"You could stay," Hatter piped up optimistically behind her. He secretly, pensively hoped that the girl would reside. He didn't want to lose her again, ever. When he'd seen her only days ago, the fact that most all of her muchness was gone saddened him to a great extent. But she'd gained it back; she did have the power to slay the Jabberwocky, after all (much less make him, the Mad Hatter, Futterwacken in god only knew how long).
"What an idea! I wish I could stay, Hatter, but I have questions that need answering," Hatter saw his friend squeeze the vial tightly with her porcelain hand, "things that need doing," Her eyes. Oh, her eyes were so, deep. So distant; so beautiful. Hatter molded his pale face into the biggest frown he had ever, ever made. He silently begged her to stay. His mentality begged and begged and begged, tears rolling down his cheeks all the while.
When he saw her tip her head to the blood, his stomach flipped. Oh, how he wished to be dead right then. He suddenly snapped himself out of the painful trance he was in, staring dejectedly into Alice Kingsleigh's distant, russet eyes. He ever so slightly inched closer to the flaxen young woman, smiling tenderly to hold back a wave of tears that was sure to come. Hatter tucked a strand of her golden curls behind her ear, and he saw her grin.
He delicately moved his face to her ear, brushing his bruised, calloused lips against her cartilage. Hatter felt his friend tense, shivering to some extent at his touch.
"Fairfarren, Alice," Hatter felt his whisper tickle her ear, and he smirked quietly to himself. Hatter backed his head away slowly, noting how Alice watched his every move with great melancholy. The maiden suddenly began to fade from view, her body becoming nothing more than what it once was; a memory in the back of his mind, locked to where it would forever stay.
He tried to take hold of her suddenly, attempting to keep the girl from dissipating into nothingness. But all the Hatter could manage to grasp was the woman's bandage that concealed her wound from the wicked Bandersnatch. Damn that bloody beast, Tarrant said outwardly. He held the garment to his cheek, inhaling Alice's scent of roses and sugar, pearls and honey. Oh, he so wished that she hadn't gone. Hatter dropped to his knees on the chessboard, and began to weep for his friend.
The Orraculum sat there in front of him, unrolled to the newest prophecy at hand. Hatter traced his finger from Frabjous Day to Umberplechin Day to Fampartkin Day, finally meeting with a new picture inscribed into the unruly parchment. He saw a woman, with long, flowing curls receiving a golden circlet to signify her coronation as new queen of Underland. Noricum Day was inked under the image.
"That must be her. It has to be. I'd know her anywhere," Hatter uttered superficially. His feral eyes fluttered to the rest of the scroll, glancing to see if another image would appear. But alas, no animated icon came into view on the ruddy paper, and Hatter turned his attention back to a masterpiece he had set his mind to working on until a certain young lady's return. His project, must you know, was a hat. Four round, seven up, to make the measurements precise. Tarrant's eyes averted from the rose petal sitting on his desk that he had yet to sew into the topper's velveteen circumference, so as not to emit waves of suppressed sorrow that he'd locked away for so long. The hat was a gorgeous ebony, strewn about by a coating of white suits, those of hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds. Tarrant's fingers worked diligently around the cap, nipping, sewing, tucking, and wrapping all the while. His hand found a red ribbon, pressed to lay its silken frame gracefully across the wooden desk. Tarrant grabbed the silk, tenderly wrapping it around the hat's mid-section, making sure the ribbon just barely kissed the rim of the topper.
Now for the rose petal. Hatter sighed miserably at the sight of the alabaster blossom, a tear kissing his cheek as it slipped silently to his lips. The saltiness met his bottom lip with a sting, Tarrant wincing in pain until the tear had been wiped away. The petal was representative of his friend, and, he decided this moments later, that he would not sew in the petal until his friend returned. Little did Tarrant discern that this certain friend's onset would be closer than he'd formerly assumed.