She grows tired of the fighting, of the blood and the noises and the running, and when her dress is torn and stained and her hair is hanging damp over her forehead she gives up. She puts her blade in her apron (and doesn't think about the stains it will cause because she is already stained and dirty and one more drop of blood will do no harm, really), wipes her hands on her stockings, and stops, finds a hidey-hole to crawl into and makes herself comfortable for a while. It is nice, Alice thinks, to have something to appreciate for once, and so she stays there for what she thinks is probably hours, knees tucked up to her chest and fingers absentmindedly playing with the buckles on her boots. She watches everything, watches the impossible blue of the sky and the oddities that fly through it, watches the strange way the wind blows the grass and the flowers bend and twist in the breeze. Not since the house burned down (fire and fire and screaming and mother father Lizzie help me help) and took half of Alice with it has she done this, and so she makes the most of it while she can.
After a few hours Cheshire turns up, emaciated and grinning, but he does not disturb her. Simply sits beside her and doesn't speak a word, grateful for the time to clean his paws, she thinks. In a while he will speak up, tell her to get a move on and she will do just that, take her blade back from her pocket and continue on through this twisted Wonderland until she finds what she's looking for (memories and revenge and why did you how could you you will pay for this you will i swear) and saves herself, saves everyone. For now, though, she thinks, she is just Alice. Not almost Alice, not poor little Alice, not not-what-she-used-to-be Alice.
Just Alice.