Sightless Dreaming
By Shahrezad1
Summary: Bunnymund spends most of the year gardening and taking care of the "egg plant" fields. But when the buds start dying, it's time to turn to an expert. Even if said expert is a mortal human. BunnymundXOC
Disclaimer: To assume that I own any of these characters is also to assume that I actually know what I'm doing with them. –laughs weakly- Right. Wish me luck.
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Chapter 2: Hard Times
"Then I thought, 'Wouldn't it be much worse if life were fair?' And all the terrible things that happen to us come because we actually deserve them. So now I take great comfort in the general hostility and unfairness of the universe." –Marcus,"A Late Package from Avalon," Babylon 5, Season 3
Something was wrong with the flowers. He stared at their fragile, drooping stalks in frozen denial, the arc of his spine straightening slowly into something robot. The flowers were sick…and it was spreading. Typically an abnormal frost could cause some characteristic wilting, but the fact of the matter was that there was no frost. Human embodiment or otherwise. The grass was still green, the trees and vines which made up the warren valley were as hearty as ever, but the "Egg Plants" themselves were wilting, their edges raw and ragged. Round, black patches were starting to appear on the leaves and stems, and the flower petals had developed a downy, white layer of spores. He'd even dared pull apart one of their buds to check on the googie inside and its surface had been mottled with dark, sunken spots, starting just under the shell.
Cradling one long specimen of his life's work in a broad paw, the man-sized rabbit bounded for his burrow, the hole in the ground more than just an abode. He'd hollowed out the area over the course of hundreds of years until what was once a single room had become a series of reinforced tunnels, similar to the rest of the fortress-like warren he'd created in his heyday. Stone had been rolled into place to create sturdy walls and roman arches, their forms etched and painted with mosaics chronicling a long lifetime of events.
But he didn't have time to examine the fading images, lichen and moss grudging wallpaper even in the depths of his private quarters, always busy with other things. Nor did he note how overlong the carpet of grass was within his dwelling, springing back up as soon as he had passed. Instead Aster made his way to his far-off study, ancient writing tablets displayed on ascending blocks of stone. Books—bound and loose-leaf—were presented upon more modern bookshelves, their levels carved of honeyed wood and engraved in a series of artistic swirls and symbols. Bearing meanings only known to him and the spirits of a nonexistent brotherhood.
A series of empty vessels sat in the corner, stained with magic and chemicals, along with an intricate, if dusty, chemist's set and a birch wand. He kept all of them entirely separate from the devices he used for infrequent cooking, preferring his food fresh. Chocolate, however, was another matter entirely, and resided in both locations for eating and experimenting purposes.
Light filtered through a sugar-glass skylight while rolled beeswax candle stubs sat scattered between rows and rows of vegetable tonics and herbal potions, glass bottles knotted closed with bits of rope and magic mixing with the plants within. Chocolate for every occasion (literally) was tagged and cataloged in a series of boxes, characteristics of each noted in abbreviations made up of a rainbow of colors.
The rabbit tossed a few of the all-purpose vials down onto a stone ledge-slash-countertop, just in case, and was minutely grateful when nothing broke despite his anxiety-driven actions. Then he was flipping open an old druidic journal, absently pinching a pair of Pince-Nez spectacles on at the same time. He didn't want to miss anything as he scanned through ancient tomes of information.
There were even a few volumes that Mr. Qwerty had missed eating in the process of turning from Santoff Claussen's resident glowworm librarian to Katherine's magical book.
But nothing was bearing fruit. Bunnymund threw down a notebook and scrawled out whatever felt pertinent, the sun shifting in the sky from a golden hue to marmalade orange and then a purplish plum, but nothing was coming. A few scientific sketches of the appearance of the disease were put on paper and then he was slamming the volumes closed, setting his glasses on the counter haphazardly and readying himself for travel. The pad of yellowing paper was tossed into an over-the-shoulder pouch and he thought about donning his green cloak for old time's sake, a pale imitation to the one he'd once lost, but ultimately decided against it.
For all that it would keep him warm in his next destination, it would just get in the way as he traveled. And the speed was of the essence.
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"Whaddaya mean meh plants aren't important?" The words were snarled across the workshop, heavy accent growing heavier as it echoed through wooden hallways and across an assortment of tables, whose occupants were hard at work. A few of the newer fellows winced at the noise and edged away, but their older counterparts kept working, whittling and painting to their own internal tune.
"I am merely saying your holiday has whole half year—why are you now worrying?"
"Because my plants. Are. Dying! Don't you get it? In half a year there won't be anything to have a holiday over!"
"Bah, you are only worrying over little frost. It is winter, is it not?"
"Not, yet, it ain't! And Frost has nothin' tae do with this, North. It's-it's, well, I don't rightly know what it is, but it looks like a virus or a fungus or some sort of parasite," his voice took on a desperate edge and Phil, standing close by as soon as he'd heard of the rabbit's impromptu arrival, was ready to play intermediary if need be, "I'm mechanically-minded, remember? Give me a puzzle, I can build it. But this…"
Desperate, grasping silence paid tribute to the fact that scientist of ages was at a loss, having spent more time frantically keeping up with the shifting "Earthlings" (once only a mild curiosity) than his own work. His tools were dusty, his staff shelved. It was humbling to admit, but for the second time in a year he didn't know what to do—how to save the very thing which defined him these days.
It wasn't as though he could ask Mother Nature, either, what with that convoluted relationship. Phil nodded in sympathy, remembering to himself.
"And besides, the warren doesn't get frost—it's made up of eternal springtime."
A springtime he'd taken for granted, it sounded like. But the toy maker had already turned toward bigger and better things.
"Yes, yes," the red-clad Guardian seemingly waved him away, and Phil winced despite himself at the tone, "then Jack is having little fun, yes?"
"Jack having-?! By crikey, North, you make it sound like the destruction of my googies is just the result of a mindless prank!"
"Plants are not toys," the bearded man stated in a congenial sort of dig, "surely they will grow back, yes?"
"They're the same plants I've always had, you great galah! They're not supposed to die, they're…they're an extension of me an' the warren!"
"Then maybe you are sick?" was his practical response, and the yeti could hear his employer slap a hand to his companion's forehead, as though checking for a temperature, "ah, your fur hides your sickness. You must see Phil before leaving."
"I'm not sick!" the Easter Bunny practically shouted, shaking the globe outside on its pedestal and halting the progression of the yetis' work. But only for a moment, as they all had a deadline to meet, "will ya just…look at what I wrote down, already?"
North sighed heavily and his right-hand-snowman sighed with him, only in exasperation at the two immortals' behavior.
"Look, I can see you are very upset. But I am also very busy. There is only four months left till Christmas, and I have to invent new toys for enjoyment. Pop them into childs' heads for wanting, yes? Come back later when I have more time. Say—January? Or ask Catrina Calavera and Allan Tide for help, they are preparing to enter world."
Aster's feet pounded the ground with his ire, and Phil knew without a doubt that the anger was probably rolling down furred shoulders to seethe in a boiling steam-engine of rage, "I came to you because…because…argh! Look, I just want to know what's happening to my eggs! It's itchin' 'neath my skin and I just sense that it's going to get worse if we don't deal with it now."
"Be calm, my old friend-."
"Some'un's sabatoging meh googies!"
"But who would want to do that?"
Peeking through the half-open doorway, the yeti spied the exact moment when Aster scowled up at North's bemused, wide-eyed expression and without having to be told he winced behind his furry mustache of grey.
It went without saying that North believed that people were inherently pure at heart—he was an excellent example of that, despite his maraudering youth. And, in fact, it had saved him from being turned into a stone elf like his former men (who, even now, were still in a half-changed state). But the Pookan had personally experienced what it was like to be targeted by an unfeeling, outside source.
Pitch was an example of that.
"That's what ahm gonna find out. With or without yer help, mate."
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AN: I'll admit it, I wrote Aster's home with a combination of a Hobbit hole and the tunnels from the movie in mind. Still, it was fun. :)
Also, to all those that think some of the characterization of Bunnymund is inaccurate…sorry. –sheepish smile- I'm trying to combine his personality from the books and the film, and it's coming off as an absent-minded scientist who hasn't been able to tend to his studies since the turn of the century due to a preoccupation with other tasks.
Also, Bunnymund really is a hermit and I wanted to emphasize that, because like it or not it's a pretty strong character trait after spending 364 days of the year being antisocial. "…he kept to himself and liked it that way, but his animal instincts told him that, like it or not, he would once again be asked to help save the world he had so carefully cut himself off from." –E. Aster Bunnymund and the Warrior Eggs at the Earth's Core!
On the flip side, I only have a few of the books so far. So if anything's wrong (including the description of his home) I really do apologize. But I'm trying to work with what I have. :)
Mother Nature: spoilers, sweetie. Read the books, then you'll find out.
Catrina Calavera and Allan Tide are in reference to the Dia de los Muertos, or the Day of the Dead, and Halloween, which used to be All Hallows' Eve, respectively.
Catrinas are elegant skeletons, dressed up and painted beautifully. Calaveras are poems or works of art with a skull theme, usually attributed to someone that has passed on. The Dia de los Muertos is an awesome holiday—check it out if you get the chance. :D
All Hallow's Eve can be connected to "Allantide," which is a Cornish festival, among a few others. I decided on Allantide rather than Samhain, despite the fact that both can be broken into names ("Allan Tide" "Sam Hain"), due to the fact that Samhain is a bit darker in nature and Allantide is more kid friendly. ("The Guardians of Childhood" et cetera, et cetera)
I figure that Catrina and Allan work together for their holidays, and maybe even have a "thing" for one another. :) I'm such a romantic…
Also, my Author Notes are super-long. –sighs in self-aimed ire-