The Hatter spared a quick glance at the King. Their gazes met briefly, snapping away before either could break the silence. He played with his hat's ribbon, wishing to anything that his mind could form a single complete thought to entertain himself with. Nothing was there. Only vague memories and worry. He tried to remember but couldn't – not anymore. When had been his last conversation? Oh, he spoke every time he went out, rambling, mad speeches. Nothing made sense, as though the only real world was the one in his head, but that wasn't real at all, was it?

Elsie, Lacie, Tillie. Didn't she have blonde hair? And did she bring him tea – hot, sweet, strong tea – at a desk? A writing desk. The raven? Hatter didn't know. Did not know if he were remembering or trying desperately to find some sanity in his rambles.

"Off with his head!" The unnaturally high-pitched shriek echoed from outside. The Queen's – had she been Lacie? – voice barely faltered now.

Hatter just stopped himself glancing up again as he sensed more than saw the King being led out to the court. The shuffling of shoes, nervous chewing on nothing. The King wouldn't last much longer. He was too close to a break-down now.

Hatter was left alone, straining his ears to hear snatches of talk outside. It sounded to be a trial, a favoured piece. He distinctly heard a name – Alice - poor girl. Headstrong, polite and intelligent. She still thought this a dream. That she would simply wake up. But she had fallen, and gravity only worked in one direction. You do not simply fall upwards. The only way up was to climb and how does one climb without a wall to climb up? The trial was the final hurdle to either fall further or begin the long climb back up to where she had been. It was a farce, really. All on what the so-called evidence and witnesses would say.

He was called forth soon enough. Lines scrunched up in his hand. All insanity – he could hardly remember what poor was. A poor man. He supposed it were true. He certainly didn't feel rich in anything, except worry and stray fragments of thought. He had a lot of lines, though, a lot of tea and cups. Was he a rich man, then? Wasn't rich having a lot? But he only had one hat. He didn't know any more. He drew in a breath, straightened his head, gripped the tea and bread-and-butter he had been given, and fixed the mechanical grin on his face.

It was the usual set up in the hall, hundreds of cards spread around, dotted with the various animals. The King was apparently playing the judge today, something that was becoming rather common. Hatter could see a vein working in his neck, expression stiff as he tried to maintain his façade. The Queen was avoiding his glances, her eyes sweeping around the room, never resting for long. Least she had to order yet another execution. Hatter could see her glancing nervously at her own notes now and again to see if a new line were there.

He read out his lines on automatic, so used to the part he played that he didn't quite know which he were. He got a terrible start at saying that his hat – the only thing he could say was – was not his. He almost sloshed his tea, fearing he would break for the first time. Beg for the girl's life, scream and give in to no longer remember at all.

"Give your evidence, and don't be nervous, or I'll have you executed on the spot," said the King, his voice wavering only slightly as he relayed the threat. Hatter froze, and flicked a glance at the Queen, praying that she would not receive the dreaded line. It had been years since the last execution 'on the spot.' It was one of the few things he could remember with great clarity – but, no. He would not. The Queen's gaze fixed on him, something odd in her eyes. Fear? Maybe. Who had she been? He doubted even she remembered. Many found it easier to just forget.

I'm a poor man. A very poor speaker.

There was no good evidence. The girl – she's just a girl! – was on her own. He didn't know as he ran from the room. He just hoped there was another witness, anything, anything to spare the girl. He didn't know if he was a poor man, but he did know that he was a rather poor hoper.

He only distantly heard the slamming gavel.