Wow. That Monty Python mention got me more reviews than I did on any other chapter. Let's have a round of applause for Curly Wurly Me, who spotted all the cameos! Even the Maximum Ride one, which I have to admit I doubted anyone would find.
Curiosity was something Sandy could understand. He knew that some people were better at suppressing it than others; while some might avoid a question to be polite or to avoid being insensitive, others might insist upon an answer simply because their minds would not be at rest without one. Children, most of all, were the hardest to satisfy when it came to curiosity.
He supposed that was why it was Jack questioning him now instead of one of the other Guardians.
"What… what was it like, Sandy?" the boy asked hesitantly.
Sandy gave him a confused look, not understanding what he meant.
"You know… when you were… gone." His eyes flickered to Sandy's back.
The golden man closed his eyes. Oh. So that was what he wanted to know. Without really thinking about it he reached back and rubbed the spot on his back, the spot that still tingled with remembered pain sometimes and was just the slightest shade darker than the rest of him.
What was it like? Sandy could remember all too well. He could remember the first moment when the arrow struck, the blunt force that was not accompanied by pain until a moment later, and then it was a fierce and blinding pain. He could remember the iciness of the fear and dread that had crept through his veins like poison, slowly changing him from the inside out. He could remember the dizziness and the weakness that had swept through him very suddenly, causing him to stumble to his knees. He could remember the horror of watching himself gradually turn into something dark and twisted and evil. And he could remember the last moment when he had held his chin up high and accepted his fate, if only to deny Pitch the satisfaction of watching him die on his knees.
And after that? After that it was much harder to remember. There had been darkness, he knew that much for sure. And there had been fear. He had not been completely corporeal, but his mind had still been somewhat present. He had seen that he was surrounded by the darkness, but sometimes, only sometimes, there had been glimpses of something else. They had been brief, but they had been like breaths of air after nearly drowning in an endless cold ocean of nothing: a flash of blue, a distant cry, a blur of color, an echoing snap, a streak of silver, the faraway sound of bells.
And then, then there had been light. It had been just a distant glimmer at first, but it had grown in intensity until the darkness around him had changed to gold, and not just gold but gold sand, dreamsand. He had felt stronger and his mind had felt clearer and before he knew it he was whole again, with enough power to end the fighting once and for all.
But how could he describe all that to Jack? They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but Sandy could not think of any pictures that could possibly explain the experience. And even if he could, he didn't want to burden Jack with the heaviness that filled his heart whenever he thought about it. And so he just shook his head, indicating to Jack that he could not talk about it.
Jack bit his lip. "Oh, that's okay, if you don't want to talk about it that's fine, I was just wondering, you know, about how it felt and all…" He seemed to realize he was beginning to ramble and stopped.
Sandy smiled reassuringly and put a hand on his arm. He then made a series of images over his head that could be translated to mean, Some things are best left unsaid.
"I understand," Jack said. Then, after a hesitation, he said, "But… you know… if you ever want to talk about it…"
Sandy nodded. Jack turned and started to walk away, but he paused and turned back around.
"I probably have no idea of what you went through," he said, "But you don't have to bear it alone. Not anymore."
Then he turned back around and left, and the Master of Dreams was left to wonder if perhaps Jack had been talking to himself more than he had been to Sandy.
Eh. Not my best. But that's what happens when I write at one in the morning.