The Children of Hypnos

!!!!SANDMAN!!!!

Sleep is for the weak.

The Sandman repeats it aloud to keep himself awake. They haven't brought him waking water in far too long. Only Ares comes to see him now, and Ares only brings pain. No more metal slivers shoved under his fingernails—he's mentally unstable enough now that Ares can step into and out of his dream at will—but the pain of intruders in his head, tearing into parts of him. It hurts, it hurts.

Others have said sleeping stops the pain. He has heard it lets you drift off for a while, untethered. The Sandman has never been untethered. He had nightmares as a child that never really went away; they were only held off by his dreamhunter need to stay awake. And when he did have to sleep, the nurses had to give him twice the normal dose of sleeping sand, lest his nightmares claw their way out of him.

Maybe it will be different this time. Maybe this time he can meet sweet darkness and silence.

He forces his eyes open. He is still on the floor of his cell, cheek pressed to the stone no longer cool to the touch. He can't stand. When he tries, his joints give out. There will be no darkness, no silence, if he falls asleep. There will be a mob of villagers, a castle on a hill, and the Witch of the Wood.

His eyelids begin to droop. Almost reflexively, his thumbnail digs into the side of his index finger until he breaks skin and bleeds. He snaps awake again.

It will not be restful. It will not be good.

They haven't given him DreamLess in some time, either, but he can't focus long enough now to create dreamforms. He would need his waking water for that. He thought he heard footsteps earlier; he thought they were bringing him some, to wake him up, to make sure the tide of his nightmares doesn't come to campus. But the footsteps faded and then he wondered if, out of desperation, his mind hadn't resorted to hallucinations in an attempt to keep him awake.

He can't fall asleep. His nightmares are too dangerous and too many.

But three years of consciousness now seems like three centuries. The time stretches out behind him like an endless twisting road, and he's finally reached the end.

He can stop now.

He can sleep.

You can't, he reminds himself kindly. He always tries to be kind with himself; he's one of the few people who is. You can't fall asleep.

But I want to.

But you can't. What about Marcia?

Marcia is strong.

What about Emery and Wes?

They can handle themselves.

What about the rest of the campus?

They're dreamhunters.

The Sandman closes his eyes.

Sleep is for the weak, he tells himself.

Then I am weak, he replies.