Author's Note: Welcome to the result of a fifteen-hour writing marathon! :D I started off with a couple fluffy drabbles, but the Battlestar Galatica soundtrack and a certain Scottish accent sent this story in a totally different direction. Personally, I prefer how it flows as a single document, but if you'd like to read it in chapters, I've seperated it that way, too :) Enjoy!
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The ash smelled like blackberries, and made him want jam.
Tarrant also wanted the clouds to recede, those deeply sinister ones that made the sky appear rusted, and he wanted fresh green grass to spring up from the charred ground, and he wanted the fires to be drenched out, and he wanted his family to be alive, but now was not the time to believe in impossible things. Jam was possible.
Drifting somewhere outside of himself, he crouched down and lifted his hat from the smouldering dirt. It rained cinders into his long, curling hair, singing the ends; a haircut would be needed, but not before jam. With this thought, he left the devastated clearing behind, tracking embers into the forest on the soles of his boots.
Seeking out jam was a good reason to leave the clearing, but not the reason; the reason was that there was no reason to stay. Time in Underland is an intricate and mutable paisley, but for all its whorls and coils, it never runs backwards.
*
When he reached his tea party (slightly early), he carefully ignored Thackery's feverish raving about purple fireworks and clouds with claws. He lowered himself into the armchair at the head of the table and gently rapped on the mauve teapot to his left. A prolonged yawn echoed within the pot, followed by a grunt as its occupant slid the lid open.
"Wot is it, Hatter?" the Dormouse sighed, resting her chin on the rim and blinking her inky eyes.
"Mallymkun, would you be so kind as to go and fetch me some jam?"
"JAM!"
Tarrant slammed the lid back down and ducked as a jam jar sailed from the Hare's grasp and smashed into the back of the armchair.
"A very inconvenient place for jam," Tarrant frowned; it dripped on his shoulder in reply. Thackery giggled like a lit fuse, but was soon distracted by a wisp of teal smoke whirling between his ears.
"Some things never change, I see," Chessur drawled, and looped into his full form at the opposite end of the table, "even in the face of so…much…change."
Tarrant's lips pursed, but he said nothing, did not even bother to meet Chessur's cerulean gaze. (In an unprecedented show of wisdom, Thackery folded back his ears and inched down his chair until only his wide and darting eyes were visible.)
"The writing was on the wall, dear Tarrant," he continued, helping himself to a saucer of black tea, two sugars. "First there was that repulsive business of the King of Hearts' beheading, then the reinstatement of the Red Knights, and of course, that most curious incident of the misplaced crown…."
His smile unfurled, a cruel mockery of Tarrant's darkening features.
"I often ponder the notion," he replied slowly, his voice rumbling into a foreboding brogue, "that there is no hat more dangerous than a crown."
He arose with a sulfurous gleam in his eye and added:
"Wouldn't you agree, Chess?"
With a bellow he gripped the edge of the table and hurled it towards Chessur, but the oaken slab soared straight through the Cat and there was nothing to show for the attack but a cascade of shattered ceramics clattering across the yard.
"'Never get involved in politics,' you said! But when you've a taste for a bit of mischief, then it's no holds bloody barred. If it doesn't hurt you, it's harmless! Never mind that your little joke has slaughtered my entire clan and threatens the lives of all who call Underland home, never mind that the sky is burning and the ground is naught but ash and the air is melting mutating mistreated misused misled—"
"Calm yourself, Tarrant." A plume of teal smoke smothered his ranting. "It seems to me that you ought to express your concerns to Queen Mirana. Oh, do excuse me…Lady Mirana."
And he vanished, leaving Tarrant to dwell on the horrible possible with only a quivering Thackery and dozing Mallymkun as his companions.
*
Loath though he was to take Chessur's advice, Tarrant quickly found himself with no choice but to travel to Marmoreal; every alternative seemed cowardly or useless.
"We have been very rude," he explained to the duo of his trio, "and neglected an invitation I received from the Queen herself just last year."
This fabrication was meant to spare his friends from realizing the full horror of the situation, but once they took to the road the truth became agonizingly obvious. Villages once bustling with fish and monkeys and their vibrant marketplaces lay empty, curtains drifting across scorched windowsills. The trees had fearfully shrunk away into the rocks, leaving vast expanses of arid land. Where once there were feet, there were now only footprints.
Partway through the journey Tarrant dropped his gaze to the ground and refused to lift it. He was vaguely aware of old friends emerging from wayside hiding places to join his troupe, and vaguely aware of the clamor that arose with each new arrival, but he focused on the road and tried to keep his mind from crowding out his thoughts. Cobblestones, potholes, puddles, slippery slate slab, muck, sand, gravel and grit, wagonwheel ruts, cobblestones again, brick, dead leaves, dry dirt, white pavestones—
His gaze snapped upwards, and his eyes took on a bluish cast in the glow of Marmoreal, high and white and veiled in indigo dusk. With an insuppressible smirk, he spun on his heel and addressed his friends:
"My dear Thackery, Mallymkun, Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum—I'm sorry, Tweedle Dum, Tweedle Dee—Nivens, Bayard, and most respected Uilleam…we have reached sanctuary."
And he spread his arms wide, but for the first time in weeks of travel, his companions were entirely quiet. Visibly disheartened, he slowly turned back around.
The frothy, blossoming trees that lined Marmoreal's pale promenade swayed morosely and dragged their branches through the dirt; collapsed at every trunk was a member of Mirana's court, wan and weeping. Far along the boulevard, knelt upon the steps of the palace with her head in her hands, was their Queen. When Tarrant and the others rushed to her, she did not rise, but stretched her hands out to them.
"My friends, oh my friends!"
"My Queen." Tarrant bowed, but Mirana clasped his hands and raised them to her burgundy lips.
"Not anymore," she whispered; he sat cautiously beside her. "We are equals now. All of Underland is a battlefield and we are equals."
Tarrant nodded slowly, staring into her fathomless black eyes, deeper and deeper, until:
"Yes, yes of course! That's exactly why we're here, you see—battlefields!" He sprang up and spread his arms again. "We are the Resistance!"
Mirana peered perplexedly at the group as they frenzied themselves into an uproar.
"A resistance? You never said anything about resisting anybody, Hatter, I thought we were looking for refuge!" Nivens said, hopping frantically from step to step.
"If we're refugees, why ain't we a resistance instead?"
"'Cos we're already refugee'ing, you dolt!"
"I ain't a dolt!"
"Well, you ain't a resistor, no way no how."
"I am far too old for such nonsense, any more of this excitement and I'll be dead as a damselfly."
"I've got the wife and pups to think about, Hatter…."
"SCONES."
The pastry in question crashed into Mirana's shoulder, silencing the clamor; she arose swiftly, daintily brushing off the crumbs. Tarrant looked on with a bright grin.
"I'm afraid you've overestimated the problem," she said sweetly. "Give it a week or two and Chessur will find it in himself to sweep the crown back my way."
Tarrant's brow knit and he glanced meaningfully at her mourning courtiers.
"Of course it's a bit of a wrench in the meantime," she said, drawing her hands together elegantly, "but don't worry, Chessur will fix it again soon."
"Chess will do…Chess will do no such thing, milady," Tarrant muttered.
Mirana frowned, uncomprehending, and Nivens timorously stepped forward.
"What Hatter is trying to tell you, your majesty, is that this isn't some trifling matter of, of stolen tarts, if you will. It's a war." His voice faltered. "I've been all over Underland, majesty, and there are already thousands dead, and thousands more enslaved at the palace of Crims. Your sister means to rule of all of Underland, and she's even awakened the—the—"
"The Jabberwocky."
Blanching as only she could, Mirana closed her eyes and did not move for several long breaths. Without opening her eyes, she murmured:
"Then a resistance, the Resistance, is direly needed. Your Queen commands you."
"Excellent!" Tarrant exclaimed, and ushered his shocked companions into a line, or something similar. "Bayard, you will go on to Crims this evening and sniff out points of weakness in the outer wall, through which we may enter. Nivens, accompany him and investigate Queen Iracebeth's army, especially her guards, and especially the patrol of the Knave. Return by midnight, report, and then you will keep watch while we attack. Uilleam, you will join them in their watch; no need for you to be dead as a damselfly. Thackery and Tweedles, you will arm yourselves and join me in attacking the Queen and reclaiming the crown. We'll refine our strategy after Bayard and Nivens report. We attack Crims at dawn!"
They cheered raucously and Mirana clapped with glee, but in the din Tarrant could hear a faint tapping from underneath his hat; he lifted it, removed the teapot, replaced the hat, and lifted the lid.
"All this plannin' and you haven't got a job for ol' Mally, then? Forgotten all about me?"
"Not in the slightest," he smiled, and plucked a hatpin from his lapel. She took it from his fingers and held it reverentially. "Can you promise to become the finest swordsman Underland has ever seen, by dawn?"
"Anyfing for you, Hatter," she said, her voice hushed in awe as she turned the blade over and over again.
"Then I must also ask you to free those cruelly enslaved by the Red Queen—liberate them!"
"Aye, Hatter!"
She dragged the lid shut with the tip of her sword and soon the teapot was filled with echoes of blade as it swished and scraped against the ceramic. Tarrant set it gently on the steps and looked out upon his Resistance.
"Downal wyth Bluddy Behg Hid."
*
Dawn broke and the Red Queen's palace was turned upside down. The Resistance burst in through a crack in the Western wall and took out twenty-three Red Knights on their way to the throne room. Upon their arrival, the Knave leapt out from behind a curtain and drew his sword, but Thackery's cry of "AXE" ended that particular nuisance. From there it was a small matter to abscond with Iracebeth's crown and leave her to the tender mercies of eight thousand recently-liberated Underlandians. The Resistance paraded back to Marmoreal, and the world was right again.
Or rather, that is the attack as it might have been.
As it was, Tarrant hurtled through the forest and hoped against hope that the being he sensed following him was part of the Resistance and not otherwise. Perhaps it was the Knave (or Stayne, as he had learned), rushing to complete the attempted beheading that a clever sidestep had turned into a mere haircut. Perhaps it was a dozen Red Knights in pursuit of him, blazing a path with their ruby spears. Perhaps it was that terrible, monstrous beast that had gone undetected by the Resistance until it was roaring in their faces with row upon row of teeth…the Banderwho, or the Bander, Bander—
Tarrant's boot caught on a gnarled root and pitched him into the bushes. The stalking footsteps came ever closer, pounded in his ears, and ceased. Forty tumultuous minds piled into his own and made themselves heard. His hands pressed forcefully into his temples, and being so engaged, could not cover his mouth and nose when musty smoke poured in around him from all directions.
"Stupid man," droned a voice like sable. "Running from yourself is quite…impossible."
Tarrant coughed and looked up at Absolem through watering eyes, eyes that changed colour like a water droplet rolling down a painted canvas. The Caterpillar effortlessly held his fluctuating gaze, only choosing to glance away several minutes later.
"Clear your head," he said coldly, and blew a stream of silvery smoke into Tarrant's face.
He sputtered and spat convulsively before wheezing, "I'm fine. Thank you."
Absolem made no reply. Tarrant fidgeted.
"It's not enough just to have a teacup," he blurted out. "You need hot water, and a teapot, and a teabag, but most importantly most of all above all things, you need tea leaves. Where am I going to find a tea leaf strong enough to bring down bloody Big Head?"
Absolem stared.
"Sugar and milk helps, too."
Absolem sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. "Have you forgotten everything I taught you, as I taught all of the Hightopp clan?"
"No," Tarrant frowned, and the shadows poured across his face.
Absolem ignored this dark turn and declared, "Nonsense. Return to your tea party, Hightopp. You must always remember your guests."
Thackery. Mallymkun. On unfortunate occasions, that slurvish Cat. And,
"Alice."
Tarrant beamed as he had not done since the Horvendush Day, and even Absolem managed a small twitch in the left corner of his mouth.
"Indeed. Gribling Day is upon us, and you must gather what is left of your Resistance and charge them with ensuring Alice's return." Absolem paused portentously and blew smoke rings around Tarrant's hat. "For you remember what day comes after Gribling…."
"Quillian Day."
"Yes yes, after that."
"Frabjous Day."
*
"Gather what is left of your resistance," he had said, and Tarrant did so. He learned with much sorrow that Bayard had been captured during the attack and that Red Knights had since gathered up his family and placed them in the Red Queen's service. All others of the Resistance had escaped, but the Dodo's wing had been torn by a spear, Mallymkun had accidentally stabbed herself in the leg, and it took a great deal of effort to soothe Nivens' badly-shaken nerves and get him to the tea party where they all now sat.
Under six glares, wary and cynical and both, Tarrant explained the urgent necessity of tea leaves.
"THE Alice?!" Thackery yelped when the speech was complete.
"What do we need Alice back for, really? I could wield the Vorpal blade, I've been doin' alright with your hatpin!"
"Absolem said so, and Absolem is absolute," Uilleam said firmly.
"We only got Hatter's word for it, ain't we though!"
"Contrariwise, the only word we got is Hatter's."
At the very end of the table, Nivens tentatively raised a paw.
"Yes, my good fellow!"
"I've been to Overland more times than my fair share," he began, "but no matter what this lot thinks, I believe that Alice did us a lot of good, and if you need me to search all of Overland for her, I…I will."
"HEAR HEAR!"
"Then depart immediately and return with our champion!" Tarrant grinned, sparing a small dark glance for the more reluctant of the Resistance. "Time is getting away from us in all directions."
*
Having bid fairfarren to Nivens, sent Uilleam to inform Mirana of the impending Gribling Day, shooed the Tweedles off to find rocks for a possible trebuchet, and left Mallymkun and Thackery in charge of the tea party, Tarrant had nothing to do but wait amoung the gossiping flowers for Alice.
He sat cross-legged.
He paced.
He climbed atop a mushroom.
He fell off.
He laid on his back and counted clouds.
He sat on his knees.
He twiddled his thumbs.
He leapt ov—
"Hatter!"
Nivens pushed his way through the flowers, ignoring both their complaints and the protests of the tiny girl in tow. Tarrant darted forward to meet them.
"Alice?"
"What the hell are you?"
And Tarrant thought rather the same thing. This girl had short black hair and a puffy jacket reminiscent of Absolem's many circular bellies; Tarrant would have giggled, but the urge was drowned out by the solemn fact that this was not Alice.
"Nivens, her name's not even Alice," he pointed out.
"Oh God," the girl said feebly, no longer spitfire. "My name is Alice, but that doesn't matter. Oh God, please don't hurt me."
"Oh, it's not us you have to worry about!" Tarrant said cheerfully, and then ushered Nivens off for a quiet word while the girl fainted. "If her name is Alice, but she's not Alice, then what became of Alice?"
Nivens stared at him before replying slowly, "There's more than one girl in Overland named Alice, you know."
Tarrant burst into peals of laughter, clutching his sides and pointing gleefully at the Rabbit.
"Hatter, please!" he hissed. "Do you know how long it will take to find Alice up there? She might not make it here in time for her own Return!"
"Ah."
"Precisely."
"Well," Tarrant said soberly, glancing back at the unconscious Not Alice, "might I suggest escorting her back home first, and then—"
"Yes, then?"
"Search until you can search no longer," he shrugged. "I will wait right here."
And he did wait, he waited as seventy-three Overland girls arrived and departed; some were angry, some were enchanted, some were blubbering, some were completely silent, and none of them were Alice. Around the time of Not Alice number fifty-one, the rest of Resistance took to keeping Tarrant company while he waited. Soon they were as intent upon Alice's return as he, and it was around this time that he left them amoung the flowers and returned to his tea party.
"She will shine like the sun and drift like the fog," he said, trailing his fingers along the tablecloth, over spoons and over knives. "She will be white pavestones and she will be blackberries."
He leaned back deep into his armchair and lowered his hat over his eyes.
"And I will know her the minute she arrives."
*
The minute of Alice's arrival was an exciting one indeed, filled with so many emotions that Tarrant barely knew which way to turn. In a further fifteen minutes, he discovered that this Alice (this right, proper, absolutely Alice) was worth defying Stayne and fourteen Red Knights for, worth returning to the Horvendush Day devastation for, and certainly worth sacrificing his freedom and his hat for.
On Quillian Day, he discovered that Alice thought he was worth breaking into Crims and boldly deceiving the Red Queen for, and worth re-hatting. She also thought he was worth rescuing, but a slip of Mallymkun's tongue damaged that plan rather badly, and it was further derailed by Stayne charging at Alice with a sword.
Tarrant had no second thoughts about defending Alice then, and he had none as he sat alone and locked away in the cellars of Crims. He twirled his hat between his fingers and gave himself up to his mind; there was nothing else to be done.
All the best people are mad, she had assured him.
"Quite," he remarked to the prison bars, "but I might add that all the best people are named Alice, and they are never quite the right size, and they choose their words like a sculptor chooses his boat. They are exactly late for tea parties, they ask questions even when they are bright enough to think up thirty answers, and they have lovely long blonde tumbling-sort hair and lovely brown eyes and freckles if you look really very close and lips that quirk at the corners and perfect shoulders and marvelous magnificent melodic mysterious meadowlark macademia—"
A small motion caught in the corner of his eye startled him out of his reverie. For a moment he entertained the notion that it was teal smoke trickling in through the barred window, but bad blood and worse memories stamped out the possibility. Again he turned his gaze inwards, dauntlessly smiling.
"And they are worth dying for."
*
Improbably, the impossible turned out to be rather possible after all, and amends were made with Chessur after his daring escape plan got Tarrant and nearly nine thousand other Underlandians out of Crims with their necks intact. Tarrant was reunited with his Resistance and led them back to Marmoreal, where Alice awaited with the Vorpal blade. After some confusion over imaginary reality, Alice finally regained her muchness and donned the Champion's armour. They stood side by side on the battlefield up until she strode forward to slay the Jabberwocky, a task she executed with incredible élan. The Jabberwocky's head toppled to a halt between the two Queens, or as it truly was, Lady Iracebeth and Queen Mirana; the sky brightened, and Tarrant danced the most vigorous futterwacken in living memory. Having bowed and swept his hat back atop his head, Alice sauntered forward (clanking a great deal) and hugged him tightly, smiling like the sun through stormclouds. He asked if she was going to stay in Underland, but the answer was already there, beginning with a "Y," and the world was very very very right.
Or rather, that is the Frabjous Day as it might be.