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Although I progressed slowly, I was soon short of breath and there was a disconcerting sound as I respired, a sort of uffish wheezing, louder and more painful the more I walked. I stopped for a rest near a clearing, but still came the sound. My chest was rather tight as well, a product of another illness. I had been poisoned by my trade, a sacrifice I was always aware of. However, it is a tad inconvenient when attempting to run fast and far, and I had to make do with a patient pace and frequent pauses because at twenty-two years I tired so very easily. With that affliction and the sound to consider I began to worry, and with worry came fear, and with fear came panic, and with panic came rapid breaths. My throat seared as my lungs heaved and again that SOUND; the corpulent air choked me and I began to cough until I could no longer stay on my feet and then my knees, until I could no longer see the grey and black stains elbowing into my vision, hear myself gasping for air, or feel my body fall forwards.
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When I awoke, a set of wooden rafters greeted me. I blinked, wondering why wasn't I at home or in the castle, when it occurred to me gradually that hadn't something very bad happened? ...No, of course not. During this blissful reverie, I examined my surroundings.
I was in a homelike little bedroom with rough board walls, each covered with a layer of violet paint. The colour was the only rich thing about the room; it was mostly bare, excepting a high chest of drawers on the farthest end, a small table and another bed beside me. And as a matter of interest, my throat burned terribly with each breath (and also in between).
I was shaken from my thoughts when some-one entered.
"Oh! You're awake, are you?" The hare didn't wait for my answer. "How do you feel?" he inquired in a deep Outlandish brogue. I attempted to speak, but only managed a rasping noise. The hare twitched; it seemed a habit. "Come, a bit of water," he offered, taking a cup from the tray he'd set on the table. "That'll be good for us." I entertained the thought of refusing it, but who was I to cast off the kindness of a stranger? Grateful, I reached for the cup, but the hare threw it and the saucer against the wall, shouting "Crab! Feather!" as they shattered. The hare was startled when he perceived my raised eyebrow. "Your hat. There is a feather in it, lad."
I paused, eyeing the hare and leaning back just slightly. He was perhaps two feet high, brown, with some grey in his face and ears. His blue overcoat was rather too large for him, and it was necessary for the sides of his vest to be tied together or it would surely have hung halfway to his stifles. The only right-sized garments were his striped trousers and shirt with the collar poking up. Even his eyes were mismatched. One was smaller than the other, with not nearly enough iris in it.
"A peacock one," he reminded me, and I averted my gaze to nod confirmation that yes, there was indeed a peacock feather in the ribbon of my hat. The hare smiled courteously and handed me a second cup of water that I suspected he had prepared for such a case of throwing. I sipped the water, which tasted of barley. When I was certain it wasn't harming my throat, I gulped it down thirstily. It was pleasantly warm and soon I felt able to speak. The hare, meanwhile, was not attending. One of his ears jerked and he meowed contemplatively. "It's a right nice one," he enthused suddenly.
"A nice what? The hat? Oh, it isn't mine," I replied, voice coarse and stubbornsome painful. The hare spasmed angrily.
"Then why are you wearing it?" He leant close, nearly growling. "Burgled the Hightopps, did you, guddler?" I didn't dare speak for a tense moment. I must have cowered, for the hare gave a burst of staccato laughter. "I like you!" he declared. I had nearly made up my mind to be offended until I remembered my manners.
"Thank you for saving me," I said. Actually, I more whispered it; my throat was beginning to burn hotly again. I thought brief on the last few hours-- Or no, I didn't know how long I had slept.
"Cup," I overheard the hare lament, peering at the wall.
"I wasn't expecting to be alive," I continued. The hare's head snapped to me, his drooply ears pricking.
"You must become accustomed to it," he advised sternly, jabbing a finger at me as though I were a child in need of a lecture.
"I am!" I cried, flustered, as loud as I could manage; although the effect was dulled by my voice breaking. The hare, sitting on the lowish bed now, smirked smugly.
"How many years do you have, guddler? Ten? Eh?" I ignored the fact that he had called me a thief once more.
"I am twenty-two, hare."
"Brown," he replied.
"I can't see how tha--" The anxious hare cuffed me lightly on the head.
"It's my age! Listen, will you!" This was punctuated by a strange noise, a cross betwixt a ribbit and a bark. Before I could properly react, the hare snorted. "Twenty-two! I guess it myself. Your hair wants cutting."
"Does it truly?" My hair brushed my shoulders, going a little past them. I minded my appearance, but I did not care about the length of my hair.
"Forty," the hare said. I would have sighed if it didn't hurt so much.
"Again, I don't see what that has to do with any thing." The hare grinned, beamishly exposing crooked teeth.
"Can't imagine-- Can't imagine you would see anything, with eyes like those," he noted, eyes wide, arms crossed upon his chest. I bristled at the insult. I have already described myself some to you, dear reader, though in doing so have omitted the fault of my eyes. They are rather too large for my skull, and though I wear cosmetics to decrease the shock of the deformity, I suppose it was not working. Besides, the hare was one to talk. I learnt later that his smaller eye was made of glass, which is why it occasionally pointed in the wrong direction. The hare in question was wringing his paws and ears. "And you can leave off with that fancy accent, laddie," he suggested in an Englandish dialect that petulantly refused to stay put. "Witzend is on you like stuff on a tea-thing." I looked at him strangely as he took my cup. "The little paint stuff on the teacup," he clarified distractedly. "I so love the little paint..." I thought on his advice: the high-pitched accent WAS straining my throat.
"Aye," I agreed, dropping it for a second, and the hare brightened in a way that made me smile. I must have forgotten to follow that with any thing, because the hare recommended that I get some rest and offered to make me some thing to eat once I had woken up. Suffice it to say, I fell asleep, listening to his hallway-trailing chatter of "Leek and potato! That'll be good for you..." I was still sitting upright in the bed.
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I was jostled into consciousness by a small paw on my arm, the rattling of which cleared away the pleasant fog of sleep with no little resistance. I blinked, irritated, and turned my eyes to the hare at my bedside. He gave a welcoming grin.
"Some-one to see you, lad," he informed me in hushed tones.
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