By the kind permission of @Bea Lardinois, here is a not-very-little one shot about Whit's insomnia. I honestly loved writing this. It serves as a sort of prequel to Here and Alive, but it's totally readable (and even more depressing) alone. Hopefully you enjoy it!

~

Whit could not sleep. This had become normal, the fear of closing his eyes and the visions of destruction that filled his mind once he forced himself to try to block out the fear. In his eight years, Whit had had his share of nightmares, but these days they were being pushed out by lack of any sleep at all. Instead, he found his way to the palace library, creeping between the shelves with a carefully guarded candle in his hand. The shadows flickered almost welcomingly as Whit picked a book of history from the shelf and sat down in an armchair, sinking a little into it as he did so. It was rather too large for him, and he tried to snuggle into it as he read, hoping that perhaps doing so would put him to sleep.

Instead, he heard footsteps. He started, nightmares rushing back to him. The shadows seemed welcoming no longer. Instead, they harboured unnamed terrors. Whit grabbed his candle from the table on which he had placed it, holding the flickering warmth close in a vain attempt to comfort himself. The footsteps continued. Whit could do nothing but stare, eyes wide, in an attempt to pick out the intruder from the shadows. He saw a rabbit-like shape, glowing orange in the light of the flame, like a malevolent ghost.

Whit blinked, and saw with a start that it was his older brother Winslow standing before him, a concerned frown on his face. “Whit? What are you doing here? You should be in bed.” “So should you,” Whit returned, as his heartbeat slowly returned to normal.

“I thought I heard you leaving your room,” Winslow said, choosing to ignore Whit. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I - I couldn’t sleep,” Whit confessed, feeling as if he were giving away some huge secret.

“Why not? Is something wrong?” Winslow demanded, concern evident.

“No,” said Whit, not strictly truthfully. “Well - I don’t know. Not really. I just keep thinking-” He trailed off, not sure exactly what it was he kept thinking. The worries seemed to have no concrete form, just a barrier of fear that took occasional shape.

“Did somebody do something?” Winslow pressed.

“No. It’s only - it’s only-” Whit struggled for the words. “It’s only I keep seeing everything falling apart. I can’t just lie there with my eyes closed.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Winslow. “Why would that happen? We’re safe here, and Father’s a brilliant king. You’ll be fine.” “I guess I know that,” Whit agreed. “In daylight, at least. I just can’t sleep.” “Would a light make you feel better?” “No. I don’t know. Maybe.” “What if I read to you?”

Whit nodded. “Alright.” He handed Winslow the book he had been reading, open to the story of Prince Lander and the dragons, and tried to settle more comfortably in his chair.

Winslow perched himself on the table with the candle and began to read. As he did so, Whit did his best to calm himself and let Winslow’s comforting voice send him ever closer to sleep. When he woke, Winslow and the candle were gone and the daylight filled the room.

~

As the days passed, Whit and Winslow found themselves together in the library most nights. At first, Winslow just read as Whit listened, thought, and eventually drifted off, but as days turned into weeks and weeks turned into years they began to talk more, to share hopes and fears and dreams of the future. Their nightly meetings were sometimes weekly or fortnightly, but Whit was always joined by Winslow within minutes. By candlelight, as Whit grew until he almost fitted the armchair in the library, they felt able to discuss anything.

One night, as Whit once more gave up on his bed and padded the familiar route to the chair in the library, he found Winslow already there, sitting on the table and reading a book. He looked up, a little surprised, when Whit entered.

“Again?” he asked.

Whit nodded. “Smalden’s crying keeps me awake. I keep thinking he’s being taken.” “No,” said Winslow a little wryly. “He’s just a bit annoying. For a baby, he certainly has big lungs.” Whit grinned. “I’m sure we’d know if he was being kidnapped.” “I guess that’ll serve him well when he’s king,” Winslow said.

Smalden had been announced as their father’s heir that afternoon, and although it seemed to have had no effect on Smalden, Whit sensed that it bothered his big brother.

“I’m sure Father knows what he’s doing,” Whit said. “I’m sure he’ll be a great king.” “Maybe,” Winslow said.

“You’ll support him, though, right?” Whit asked, suddenly struck with worry. “You won’t be like Uncle Bleston, however Smalden turns out?” Winslow grinned. “What do you take me for, Whitbie? It almost sounds like you don’t trust me.” “Of course I do!” Whit protested. “I was only asking. You weren’t going to say you would betray him, were you?” “No. Don’t be ridiculous, of course not. I’m his brother, same as I’m yours.”

Whit smiled back at him, comforted. “Good. I’m sure he’ll appreciate you when he’s older.” Winslow looked back at his book, and in the dim light Whit could not see the frown upon his face. “Would you like me to read?”

“No, thank you,” Whit said. “Why did Father choose Smalden to be the heir?” Winslow shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Perhaps there’s something special about him.”

“But you’re the eldest.”

“Yes. Father wasn’t, though, I suppose.” “You’d be a good king.” “Whit, don’t,” Winslow said, not meeting his eyes. “You were the one telling me Smalden would be good.” “Yes, but - but -”

“But what?”

Whit shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess Father’s right.” “Smalden won’t be king for a good few years, anyway,” Winslow said. “It’s nothing to worry about. Leapers know you worry too much.” “There’s a lot to worry about,” Whit protested. “It’s not my fault.” “There’s nothing to worry about,” Winslow contradicted. “I’ll protect you, anyway. Stop worrying.”

Whit nodded, and curled up closer in his chair, wondering what he would do without Winslow.

~

The palace courtyard was filled with rabbits, and Whit stood on the balcony, fighting the urge to be sick. Beside him stood Winslow, a crown upon his head and a red scarf fluttering at his neck, and beside Winslow stood Garten Longtreader, his father’s murderer and the orchastrator of Winslow’s kingship.

Whit listened as Winslow promised the rabbits of First Warren that Morbin’s rule was for the best, that Winslow stood with his people and would do his best for them. That this was for the best. That they should not worry. Whit wanted to scream that it was all wrong, that this was not his brother Winslow that was talking. This was a rabbit Whit didn’t know, hungry for power and content with the deal he had taken.

That night, Whit could not bear to walk the path to the library. He lay awake all night instead, grieving for his father and for the older brother he had once known, grieving for the past and the fact that all of his worries had turned out to be true.

For three years, sleep came only in fevered nightmares and the occasional exhausted dreamless hour. Whit helped the cruel government that Winslow put into place, helped Daggler terrorise the innocent people of First Warren, trying desperately to stop his heart from feeling. Trying to stop himself from knowing that he was wrong, that he was a traitor to his heart and to all rabbitkind.

The final straw came when Daggler told him, with that cruel sneer upon his face, to kill an innocent doe. In a moment, Whit made his choice. He stood up, looked Daggler full in the face for the first time, and said “No.”

They dragged him to the throne room after that. Daggler told him to take it back, that he needed to get a grip on himself or be accused of treason. That was when Whit had punched him. Winslow was watching. Winslow watched as Daggler’s guards held Whit’s arms, as Daggler’s shining sword flashed through the air and into Whit’s unprotected face. He watched as Daggler sliced off Whit’s ear, which fell to the ground. He watched as Whit crumpled to the floor and Daggler spat upon his body, then walked out. Whit did not see his brother leave, but when he came too he was still on the throne room floor, completely alone.

On that panicked run from the palace, Whit tripped and fell. He could not see with the blood pouring from his face, could not think with the final treachery of his brother burning in his mind. He could have borne the pain, he thought, had Winslow not watched it happen without a move. He could have ran, had the hole not opened in his path.

He fell into a warren, and was found by a rabbit who called himself Captain Moonlight. Whit explained his story, and Moonlight did nothing but invite him into his home. Whit tried to forget his past, told nobody but Moonlight about his past and the reasons his scars hurt him far more than he could ever explain, took to wearing a mask to hide the marks and the inner pain.

He did not tell even Moonlight everything. He never told his new friend about how he spent his nights awake, sometimes pacing, sometimes reading, always with a hole in his heart which Winslow had used to fill. His nightmares grew worse and more vivid, with memories providing just as much fuel for them as the future. Winslow haunted them. Treachery haunted them, and Whit swore privately that he would never do the same - that his own treachery was behind him, and while he would never forget it it would never be repeated.

Whit always found a bitter irony in the Citadel of Dreams. Yes, it had given him hope in his darkest hour, but he never once had a good dream there. He never once slept quietly. His mind walked the library shelves in the darkness, a kid once more, and saw Winslow there, but his body found nothing comforting in this. The years that followed only gave Whit more fuel for his sleepless nights, more images to burn into his mind. The Citadel of Dreams sheltered him, but he served his penance for his treachery every night. He missed Winslow furiously, the old Winslow he had always known. He grew to hate the buck his brother had become, until one day he was standing with his sword at Winslow’s throat and his heart in his mouth.

Winslow closed his eyes. “Whitbie.” “Winslow,” Whit said harshly. “You seem to be losing.” “You can’t win.” Whit shrugged. “You think I don’t know that? In all these years, I’ve never slept quietly. I don’t care how impossible this is. We’re past that now.”

“You’ve changed.” “So have you.” “I had to.” “Had to? You had to do this?” “I had no choice. Whit, I did this for you.” Whit gaped at him. “You did what?”

Winslow shrugged as best as he could with a sword still at his neck. “They would have killed you. They nearly did.” “I noticed,” Whit snapped, rubbing the space where his ear had been subconsciously.

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” “No thanks to you.” They lapsed into silence, and watched as the battle was won and Princess Emma was placed at the head of First Warren. Whit watched as Winslow was forgiven by the sister who had never known him, who knew nothing about the pain or the love he had caused. She had no right.

Whit didn’t know if he could ever forgive Winslow. Perhaps, one day, he would. Perhaps it would never happen. He had no idea, and he hated it. For now, though, his brother was still a stranger, the traitor who had caused Whit far more pain than Garten Longtreader ever had. For now, the sleepless nights and nightmares that woke him screaming were testimony against forgiveness. For now, Whit would give up on sleeping soundly. Nightmares, were, after all, familiar ground.

~

Cheerful, right?