[FIC] - Lapidary (2/2)
Part one
The second the words leave his mouth, he senses it: a feeling of revulsion, a captive force fighting hard and furiously. He’d gone too far; just the suggestion, the very idea of sending a helpless sleeping child spiraling into a dark, bitter world that no light could touch had raised the ire in his tiny prisoner. Sandy is glaring at him from beneath his beetled brow, his chest heaving. His whole body seems to be clenched, a coiled muscle, ready to react. The disgust pierces Pitch, leaving him feeling alone, tired ...and hurt?
Well, what could he have expected, after all? The sugary display of concern was second nature to the sandman. But that’s all it was: a display
No sympathy for the devil. Pitch laughed grimly to himself.
Pitch stands, his hands curled into fists at his sides. He is in his castle, his domain. He will not be made a fool in the house of shadows. “Pity. Well, it really doesn’t matter. My kingdom is dark and there are more rooms to hide in here than there are stars in the sky. I could wander my grounds for my entire life and never have to see you again, Sandman. Just remember that."
With a devilish sense of triumph Pitch turns and strides into the darkness, adding, "And well, you are the one who has to see the stars, so just make yourself comfortable.”
Sandy watches the bogeyman steal back into the recesses of the palace and pulls himself upright, bolting again for the exit. Mustering all his strength, he heaves himself towards the lapping shores beyond the door. Again, the shackles materialize and the chains go taut, causing him to tumble to the floor.
This time something is different.
The shackles do not disappear as he is pulled to the ground. Instead, they seem to darken, turn opaque; their texture becomes pitted and cold, like rusted iron. His hands fly to his neck as a thick manacle clamps down securely. No air. He can't breathe. Scrambling backwards, he claws at the metal, mouth opening in mute terror. Fine grey sand sifts to the floor beneath him, dusting his hands and knees as the shackles tighten.
Pitch hears the sounds of the struggles and turns, puzzled by the peculiar image of the sandman straining and twisting like a hooked fish. He wrinkles his nose in derision. “You’re pathetic. No amount of struggling will break those bonds...” he trails off as he notices the heavy chain, knotted like entrails.
Despite his earlier disinclination, he runs back, falling to his knees next to the guardian. The shackle is cutting into the soft flesh of the sandman’s neck, and Pitch's mind helpfully treats him to the image of it severing his head neatly from his shoulders, like garden shears on a rosebud. Pitch winces. Sandy’s face is dark, his eyes wide and darting, flecks of sand and saliva on his lips.
Pitch’s hands tremble over him uselessly, unsure how or even what it is he wants to do. With photo clarity, he realizes what is happening. My world is rejecting him.
“Stupid little man, listen to me. If you want to live you’re going to have to make that nightmare. think!” he hisses, grabbing Sandy’s face and holding it close.
Sandy is delirious. He hears Pitch’s voice, hears his words, but all he sees in his head are little dolls with eyes closed, falling slowly like feathers in a cascade of gold; little dolls whose waking lives are full of pain and neglect, sickness, sorrow, hunger, suffering. How can anyone know the hurt and pain of a mind so young and wish anything, anything at all but the sweetest dreams?
Pitch’s voice cuts through the haze of gold, soft and black and serene.
“Send the ones who harm them to hell, Sandman.”
Sandy’s eyes go wide, and suddenly, something inside bursts.
He remembers nothing after that.
Hours later, he comes to for the second time. He is lying in a pool of shadows. No, he is covered by a black silk coverlet. With a startled gasp, he grabs at his neck -- the iron bands are gone. A little spark of something lights up inside as he realizes he must have had a bad dream. That flicker extinguishes when he feels a deep angry welt, causing him to hiss and pull his fingers away. There is more pain than he’s felt in centuries, and he suddenly realizes how nauseated he is. Slowly, so as not to disturb his aching head and roiling stomach, he sits up. He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, resting it in his hands. He’s lying on a granite slab of some sort, a mausoleum that radiates cold up through his body.
Shivering, he crosses his arms and scans the darkness. Alarmed, his eye come to rest on the dark form crumpled in a heap on the ground before him. Pitch’s eyes are open, and he’s looking up at the sandman with a peculiar smile.
“You pack one hell of a punch, little man,” Pitch says, smiling. His teeth are dark, and Sandy realizes that he’s been bleeding from the mouth. Pitch lifts up onto his elbows, eyeing the sandman warily. Sandy returns the gaze fearlessly, but feeling spent, exhausted, confused and in too much pain to back up the stare with any threat. Pitch slowly unfolds himself and stands, dark bruises are blooming on his chest, face and arms. He looks like he’s been through hell.
“So you've noticed,” Pitch muses, indicating at the ugly bruises. "Well, I suppose you are mute not blind. This was all you, by the way.”
Sandy’s jaw goes slack. He’s well aware of his fighting prowess with his trusty dream whips... but bare-handed? A little bead of pride wells up, only to be promptly quashed by more questions... questions he can't even ask.
Pitch keeps a wide berth of the sandman, but as he circles, he stares at him with keen eyes.
“You did something quite strange. There you were on the verge of death, and then it happened: a jolt of electricity -- it practically tore my palace down. When I woke up, your shackles had disappeared, your island with it. And look.” Pitch holds up a cracked, dirty mirror.
Sandy peers into the mirror intently, not understanding what he's seeing. No longer grey, his body has regained color, but not the warm melted gold of sand. Instead, he was a dark, reddish color, like old blood. As he turns his hands they catch the light, a hazy metallic sheen glinting with pinpoints of bright red. He glances up at Pitch, and for the first time since he has woken up in this awful shadowy realm, a little glimmer of sand gathers above his head. A wavering question mark flashes briefly before falling away in swirl of spirals and waves.
"Tarnished," Pitch explains with a grim smile. "You're a tarnished star, little sandman."
The second the words leave his mouth, he senses it: a feeling of revulsion, a captive force fighting hard and furiously. He’d gone too far; just the suggestion, the very idea of sending a helpless sleeping child spiraling into a dark, bitter world that no light could touch had raised the ire in his tiny prisoner. Sandy is glaring at him from beneath his beetled brow, his chest heaving. His whole body seems to be clenched, a coiled muscle, ready to react. The disgust pierces Pitch, leaving him feeling alone, tired ...and hurt?
Well, what could he have expected, after all? The sugary display of concern was second nature to the sandman. But that’s all it was: a display
No sympathy for the devil. Pitch laughed grimly to himself.
Pitch stands, his hands curled into fists at his sides. He is in his castle, his domain. He will not be made a fool in the house of shadows. “Pity. Well, it really doesn’t matter. My kingdom is dark and there are more rooms to hide in here than there are stars in the sky. I could wander my grounds for my entire life and never have to see you again, Sandman. Just remember that."
With a devilish sense of triumph Pitch turns and strides into the darkness, adding, "And well, you are the one who has to see the stars, so just make yourself comfortable.”
Sandy watches the bogeyman steal back into the recesses of the palace and pulls himself upright, bolting again for the exit. Mustering all his strength, he heaves himself towards the lapping shores beyond the door. Again, the shackles materialize and the chains go taut, causing him to tumble to the floor.
This time something is different.
The shackles do not disappear as he is pulled to the ground. Instead, they seem to darken, turn opaque; their texture becomes pitted and cold, like rusted iron. His hands fly to his neck as a thick manacle clamps down securely. No air. He can't breathe. Scrambling backwards, he claws at the metal, mouth opening in mute terror. Fine grey sand sifts to the floor beneath him, dusting his hands and knees as the shackles tighten.
Pitch hears the sounds of the struggles and turns, puzzled by the peculiar image of the sandman straining and twisting like a hooked fish. He wrinkles his nose in derision. “You’re pathetic. No amount of struggling will break those bonds...” he trails off as he notices the heavy chain, knotted like entrails.
Despite his earlier disinclination, he runs back, falling to his knees next to the guardian. The shackle is cutting into the soft flesh of the sandman’s neck, and Pitch's mind helpfully treats him to the image of it severing his head neatly from his shoulders, like garden shears on a rosebud. Pitch winces. Sandy’s face is dark, his eyes wide and darting, flecks of sand and saliva on his lips.
Pitch’s hands tremble over him uselessly, unsure how or even what it is he wants to do. With photo clarity, he realizes what is happening. My world is rejecting him.
“Stupid little man, listen to me. If you want to live you’re going to have to make that nightmare. think!” he hisses, grabbing Sandy’s face and holding it close.
Sandy is delirious. He hears Pitch’s voice, hears his words, but all he sees in his head are little dolls with eyes closed, falling slowly like feathers in a cascade of gold; little dolls whose waking lives are full of pain and neglect, sickness, sorrow, hunger, suffering. How can anyone know the hurt and pain of a mind so young and wish anything, anything at all but the sweetest dreams?
Pitch’s voice cuts through the haze of gold, soft and black and serene.
“Send the ones who harm them to hell, Sandman.”
Sandy’s eyes go wide, and suddenly, something inside bursts.
He remembers nothing after that.
Hours later, he comes to for the second time. He is lying in a pool of shadows. No, he is covered by a black silk coverlet. With a startled gasp, he grabs at his neck -- the iron bands are gone. A little spark of something lights up inside as he realizes he must have had a bad dream. That flicker extinguishes when he feels a deep angry welt, causing him to hiss and pull his fingers away. There is more pain than he’s felt in centuries, and he suddenly realizes how nauseated he is. Slowly, so as not to disturb his aching head and roiling stomach, he sits up. He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, resting it in his hands. He’s lying on a granite slab of some sort, a mausoleum that radiates cold up through his body.
Shivering, he crosses his arms and scans the darkness. Alarmed, his eye come to rest on the dark form crumpled in a heap on the ground before him. Pitch’s eyes are open, and he’s looking up at the sandman with a peculiar smile.
“You pack one hell of a punch, little man,” Pitch says, smiling. His teeth are dark, and Sandy realizes that he’s been bleeding from the mouth. Pitch lifts up onto his elbows, eyeing the sandman warily. Sandy returns the gaze fearlessly, but feeling spent, exhausted, confused and in too much pain to back up the stare with any threat. Pitch slowly unfolds himself and stands, dark bruises are blooming on his chest, face and arms. He looks like he’s been through hell.
“So you've noticed,” Pitch muses, indicating at the ugly bruises. "Well, I suppose you are mute not blind. This was all you, by the way.”
Sandy’s jaw goes slack. He’s well aware of his fighting prowess with his trusty dream whips... but bare-handed? A little bead of pride wells up, only to be promptly quashed by more questions... questions he can't even ask.
Pitch keeps a wide berth of the sandman, but as he circles, he stares at him with keen eyes.
“You did something quite strange. There you were on the verge of death, and then it happened: a jolt of electricity -- it practically tore my palace down. When I woke up, your shackles had disappeared, your island with it. And look.” Pitch holds up a cracked, dirty mirror.
Sandy peers into the mirror intently, not understanding what he's seeing. No longer grey, his body has regained color, but not the warm melted gold of sand. Instead, he was a dark, reddish color, like old blood. As he turns his hands they catch the light, a hazy metallic sheen glinting with pinpoints of bright red. He glances up at Pitch, and for the first time since he has woken up in this awful shadowy realm, a little glimmer of sand gathers above his head. A wavering question mark flashes briefly before falling away in swirl of spirals and waves.
"Tarnished," Pitch explains with a grim smile. "You're a tarnished star, little sandman."