A/N: Alice in Wonderland and the characters of Alice and Tarrant are not mine. In this particular instance, I have borrowed them from Tim Burton as they appear in his film.
This is the first time I have written anything about Alice and Tarrant. Before you get into the story, please be advised that (though there is no specific depiction) this piece does deal with bondage and the forceful cutting of Alice's hair.
One last thing (best for last!): a huge thank you to Niphuria. Not only was she kind enough to beta this piece, but she is a wonderful writer and has so much talent in writing this pairing that I had to try it for myself. I look forward to seeing what you would do with this, and everything else you write, be it this pairing or otherwise.
I gave this a slight edit. Nothing huge. Sorry if I disappoint anyone who was looking for a real update.
The cool tile slowly drew the passion from her flushed cheek. She lay like a covering of snow on the floor, bare and pale and cold. She waited patiently, even as she lost all sensation in her arms and legs.
Alice couldn't remember when the chair had tipped. The crack of her head on the tile had been startling in her ears. Had he heard?
Scraps of blonde pricked against her skin. In places she felt the slow drying of blood; in others, she felt only the rough edges of shorn hair.
Lightheaded, she thought, then was confused. Should she be laughing? Crying? Was he coming back for her?
She remembered, now: the chair had fallen when he struck her. Hard. His fist against her mouth when she had called out to him: a cold and broken name from trembling lips.
He would come back. He'd come back; he wouldn't be Mad; he would ask forgiveness, and it would be all right.
She slept, and dreamed of braiding long blonde hair.
Long after her eyes had closed in slumber, Tarrant came and stood in the doorway. He wasn't Mad anymore.
He sighed; she really was beautiful: white skin, released from behind blonde curtains, contrasting so splendidly with her blood red lips. It was the same colour he had seen on the shears in his workroom. Where had that colour come from?
Then he remembered. He dropped to his knees beside her and slowly drew his trembling thumb across her bloodied mouth. He kept his eyes on her serene face, unwilling to look at the destruction he had caused her, as he methodically untied her and pushed away the chair.
There, on the cold tiles of the kitchen, he held her in his shaking arms. The pieces of her on the floor frightened him. Would she fall apart if he let go of her?
Gently, he ran his fingers through her shaggy hair and pressed his lips to hers in a soundless plea for forgiveness.