Pinnikle: The Lost Truth

24: Of madness, sand, & mirror

Recorded by Sophia Lionhartt,
Of the events which took place on the 19th day of Radia, after midnight, year of Pinnikle: 1,229.

The crowd yelled, but it was not the shout that was expected (at least not by Fin, Leon, and myself). Guttural discontent came from many hearts, and they mocked the sandman, whom they thought was a bard! They even denied the magic sands, which they saw with their own eyes. They complained about it, as if it were some messy stage trick. Meanwhile: tears fell from the sandman's eyes, collecting droplets of sand, as they slid down his face and plopped heavily onto the stage floor. He remained silent and shook his head as the screen of sand, which had illustrated his story, fell and scattered across the stage.

The moment took me back to the morning we awoke without our parents, to a mess of sand from his body. This was much different though. That day, I was very sad for myself. This day, I mourned for the complete loss of sanity in the nix. The world is mad, but they do not mean to be: it is easier for them to believe their own truth, which is a lie.

There is no such thing as personal truth, and that is hard for some believe. What is true will always align with what is real, though many conclude that reality is only what they believe; because they will not believe in magic. The truth is this: Fear is is real, he is on the move, and he will topple the fools that will not believe in things that are greater than him. Fear will overcome those who are like the nix in that pub. Those were my thoughts, before I was unable to block out the clamouring around me.

"Oi!" A long eared nix yelled out. "It is I who should be shakin' my head at the notion of yer tale! You speak of nonsense begotten by quests of folly!"

He threw an empty bottle of ale at the sandman. Another nix threw an unfinished bottle, and another threw his plate, which was heavy with food. The crowd followed, as crowds do: incapable of control or reason. The sandman procured a shield of spiraling sand before him, which only enraged the crowd more.

The sandman's voice could be heard whispering truth into every ear, including mine: "You won't understand until this story fails to come true. By then, it will be too late."

Then a loud snap was heard, and the angry crowd fell into an ignorant slumber - all aside from our trio, at the back. The sandman whipped from himself the ale, food, and other things that had been thrown at him. He peered over the sleeping audience to see us at the back, and squinted. I guess he had noticed we were awake, or maybe he had known all along, since he did not put us to sleep with everyone else. Then, with the sound of rain, he became a spiral of golden sand, and whirled from the stage to land in front of us. Though he did not land with his feet on the wooden floor, but stood above it. His sands recollected into the form he had taken on stage: ornate clothing, and a wizard's hat.

"Jack...?" Fin stepped forward and questioned him.

"Yeah, it's me," He said; and his voice came from every direction, though he only spoke to us.

He was distraught from the upheaval, and did not care to dull his powerful, ancient tone. He tilted back the brim of the unfitting hat, and we saw his face: still pouring out slow, sand-filled tears.

Fin put a hand on his sand-clothed shoulder and affirmed him: "Fantastic tale, old friend. I'm sorry they didn't understand."

Fin made eyes with the sandman, and somehow brought him comfort. Only Fin would think to console the master of dreams, as if they were close-knit friends.

"Why didn't... We fall asleep?" I couldn't help asking. The words came out unintended, though I had burned to ask with them in the moment. I blushed.

He did acknowledge my question, but answered Fin, "Finnegan Lionhartt, you are correct."

Fin was startled to be addressed by his full name, after so long a time had passed from our last interaction with the sandman.