The Least

It was the least she could do.

Literally.

The most she could do, the most she was 'prophesied' to do was blindly and unquestioningly battle a mythical beast that looked as though it came from the womb of The Beast. Or so she imagined. It was what she was best at.

She supposed within the madness that seemed to be inherent within the citizens of 'Wonderland', it was perfectly and utterly logical that a fearsome and most grotesque creature could be taken down in one fell swoop by a young, totally unprepared and unbelieving woman of sheltered and 'proper' upbringing.

From another world.

Whom in a time that seemed centuries ago had run, wandered and cried through their world as a child; and that was during the good times.

And now, with all the mystic and impossible forces and powers around and among them, it was she who they turned to.

Ludicrous, but expected.

Expected, but not reassuring.

And so, after much more riding and running and terror than was appropriate for the garments she had gone through, she was here; the calming, almost eerily white castle of Mirana, the White Queen and rightful ruler of Wonderland.

Guilt is how she found herself kneeling on the soft white carpet of one of the sleek white rooms of the palace, which was also, shockingly, white.

The Hatter sat on top the downy quilts in front of her, blank ambiguity painted so noticibly and obviously on his face. Much like his make-up.

He'd be gone for a while. It intrigued her terribly where his mind could go. She was ostracised out of many a social circle due to her habit of speaking what was on her mind, which was always where it shouldn't be: an impossible place.

What dreams and visions could seem impossible in such an inconceivable world, in such a fragmented mind?

The peeling of paper broke through the silence that hung around them as thoughts filled up the room, leaving no space for sound.

Another band-aid wrapped around ointment smeared fingers.

The idea, to tend to his hands, had come only minutes ago.

Hatter had been staring at his hands with feirce concentration after she had blithely stated he was but a figment of her imagination. He was most likely looking to see if he was going to fade away, if it would hurt to dissipate into absolute nothingness.

She remembered feeling the tired, rough, worn feeling of his hands when he had plucked her out of a teapot. It was a most distressing sight to behold: scar upon scar, bruises met with bruises and trailed a ways up his arms.

So embedded were these wounds and scratches, it was really for her benefit more than his.

Removing a thimble to gain better access to a deep, nasty laceration, Alice was met with another impossible sight: beneath the thimble, hidden from the elements, his fingertip was unthinkably whiter than his already ghost-like skin. If the little cap had stayed on any longer, she mused, the flesh would have become tranparent.

She was surprised he didn't disappear into the walls altogether.

And still he sat, an unpenetratable prisoner of his own mind.

It couldn't be easy being half-mad, contemplating your very existance, or lack thereof.

At least his fingers acknolwedged her presence; twitching every so often when another strip was carefully wrapped around a battered digit. As if it were thanking her in the absence of it's owner's sanity. Sparing it from any further torment it may be subjected too.

Such polite fingers.

A tiny twitch, a little less guilt.

It was the least she could do.