A pulsating ache had found root at the base of Jack's skull, radiating with slow, shaky throbs. He tried and failed to give it little regard—as inconsequential as the injury may be, it was impossible to ignore the fact that it was there, and for him, a spirit who hadn't felt physical pain for as long as he could remember, it was endlessly unnerving. The cursed dreamsand—specifically that generated by his formerly jolly friend—had a profound effect on his being, damning him into blunt agony in a way that nothing else had managed to in the hundreds of years that he'd found himself on Earth. And yet even the sharp, knifelike strokes of soreness couldn't come near rivaling the extent of unadulterated dread that rang through his chest with every breath, radiating out in clear, stark waves from what he assumed to be his heart.
The battlefield where Tooth had fallen was abandoned. That was what he observed now, standing numbly with his fingers around his fight-worn staff and his feet barely touching the death-scorched grass. It looked like the hushed reproduction of a meteor crater, swirling streaks of darkness flashing out from the center of the previously clear lakeshore like the shadowed rays of a cruel sun, demented scars echoing the horror that had occurred there. He had rushed in immediately upon waking, darting through the air with nary a thought in his mind save the desperation to reach his friends and the insistent dig of the pain in his head. Both had been balanced equally then, but now the material discomfort was drowned entirely, and his only fixation was to find North and Bunnymund, to help them—for surely the fight wasn't over yet.
For the first real time, Jack paused to breathe, his eyes lifting to the sky. Though he hadn't expected the moon to be visible, washed out as his surroundings now were in distant sunlight, it still caused a sharp sink in his stomach to see the grey skies entirely clear of the familiarly comforting pearly disc. A pang ran through his very center, reminding him with detestable clarity of what had occurred just over the past few days. Sandy's defeat, the diminishing lights on the globe, Tooth's grotesque transformation… less than a week ago, he hadn't been weighted by a care in the world, and now he found unspeakable responsibility tight on his shoulders—he had paid for his first believer with the worse-than-death of two of his only friends, and he couldn't help but imagine, however unrealistically, that it really was his fault. For they had been better before he came along, as well—not as lighthearted as him, perhaps, yet still happy, charged by the energy of their holidays and their blazing cores. They had been drawn together in order for him to become a Guardian, and from there thrown into horrible disarray, ripped apart and cast towards the tattered wreck in which their ranks now lay.
Yet there was no use dwelling on such distant concepts. Regardless of what had landed them in such a miserable position, what they had to do now was escape it, and with Tooth and Sandy gone—perhaps more—there was only one way to achieve that. One person… one Guardian who could supply the belief which they so sorely needed, prompt them into the strength necessitated for victory.
A sudden rustle from behind him caused Jack to duck down instinctively, jabbing his staff out in a defensive motion and tugging his hood over his pale hair with his free hand. A quick examination of the bushes lining the edge of the rocky beach, however, revealed nothing beyond a young girl, dark-skinned and pigtailed, her coconut-brown eyes heavy with dismalness as her fingers closed around a round, nearly ovular stone, tinged slightly green by the salts and time of the lake whose edge it rested upon.
"Just a rock," she announced, presumably to companions hidden behind the scraggly shrubs. "There's nothing… nothing." Her hollow words were followed by the rest of her thin body hurrying out onto the shore, as if hoping to contradict her own words with some new sight. Jack pulled back slightly, his stomach assaulted by a familiar twinge at the realization of his own invisibility, and it was only then that he notices the contents of the child's other hand—she was holding a basket, wide and roomy but containing nothing save faintly misty, early-morning air which eddied and whirled about its wicker interior.
He realized, all at once, that it was an Easter basket.
And then he wasn't thinking about the poor girl with disappointment pumping through her veins, or of her friends as they scampered into view—he was blind to them, with only a single thought blazing through his mind, suffocating all else—even completely extinguishing the throb that had been pounding ceaselessly against the back of his head.
There were no eggs. It was Easter morning, somehow—Sandy's attack must have thrown him out for longer than he'd initially thought, or otherwise he'd already lost track of the days—and there were no eggs. Which, of course, could only mean one thing.
Bunnymund was in danger.
Maybe beyond danger—hurt, killed, transformed; all thoughts were equally paralyzing as they shot through Jack's mind, merciless reality far too quick to support them. He couldn't imagine losing Bunny—he was the strongest warrior they had, surely, and the mere thought of his being absent from their ranks was enough to cast Jack onto his knees, hands moving rapidly along the pebbly ground, seeking softness in the dirt as though he could simply punch through and unearth one of the many pathways to the rabbit's secluded warren.
And yet he couldn't—only Bunny was able to craft the instantly-vanishing tunnels, and that knowledge spurred absolute furious frustration in Jack's chest, eliciting a hiss of bare harassment. His pale fingers curled into fists, pummeling the earth in an effort that he knew to be hopeless. He wanted to—had to find Bunny, and yet the only place to start looking was the warren, and he had no way to reach it, none at all.
But—but, perhaps North remained intact. Maybe the bright-eyed, heavyset, light-haired Guardian of wonder had something left, a way to help Bunny or information about him at the very least, and Jack knew where he was—the North Pole was far away, too far, and yet he had never before felt such an absolute resolution in every fiber of his body; the wind would have to move fast, very fast, and yet he didn't know or care if it would hurt him.
He had to get to the Pole. Nothing else mattered.
The wind seemed to leap at his silent command, wreathing him in a soft cocoon of comfortable chill even before he had the chance to verbally instruct as much. He gripped his staff closer, squeezed his eyes shut, and clenched his teeth tight.
It waited for no further cue. In a single powerful wrench, he was torn from the ground and catapulted through the sky, blind to his surroundings as jets of icy air ripped past him, singeing his skin with their raw energy. He saw nothing but white and heard nothing but the howl of air, and so it remained—he held his staff close, curled around it, and let the wind carry him.
It was still far too long to reach the North Pole, and yet it took barely more than a glance towards the hulking form of the usually merry building to reveal that he'd made the right decision.
The frost coasting along the eaves, typically so light and glittery, seemed to cling against its perch with a mushy grey reluctance, to the point where a few icicles were actually dripping into the murky heaps of snow below. The windows were dark, absent of the butterscotch-hued light that Jack was so used to seeing from them, and the whole of the workshop seemed utterly dismal, even abandoned.
Yet it wasn't abandoned. For there they were—the two of them, silhouettes massive and mighty against the backdrop of the ashen sky. They stood where the sleigh normally parked, though its regal form was nowhere in sight now. And they were fighting—fighting, limbs and weapons darting and flashing about; a sight that sickened Jack enough for him to barely feel the seconds pass as the final few meters were closed and he stumbled to the ground before them.
North's swords were bared—not quite slashing at his enemy, but crossed in strategic defense, silver glinting in the cold sunlight. His eyes were narrow, and yet the emotion within them was boundless—sorrow and apology for the old friend who faced him now, a sentiment further echoed in the shaking set of his jaw.
For Bunnymund was not Bunnymund. His fur shone shades darker, sleek to the point of being almost oily, flat against the scrawny angles of his skeleton underneath it. His eyes were violet, pupil-less, ferocious, mindless pools of dark lavender hatred, and his lips were drawn back from his glistening, twisted fangs in an expression that was utterly animal.
"Bunny?" Jack whispered.
The slavering beast whipped around to face him, a snarl erupting from its throat like that of a rabid dog. It crouched, spine trembling, and a bolt of fear shattered through Jack's stomach—not from the dangerous stance of Bunny's specter, but rather from the clarity flashing through North's expression, the red-clothed Guardian's swift movement—his sabers cleaving through the air, moving straight towards Bunnymund's exposed neck.
"No!" Jack shrieked without thinking, and then he was wheeling through the air, thrusting himself between them, staff streaking into the air to block the blades. They struck against each other with a resonant shudder, and Jack's teeth clattered, a horrible chill shuddering against his insides at the detestable collision. North's eyes flew wide in surprise as their weapons crossed, and yet Jack paid him no need—he was turning again, with the immediate danger surpassed, staring in disbelief at the dark Bunnymund, who still crouched on all fours, looking more like a black panther than the tough-muscled but soft-hearted Pooka whom Jack suddenly missed with such drowning desperation.
"Bunny, please," he breathed, holding the eerie mauve stare, silently imploring—begging—that something reveal itself, some sort of kindness, some shred of good amidst the sea of disgusting cruelty that had apparently overcome one of his only two remaining friends.
The gleaming eyes sprang wide for a half-moment, then tightened all at once, the motion accompanied by a heavy twitch of his shaggy ears. Jack flinched, fully expecting the savage beast to launch itself at him, but the remains of Bunnymund whipped around instead, dashing off and down the snowy slopes in a coal-colored blur that dissipated into nothing at all moments later, leaving only a soft shower of snow from the point where it had gone underground.
Jack choked softly, unable to make a sound. His shoulders shaking from the nauseous emptiness that clasped his insides, he forced himself to turn towards North, pathetically seeking solace in the Guardian whom, as he realized now, was all he had left in the whole of the world.
He knew, fully, what he had done. That his intervention had cost North his victory—and yet, perhaps, earned Bunnymund his life, or what little remained of it; he didn't regret his actions, however spontaneous and foolish they may have been. He refused to.
But North blamed him.
North blamed him, as he saw now—every worn line and shadow of the ancient face across from him conveyed disappointment, betrayal, even deeply personal hurt. And though Jack's mouth opened, he had no apologies to put voice to, nothing to say—nothing to say at all.
And so it remained as North turned wordlessly, sabers hanging uselessly at his sides, and trudged up the path to his desolate workshop, slipping inside and closing the door behind him with a tight bang.
It could not have been clearer that Jack was not welcome to join him.