It had happened again, just like it had been happening for nearly a year now. These changes had been small, but, strange to say the least. No one had taken original notice to them, for, none of the Guardians could spare the time of more than a few hours with one another. The boy had begun to speak to voices who did not exist, and called out to objects that could not mimic back. It came much like a normal calling, as if he’d accomplished participating in such nonsense for years now. One could only assume that this had been an occurrence of years, something the young boy had hid, holding close under wraps, and moving to resist its uncover.
Decimation. Each time the young spirit had flown through the tunnels, the creature’s Warren had been nearly destroyed, and on it’s way towards a complete breaking point. Broken eggs, frozen streams, wilting flowers, browning grass, and crumbling ruins; the boy had attempted it all. Had it been near Easter time, the rabbit would have been ruined, his season high on the nigh to a failure like no other. While the situation should have been able to be attacked with simple words, or a plea of desperation, reason was no longer a word placed in for this equation.
The havoc had been laid when the Guardians were not even sure if the winter spirit could tell if he knew even who he was anymore. A face of once purity turned to sheer insanity, hair growing darkened black, fingers lingering on with a frost bitten texture, and his button cute laugh shrieking into a menacing cackle. When he came round to normalcy, they’d ask him questions, telling him stories, but, they never amounted to anywhere, for the boy could not recall the tales. He’d been in hysteria, and unable to accept the information of what he’d done, consciously anyway.
With each visit Jack made to his Warren, the Pooka cleaned after his leave, mourning the flowers that did not survive, and planting more eggs, praying he’d still have enough to last him through Easter.
The frost boy was no longer truly lucid, and it was only a matter of time before severe action had to be taken. The boy would end up on lock down, horded in one of their lairs, Aster could only assume North’s.
How did he end up like this? What drove this boy to absolute madness? Was it his staff? It had grown to look mangled at it’s center, like it had been broken periodically. Infection? A virus? Had Pitch- No,that was absurd…Yet..it wasn’t..impossible..Jack had mentioned in passing that he experienced a run in after he fled from Aster’s failed Easter those few years ago…had more damage been done than sullied pride?
Letting loose a light sigh, the rabbit gathered up the last of the broken shells, tossing them gently into a nearby ditch he’d been forced to dig, hoping to place them at some kind of peace, even if in the end, even in the children’s hands, they’d all be destroyed.
Looking on to his tunnels, eyes casting a look of worry, and, determination, he quickly scampered through the one that lead him to Burgess, North America. The Guardian needed to speak with Jack, lucid or not, maybe he could pry a small answer..maybe he could save him.
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