wanderamaranth | Possible Side Effects, Ch. 23 (Reply)

Summary: Jabberwocky blood is powerful, but has a short shelf life. Then, there are the possible side effects...

Rating: T, although this chapter edges up towards an R rating for a short sequence of violence.

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A/N: Just wanted to say before you read this chapter that the POVs change as they normally do, but I also have backtracked specific moments for each character. Hopefully it will make sense when reading. Let me know if it's unclear when specific events are occurring…I think it should be self-explanatory, though. Oh, and broomclosetkink 's comments on the last chapter are completely to blame for the Hatter's confusion over his kilt in this first section! ;D

The need for invisibility was greater than one might initially suspect it would be for the Hatter to travel through Marmoreal. This was due less to a large number of hostile individuals that would impede his path (as those could have been dealt with by a sharp blow or a sneaky walk-around) and more so to the fact that the Hatter (although he was considered a Mad creature, and his bouts of Badness were a cause of genuine concern) was quite popular among the residents and servants of the Castle.

Had he been visible on that (entirely too long and why did Time insist on tormenting him by not allowing him to Go Faster?) walk to the Hall, he would have been stopped several times by those who would have been eager for a spot of conversation or to angle for an Invitation to one of his still infamous parties that many were sure he was to hold once again now that the Frabjous Day had occurred. (The presence of the Claymore and his kilt would not have helped in this regard…rather, the only affect those two articles upon his person seemed to ever have was the presence of more individuals slowing his progress. Why, on the Frabjous Day alone, whilst he was walking from his quarters to the front steps, he had been invited to Tea over a half-dozen times! He was not certain why this should occur, but it was Vexing indeed when one had a specific place they needed to be at a very specific time to be constantly stopped for such trivialities! He'd had She to attend to, and not the inclination to stop and speak to them of their silliness. Tea was for himself, his closest companions, and She. No one else.)

So it would have been on that day, as well. Luckily for the Hatter, however, Chessur was present and in a much more accommodating mood than he had been in a very long time. The Cat had placed himself upon his arm with nary a compliant, and graced him with the gift of his Proximate Invisibility. Tarrant was able to avoid conversations with Ace the Stable Boy, Melinda the Washer Woman, and Hill the Poet Laureate, all of whom they passed by completely unseen. (Truth be told, if he had not been so Consumed by concern for She-She being the one whom due to circumstances beyond his control was better thought of as a pronoun once again, if just for a little while-She who was so close, She who he'd soon be able to truly holdcaressTOUCH- and her proximity to the Red Queen, the Hatter would have been gratified indeed to be able to speak to Hill, for he always had such amusing things to say, and he would have liked to gather as many of those Words together as possible to present to She. Yet he was Consumed by concern, and thusly not sorry at all to pass Hill by.)

The Hatter encountered not a single individual who could reasonably (or even unreasonably) be considered a supporter of Iracebeth during this attack until he reached the double doors leading into Hall. Even then they only numbered two, one on each side of the doors, and they were very easily dispatched by sound blows to the back of their heads. (With the hilt of a sword and a thrown rock, by Tarrant and Chessur, respectively, Chessur musing that rocks work just as well on foe as friend.) The Cat then floated away from Hatter, rendering them both visible once more. Tarrant tried the door, but it was shut tight.

"No use, old son!" the Door Handle sighed, and the Hatter fell to his knees before it.

"It is of the utmost and complete importance that you allow us to interrupt the proceedings occurring therein." Tarrant explained, leaning on his sword as a brace.

Sniffing, the Door Handle replied, "I told you, it's no use!"

The Hatter was on his feet in a moment, claymore held aloft once more. He bandied it about in a threatening manner, unsure of whether or not he was merely threatening the Handle or completely serious as he spoke rapidly, Outlandish accent coloring every word. "Ye'll be letti n' me in, ye fandere de langsumnes, or I'll lob ye off at yer base!" He grasped the Handle and rattled it violently once more, as though that action would somehow prove more affective with repetition.

Shrinking into itself as much as possible, the Door Handle squeaked, then defensively chattered, "Tis not my fault! They have me barred from on the other side! I couldn't possibly move at all! Believe me, I've tried! It's a horrid scene in there, truly it is!"

Tarrant clenched his jaw at the Ideas of what that woman would do to his wee boy should they encounter one another, and cursed himself and the White Queen for several types of a fool. He released the Handle and paced in front of the Door instead, thoughts swirling. They should have done more to monitor her sister's movements within the Castle walls! Instead, Tarrant had been occupied with planning small compliments and daydreaming about the upcoming possibility of sun-drenched kisses, and Mirana….he flushed slightly at the Idea of what, apparently, Mirana had been thinking about during those days that should have been spent more carefully. Subconsciously he went to adjust his trousers, as if having them sit properly on his waist would prevent further Thoughts of he and she and the Queen together from plaguing his Monarch, before recalling to himself that he wore his kilt instead.

Grabbing the handle and giving it a good tug yet again, Tarrant turned back to the Cheshire Cat, who was lounging against a nearby pillar without an apparent care in the world. "Do ye feel like perhaps letting me into the shop once more, Chess?" he asked. (When the Hatter was a young Hightopp, and even more mischievous than he currently was, he had once convinced a bored Chessur to evaporate the lock barring entry to the Candymaker's shop upon the Hill. Once Tarrant had gotten inside, he'd stuffed himself until he became ill, and then stuffed himself once more before falling asleep due to the sheer amount of sweets he'd ingested. Marta and Gambriel had Not Been Amused when he was discovered some hours later, fast asleep in a window display, with confectionary sugar liberally coating his person and a wide smile upon his face.)

Grinning widely, the Cat replied, "Why ever not?" before turning to smoke and sneaking under the crack of the door.

Chessur's assistance was not needed, though, as once he got to the side of the door where all the action was, he saw that two courtiers had already mostly lifted the bar away. He allowed them to finish their work (for how would they feel, if he were to suddenly just land upon the bar and make it disappear, after all of the effort they'd exerted?) and the Hatter barreled into the room, chest heaving.

"Oh, good." the Cat paused, wondering just how good the Haberdasher's appearance in this still tenuous situation really was, before discarding it as moot at that point, "The coup's already been dealt with." he said instead of his doubts. "See? I told you, Tarrant, there was nothing to worry about. Your Alice can be quite competent." (Of course, the Cat had never told the Hatter such a thing, but it seemed like the thing to say in the situation anyways.)

"Alice." the Hatter whispered, feeling the Badness that had been battering at him recede at seeing her mostly whole and upright. (It faded so much that he was comfortable enough to call her by her proper name again, instead of a pronoun! Hopefully this would be the last time such Measures were needing to be taken.) He felt his sword slide from his suddenly limp grasp, as his eyes veritably drank in the sight of her right there, her proper size, and right in front of him!

His legs began closing the distance between them, his eyes flickering between her shining golden perfect Alice curls and the tableau the Red Queen and Knave were making. The woman was cowering against the wall, body curling towards the floor in what should have been a defense gesture, had Tarrant not been able to see how tightly coiled her frame was, how prepared for movement she appeared to be. Happening in one of these flicks to see Iracebeth's eyes, Hatter felt his entire body scream out a warning at the Badness he saw consuming her. She had an Idea, and one that obviously boded no good for his Alice.

There was no time for him to go back for his sword. There was no time to reach Alice at all, before whatever-it-was that the Big Head was planning was carried through, yet still he ran, even Knowing (that damned state of being!) that he would not be able to get to her side before Iracebeth struck. He may have screamed her name; Tarrant didn't know. Possibilities of action crowded about his mind, rapidly dismissed. A thrown knife could just as easily strike Alice as his target in his current state of agitation; a hatpin would only be useful if he knew what it was the infernal woman was planning to do. Had he been in Hall tonight, he'd know what was happening, he'd have been able to prevent this confrontation between She and-

Snarling like a cornered animal (which the Hatter supposed Iracebeth really was, when it came down to it) the former Queen raised her arm and then there was the unmistakable roar of a gun and then-!

"O-oh…" Alice murmured, hands shaking as she touched the wound in her center. Red blossomed (and how the Hatter wished he had a word less beautiful to describe what was happening to his Alice than that one, when the events that were transpiring were anything but!) outward, spreading rapidly across what had once been a blue jacket. "I feel so…strange." she said, almost detachedly, before crumpling into a heap on the floor.

This time he was certain that he screamed her name, but was too distraught to actually care.

Time regained his proper speed, (as Hatter had felt that Time, that insufferable, infernal, inglorious bastard!-had slowed events considerably, so that every step he had run towards Alice took ever so much longer than it should have!) and Tarrant was suddenly there. He screamed again, long, wordlessly, and fell to his knees beside her, his kilt fanning out around him as he collapsed. There was no thought in his mind aside from AlicealicealiceAlicealice, a useless chat. Neither vengeance nor anger buffeted him. Right then, there was only Fear, and the back of his throat released a sort of thin, keening wail, the kind of despairing cry not heard in Underland since the Horunvendush Day.

"She's no breathin'!" the Hatter cried. Clenching one of his hands into a fist, he brought it down hard on her sternum, forcing a gasp of air into her lungs. He did it again, and once more after that before her body realized that one way or another, she was going to breathe, and perhaps it would be easier on it if it just did it on it's own rather than have air beaten into it.

As suddenly as Iracebeth's attack had been, the Knave's retaliation was swifter still. His sword was not halfway across the room the way the Hatter's was, nor yet was he engulfed in a combination of past and present horrors, forcing the most important person in his world to breathe. He wasted no movement, gave no honor to her death by making it a flashy show. Kneeling, he punched the short sword he wore at his waist through her chest. Lifting her body with the steel's length, he propped her against one of the only pieces of furniture in the cavernous room, a low side table with an enormous mirror atop of it. She flailed reflexively, the way a bug suddenly pinned on a specimen board will do, her enormous brown eyes beseeching. "Stayne?" she cried, and though it was unspoken, all could hear the why in the one word the former Queen did speak.

Leaning forward, still pressing upon the sword, dark hair a curtain blocking his face and lips from easy view of those scattered about the Hall, Stayne whispered into her ear, "Underland will never be truly safe until you are dead. My Queen will never be safe." Pulling the short sword free, he plunged it once more into the soft flesh of her body, this time twisting the blade upon entry. Dark blue blood dribbled from her mouth, and Stayne watched it, unflinching. He waited until the last spark of awareness left her eyes, and then he removed the metal for the final time. Iracebeth's body collapsed onto the floor, and the Knave wiped his sword clean on her skirts, before resheathing the blade and turning his attention to Alice, and by default, the Hatter.

The ridiculous man was leaning over Alice, who by-the-Fates had her eyes open. The red blood of a commoner flecked her face, and it took Stayne several long seconds to realize it was her own. Of course, he distantly recognized, she was not born to Royalty; it would be red. The Knave took the bare few steps needed to reach them both, and stood just behind the Hatter, watching as he whisper-spoke to the young woman. Alice's properly blue eyes were locked on the ginger's, and Stayne knew (as her gaze could leave no room of Doubt, none at all!) with a sort of vague horror that, for all intents and purposes, he was standing over his King as well as his Queen.

Irony was only humorous when you were observing, not experiencing it.

All others stood frozen in the Hall for a long moment, stunned by Stayne's actions and the vehemence of the Hatter's cry. Then they all started talking in a flurry at once.

"Lacnungan!" the Milliner screeched, halting the sudden cacophony. When all simply stood and stared at him, he demanded in a scream, "Lacnungan!" once more, seemingly unaware that he was commanding them in Outlandish, which few of those present could actually understand.

Stayne pressed a hand firmly into the Hatter's shoulder, in what was meant to be a reassuring manner. The ugly idea of simply slaying the Hatter as he crouched over her Majesty occurred to the Knave, but the sheer amount of witnesses present stayed his hand. Compassion for the man's pain and respect for what Queen Alice would wish had nothing whatsoever to do with it, he told himself firmly.

Half-turning, the Hatter froze upon seeing just whom had their hand upon his shoulder. "You!" he accused.

Stayne had a second to acknowledge himself as several types of an idiot before having to block the Hatter's swing, and the pair of scissors aimed for the side of his neck.

When Alice first opened her eyes, all she saw was blackness. Not a complete blackness, no, for there seemed to be a light similar to fire or a gas lamp somewhere off to her right; yet there was no other relief to the darkness save that one light. She could not even see the ceiling of wherever-she-was. All was simply blank.

"Hello there, young one!"

Alice sat up, slowly, her entire body complaining at the action. Blearily she looked first left, then right, trying to find the owner of the voice that had greeted her, or at the very the least the source of the light . Happening to glance down towards herself while doing this, she paused in her search to stare at the red stain about her middle in puzzlement. Lightly brushing the spot had no effect. She brushed harder, but the stain remained, and in fact, seemed to grow with her pressing upon it.

"That's…not going to come out that way."

Alice looked straight up, then, and saw…something, staring at her with a genial expression upon it's face. At least, Alice believed it to be a genial expression; she found it rather hard to tell, as he looked like nothing so much as one of the demons Lady Ascot had frescoed into the scene of Revelation upon the ceiling of the rectory abutting Ascot Estate. At the time, Alice had thought it to be a gross misrepresentation of what a demon would look like-after all, were not angels and men made by the same Creator, in His image?-(it seemed a more accurate description of that particular Lady's ghoulish tendencies) but now, facing the being she currently was, she felt the need to take all of the doubts she ever had in that regard back.

Thick black skin whirled and curled about the creature's body; sharp protrusions stood from each shoulder. He reminded Alice of nothing so much as a great black beetle. A small part of her wondered if that thick outer skin of his would protect him in the same way a beetle's shell did, but she held herself back from asking at the last moment.

"What's the matter?" the creature asked, seeing the abject horror splash itself across her face. "You just realized you're dead, didn't you?" he asked, and when Alice's eyes grew wider still (she was dead? How could it be that she came to be in such a state without realizing what was happening?) he snapped his fingers, looking almost chagrined. "I'm guessing from the look on your face that wasn't it, was it?" Smiling a bit wider and grinning nervously, he waved his hands in the air (and if Alice had the frame of reference, she would have called the motion 'jazz hands', but she hadn't, so she didn't) and said, "Surprise?"

"I'm…I'm dead?" Alice warbled, not liking that Idea in the slightest. "But I had so much to do, to…say…" she trailed off, poking at the stain about her middle once more. When she spoke again, her voice was almost absent-minded in it's pondering. "If I'm dead, and you're here, I must be in Hell."

"Hell? Why do you say that?" the being asked. Snapping his fingers once again (Alice could tell that little habit would get annoying quickly, if she was to stay in this creature's presence for very long; and if she were in Hell, than she had no doubt it would be very long indeed. Had she been just wicked enough in life to warrant being irritated her entire afterlife, instead of tormented? Somehow, the blonde couldn't find the amount of graceful thankfulness such a situation should have inspired in her.)

"It's the face, isn't it?" Sighing, the creature took a step towards her, hand held out. "I'm terribly sorry about it, but really, there's nothing I can do about it. My name…well, we'll just Skip that, shall we? You wouldn't be able to pronounce it, anyways."

Tucking her one free hand under her armpit (and if she were dead, should she not have the use of both of her arms, if for no other reason than for this pit-dweller to enjoy breaking it once more?) to avoid shaking the proffered grasp, Alice said shortly, "You must excuse me if I don't claim it to be a pleasure to meet you…." she stumbled a bit over the lack of a name with which to use to properly talk down to him, but then regained her hauteur. "If it's all the same, I'd rather get right to the eternal torment and abject suffering. Might as well know what I'm in for, for the rest of eternity, straight away."

"See, if I didn't know that you thought you were in Christian Hell, I might be insulted." the creature said, pulling his hand back. "I really should come to expect this from you European types. Right to the meat of it, then?"

Pulling out a parchment out of thin air, he settled a pair of square, wire-rimmed glasses upon the edge of his nose, (which had come from that same place as the parchment) and a large, pincher-type finger scrolled down a long list, which rested atop a writing desk that had not been present before. Stopping when he apparently found what he was looking for, and he read aloud. "Alice Jane Kingsleigh, second daughter of Charles Madden Kingsleigh, your request for a Hearing on the Fairness of Your Sudden Death has been Approved. Whenever you're ready, I'll Hear your Argument on Why it is Not Your Time to Die."

Silence greeted this preposterous statement. Glancing up from the parchment, the demon blinked myopically at her. "Well?"

Alice sputtered, a thousand and two questions bubbling in her head. Sighing once more, the dark creature in front of her removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of what Alice assumed to be his nose. "It's a simple thing, girlie. You're a Champion, yeah? Important Champions and some of the Major Bad Individuals of all the Realms get a second chance when their first life ends a bit sooner than Time, Death, and Fate all planned on. You can stay dead, if that's what you want-Charon's right behind that Door right there." The beast pointed to a Door that Alice was certain had not been there moments before, one of dark walnut and deeply etched engravings of battles fought and lost.

"Or…" pointing to another Door, (this one very plain and completely unassuming) one Alice was positive had not been there just seconds prior, Mr. Just-Skip-My-Name smiled and said, "You can choose to live, and go through that Door. I'm not really supposed to sway your decision one way or another, but honestly? I'm really hoping you choose the Door of Life."

"Who will guide me if I chose that Door?" Alice asked, brows tilted in confusion.

"No one, sweetness." the creature said, grin slipping a bit. "No one can tell you how to live except you. Death's the easy way out; it's living that's hard. Thought all you Champion types were aware of that."

"Not every one, apparently." Alice murmured. "What do I need to do? And why do I need to do this?" Alice could feel a bout of mulishness coming to the fore. "If I am dead, what do my actions matter?"

Blinking at her in surprise, mouth still grinning, her companion said, "Just choose a Door. And you're not Dead dead, just…kinda dead. Death's much more temporary that you might think."

Nodding as if this made perfect sense (and in many ways, it did for Alice, though she would not have been able to articulate why), she said, "I thought you said that you needed an argument from me?" At the creature's blank stare, she said, "On why my death came too early or some such thing?"

"Oh, that." He frowned for the first time since she'd met the surprisingly genial being, and said, "Just a formality." Grasping a quill with an extravagant plume from thin air, he dipped it into a inkwell that conveniently rested before him. "I will just put down that you have things you feel you need to finish, places to see, etcetera, etcetera. You know, the usual."

"You do this sort of thing often?" Alice asked.

Shrugging, the beast replied, "Often enough." The quill scratched rapidly against the parchment, and when done, he leaned back for a moment, observing his work. "Brilliant, if I do say so myself. And I do!" The parchment vanished out of sight with an audible snap, then the quill, with finally the desk and it's accruements soon following.

"Which Door will you chose, kid?"

Smiling in her secret way, that wry twist of her lips, eyes shining, the blonde replied, "Do you really have to ask?"

A few steps were all it took for her to reach her Door. "Thank you, Mr…." she paused. "I never did get your name."

"No, you didn't." the creature agreed pleasantly. "Fairfarren, is it? For your Realm?"

Dimples showing, Alice said, "It is indeed, Sir." Despite his ghastly appearance, his demeanor spoke of nothing but nothing but perfect amiability, and Alice felt no concern over the veracity of all he'd told her.

"Fairfarren, then, Alice."

Nodding, she twisted the Door Handle, and fell through into the space beyond.

It was much as going back up the Rabbit Hole had been; darkness flashed by her in increasingly less and less dark patches, rushing her headlong into a spot of light in the ever-shrinking distance. She landed into her body was a crash, and air whooshed back into her lungs as something hard pounded into her chest.

Alice coughed, feeling wetness burble out of her mouth as she swam back to the surface of consciousness. She felt as though she were drowning, but the only fluid in her throat was her own blood, and she forced it past her lips, feeling it fleck her chin and slide down her cheek. Eyes watering violently as she opened them, she saw a blurry outline hunched in front of her, all oranges and greens and the most vivid blue she thought she'd ever clapped eyes on before.

"Hatter…" she tried to say, but her lips only mimed the word. Blinking again, her eyes focused and brought his face into clearer view. The blue was his jacket, brighter than it had been on the Frabjous Day, and it framed his features spectacularly, his own eyes alternating between vibrant green and smoke grey. They flickered rapidly between the two colors as if their owner could not decide his own self. No, that was not quite right. The glare from the reflection of the stained-glass windows and her own imagination was what was coloring his eyes their beloved green; they themselves remained steady in their greyness.

I decided to try living, Alice wanted to say. Please don't be sad. The words would not come, though. Spots danced across her vision, and she blinked again, harder, trying to communicate with her Hatter through the sheer force of her gaze.

His voice, when she did hear it, seemed to come from a long ways off, and Alice wondered why he should sound so muffled when he was right there, above her. Not that a lack of the muffled quality would have been of much benefit to her, because when he spoke, his speech was so thick with his curious brogue that she could hardly distinguish the words anyways.

"There ye be, me beamish boy. Dinna close yer eyes, lass! Alice!" Her name was spoken sharply, a reprimand Alice didn't think she truly deserved. She had only been going to close her eyes for a moment…she was so tired, she didn't think taking a small rest was all that unreasonable…

Hands grasping either side of her face convinced her to open her eyes once again, and she attempted a smile. Strength she would have denied possessing had she been questioned as to its existence had her lifting her unbroken arm to wrap her hand around one of those the Hatter had pressed against her cheek. Grey eyes met blue, and Alice wished she still had at least a trace of the Hatter's Perception, so that she could paint the words she wanted to speak into his mind, that he might be able to read them.

"Lacnungan!" she heard him shout, ugly desperation on his exhale. "Lacnungan!" he scream-shouted once more, the line of his jaw that normally was softer with age sharply drawn, his grief transforming him once more into a young man losing all held dear to him. Alice spared a moment to wonder what it was that he was crying out for so, (she had chosen to live! Had perhaps Mirana fallen, and been claimed by Death in her sted?) before consciousness left her once more.

"Stop him!"

Geoffrey, the Pawn, clattered back into the Hall through the servant's entrance, just in time to see the Hatter swing a pair of decidedly deadly looking shears towards Stayne's neck. Ilosovic managed to deflect that blow, but barely, and used the advantage of his proximity to the Mad man to wrap his long arms about the Hatter, trapping his own appendages against his sides.

The Hatter spit and yowled, thrashing. "A little assistance, if you please!" Stayne called out to Geoffrey, and the Pawn rushed forward, securing the man's legs before he properly remembered he had those with which to fight as well, and began kicking. They held the Hatter such, Stayne about his middle, Geoffrey at his feet (a position which, had he actually a moment to consider, he would have likely not put himself into, for he had the sudden and irrational urge to look upward, and see for himself if what was said about Outlanders and what they wear under their kilts was true) until his furious grunting and heaving subsided.

"Where…" a soft voice lisped, and the Pawn was startled to realize it came from the man he was gripping about the ankles. Wasn't his voice different than that?

"I am going to release you on the condition you to not immediately set about trying to kill me once more." Stayne purred into Tarrant's ear, and Geoffrey couldn't help the wave of jealously that overcame him that the Hatter even had a proper ear with which could be whispered into. He shoved it aside and cautiously let go of the now-still man, backing away slowly and telling himself firmly he would not look up until well clear of his skirts!

Stayne pondered little why he was calming the Milliner instead of battling him, as he would have done mere days prior. Queen Alice was his priority. If she should recover and discover that he had slain this foppish fool, no doubt her vengeance would be swift and unmerciful. It was all about self-interest, really.

"The Big Head is Dead. The Big Head is very, very dead." Tarrant croaked in his lisp, seeing Iracebeth's torn and discarded body on the floor. Eyes swirling the yellow and red of the Fire once more, the brogue returned as he growled, "I am very glad of it; my only regret in tha regard is that I was no the one to strike the killin' blow."

"Where are the Healers?" Ignoring the Hatter's remarks, (as he believed would be in his best interest to do so, as he had nothing whatsoever to say to the man that would not be antagonistic, and he could not afford such a luxury in that moment) Stayne's voice boomed out across the Hall as he relinquished his grip on the Hatter.

Many voices babbled at him in the confusion of the room, but none were saying anything he wanted to hear. "Silence!' he bellowed, and, stunned, many listened to him. Many, save for, of course, the Hatter.

The Hatter, for his own part, was not quite aware why the Knave had been gripping him so. He knew he'd been leaning over Alice, watching her lovely face decorate itself with the horrid colors of the Red Reign, and then a weight upon his shoulder, and then…nothing. The Badness had wrapped itself up in it's comfortingly forgetful embrace, and the next he knew he was here, and it was obviously later, although how much more so, he couldn't say. Shame and panic threatened to immolate him. How could he allow the Badness to swallow him when Alice was before him, bleeding out upon the floor? When she most certainly and absolutely needed him to be anything but Mad?

"Chess!" he called, but the Cat was already there, beside Alice, doing what Tarrant was preparing to beg him to do. He leaned against her, one elbow on her stomach, for all the world appearing to be simply lounging on her body, had one not been able to see that the arm that braced him was the only one currently in his possession, and that his turquoise gaze was turned inside his own skull, the way it did when he was seeing something his body was feeling, but his normal vision would not be able to comprehend.

"Ah!" the Cat exclaimed, evidentially finding what he was looking for. "Yes, you would have caused problems if you'd remained much longer, wouldn't you?" he drawled. His paw briefly reappeared outside of Alice's body, carelessly dropping a small hunk of metal onto the marble floor, before returning once more. "Tarrant, I need you here."

"I'm here, Chess! Tell me what you require!" the Hatter would redeem himself for his lapse while her life hung in the balance. He didn't know how, but he would!

"Press down upon her wound. Yes, just so." he praised, when the man applied the proper amount of pressure. "It seems Marmoreal's Healers are presently occupied with the White Queen. Alice is going to have to make do with our efforts."

"What?"

"The White Queen was struck down by the Red before our arrival, apparently." Chessur answered the question that was easier first. "Now keep your hands right where they are. And do not move them from where I've told you to put them this time!" The Hatter flushed at the reminder of his failed attempt to bring Alice to him from Somewhere Else, but held his tongue. More important things than his reacquaintance with Embarrassment were occurring! Chessur evaporated fully into mist, and wisped himself up Alice's nose and through her ears.

Tarrant could feel the strangest sensation of another warm body moving just under the surface of Alice's stomach, and wondered if this is how a child would feel, near full-to-bursting and very much alive under Alice's skin. He'd barely acknowledged to himself that he would very much indeed like to feel this sensation, at another time and under much pleasanter circumstances, (but that the likelihood of such was decidedly not in his favor) when the sensation ceased, her stomach flattened, and Chessur reappeared.

"I have done what I can for her." Chessur didn't need to say that it wasn't much; Hatter could tell that just from the lack of boasting spewing forth from the Cat's mouth. If he'd been able to single-handedly save the Alice, he would have been Smugness himself.

It was more than the Hatter could have done for her, and that made it more than enough. The already distant-to-his-ears sounds of courtiers, amphibious servants, other assorted animals (and just why were there so many bloody birds in the room?) and the late arrival of the White Guard faded from his awareness as he seriously contemplated the Cat before him. "Thank you, Chess." he lisped.

The Vorpal Blade was only a few paces away, resting with the Armor. It took barely a breath for him to change course, and only one more for him to pivot back to the proper direction. Teeth bared in a rictus grin, he charged. His first slashing arc downed the Knave, that unworthy and bil furious sack of meat and bone that consistently stopped him from helping his Alice. The Blade was so well honed it seemed to veritably sing through the air. It easily slid through and came out again stained yellow, Stayne's cowardice showing through in his blood.

Only one more step, and he was at the Red Queen, who cowered and trembled before him, the pistol-knife slack in her grip; he could see the gunpowder on her fingers. There was no Badness to hide behind for his actions, no seething Madness-it was Tarrant, and just Tarrant, who raised the Blade. It was just Tarrant who swung it down, and just he who watched the former Queen's regrettably large cranium roll and bounce several meters away from the rest of her. "Off with your head!" he sing-songed, voice a happy, in-the-present lisp.

He could feel his lips curl up on the edges in the happiest of smiles as he then focused on what remained after the removal of the head, hacking and hewing away. Smaller bits he tossed over his shoulder as he cut them away from the larger whole, until it was difficult to tell what was the original and what was that which he was removing. He hummed in the back of his throat, no real discernible tune, just a short of rhythmic counting, which he found himself setting familiar words to. "The Vorpal Blade went Snicker Snak!" he giggled. "Snicker snak, snicker-"

"Hatter?"

He woke suddenly, like a man saved from drowning by a hand upon his neck and a rough shake in the open air. Eyes unfocused, he tried to recall to himself his surroundings, and how he got there. The voice which had woken him was cracked and thready, but undeniably, unmistakably Alice's. It really shouldn't have been able to stir him at all, yet it did, so he supposed it was possible, after all.

They were in Marmoreal's Hall of Healing, a small series of interconnected spaces tucked away in the quietest corner of the estate. He vaguely remembered following the Leeches as they'd come to bear Alice away, and some sort of fuss with Stayne and Birds and a Mouse wanting to come as well. Mallymkun had finally shown up, then, (and after a few derogatory statements on the Hatter's state of dress and the Hall in general) and with a few intimidating swipes of her hatpin managed to convince all others to allow he to be the only one to escort Alice to the Hall of Healing.

A space had been cordoned off especially for Alice, and he'd sat in the chair beside her bed…he must have fallen asleep, when he should have been watching her! What if she'd snuck away while he was being undiligent? The Healers (Leeches and Quacks all) had insisted that Alice needed to remain in bed for a while, and had tasked him with making sure she had done so.

"Alice?' he dared to whisper. Then he looked to his right, and she was there. His hands were not stained blue; there was no Red Queen, and there was no Vorpal Sword. It was just he, and just Alice, alone with the specter of his own expectations of self, and what he should and should not have done to protect She.

Standing, he began to pace beside her bed. He pulled lightly on his hair, causing it to fluff ever-more wildly than even it usually was wont to do. When the light pulls were unsatisfactory to his level of distress, he began to pull harder, until curly strands began to come loose. That was a bit better, so he pulled a bit harder, and-

"Hatter!"

Blinking as the rough call forced him back to himself, he gasped, "Fine, fine." He turned on his heel and wobbled a bit unsteadily on the corner of his right shoe (the one he so happened to pivot with) which forced him to grip the edge of her bed for balance. Luck decided that Tarrant had seen more than enough of his Bad side, and decided to grace him with the Good, for he was able to right himself without falling flat to the floor (which would have been Bad enough) or pulling Alice, still-mending-and-fragile Alice, to the floor with him (which would have been decidedly Worse!).

The result of this steadying was, though, that he was leaning quite over top of Alice, face directly in line with her own. His breath caught in his throat as he looked at her; her face was paler than usual, and wan-both sure signs of the trials she had recently been through. Yet to he, she still looked exceptionally lovely. She was an Alice, after all, and it was impossible (despite what Alices may say of impossible things) for an Alice to be anything but. Lovely, that was. He must have told her so, in a rush of temporary mania, for she blinked at him several times, slowly, and then a wide smile crept across her face.

"What shall I say of Hatters and their amiable qualities, then?" she teased, voice sounding like pebbles thrown into a tin bucket, but it was Alice's, and it was happy, and that was all that mattered. "Shall I ruminate on how there is none equal to your skill in hat-making? No, that is too much of a common thing." Her voice cleared out the more she spoke, and soon it was her right-proper Alice voice, of which Tarrant was most thrilled with, especially as he got to hear her words to him said the way they should be said.

"No." she repeated. A shaky hand lifted up, and clumsily fumbled for the side of his face. He reached for it with both of his own, and pressed it to his cheek, closing his eyes to savor the perfume of her skin at the wrist. "I like the way you look at me, Hatter. As if I can…" she broke off, and he opened his eyes, green eyes locking with blue. "As if you believe in me."

"Oh, Alice." he said, "How can I do anything else?"

A/N Part 2: Some more Outlandish translations.

fandere de langsumnes-tester of patience

Lacnungan-Healer

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