As promised, centered on one of the Guardians.
No one quite understood Sanderson Mansnoozie. He was just one of those spirits that did not look very imposing but had an aura of power and knowledge about him all the same. It was hard to tell what went on in his head; it wasn't like he could tell anyone. Pictures made of sand could only get you so far, and sometimes Sandy just got tired of living each day like a game of charades. Sandy often liked to be alone with his thoughts. The best time for this was his nightly ritual of delivering dreams.
Many people thought that Sandy made the dreams that were given each night. In a way they were right, yet in another way they were wrong. Sandy made the dreamsand; he made the magic. But he did not make the dreams. Dreams were not something you could mass produce on a production line. No, everyone's dreams were different. His sand was not unlike a key; it held the potential of opening a door, but first it needed a door to open. Without someone to dream his dreams, that's all his sand was: an unused key. And that was what it would remain until a person made contact with it.
The magic of his dreamsand was that it could tap into the hidden feelings of the dreamer: their buried emotions, their greatest joys, the deepest desires of their heart. Every true dream had a piece of the person's soul in it, and that is what made it so special and so powerful. If you shared in someone's true dream, you were more intimately and profoundly connected to that person than anyone else in the world.
This was why the Sandman was such a critical member of the Guardians. Over time he had witnessed millions upon millions of true dreams, and even if the dreamers didn't know it that made him deeply rooted within them. Sandy's story was not as well told as North's or Tooth's or Bunny's; he did not have as many conscious believers. But because of the power of true dreams, anyone who had ever had one believed in Sandy whether they knew it or not. So it was understandable when so many lights had gone out on the globe after his death. It was like losing your best friend, the one who knew more about you than anyone else. Of course, only the children could actually see him, since as people grew older they learned to reject things that could not be explained, even if in their hearts they knew them to be true.
All this went through the Sandman's head as he floated high above the world on his cloud of sand, sending out golden strands in all directions. He watched them weave through the sky, illuminating the black canopy and outshining the stars. Pride and happiness swelled within him; no matter how many times he did this, it never got old. He especially appreciated it now that he knew what it felt like to have it all taken away. Subconsciously he reached back and rubbed the spot on his back where the nightmare arrow had struck him, shuddering at the memory of the cold feeling of despair and fear that had spread through him.
Sandy knew it would not do well to dwell on that dark thought, so to distract himself he chose a random strand of dreamsand and followed it down to earth. He did this sometimes; he liked to check in on individual dreamers when he was feeling down. The stream of sand led him to a quaint little house in a quiet suburb. The girl inside was fast asleep among her pile of stuffed animals, dreaming of a day at the beach. He smiled at her peaceful little face, and then turned away from her window to follow another path of sand that went off in the opposite direction. This one belonged to a tiny baby who dreamed of warm arms embracing him. He continued traveling in this way, following strands of dreamsand on a whim. It led him all over the area, and he eventually found himself in the middle of the city.
He settled on top of a building to set up shop again; the people in this city fell asleep much later than those in the nearby suburbs. Most of them were just now going to bed. He started forming the streams of sand, but stopped at a sound that came from the alley below.
It was the sound of crying. A child's crying.
Sandy descended into the alley. The shadows made it hard to see much, but with another sob he located the source. It was a young boy; he couldn't have been more than fourteen years old. Still a child, and yet too old to believe. He did not see Sandy approach him, nor feel his hand on his arm.
The boy was very skinny, and his thin clothes were ripped and torn. He wore no shoes, and his feet were cut and bruised. His face was pale and drawn, and at the moment it was streaked with tears. His blond hair was matted with dirt and filth. Sandy could tell that he was sick; he shivered even though the night was warm and his breathing was labored. Sandy tried to get the boy to see him, waving his hand in front of his face and attempting to channel comforting thoughts straight into the boy's mind. It did not work; Sandy was not, after all, telepathic.
He knew the boy was dying. He knew it with a grim certainty in the bottom of his heart. And he knew that he could not save him. But Sandy did not want his end to be like this: alone and heartbroken in a dirty, dark alley. So he did the only thing he could. With a gentle touch to his forehead, the boy fell asleep, and Sandy summoned some dreamsand that swirled around the boy's head.
Sandy watched as the sand moved to shape images. There was the boy, healthy and happy, surrounded by figures who Sandy knew must be his family. The images moved, changing from scene to scene: the boy was playing with his siblings, talking with his father, hugging his mother. He was lying on his back under a starlit sky, holding hands with a beautiful girl. He was laughing with a friend as they shared a loaf of bread. He was giving the last of his food to a hungry little girl- even though it was clear he needed everything he could get- and was smiling at her disbelieving joy. One by one his memories wove into his dreams, until the last image: his family and friends, holding out their hands and smiling with love. There was a soft glow of light, and then the dreamsand was just sand once more. It looped once around the boy's still form before turning and racing away through the dark.
Sandy took one of the boy's limp hands and held it in both of his own, and that was where he stayed. He stayed until the sky lightened and the rays of the sun pierced the alley. He stayed until an elderly woman took out her trash and, finding the boy, called the police. He stayed until the ambulance wailed away as it carried the boy down the street, even though the paramedics knew as well as he that it was too late. He stayed even after everyone had left and the alley was empty once more. Only then did he rise off the ground and take to the sky.
Children had died before; Sandy had seen it happen. This boy was not the first one Sandy had helped pass on. It had happened before, and he knew it would happen again. It was simply the way of this cruel world. But that did not make him feel any better.
His heart weighed heavy with the knowledge that there would be one less trail of dreamsand to color the sky tonight.
I just sort of started writing and let it take me where it wanted. Somehow it turned into angst, but a sweet sort of angst, I think.