Author's Note:

Thanks for the views and reviews everyone! I appreciate you all, even you anonymous stalkers.

Small tidbit: I tried to explain this in-story but just in case it's still confusing, Sandman communicates via a combination of sand symbols and what I call miming—facial expressions, body language, hand gestures, etc. Basically what he does in-film, but I figure those who know him well can interpret these into conversation (provided they pay attention, because as we all know in the film half the time nobody paid attention haha). So that's why he "talks" in my stories but it's in italics rather than with quotations.

As a bit of forewarning, the reprieve I had in real life is coming to an end. From here on out my updates are going to be hit or miss in terms of time frame.

Enjoy!

Bunnymund's first order of business was to go to Ireland. He had to be sure Lorcán was all right, that the thrice damned spirit of pestilence and plague hadn't done anything to harm him.

Getting there, though, posed a bit of a problem. He couldn't use his tunnels as they were technically part of his realm, and the last thing he wanted was to inadvertently infect the Warren via his network. He thought of North's snow globes but, of course, he didn't have any of those, and without access to the Warren he didn't have a way to contact North to request one.

One of the others could though.

But, again, there was a problem. He wasn't entirely sure where the others were at the moment, and without his tunnels it would take forever to track them down. His best bet was to happen upon one of Tooth's fairies or be in the right place at the right time to catch Sandy's attention. If worst came to worst, he could always find a non-Guardian and ask for their help, though he really, really hoped it wouldn't come to that. While Bunny had his fair share of friends and acquaintances, most of whom would be willing to help for little repayment, he didn't want word of what was going on with him to spread. If as much as a rumor started swirling that he couldn't access the Warren anymore he'd be faced with a whole host of complications.

Bunny studied his desert surroundings and the position of the rising sun. It was February, yet judging from the sun's angle it was late summer wherever he was. That meant southern hemisphere, which narrowed the possibilities considerably. He definitely wasn't in Australia, so had to be either Africa or South America somewhere. With the next breeze Bunny sniffed the air, cataloguing the various scents it carried. Less of a help, but it gave him something of a direction to start with.

He set off. Keeping the sun to his left, he bounded across the heating sands, pausing every so often to scent the air and get a good listen. By midday he was hot, cranky and tired, but he'd found a paved road. He followed it until a large truck happened by. Racing alongside the vehicle, he leapt up into the back and settled in for a rest. He didn't really care where it was going as long as it took him somewhere. Then he could figure out exactly where he was and plan from there.

Turned out he was in Namibia. Great. Bunny didn't know of any spirits who resided in Namibia, and those who had realms in neighboring nations were not exactly friends of his. Not enemies, per se, but not the sort Bunny could rely on. The closest ally to his present location was in Madagascar; Bunny got three-quarters of the way through plotting his journey to the island nation before it occurred to him that without his tunnels, he had no way of crossing the strip of ocean that separated it from the mainland. He nearly ripped his own fur out in frustration.

After wandering the Namibian city for a while hoping it would spark some fresh ideas—and nearly getting mauled by a pack of feral dogs in the process—Bunny had had enough. He hunkered down, drew his paws over his ears and forced himself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. This was what Morsoi wanted: to see him ruined. To see him flounder and struggle and ultimately fail. Bunny refused to fail, refused to let Morsoi win. Things were stressful and trying but not impossible. He could overcome this. He would overcome this.

Just breathe and you'll be fine.

He found a safe spot to lie low until dark. Cooling shade and much-needed sleep would improve things… at least that's what he kept telling himself. In truth he was just sick of the entire day and was ready for it to be over.

Turned out to be the right choice, for after a long ten hours of fitful sleep and episodes of erratic scratching, Bunny crawled out from his hidey-hole and looked around. No fairies but—ah-ha! There was Sandy's sand. Excellent.

He ran to one of the larger tendrils and stuck a paw into it, giving the sand a good flick. Like the reverberations of a spider's silk when an insect caught in a web, the disturbance would get Sandy's attention. All Bunny had to do now was settle down to wait.

Sure enough, the yellow man soon appeared. Soaring down on his golden cloud, he spotted Bunny and shaped a golden question mark above his spiky head.

"I need ya ta do a couple of things for me," Bunny said in a rush. "I need ya ta borrow a couple of snow globes off North, and give me lift ta Lorcán's if ya can. Oh, and get my bag from the Warren will ya?"

Sandy's eyebrows shot up and he gestured at Bunny. Why can't you do it?

Bunny scratched the back of his head. Partly because the question made him uncomfortable, but also because those fleas were still at it. He was gonna be rashy and balding in a week, he just knew it.

"It's a long story, mate," he said. "I gotta check on Lorcán, make sure the gumby's all right. Got himself into a bit of trouble."

And you? Are you in trouble?

Bunny almost winced. Almost. But practicality and pride won out over guilt and pain. His voice was steady as he replied, "Nothin' I can't handle."

Sandy considered him for a long, long time, no doubt wondering if the Pooka was to be believed. Then he pursed his lips in a soundless sigh and gestured at Bunny to come closer.

"Thanks mate," Bunny said emphatically, but Sandy held up a hand to forestall any more words.

Promise you will come to us if you are truly in need.

"I told you I can handle it," Bunny groused, desperate to end this conversation.

Sandy gave him a wry half-smile and shaped a figure out of sand that looked very much like Fisher. His meaning was clear: The last time you tried to handle something yourself you attacked Cassandra.

Bunny did wince that time. He hated being reminded of that folly, even after all these years.

"It made sense at the time," was all he could say.

As I'm sure this makes sense to you now, whatever it is you're doing. But come to us if you need help.

"I will," Bunny said, if only because he'd feel horrible if he didn't. It'd be like he didn't trust them, and he did, he just didn't want them getting any more mixed up in Morsoi's schemes than they already were. Jack and North and Tooth already owed the ratbag favors, Bunny shuddered to think of what they'd do, what they'd sacrifice, to try and get him out of the mess he was currently in.

They went to Australia first, to the main entrance of the Warren. Sandy gave Bunny a weird look when the Pooka refused to even get close to the opening, but didn't comment. The Guardian of Dreams went down alone and returned with a heavily laden satchel; he'd apparently taken it upon himself to pack a number of things he figured Bunny would need. Bunny was enormously grateful, and more than a little touched.

"Thanks mate."

When he took the bag from Sandy he was struck by an unexpected—and nearly overwhelming—wave of sorrow. This was it, all he had left of his life, right here in this scrap of fabric. Bunnymund hugged the bag to his chest. Everything he did and was and would be…reduced to this. It was pitiful. Mortifying. Agonizing.

Infuriating.

Sandy was staring. Bunnymund cleared his throat and hastily slipped the satchel strap over his head to settle across his shoulders. Sandy floated up beside him and gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder. One corner of the Pooka's mouth lifted weakly in gratitude.

"C'mon mate," he told Sandy in a quiet tone. "Let's get movin'."

With one final, longing glace at the Warren, Bunny allowed Sandy to lift them up and away towards Ireland.

Cassandra spent the day and night following Miyako's visit secluded in her realm. She had a great deal on her mind yet couldn't make heads nor tails of it no matter how much she pondered. Too many turbulent emotions, most stirred by Japanese spirit's impudent statements; her judgment was compromised as a result and she couldn't have that. Not now. Not with the tides turning to her favor. Even a seemingly minor mistake at present could prove ruinous further down the line.

So, after hours of brooding which ultimately got her nowhere, Cassandra resorted to using her cloak. Veiled in refreshing detachment she was able to consider the present situation (including Miyako's misguided opinion) with logic and prudence.

What Miyako had said to her was…disturbing. Cassandra had never cared for what others thought of her and made no bones about it, but if the vibe she was giving off was one of loneliness and neediness rather than strength and a desire for privacy then that would need immediate correction. Perhaps that was why Morsoi was being so persistent. Perhaps he too thought her lonely and therefore vulnerable.

What was it he'd said? 'Exceptionally narcissistic or unspeakably sad.'

Well, she was neither, thank you very much. She'd have to see about making sure he knew that.

But how? She couldn't just tell him off, as that hadn't worked in the past and there was no evidence to suggest that it would work now. And she still needed the favors he'd offered her. Putting him off completely would mean she'd never have the chance to obtain those favors, yet she couldn't possibly accept his suit. How could she get around that?

She thought and thought, formulating then discarding several ideas. She'd be growing frustrated if not for the cloak. Her restless Nightmares paced the shadows but left her alone; they understood that when she was in one of these moods she wasn't to be disturbed.

Then, sometime just after sunrise on the following day, Cassandra realized something.

She'd been staring at her globe while she contemplated, watching it turn slowly on its pedestal, when she suddenly recalled Mr. Bennett's comment.

"'It's suspicious.'"

She sat upright on her sofa. That was it! She could barter with Morsoi, one trade for each of the three services owed him. While she would not give her hand in courtship there were other things in life that Morsoi desired: entertainment, mostly, and also knowledge. After more than four thousand years Morsoi considered himself to be quite learned, with hardly anything surprising him anymore, yet Cassandra knew for a fact that she had accomplished things that no one, not even the high and mighty spirit of pestilence, had achieved. Things that hadn't even been conceived of before she conceived of them.

Even better, he'd already voiced interest in one of those things: how she'd convinced Issitoq to keep his Watchful Eyes out of her realm.

The big question was whether he'd be receptive to the offer or if he'd take offence.

Cassandra considered that, weighing the evidence in her mind. Knowing what she did of Morsoi he'd probably be quite upset that she'd reduced his offer of a gift to little more than a common barter. Deeply insulted, in fact. She'd always taken care not to push Morsoi too far but…did it matter? Did it really, truly matter if she made an enemy out of him? Whatever could he do to her? Destroy her? Everything got destroyed in the end. She wasn't afraid of death, technically she'd already done it once. He could make her life hell by seriously complicating her plans, but with Mr. Bennett now a player in the game it was no longer a matter of if Cassandra got her way, but when. She hoped to go about it the simplest way possible, of course, just to save herself years (possibly decades) of headache, but that didn't mean she wasn't prepared to go for the long-haul if necessary.

If she offered Morsoi a trade either she'd get the favors she wanted or he'd grow so upset with her he'd finally leave off the courtship nonsense. If she was really lucky, she might even get away with both.

Simply put, she stood to benefit far more than she could potentially lose.

So she summoned a Nightmare and sent it forth to find Morsoi. The mare didn't carry any particular message, but it didn't have to. It's presence alone would be enough.

With that done, Cassandra settled back to wait.

After a very disconcerting trip (Bunny would never like heights no matter who it was that flew him around) they finally arrived in Ireland. Sandy deposited him at Lorcán's doorstep, indicated that he'd be back, and set off, presumably for North's. Bunnymund waited until his friend was gone before making his way inside, using the few minutes to calm his thumping heart.

The leprechaun's realm was quiet. Too quiet. Bunny couldn't detect even a whisper of sound, the corridors dark and eerily empty. That didn't bode well at all.

"Lorcán?" he called hesitantly. "Ya here mate?"

He checked the kitchens. Then the sitting room. He breathed in quiet relief when he found the spirit of luck in one of the back rooms. Lorcán was curled up on a window seat, arms wrapped around his middle as he stared out over lush green fields. Overstuffed cushions were strewn haphazardly about the floor as if tossed in a fit of melancholy. Whatever was on the leprechaun's mind must've been preoccupying indeed, for it wasn't until Bunnymund entered the room that the spirit of luck took notice of him. Lorcán startled violently, a loud yelp escaping him as he spun about, fists lifted as if prepared to fight. When he saw it was only Bunny, the leprechaun gasped.

"Aster," he wheezed, clutching at his chest. He looked a mess, hair disheveled, clothes wrinkled and hat lost somewhere among the discarded cushions. He laughed weakly, a gut-wrenching mixture of disbelief and relief and…yes, lingering fear. "You're all right. Thank all that is light that you're okay."

"I'm fine," Bunny said. Fine was the complete opposite of how he really felt, and completely overlooked the fact that he was cursed, but the leprechaun needn't know any of that. Bunny wasn't about to give his friend anything else to blame himself for, not when this was, when it boiled down to it, all Bunny's fault in the first place for soliciting Lorcán's help.

Lorcán didn't believe the half-hearted reassurance one bit. It was written all over his face. Still, the leprechaun laughed quietly. "Thought for sure Morsoi turned ya into stew or something," he teased while small hands attempted to smooth back his red-brown hair.

"Hardly," Bunny said with a lopsided smile. Then in full seriousness he asked, "You all right?"

"Oh, fine, just fine." He looked about as fine as Bunny felt, but the Pooka knew better than to question him. "Look, I really am sorry about all that Aster. I didn't have a choice."

"I know."

Bunny cocked his head, ears aloft as he listened closely to the sounds—or, perhaps more accurately, the lack of sound—in Lorcán's realm. There wasn't even the quiet hum of latent magic, which in of itself was telling and alarming. The leprechaun fidgeted nervously but didn't say anything.

"Morsoi was here, then?" Bunny concluded. Such silence couldn't mean anything else.

"Destroyed every last one of 'em. Left me with nothing," Lorcán lamented. He wrung his little hands together. "I hate him," he whispered fervently, meaning it with all his heart yet too fearful to dare say it any louder. "You have no idea how much I… It'll take me forever to recover from this and I didn't even do anything!"

"He's going too far," Bunny said. His skin itched, a crawling sensation that turned his stomach, but didn't dare indulge in a good scratch. Despite what Morsoi said about the fleas only leaving him when he returned to his realm Bunny was still a bit fearful of accidentally setting a couple loose.

"Tell me something I don't know," Lorcán deadpanned. Then he drew a shaky breath and said, "I'm sorry, Aster, but I cannot help you anymore. I cannot risk it."

"I know," Bunny said. "Figured as much. Just wanted ta check up on ya, is all. Make sure the ratbag didn't come back ta finish ya off."

"No need to," Lorcán said, waving his hands to indicate the room and, by extension, his realm at large. His expression was the epitome of misery. "I'm hardly worth the trouble of killing."

He looked at Bunnymund for a while, and Bunny wondered what the little man was thinking. Then the spirit of luck lifted a hand.

"I cannot help you anymore," he said, "but there's no reason I cannot give a good friend a proper apology for my part in what happened to him."

The magic that brushed over Bunnymund was subtle, subdued, compared to Lorcán's usual displays. The leprechaun could be as much of a show pony as Jack when he wanted, especially at a party, but this wasn't about impressing anyone or making friends.

This…to be honest Bunny wasn't sure what this was.

"For luck," was all Lorcán said. His smile was sad, though Bunny didn't know if it was because the leprechaun couldn't do more to help or if he was merely upset that he'd gotten Bunny into trouble in the first place.

Either way he was grateful.

He could use a bit of luck right now.

It did not have a name. Not really. It, like all sprites under the Master's hand, were summoned and commanded through magic rather than monikers or designations. A sprite always knew when it was called, when an order or instruction or question was directed at it rather than one of its fellows, no matter where it happened to be in the world at the time. And they could be anywhere, really. Everywhere. The Master utilized them well, as hunters and spies and enforcers. Whatever he might need of them, they obliged without question and with great enthusiasm.

They existed only to serve.

As the oldest and most powerful, by far the most experienced, it was the de facto leader of the sprites. All served the Master, of course, but when the Master was away the other sprites deferred to it. It could not use this influence to defy or undermine the Master in any way, not that it wanted to—the very idea was preposterous, for it went against everything that a sprite was and is and ever will be. It only ever used this power to benefit the Master, to ensure his will was done and that his realm was protected while he was away.

He'd been away a lot recently. It knew the Master was busy. Busy with plans. Busy watching and manipulating and waiting.

Busy courting.

It chittered angrily at a lesser sprite when it dared draw to close. The lesser one ducked low to the ground, uttering sounds of apology, of deference, before scuttling away. The greater sprite watched it go then promptly forgot about it.

Courting without courting. That is what the Master was doing. His chosen beloved was not being overly receptive, but the Master wasn't worried, and frankly the sprite wasn't either. The Master was patient and, more importantly, always got what he wanted in the end.

The problem, though, was precisely that: the Master's patience. Though he had declared his intention to claim his beloved as his, he hadn't officially claimed her yet. This was more than obvious, for if he had then the scent of his chosen beloved would be much stronger on his person than it currently was. The sprite had warned the Master that others coveted his beloved, that devious spirits were plotting to keep her from him, and while the Master was righteously angry and had already taken some of those scheming spirits to task, it wasn't enough. Others could still take—would take—if they wanted. The Master's chosen beloved was intelligent and strong but even she could not withstand the might of so many, not even with those wretched sand beasts to assist her.

And the furred one hadn't been properly deterred by the Master's warning. No. If anything, the rabbit's punishment had made him bolder, which was worrisome given that he was, perhaps, one of the most invested in seeing the Master lose his chosen beloved. The sprites were watching the furred one closely but had yet to figure out what, precisely, he was up to, and that was no good either.

To the sprite there was only one logical solution. A simple enough thing to do, really, but it wasn't entirely sure how well such would be received, either by the Master or his chosen beloved. The Master would be irritated that it had acted without first obtaining permission, but it couldn't risk the Master saying no. The Master was putting his beloved's sentiments before her safety, which was all well and good for his plans to court her but did little to properly ensure she was protected. The fact that he hadn't killed the furred one outright and been done with him was proof enough of that. So there was a chance, however small, that if it tried to get permission the Master would say no, and once he said no it would be powerless to disobey.

Saying no would keep his chosen beloved from growing angry but would also further jeopardize her safety. Which, of course, did nothing to ensure the Master could officially court and claim her later. Therefore, logic and its natural inclination to serve the Master's best interests, no matter the cost, dictated that it proceed without prior authorization.

It had only just come to this conclusion when a message arrived for the Master. A black sand beast appeared in the Master's realm, stirring up all the sprites save it, for it knew that this was no intrusion but an invitation. The Master's chosen beloved demanded the Master's presence.

The Master was most pleased, of course, when he returned and heard the news. He set out at once for his beloved's realm, accompanied by the usual entourage. It chose to remain behind, knowing its presence was unneeded. It remained to monitor the realm, the other sprites, and to think.

This summons could herald good news. It was certainly unexpected—the Master's beloved had never called for him before. Usually, the Master called upon her.

But it suspected this had nothing at all to do with the Master's offer, which would not bode well for anyone. The Master was too patient and his chosen beloved too stubborn to see the risk of waiting and waiting.

It decided, then, to wait for the Master's return. If he brought news of success and his beloved's acceptance then the plan would be scrapped, unneeded and soon forgotten.

Anything less and the sprite would act.