Guardian of Dreams

“Emmy-Bud,” he murmurs, and long fingers stretch out toward the blinding projectile and its rescuer. In the waking world, his form sinks deeper into unconsciousness, calm, silent tears of molten ore draining from softly closed eyes. He drops to his knees as more liquid gold —Dreamsand and wishes and eons of longing for something he hadn’t known he lost—streams down hollow cheekbones. “Emmy….my girl….”

In sleep he sees her, right through a kind of blazing womb of gold and white, the form of a teenage girl in terrible agony, careening toward what will become her canvas, her masterpiece, despite him.

But who cares about him? He is in awe of her.

Then he saw it.

Sneaking in the edges of the dream, like a cloaked dagger, jet black sand spiraled and snuffed out a lone star. Then another. His eyes flared questioningly. "Koz-"

The remaining syllables were lost to time as the blazing heap of fury approached collision, as screams rang out from the nearby planet. Within an instant, the burning mass halted and a wish was reignited, perfusing across the dreamscape: To reunite with her father. Then time stood still. The stars buckled and flickered. Golden sands, once luminous, began to writhe with resistance. Like a memory that didn't want to be remembered. Black sand flared out and burned across the dream; igniting into a nightmare.

Sandy floated, fingers raised trying to steady the currents, but the dream...refused. Then melted away into a fortress- Kozmotis' fortress. But not as it had been. No soldiers. No order. Cold. Empty. Lined with doors. Echoes of Kozmotis' past.

From one door a young High Lord could be heard speaking. "I'll be back soon." Across the hall, a agonizingly recognizable voice screamed, "You are not my father!" The cacophony of sounds was hushed, but overwhelming.

SOME HABITS ARE EVER SO HARD TO BREAK. Even with her oldest friend, her first proper companion found so long ago, at a time where she lost everything and had absolutely nothing -- even now, there is a tinge of hesitation in the suddenly oppressively heavy air. Yet the stormclouds RETAIN their shape -- no rain falls, no snow, no hail. And as her pilot speaks ( aloud, light voice ringing like merry bells! ) the dark grey slowly gives way to softer white, pressure dissipating. ❝ You may find it silly... and I'd not fault you if so. I was only wondering. ❞ Though disembodied at first, the low voice is quickly given shape -- a slender cloaked figure, a stark CONTRAST to Sanderson himself. Endless waves of raven hair float in the wind without the slightest care for the laws of gravity while the glow of the dreamsand gives her complexion a burnished bronze tint. Yet she presents herself not as a goddess, now -- but as a FRIEND.

A pause. Not in fear or in surprise. But in that uniquely ancient way of things that have always been and yet still manage to be caught off guard, like a very old library book suddenly realizing it’s been overdue by several millennia. -- How long had he been sleeping? -- Yet something seemed off. His dear friend, an omnipotent, confident being above all else did not often show doubt. -- Was something on her mind?

Sand began shifting once again as if memory had taken up interpretive dance, morphing into the figure of an unmistakable miniature Sandy , head bowed in slumber. A lone figure with wind-wild hair sat at the edge of a dreaming island nearby, speaking music notes of sand that would glow with polychromatic lights of of love, anger, joy, loneliness.

Every note floated peacefully to Sandy, molding to his form and rippling into his consciousness with a small stirring as he began to pulsate brighter, taking on the colors of the music notes she spoke. Her voice was the wind of his dreams. Soon, the miniature sandman illuminated a multicolored beacon, fueled by the lullaby of words. And the display faded as a small twinkle flickered in his eyes, the way stars do when they're being sentimental.

I'll take it.

Here have a bnuy.

Sandy speaks of Mother Nature, of Seraphina, as a living saint and Guardian, and shame coils deep in the pit of the old general’s gut. He loiters at the perimeter of his own dream, breath ragged and hesitant, fists tight at his sides. All the color of the reborn soldier seeps from his skin, replaced by a dismal grisaille.

I’m so scared.

What if he doesn’t know Seraphina as well as he thought he had begun to know her? What if love isn’t enough, and the attempt to integrate the sweet and dewy six-year-old with the formidable adult proves disastrous? What if he really is the ignorant student, and Sandy is far dearer to his daughter than he ever shall be?

“Please continue,” he breathes, his voice small, snared in the lump in his throat. “Nothing you can tell me could ever make me love her less.”

A pause. Not for drama.

But because some moments—like the start of a story or the first breath after a nightmare—deserve silence to make them real.

Sanderson listened intently. Not for language, mind you. Dreams don't use words, they use feeling, which is faster. Golden sand spiraled across the dreamscape. Stars bloomed, flickering into view, as if the past had been politely waiting to be remembered.

Then, from the folds of time long forgotten, a lone star ignited and tore across the heavens with little regard for speed limits. It plummeted toward a small green planet, blue-tinged and entirely unaware that it was seconds away disaster.

The star didn’t slow. It bounced off other stars with all the grace of a pinball with purpose.

Dancing wheels of parmesan cast in sand do Broadway number and wave a little flag encrusted with lettering:

There was supposed to be a companion piece to this (one where they make crowns of leaves and berries for each other) but, well, I got busy.

I wanted to draw Pitch getting re-possessed. I wanted to try and show possession of the shadows in the eyes with like a smokey takeover in the whites of his eyes.