Chapter 2: Wonderland

I'm faced with a choice I never asked for. I wasn't built for this, was I? What do you do when you're faced with a decision you're not sure you want to make in the first place, only everyone (in this case the only other human being here) tells you to do so? I'm confused. One surprise was enough already, now I don't know what awaits me behind this door. The moral of the story is: never trust children. (Especially children playing soldiers with keys.) You might end up like me.

The cards feel like cotton candy in my pocket, like if I touch them, I will never get them off my hands. I don't like cards. I don't think I've ever played much with anyone; not that I can remember, just a feeling. They're foreign, strange. They're also my only way out.

Browsing through them, I catch a glimpse of a hat sitting upside down and it reminds me of cabaret. The mental association immediately spreads to silly dresses, colors, song and dance. Perhaps this card will take me to a happier place, I think. As white as this… castle is, all the paint in the world couldn't mask the darkness underneath. It seeps into chills running down my spine like adder venom. I should have stayed at the beach. At least there I had the illusion of a sun.

So what now? Do I put the card in like it's a slot machine? Zing! One strange world comin' right up. Enjoy your stay and come again. Somehow I don't think that's how it works. But then again, I don't know anything about how anything works in this place.

As it turns out, neither do I have to. The hat card slips out of my hand and flies right through the massive two-sided door without so much as a "thanks for all the fish," upon which the hinges creak in agony after years of scarce usage and the door opens inward, beckoning me in.

"Or you could do that," I mutter under my breath. Then I realize I'm talking to a piece of paper and a block of pale stone.

"Papa? Papa!"

The resemblance this bears to a dream is extreme. I was there and now I'm here. There was nothing in between, no movement, no sound, no words, no time... What is this voice?

"Papa!"

It's just trees and moss, I remark mentally with a hearty dose of disappointment. No hats or songs or dance, just this voice and oaks everywhere you look. Ironically, at least it's not as cold here as it was on the island. There's a loud crack of breaking branches and roots being torn nearby. Cries follow. Ragged, sniveling, semi-coughing cries of a child who just scraped a knee or two. The voice is too high and too young to belong to Sora, but that doesn't matter right now.

I follow the noise as accurately as I can, almost tripping myself over a stump in the process. The moss all around makes it difficult for me to move fast as it buries my feet in its greens, and hard to see the obstacles in my way. No wonder someone's ass just got whooped. Fortunately the branches are high enough not to hit me in the face too often, so I can still run at a reasonable pace whilst keeping both my eyeballs intact. Hooray.

It's a little girl, curled into a ball on the ground, weeping. Her hood is obscuring her face for me to see. It's ripped open in several places; probably the result of an unfortunate encounter with thorns. "Kid, are you okay? What the hell are you doing out here alone? Where are your parents?" I say to the bundle at my feet, kneeling to inspect any injuries. Briefly I wonder whether she's run away from home. What is my mind doing? She's a little young for that, hopefully.

She scrambles to sit up and the hood falls to her shoulders, revealing flushed, tear-stained cheeks. The girl could be maybe nine years old. I know the look she's giving me; I could recognize it anywhere. It's the look of someone who's lost and alone and petrified.

When she talks, it's like a string of silver in the fall wind. "Mama's in the sky."

My features soften at once with newfound camaraderie for this girl. I can join with her fear as if it were my own; involuntarily, yes, but desperate times call for desperate measures. "And your dad?" I ask quietly, offering her a hand, even though I'm afraid I already know the answer.

"Papa is lost," she replies.

As I'm helping her to her feet, she stumbles and falls back on the ground, biting her lip and holding her ankle.

"Probably sprained it," I mutter to myself. Well, there's obviously only one thing to do. "Where do you live, sweetie? We need to take a look at this, alright?"

"But papa-"

"First things first," I scold, pointing my index finger at her in a no-no gesture, and kneel. "Now hop on." It takes her a moment as she contemplates my trustworthiness, but I wait patiently until the girl's tiny hands lock around my neck from behind and then hook my arms around each of her legs. "Where to, princess?"

She chuckles - a doorbell ringing as a guest walks through the door to a hearth - and points to the west, if my survival skills haven't rusted yet. "I'm no princess. My name's Grace."

"Well, Grace, my name is Emma and you look like a princess, and princesses deserve special treatment. I wouldn't want your dad to send his guards after me for not bringing you home safe when we find him. I'm not a carriage, but from what I recall, people's backs are pretty damn comfortable," I lie. I don't recall anything. If anyone's ever held me like this, it's nothing but a tall tale today. Nonetheless, Grace doesn't need to know that.

"Alright then, my knight in shining armor," she smiles into my hair.

Alright then, my knight in shining armor.

Huh, what a weird echo.

Every once in a while, the kid asks whether I need to rest. I decline each time, though it warms my heart somewhat. Children have a way of doing that, I see. Soon I'll be starting my own kindergarten, or so this peculiar world I've awakened to seems to be hell-bent on making me. Besides, why would I need to rest? Sure, I'm panting due to a shortage of oxygen by now, but she couldn't have run very far. I'd snuggle a cockroach for a glass of Coke, though.

"Emma?"

"Mmh?"

"Would you ever abandon your children?"

The question strikes me as a surprise until I connect the dots. Grace must thing her father has abandoned her. Well, to be brutally honest, the idea has occurred to me before, but again, the poor thing does not deserve such knowledge to be cast upon her. Who would want to leave this little angel, anyway? However, there's another part that doesn't quite fit. "I don't have any."

She pauses. "Really?"

"Yeah, really," I huff as I climb rather than walk up a steep slope, extra careful not to bump into anything lest we both get more than a sprained ankle. "Why? Is that strange?"

Grace adjusts herself on my back, tightening her grip on my neck, but not too much so as to not make me uncomfortable. For a moment she stays silent and I'm beginning to wonder if she fell asleep on my shoulder, but then she speaks. "You look like a mother."

Huh, that's something I wouldn't have expected to hear. A mother, me? The one who has to bite my tongue to keep from swearing around her, the one who would have rather slept through all of existence a mere few hours ago? Yeah, the job was written for me. "You must be mistaking me for someone with maternal instincts, kid," I mumble, chuckling humorlessly.

"What is a maternal instinct?"

"Oh, uh, well- That's the love a mother harbors for her child." I feel stupid explaining things I don't know the first thing about to her. It'll just confuse her more. Actually, I wonder whether I'm even close to being right. Somehow the sentence I uttered sounds to me like a textbook definition. Would I recognize a display of maternal instincts if I saw it happen before my own eyes? Probably not. I just know the words and some sort of connotation to go along with them that speaks nothing to me.

"Well, I'm not yours, you don't even know me and yet you're helping me," she muses.

"That's different."

"Is it? Mama would have done it too." Her chin bumps into my shoulder and she sighs exasperatedly as a sign of giving up this useless fight. "I don't understand."

Neither do I, kid. I remain silent.

We stumble upon a road so, with the princess' permission, we follow it. Soon the sound of a group of children playing reaches our ears. According to the hard periodical thuds, cries of "Pass the ball! Pass the ball!" and the shuffling of shoes across the ground, they must be playing soccer. The laughter and whistling gets louder until we reach the village itself. As I suspected, three boys and a girl are running around the square, using a well as the center point for their made up field, with a couple of branches and stones and even a rolled blanket separating the two fields. The air gets hotter as we pass an anvil where a blacksmith is forging an iron horseshoe with the help of a heavy-looking hammer. Ding. Ding. Ding. Sparks spread around with each hit, welcoming Grace home. Somewhere, a horse neighs in a stable, but other than that there's little noise in the background. I realize I like it more than the darkness I came from. One could feel less alone in this place, if they wanted to.

Grace points to a hovel around the corner. "There," she says. Frankly, the house looks like it'll fall apart any minute. Nothing princess-like about it from the outside. Who am I to judge, though? It's as good a place as any to lay your head down.

"Grace! Oh gods, Grace! There you are!"

I spin around to see a man and a woman approaching us hastily. "You know them?"

"Uhhh..."

"Sebastian and I were worried sick about you! What happened?" the woman exclaims, apparently entirely too fixated on the girl to notice my unholy presence. Judging by the pressure around my neck, Grace is not particularly excited to be back home just yet.

"Um, excuse me," I butt in, "Does she belong to you? I found her looking for her dad in the forest."

"Oh dear, it looks like we have a major misunderstanding on our hands. Excuse our manners; I'm Jane, and this is my husband Sebastian," the woman apologizes, gesturing towards herself and the man accordingly. "And I believe you've already acquainted yourself with Grace here. Come, our home is just around the corner; we'll explain when we get there. You too look like you could use a cup of my blueberry tea, child."

I flinch; I'm not used to being called that word in this word or the next. What sense does it make? Realization hits me that I'm no longer the oldest person in the worlds. The responsibility does not lie all on me anymore.

At least these folks' house is more homely. Sebastian scratches his trimmed dark beard bristling with grey hairs of age, starting a fire in the fireplace, as I explain how I met Grace after she injured herself in the woods and how I was bringing her home to take a look at the wound and then search for her father. Jane interrupts me then and despite my protests (which are pretty feeble anyway; I'm only trying to be polite, when in reality I'm thirsty as hell) sits a mug in front of me on the table. The beverage inside smells like marmalade, thick and sweet. Grace doesn't even touch hers; she's huddled on the chair with a stuffed rabbit that's made of various colorful types of fabric that don't go well together at all, making it look rather frightening to me, seeing as I'm not too fond of zombified animals. But she seems to like it, if the way she's holding it close while Sebastian wraps her ankle in a bandage is something to go by.

It turns out Grace wasn't lying; Jane and Sebastian have only accepted her as her own when her father disappeared. The thought seems unfathomable to me at first, but one look at Grace reveals there was no decision to be made.

"It's all because of that wretched Queen," Jane growls.

I choke a little on my tea. "'Scuse me?"

"The Evil Queen was the one who dragged Jefferson away. No doubt she used her mind tricks to get into his head somehow. Or her body. She'd do anything to get people to do her bidding; you have no idea what she's capable of." The fire stops crackling, or do my ears deceive me? It's as if the mere mention of something we said disrupted the peace of this home. I'm trying to wrap my head around this whole concept when Jane steps between me and my thoughts again. "It is quite obvious you're not from around here, child, so let me explain." Flinch. Do I wish for her to stop doing that or do I refuse to believe it? "The Evil Queen has ruled over this land ever since king Leopold's passing - no doubt her doing, too. She is a cruel and manipulative woman who won't stop at anything to destroy others' happiness. She paid Jefferson a visit recently, and I'm worried that's where the foul stench comes from, if you catch my drift."

Sebastian, who has been helping Grace groom Mr. Rabbit (or something)'s matted fur, suddenly slams his fist on the table, making the old wood cringe with me. "That's bull, Jane, and you know it. Even before the Queen, Jefferson's always been biting off more than he could chew with that blasted hat of his! Why, I wouldn't be surprised if he were drinking his sorry ass off somewhere in Westeros as we speak!"

I can feel myself growing pale as snow at how huge this man suddenly looks when anger's taken a hold of him and tense from head to toe in my seat.

"Don't talk that way about him in front of Grace!" Jane hisses way too late.

Grace's mug hits the floor and shatters to chunks, followed by Mr. Rabbit, who is forced to take an unintentional bath in blueberry. "He promised he would be home for our tea party!" the girl cries. Then everything happens too fast. She leaps from her chair in a motion so sudden the chair falls over and a leg breaks off. Jane watches in horror, unable to react in time, as Grace accidentally bumps into her, stumbles and runs out the door with a fresh flow of tears running down her cheeks. Sebastian reaches out to grab her on her way out and misses.

The only thing I do is yell "Kid!" standing awkwardly on the spot.

"I'll go after her," Sebastian mumbles and in just four words he's back to the father I saw him to be.

I know better. "You've done enough already!" I stare him down. His jaw clenches along with his fists, but the man makes no other move, painfully aware of his mistake. I give Jane an apologetic glance and storm out the still open door.

I follow the same path. The anvil's gotten cold. The children are playing no more. All that remains is an unfinished horseshoe and a dirty blanket by the wishing well. How hard can it be to catch a limping child?

I run deep into the forest where I think I hear the sound of footsteps coming from, deeper than the two of us have been before, calling out her name, but there is no answer. No answer but still cries echoing throughout this realm, where it gets thicker and darker with each step forward. "Grace!"

There's something else, and right here, right now, in terrifies me more than howls of any savage animal.

Music.

"Grace!"

Four notes repeated two times, then replaced by another set of four notes. Each note rings twice in my ears, for several seconds the first time; then just for a split of one. No matter what direction I run, it still seems to be pursuing me from behind.

I can't see the sky anymore. I don't know what time it is. I don't know how long I've been here. All I know is that I need to find Grace, and the music.

Dun, dun-dun, dun-dun, dun-dun.

The melody soothes as it rings in my head like a single bell above a crib to sing the dead boy's lullaby, relentless, never stopping until its goal has been achieved. Sleep, Emma. Sleep and you will wake up home, back where you're supposed to be. In the throat of the lion.

Dun, dun-dun, dun-dun, dun-dun.

My throat burns from all the heavy breathing I've done. I walk on wobbly legs through this jungle, looking for Grace, my Grace, as the trees close in on me, surround me, choke the life out of me. With a soundless scream I fall to my knees.

Dun, dun-dun, dun-dun, dun-dun.

To my horror, I can feel something warm pooling in the corners of my eyes. I press the pads of my fingers to my cheek and then hold them in front of me. They're covered in water. I know what they are; tears. But why? I'm not sad. Or am I? I can identify the feeling of being terrified, that's for sure. I just don't remember ever being sad before. Disgruntled and irritated, certainly, but not sad.

Yet I'm crying.

Dun, dun-dun, dun-dun, dun-dun.

Somewhere, the child is still crying with me.

The tear I picked up trickles down into my palm, clear as crystal. Fascinating, how such a common little thing can be so indisputably pure. I'd like to wish that came from my heart, I would. It appears I'm right because as soon as I ponder the thought, the drop starts to darken with an obsidian puff of smoke. Now that's definitely more like my heart. And why not? Did I not come from the darkness?

Dun, dun-dun, dun-dun, dun-dun!

The drop becomes a bee, and then there are two, and I'm not sure whether I'm seeing things in my blurry vision. They multiply into a swarm of buzzing bees that drown my lullaby and the cries until the notes are with me no more and the only thing I have left to hold onto is a handle in the shape of an apple. I look around for help, some source of all this, some sense to all this, but I'm alone.

I always have been, haven't I?

The key rises in my hand. I struggle to hold it down. I can't. I'm not done yet. I have to find Grace. Don't take me away. I haven't found Grace. Don't take me-

There is no lullaby to put me to sleep, just a violent burst of light to burn my insides as if I were no more than a ghost haunting these woods as I choke and gasp and writhe and cry, helplessly trying to escape the inevitable.

Don't make me stop running.

When was the last time I took a breath?

The corners of my line of sight grow fuzzy and dark, darker than the darkest tree bark. In milliseconds it spreads inward.

I've lost them.

But I could swear there was a star shining in the distance when I fell into the murky abyss of nothing.

Dun, dun-dun, dun-dun, dun-dun...