel. He stood there for a moment, arms stretched out on both sides holding the walls, just staring at the filigree designs looping themselves around the sand-brushed entryway. There was a lot of anger seeping out of that room. A lot of hate. An abnormal amount, really, but what else should one expect from a man who'd been holed up inside his own misery for millennia upon millennia? The Sandman stood there for a few more long moments, steeling himself for what was to come. With one last deep and silent breath, he forced the doors open.

He winced as the doors opened, fully expecting a blunt object straight in the face immediately upon entry, but none came. Looking to the floor, he saw the black robes billowing over the tarnished gold. He let his tangerine eyes drift over the lanky body covered in the dark fabric, up to meet the blazing ones that topped it all off. A shiver ran down his spine, as one very well should when making eye contact with a shade of Pitch's caliber. Those furious eyes narrowed slightly, pale gold glinting in the light.

"I believe this is yours." His voice was so low, so monotonous, so disturbingly reserved. Sandy caught sight of the golden pouch caught tight in The Boogeyman's fist. It was terrifying, how polite and subdued he was being. It completely contradicted the seething darkness that coated the room.

It was only then that Sanderson glimpsed the always moonlit scythe resting against Pitch's back. He reached up tentatively to grab the pouch out of the taller man's hand, no longer meeting his eyes. He opened it up and looked into it, reflexively making sure none had been taken, before throwing it directly into the fire place, which lit while it was at the top of it's arc. He looked up, letting his gaze rest on the Boogeyman's lips instead of his eyes.

He signed a vague "I don't know what to tell you" and waited, watching those thin, dark lips like his life depended on it, which it very well may have.

At first, their corners twitched ever so minutely. Then slowly, as if he were mulling the action over in his mind, they curled back to reveal nightmarish teeth, sharp and uneven. Again, that eerily calm voice slipped past them, though this time it was fighting for control, like a feral dog chained to a tree. "I told you to leave me be, Sanderson."

The shorter man gulped and nodded vigorously. "You did," he signed. "I wanted almost as much as you did, to understand." He risked a glance into the shade's eyes, then looked back down to his hands. "I'm sorry," he said silently. He flinched at the snarl that followed. Pitch was a very unforgiving spirit; he knew that better than most. That didn't stop the fright he felt when the dark crescent blade entered his line of vision, held in preparation for execution.

"It is not your place to understand. My personal matters are none of your business." The chain holding back that wolf in his voice had broken, and the spiteful growl it had become set Sandy's nerves on edge.

His wide jaw clenched in distress. He would love to be able to avoid death if at all possible in this situation. That would be nice. Problem was, he didn't know the words that would lead him down that path. He hadn't meant any harm, he'd just been doing what he did best, helping people with their problems the only way he knew how.

He shook his head while looking down in thought. 'I didn't mean to hurt anyone.' he thought. His more human impulse gave him an urge to cry, but his immortal self was very rational, and knew it would not solve the situation in any way shape or form. His eyes glimmered with those urges, but when he looked back up at the Nightmare King, there were no tears. "I know. I apologize," he signed slowly.

The taller spirit met his gaze, and there was fear in his eyes. There was anger there, too, of course, but a sort of terrified sorrow laced that fury. His bony fingers tightened and loosened on the pole several times in quick succession, before suddenly raising the weapon to the air above his head. Sandy watched in horror as Pitch sent his blade singing down towards him, and stared in confusion when it penetrated the sand beside his feet, mere millimeters away from them. There was a whisper. "I don't want your help."

Sanderson let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding, cliché as that was. After a few quick repetitions of inhalation and exhalation, he finally began relearning what it was like to possess coherent thought. He looked up from the shade's chest to his hardened gaze, before sinking to his knees, legs finally giving out. Genuine fear was not something that generally was felt by Sanderson Mansnoozie. I was foreign to him. He never needed it. He was always the more powerful being. Pitch Black was one of the very few that could bring his heart to such a fast pace, and make his ankles tremble. But that was his job, wasn't it? To bring people down to size? The Sandman could appreciate that. He didn't necessarily find it pleasing, but he could appreciate it's value.

He looked up once more, from his new place on the ground, and signed "Wanting help and needing help are two very different things."

The twist and shift of emotions that pulled at Pitch's face came as a surprise. Flashes of longing and hatred and sheer terror washed over his features before they settled into one mutual expression. He bared his teeth again, seemingly in an attempt to make anger his main emotion. It was painful to watch. "And what makes you think that I would trust you, of all people?" The Boogeyman's usual menacing hiss hitched in his throat and matched the frantic confusion in his eyes.

Sandy bared his palms, finally sitting back on his haunches. His expression may have been worry, perhaps sadness, definitely nothing Pitch wanted to see, so he cleared the palate. Pulled a blank face as best he could.

"Nothing at all," he flashed.