What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again.
~ 'Mockingjay' by Suzanne Collins.

The skies of Gotham were wreathed in smog, a decaying mantle of oily filth that clung to limbs and coated throats with the relentless slick of despair. It leeched from the pores and souls of the humans living -existing- within the bowels of the great city; a mass of parasites excreting their waste into the failing corpse of their city- host.

For thats what it was- failing.

Sandy could feel it, the dull thud, thud, thud of the city's pulse that slowly faded further with each passing atrocity that was committed by its denizens; every papercut- thin wound piling upon one another until infection began to set in.

The dreamgiver could see this, feel the inexorability of despair settling into the souls of the city's children, working its way in just a little younger with each passing year. It grieved the Sandman- how he lamented within the privacy of his mind- that he could never truly help the ones who most needed his aid. This was not his territory, had never been a place where he was welcome to tread; worse things than Pitch had seen to that long ago.

The little man shuddered, curling a little in on himself at the memories of being consumed, of being devoured from the inside out by the infection that plagued the city, ravaging almost anything that he managed to seed in this dead place.

It was anathema to him, that he could not help; that any dreams that he managed to seed in the city would rot upon sprouting, like a sapling inflicted with root-damp. Better to isolate the infected organism, is what any gardener would say, and destroy it, in hopes that it would not spread its affliction to another, healthier organism.

Sandy supposed that Bunnymund would say something along those lines, having joined the ranks of those who had given up on corpse- painted Gotham far before things hado gotten to such a point.

He lowered himself closer to the rooftops, drawing in his meagre cloud of dreamsand as he peered through frost-laced glass and between cracked wooden boards that served as a cover for windows broken through rage or neglect. No Jack Frost for these children- Sandy doubted whether Jack even knew that Gotham existed, the dirty little stain on the Guardians' records, as it was in the minds of the other three. Goodness knows that MiM had tried his hardest to dissuade Sandy from venturing in over the years.

At that, he began to gather his sand, spinning it not into the fantastical unicorns and gold-winged manta rays that had been so effective back in Burgess, but tiny dreams that could be cradled tight and never endanger the ones that they served to protect. fragile little fireflies of strength that could, with a little luck, last the children until he gathered the strength to force his way back into the hostile city.

Big dreams were dangerous after all; they drew attention to the children when they woke to the waking world.

And that was worse than no dreams at all.

Not from their hearts did the danger sprout, oh no, but from the monsters in human flesh prowling the streets, seeking to survive and carry on their gross traditions of slaughter. They hunted any light, any happiness that was allowed to take root beneath the tattered gauze of the fog, and ripped it from the source- it was a mercy when they deigned to steal it quickly (this was not often).

The Sandman learnt that lesson all to quickly.

A legion of tiny dreams floated silently across the sky, a thousand tiny moths with dark golden wings speckled with even darker 'eyes' that would wing their way with all secrecy to where they needed be.

Sandy waited after that, curled into a tiny ball on the roof of one of the grand Gothic building littering the interior of the city, watching the final fragments of his handiwork dissolve into the poisonous miasma of the city's sky.

All but one.

the Sandman cradled this final dream within his starfish hands like a precious thing, shaping it personally with fingers teasing out nonsensical patterns in the egg sized orb of gold.

It had to be right; a fitting, special dream for a most remarkable individual. He toyed with the idea of a bat for a time, a little black thing to call forth past memories of family and hope, but decided against it. The turmoil within his boy's mind was too great at this point to handle such a dream.

Instead, he formed feathers.

Not a robin, oh no- that would accomplish nothing good for the boy, but a tiny little bellbird, its ringing cry echoing shockingly loudly through the night like a water soaked tree hit by lightning.

Sandy took off into the night at that, cradling the tiny thing close to his once-blackened heart in hopes that it may absorb the knowledge that it needs to truly resonate with the soul it was created for.

He perched lightly at the half- boarded window and let himself in, slipping through the frosted wood to perch on the floor. The place was cold, frozen over and saturated with decades upon decades of the worst scum that Crime Alley had to offer the world. The walls were saturated with the same aura that clung to the city, turning yellowing walls and dark wood ominous to the beholder.

The dreamweaver ventured forward, floating on mere wisps of gold towards the sleeping figure curled on the floor. Surrounded by loads of heavy artillery, and possessing a savage strength even in stillness, the man (boy) clutched a red helmet like a lifeline, fingers whitened by the strain and tendons flexing.

He curled like an animal, a frightened cat ready to attack and savage anything that dared to threaten him, and even some things that didn't. Muscles tensed further as he grimaced, haggard face flexing in a sick parody of a smile.

The dream bringer didn't dare make a sound, but leaned over the sleeping dreamer, close enough that he could scent the sour tang of fear-sweat on skin. Gotham was such a place that even Pitch was wary of venturing to, otherwise he was sure that the dreams such as these would be a feast.

Cradled to his chest, the bird-dream shuddered, pressing its little head through the gaps between fingers and, within moments, began scratching lightly at Sandys fingers in a plea for release.

He opened his hands and for a moment it just sat, surveying the sleeper with a queer eye that all dreambeasts have.

It stayed still, eyes searching, dull gold feathers glimmering faintly within its nest of fingers, before hopping lightly from hands to the hollow of a damp throat, where it nestled, shining with dreams for the 'forgotten'.

For a time, the Sandman just sat on his threadbare cloud, watching for hours as his boy's face slowly cleared of pain, shedding years as he was lulled into the deep dreams of one who dreams rarely well, if at all.

Finally, sure that for at least one night his dreams would remain sweet, he swept sweat-encrusted white strands back to mingle with black and spoke his first spell for the first time in too many years to count. He believed with everything in his heart that this boys world, at least would improve; that the boy before him would live, fully and truly, once again.

And then, his words-

"I wish you well"

AN- it's four in the morning and I have no idea what I've just written.

Crossposted to Ao3