Chapter Text
Skittering backwards, he took small, quick steps trying desperately not to lose his balance after being shoved, but the manacles biting around his ankles didn't allow enough movement and a fall was inevitable. With his wrists manacled securely behind him and unable to break his fall, he landed heavily on his side, he grimaced in pain as his left elbow and shoulder were jarred painfully. Gasping as multiple sharp stabbing sensations coursed up his rapidly bruising arm and into his neck, he held his breath as the extent of the pain made in the simple act of breathing an uncoordinated nightmare. A loud clang as the barred door closed and locked rang in his ears, as did the accompanying laughter from his jailors. As he lay on the floor, exhausted and weak from the shock of both his imprisonment and the torture he knew would follow, he closed his eyes, hoping it would help him ease the throbbing in his arm and head. It did neither.
Shuffling slowly to the far wall once he had stilled his breathing, he edged his way up into a sitting position using the bars to steady his very shaky balance. Finally he was resting against the bars furthest from the door. Looking about miserably, the first thing he realised, from the gentle rocking motion, was that he was on board ship. Somewhere deep in the hold, the slightly curved wooden sides told him it was an old fashioned sailing ship. Water streamed in tiny rivers down the planks giving the impression it was raining inside, but it could only be due to leaks, the stifling humidity or most likely both.
Around him, stood the bars of a home made but sturdy looking cage allowing him roughly eight feet square. Something told him that, despite the long rows of much smaller cells lining either side of the ship, this had not been designed larger for the purposes of luxury. No, it was either to house more prisoners, or as he tried not to consider, to accommodate his jailors as they inflicted their promised torture.
When he had set out on his travels, he had intended to see the world, experience different cultures, to have new and exciting adventures and to do all the things he had been unable to do when younger. He had not expected, nor wanted, to be kidnapped by slavers and be imprisoned in the hold of their ship destined to be sold into slavery. As he gazed bleakly around his cell, he found himself uttering the understatement of his life.
“You're in real trouble, Silas.”
“It's worse than you think,” came a small voice from further down the long line of cells.
“Who's there?” Benzedrine called, every muscle in his body coming to attention in a fight or flight response - not that he was in any position to do either.
Three, maybe four cells away, the figure of a young woman rose with long mousey brown hair and stared sadly at Benzedrine. She wasn't conventionally attractive, neither was she particularly unattractive. She would be your typical, average young woman that might surprise you with a little make up and a nice dress. The only thing that marked her as different were her unusually large, but pretty, eyes.
“My name's Laura,” she replied unenthusiastically.
“Don't talk to her!” two voices yelled in unison. Almost immediately, two young men could be seen in the equivalent cell on the opposite side of the ship.
Finally a man, roughly in his mid-thirties got to his feet and frowned at Benzedrine.
“Welcome to Hell, kid.”
Benzedrine frowned as he looked around. The woman was roughly his own age, or at least what his own age would be if he lived a normal life. He, himself, was over two and a half thousand years old. To him, it was the most natural thing in the world and he still felt and looked young, but he realised that not everyone would be quite so understanding.
“Who are you all?” he asked knowing that he hadn't introduced himself yet either. But there was always a possibility that they knew exactly who he was already. “What are we doing here? He added.
“You can't possibly be that stupid, boy!” the older man scowled angrily.
Benzedrine frowned, momentarily pondering whether to snap back. Would it help? Probably not, but he wasn't going to allow it.
“I'm not stupid!” he yelled back, letting all of his pent up anger out in one statement. “I don't know who you are; it's a reasonable question!”
“You're here for the same reason we are,” both of the younger men said in unison. “We all have some sort of useful power that they want to harvest. Already, the buyers are being informed of a new catch. What's your power?”
“I… I don't know if…” Benzedrine began hesitantly.
“You might as well tell us, we'll only find out from her,” the older man nodded towards Laura.
Benzedrine's brow creased deeply. “How does she know? We've never even met.”
“You don't have to,” the man explained. “She's a Locator. She's the one that found you, the one that told the slavers where to find you, the one who told them how to capture you. You're here because of her!”
Benzedrine frowned; it seemed an odd claim to be making.
“But she's a prisoner too,” Benzedrine looked over to look at the young woman, her eyes lowered in fear or shame, or possibly both.
“Tell him!” the older man shouted angrily.
“They're telling the truth,” she replied sadly. “I've been here about two years, they use me to find others.”
“And you do, don't you!” the older man growled bitterly.
“Do you have a choice?” asked Benzedrine, fully aware as a doctor that certain drugs could be used to force people to act against their own wishes.
“Of course she has a choice!” the man snapped in return.
“I was asking Laura!” Benzedrine argued in return before turning back to the young woman and asking again in a kindly tone. “Do you have a choice?”
“Yes, I have a choice,” she sighed. “But it's an unacceptable one.”
*
“Wake up!” Sandman cried again as he paced the floor in Patrick's bedroom.
Looking at his hands, he screamed his frustration, as all he could do was make Patrick sleep even deeper.
“What can I do to wake you?” Sandman asked aloud. “Who normally wakes you? Where is he?” he continued in frustration, knowing that no answers would be forthcoming. “I could invade your dream if you were having one! Where's your Sandman? Why isn't he doing his job properly? Wake up, Patrick! Please!”
Patrick stirred, rolling over and muttering.
“Go away, Pete,” he grumbled. “I'm trying to sleep.”
“You can hear me?” Sandman almost shouted, elated. “Patrick, are you awake?”
A loud irritable sigh escaped Patrick's lips as Sandman's loud voice dragged him unwillingly from the comfort of what had been the best night's sleep he'd had all week.
“This had better be good, Pete,” he snapped, before realising that something was wrong. “Pete? How did you get in here?”
Looking up, Patrick's jaw dropped open and he sat up in the bed hurriedly, pulling the sheets up with him in an almost self-conscious attempt to cover his naked torso.
“You!” he cried, astonished to see Mr Sandman standing at the foot of his bed looking somewhat agitated. “You are real!”
“Of course I'm real!” Sandman replied indignantly.
“I'm not dreaming?” Patrick asked, more than a little puzzled.
“No,” Sandman frowned. “It would have been much easier if you were! You know, it's really strange here; I had no idea who to get in touch with to wake you. Normally, when I arrive in a new place, I'd be greeted by the local Sandman and Benzedrine, but no one came!”
“What?” Patrick's brow creased at the words. “Why didn't you just shake me?”
“Shake you?” Sandman frowned in confusion. “What do you mean, shake you?”
“You know…” allowing the covers to fall to his waist, Patrick mimed shaking a sleeping person. “Shake me. Like that.”
“And that wakes you?” Sandman queried, still puzzled by the response.
“Yeah,” Patrick replied, equally puzzled. “Of course it does.”
“What about Mr Benzedrine? I mean, where is he? Does he know that works?” Sandman questioned him, utterly confused.
“We don't have a Mr Benzedrine,” Patrick explained. “Or a Mr Sandman for that matter.”
“What?” Sandman was, by now, totally perplexed. “How do you sleep?”
“Usually pretty well! That is, when I haven't got you yelling at me in the middle of the night. Are you an insomniac or something?”
“Patrick… I'm a Sandman, I don't sleep.”
“No? Well, I do! Goodnight!”
Patrick made a show of pulling the covers up to his neck and flopping down onto the pillow once more, sighing and huffing his disapproval at the interruption of his well-earned rest.
“Patrick!” Sandman almost whined.
“Whatever it is, it can keep!” Patrick snapped, determined to listen to no more.
“Silas is missing,” he explained hurriedly. “I'm worried about him… Patrick, I'm really worried.”
The tone of Sandman's voice, the terrible vulnerability and fear registering in his words captured Patrick's full attention. Pushing back the covers, Patrick stared at Sandman's worried and nervous expression.
“Come on,” he smiled comfortingly as he rose and pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt. “I'll make us some coffee. Tell me everything.”
Patrick led the way to the kitchen with Mr Sandman following behind. As he walked he could almost see Mr Sandman casting a curious eye over his furnishings. This was an odd situation; Mr Sandman, someone he thought was a fictional character that had subsequently found his way into all their dreams, was here, in his house. He had simply appeared in his bedroom and that was strange enough, but strangest of all was that he had just accepted it. Stopping in his tracks, Patrick spun on his heels and eyed Mr Sandman suspiciously.
“What did you do to me?” he asked without further explanation.
“Do to you?” Sandman cocked an eyebrow. “Would you like to be more specific?”
“I'm treating this like you turning up is the most natural thing in the world.”
“Yes,” Sandman smiled. “Refreshing, isn't it?”
“No,” Patrick frowned. “What did you do?”
“Did you see me do anything? But do you realise that for once in my life I woke someone up! I still can't get over it!”
“Don't change the subject. What did you do?”
Sandman shrugged guiltily.
“Okay, so I sort of disabled your shock reflex,” he admitted. “I really didn't have time to deal with you freaking out, but I didn't expect you to realise and quiz me on it.”
“Put it back!” Patrick insisted as they entered the kitchen.
“It is, it really only needs a temporary adjustment. Probably why you're freaking out now.”
“I'm not freaking out!” Patrick snapped.
“Yeah, you kind of are?” Sandman frowned. “Look, Patrick, I need your help and while I'm not going to try to get it the way I tried last time…”
“You mean by tricks, threats and abduction?” Patrick returned narrowing his eyes.
“Well, certainly not by threats, but I've already used a trick on you.”
“I don't hear you ruling out abduction,” Patrick scowled.
“No,” Sandman lowered his eyes guiltily. “I… can't promise that,” Sandman paused before continuing with a hopeful expression. “But I can promise it'll be a last resort.”
“Well, of course, that makes it perfectly acceptable,” Patrick deadpanned.
Sandman frowned briefly. He wanted to see Patrick's point of view, but he wanted to find his brother more.
“You mentioned coffee?” Sandman changed the subject.
Patrick rolled his eyes and nodded. “Come on,” he waved for Sandman to follow him as he headed for the kitchen.
“Umm… what is it?” Sandman asked innocently.
Turning a disbelieving glance in Sandman's direction, Patrick shook his head lightly as he realised Pete's look-a-like was absolutely serious.
“It's a drink, sort of a stimulant,” Patrick explained. “It helps to wake me up.”
Sandman shook his head sadly. “A stimulant? You really do need a Mr Benzedrine! Do you want me to find you one? Sometimes someone will be on the lookout for a new world or maybe I…”
“I'm fine,” Patrick cut in, handing Sandman a steaming mug of coffee. “Careful, it's hot!”
“Do I drink it?” Sandman asked. “Can I? I mean, it's a stimulant, but I don't sleep, so I don't need to wake up.”
“Anyone can have it, people just like it,” Patrick explained.
“Will I like it?” he asked curiously.
“If you're as much like Pete as you seem, you'll be taking it intravenously within the hour.”
Sandman smiled at the comment he took to be a yes as he accepted the mug.
“Okay, now tell me,” Patrick began again. “What's happened to Silas?”
Sandman took a deep breath as he placed the mug on the counter. It was very possible that Patrick would take his concern for his brother lightly. When he thought about it rationally, it didn't seem all that worrying, but in his heart he knew that he should be worried.
“He went travelling,” Sandman half smiled. “He'd always wanted to, everyone thinks he's the quiet one and I'm the adventurous type, but he's not so quiet when you get to know him and me? I'm a real homeboy. I never wanted to leave The Hills, now I don't want to leave the Dream World!”
“Something happened?” Patrick prompted.
“Yeah,” Sandman nodded, his face creased with concern. “He was keeping up with his job, sort of long distance.”
“He can do that?” Patrick replied, astonished.
“Oh, yeah, it's a real skill, not all Benzedrines can do it.”
Patrick's lips turned up in a subtle smile; the look of pride on Sandman's face as he talked about his brother's skills and abilities showed him just how close the pair had grown over the last few weeks.
“It was going well for the first few years…”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Patrick interrupted. “Years? What do you mean - years?”
Sandman stared at Patrick, his face contorted in an expression of thoughtful puzzlement.
“I must admit, it did occur to me that you didn't look any older,” he finally spoke. “How long has it been here?”
“A few weeks,” Patrick replied, equally confused.
“I don't understand,” Sandman shook his head. “But then, I was watching Pete for quite a while before I came through last time. Perhaps I've never noticed that our time doesn't run in synch?”
“How can you not notice that?” Patrick cried in amazement. “You have years and we have weeks and you didn't notice!”
“Patrick, I'm three thousand years old! A year or two to me can slip by while I weave a good dream! I'm hardly likely to notice a few more, am I?” Sandman replied taking a mouthful of coffee and smiling appreciatively. “You're right, this is good!” he added, nodding enthusiastically for emphasis.
Patrick stood in shock. There had been numerous mentions of time-spans through which he really should have realised that the brothers, their family and possibly others too reached considerable ages, but somehow it had not even registered with him. It now made sense to him that years could pass in Carousel but only weeks in his world. Now, more than ever, he realised how he had spent days in Carousel, yet perhaps only seconds had passed, making it seem all the more dreamlike than ever.
“Okay,” Patrick nodded as he collected his thoughts and got his mind back on track. “So he went travelling and he kept doing his job whilst he was on the move. Did he stay in touch with you? Is that it?”
“No, it's hard to stay in touch,” Sandman sighed. “Each district is so different, we can't guarantee we can find a compatible communicator, or even one at all. I haven't spoken to him for eighteen months.”
“Well, what makes you think that he's in trouble?” Patrick asked; his brow creased in mild confusion.
“Because no one's woken up for three days,” Sandman announced bleakly. “Something must be wrong. Please help me Patrick, everyone's asleep, I can't turn to anyone else.”