AN: An enormous thanks to all who have read and reviewed the story! You fill my heart with joy!
This chapter will definitely see some serious mutual pining between Alice and Hatter. They are training hard for the impending battle, but also coming to terms with their own feelings. All is not yet happy between the two in Underland, though. You'll have to wait a little longer for that. * evil grin * I have big plans. I do indulge in a fair amount of warm and fuzzies in this chapter, though.
Enjoy!
And, as always, if you read and enjoy, please review! It lets me know you folks like where the story is going.
~Jade
xXx
She had much to learn. Even Mirana knew not how the battle would commence, so she would need to learn the basics of hand to hand combat. Wrestling, striking, her opponent's points of weakness. These three months would find them exhausted, sore, and at times likely a little bruised and bloody. But Tarrant recognized her natural aptitude. Yes, he thought, smiling despite the exertion of their first training fight. She'll do well. I do believe she'll be fine swordsman and warrior.
xXx
Alice and Tarrant were weary to the bone after the exhausting first day of training. The knowledge they had thee more months of this filled Alice with dread and fear. Her body already ached, but she had so much left to learn. They had sparred, drilled various attacks and blocks, and sparred again and again. Tarrant told her that she had performed admirably, but she recognized her poor form and lack of endurance. Countless times Tarrant had pulled his strike just shy of his target when she had missed a block. A thousand deaths would have plagued her had he struck home each time she had faltered.
They were both covered in dust and sweat, but yet Alice admired the blush of exertion on his face and the rogue curls which escaped from the leather thong tying his hair back from his face. Laughing at Tarrant's reenactment of Alice's particularly awkward footwork which had resulted in them both tumbling to the ground earlier, they collapsed beneath a shade tree, backs against the trunk, labored breaths calming as they rested.
Taking advantage of his teasing mood and her current boldness, nay muchness, borne of a day learning to fight, Alice spoke. "You know, for a hatter, you are a fine swordsman."
"Thank you, Alice." A soft lisp accompanied his broad smile.
"Tell me how you learned to fight, Tarrant. It is clear you've had much practice. Did you learn from your family? Was your dad a warrior, too?" Tarrant valiantly tried to contain his pride and excitement. Alice was praising him! She thought him a fine warrior. His male ego was considerably buoyed.
"As you wish, my prized pupil. Settle in for a bit. The telling will take some time." Tarrant hesitated only a moment before beginning. Alice recognized the brief flash of pain and sadness, and was not surprised when he chose to gaze out into training yard for the telling instead of facing her.
What shared with her was not merely his earliest training, but the tale of his family. His clan's history held the origins of his own ability to fight. He had never shared this with anyone outside his family; it was too personal, too close to the heart. But for his beloved Alice, he would do anything. Even bare his soul through once-fond memories, now painful. He was the last of them, and this may be the final time it would be told.
He knew she didn't understand the significance of the telling, but wished that she did.
"You see, Alice, my clan had always been craftsman, hatters, leatherworkers, even blacksmiths, anything which required great focus, artistic ability, and precision. But the Hightopp elders had always ensured they were also trained as warriors. Generations before, the story goes, the clan had been engaged in a great battle with a neighboring clan, the Sinclairs."
Tarrant paused to glance over at Alice. She had closed her eyes and laid down in the grass, head resting on her arm. He hoped the memory of his Athair's recounting would come as easily to him.
The feud had started innocently enough, a young Hightopp lad falling for a Sinclair lass, resulting in a pregnancy. However, the lass had already been betrothed to another, the son of a very powerful warlord. Furious that his prospects of social mobility upward had been ruined through the marriage that could no longer happen, The Sinclair, laird of his clan had vowed revenge upon the Hightopps. The Sinclairs had been declining in status for a generation and this was their last chance to reverse that fall.
The Hightopp laird tried with all his might to reason with the Sinclair. His silver tongue spoke eloquently of the love between the two and that their happiness would provide for a much brighter future for the family than a marriage for money ever would.
Finding that argument unable to sway the Sinclair, he reasoned with him that while the Hightopps weren't a war power in the highlands, their craftsmen made a good living, and the girl would be well cared for. An alliance between the Sinclairs and Hightopps would provide the Sinclair youth opportunities to apprentice with fine gold and ironsmiths, which would bring economy back to the clan.
As hard as the Hightopp worked, the Sinclair had long before made up his mind. When the war started, all Hightopps took up arms, training, fighting, waging battle time and time again. This lasted for months, until the young Hightop lad, Declan, escaped into the night with Fiona Sinclair. They tried to run as far as they could, hoping that they could start a life together and that their unborn child would not be raised amidst so much violence.
But the night was dark and the forest soon became unfamiliar to them. Fiona, by this time, heavy with child, stumbled on the roots of a large sycamore. Declan tried to catch her, but found himself falling, too. The lovers fell, tumbling and twisting through a dark abyss, until sleep found them both.
When the morning sun woke the pair, tangled in each other's embrace, they were no longer in same forest they had been traveling through, but that of a the strange land. They were hungry and thirsty from their journey the night before, and went in search of a town or village where they could find shelter and a kind soul to take them in.
But shortly after they commenced their search for a peopled area, they instead discovered an old man trapped up a tree by a raging razorback. Recognizing the danger the man was in, Declan rushed to his aid. Looking around him for a makeshift weapon, he snapped a dead limb off a nearby tree, its end splintering into a sharp point. He ran at the boar and stabbed it without hesitation, saving the life of the old man.
Without knowing the gravity of his actions, Declan had just sealed his and Fiona's fates. For the man they saved was no mere grandfather from a local town; he was the great wizard Chriton. A man of two hundred years if he was a day, by all accounts. Now, one may wonder what a great wizard needed saving for. And that is a mighty good question. But who am I to question fate, or the Oraculum?
Chriton, in gratitude for Declan's courageous deed, granted a touch of Underlandian magic upon them, transforming them. The pair were no longer human in the above sense. They were now Underlandian through and through, magical beings of a wonderous land. This is how the Hightopps came to be in Underland and call it home.
When the babe was born a few months later, Declan feared that it was only a matter of time before the Sinclairs found them, so he raised the boy to be strong, to be a warrior. However, Underland had few conflicts, and the tiny clan needed more than soldiering to survive. So Declan and his many sons and daughters turned to the Hightopp traditions of craftsmanship.
The tradition of being warrior craftsman was sustained for a hundred generations, as they integrated themselves into Underland, marrying into and mingling with those who belonged to the land. The magic in their blood would always tie them to Underland, the Oraculum, and the great events of Underland's history. But they would never forget their ties to the above land and their past.
"That a wonderful story, Tarrant." Alice turned to smile sleepily at him. "Thank you for sharing that with me." Alice had enjoyed the story, but a sense of familiarity had settled upon her. Like when she had been with Tarrant before she started to regain her memories, she felt as though she was forgetting something, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.
Alice shrugged off the feeling and gave in to the more pressing need to sleep. She knew she'd be sore in the morning if she didn't soak in a warm bath before going to bed, but at this moment in time, she didn't care.
Tarrant smiled down at her as he watched her slip into slumber. His fingers grazed her cheek gently before he scooped her up into his arms and carried her to her chambers in the castle.
Wanting nothing more than to lay down beside her for just a moment, Tarrant indulged his needs, and climbed onto the bed. What glory this would be if this he had the honor of sleeping here, next to her, every night! Tarrant laid on his side, propped up on his elbow, and marveled at her beauty. Despite a day of exhausting, dirty work training to fight and wield a sword, she looked like an angel in sleep.
After a few minutes of the peace the actions offered him, he grew so sleepy he could barely keep his eyes open. He feared what would happen if she woke up and he had fallen asleep, so he forced himself up and towards his own chambers. But not before he brushed the softest of kisses on her brow.
"I love you, Alice," he whispered, pulling he door to quietly.
xXx
Iracebeth of Crims paced back and forth, anxious, yet confident.
"Mirana has returned that foolish girl to Underland. She thinks herself a champion because she slayed my Jabberwocky, yet she's nothing more than a head of blonde hair in a blue dress." Iracebeth was still irritable about that subject and kicked a small stone across the courtyard of her reclaimed fortress at Salazen Grum.
"Damn Mirana for standing against me again! Doesn't she know that as the older sister, it is MY right to rule? Everyone loves Mirana but not me. They even love Alice, more than me! She's not part of our world, she doesn't belong here, yet they all accept her as their own."
"Alice and her insufferable muchness." Iracebeth scoffed at the idea that Alice would prevail a second time. "She'll be no match for what I have in store for her this time."
Though she knew victory was at hand, she indulged her temper and stomped about anyway. The benefit of being Queen – or of knowing she would be a queen again – was doing whatever she pleased.
"No abovelander will be able to kill the Agingroth. The magic is too strong, his power too great." Iracebeth was sure of this fact. The only one who ever knew how to defeat him was Chriton, long dead by her own order. Sad, that. For all his talk of being a mighty wizard, a few weeks of torture at the hands of Stayne and told her everything she needed to know. Then she had fed him to the Jabberwocky.
She sensed his dark presence and addressed her champion. The one who would win the kingdom back for the Red Queen. "The time is drawing near. I'll never understand this ridiculous rule of three you insist on upholding. Providing three chances to defeat you is doing nothing but inviting trouble."
Iracebeth knew he liked to toy with his victims before obliterating them and that his power was so great that he used the multiple attacks to entertain himself, a brief respite from the boredom that immortality brought. He had been around for thousands of years, immune from aging, disease, and hunger. He could die should he suffer a mortal wound, but no one had ever discovered the secret soon enough use it against him.
The thought of turning the destruction of her sister and her reign into a game had aggravated Iracebeth when she had first used the old magic to summon him from whatever realm he bided his time in between destroying worlds. But she couldn't argue with his success.
Agingroth appeared at her side, a hulking, black shadow. Like a black hole, he captured and devoured any light that dared come near him. Afraid to gaze into the abyss of Agingroth, Iracebeth was careful never to look directly at him for too long and turned her head away.
She would be glad to be rid of him soon. She couldn't bear to be near him for too long. The darkness and evil radiating from him was too much, even for her. But in the end, he would engulf Marmoreal, its champion, ad the lands nearby, leaving only her dominion and enough people to rule. Such utter destruction could fill his belly and negate any rebellion which may have been formed at her reemergence.
"Just weeks remain before the appointed time. You shall feed your hunger and I mine."
xXx
The first few weeks Alice and Tarrant fell into a comfortable routine. Breakfast together, broadsword training in the mornings with endurance and strength late into the afternoon, peppered occasionally with wrestling or basal weaponless hand to hand combat sessions. Tea in the afternoons calmed them and offered an opportunity to enjoy the company of their friends and the endless streams of courtiers wishing to get to know the Champion.
The physical work, he found, kept his mind relatively clear from the madness that habitually claimed him. He had no time to dwell on the deaths of his family, nor were the fumes of his trade poisoning his mind. Whereas the madness usually claimed him a few times a week, the need to wholly focus on nothing but training Alice, and by extension, protect her, drove all but a quirky sense of humour and quick giggles from him. Each night, he allowed himself the whimsy and fantasy which had been his other trademark, but he desperately kept the madness at bay.
The hardest part of fighting the madness was simply the urge of his brain to revolt at constantly attacking the thing which he valued more than his own life. How very adverse to his nature to slash at Alice, to kick her feet out from under her whenever he got the chance, to try his best to pin her to the ground with his knife against her throat. There were times when he came close to actually hurting her that it was all he could do not to fall to the ground, his head in his hands, and let the madness consume him.
Ensconced in the madness, he was not trying to kill his Alice, but laying in a field of clover, gazing upon the night sky, hands intertined. Only at night, when he had returned to his room and he was no longer the protector, did he allow his mind to revolt. His eyes would flash green-orange-red-yellow-back to red, going over the events again and again, until he was sure he had not harmed a hair on her head. And as he drifted into sleep, Tarrant would seize upon a single look she had graced him with, or the feeling of her heart pounding and her body soft beneath him on the training yard floor, or best of all, the kiss they had shared back above, and the blue of despair would soften to a delicate lavender.
Alice had never remarked upon it, but he was sure that lavender eyes had gazed upon her when he had confessed his love, followed by midnight blue as he realized she didn't return his feelings.
Meanwhile, Alice marveled in the change in her body and in her mind. At the beginning, muscles she didn't even know she possessed ached, moving in the armor made her clumsy and stiff. She had to force herself out of bed every morning, wanting desperately to avoid the coming pain and fatigue. As she improved, however, she came to enjoy the sessions, challenging herself, stretching and growing every day. She was becoming lean and lithe, quick and agile.
Always mindful of his vow to win her love, Tarrant took advantage of the time with Alice to charm her incessantly, keeping her constantly off balance as he alternated between light-hearted jokes and combat instruction. He poked fun at her when the situation permitted, flirting as best he knew how with his scant experience with women.
Tarrant teased her with his closeness when he pinned her during training, lingering just a moment or two too long with his body pressed against hers or his breath on her throat. Each time, he watched the confusion in her eyes as she warred with her own emotions.
Once, he even tempted her with a view of his body after she successfully slashed his shirt open, rendering the thing practically useless. He had paused, a glint in his eyes, and pulled it off. Ensuring she had glimpsed the muscles covering his abdomen and chest, he had flexed his arms and feigned a stretch. Knowing then that she was watching him, he had walked over to his pack and pulled a fresh shirt out. Turning back to her, he pulled it over his head, and caught the look of pure female admiration that the sight of his broad shoulders and flat stomach elicited. He had whispered a silent thanks to his Athair for instilling the discipline to train with his sword each morning that kept his body hard.
He had never courted before, but he knew where the line was between harmless flirting and exposure of his true feelings. Never did he touch her softly, as much as he yearned to. Not once did he try to kiss her again, or even take her wee hand in his as he escorted her to dinner. He had been rejected by her once; if he was to ever earn her love, it would have to be volunteered, not sought. She was not the average woman, she was too independent and unconventional to be won, he recognized that now. And the discipline it required was killing him.
xXx
They spent two months training at the castle, but as Time grew short and the threat of the coming of Iracebeth's monster quickened, the constant distractions of the courtiers and afternoons with the tea parties became too much. They had but one month remaining to accomplish the skills most obtained throughout a lifetime.
In the past, he had stood next to Alice with his broadsword in his hands, ready to fight for the future of Underland. Now he stood before her, wielding his sword against the one person he cared for more than anything in the world. Too train her. To protect her. For a battle was coming once again. Was it the ancient highland blood in his veins, or was it the Outlandish kin? He wasn't sure, but he could feel it.
Tarrant was vexed greatly by this. He knew Alice needed time to spend with Mirana, who she had become increasingly close with, and the laughs brought on by the Tweedles and Thackery relieved the stresses of a long day. Chessur's sly wit and Mally's enthusiasm for training stories always brought a smile to her weary face. But each night, Alice stayed up too late, meeting more inhabitants of Underland, sharing girl talk about who knows what with Mirana, or humoring Nivens' need to cluck his tongue and fuss over every one of her bruises and scratches. She wasn't getting the rest she needed, and her mind was easily distracted at the end of the day, bolting back to the castle sooner than she should have. That last hour or two of training was lost to a wandering mind, more often than not.
Thus, Tarrant, with the full support of the White Queen, made the decision that they would travel out into the woods to separate themselves from distraction. No distractions would clear her mind and allow her to be completely enveloped by her training. He hated to pull her from her friends, but her life was at stake. And the lives of Underland.
He led them out of the castle keep atop sturdy warhorses and carrying some meager supplies with them. Now, lass, the real training begins, he thought grimly. He knew she would not like what he had planned for her.
A quiver full of sharp arrows and a strong bow were slung across each of their backs. A small knife was tucked into boot tops and larger dirks were slung across their hips on the opposite side from their sword.
"We'll eat only what we can catch or gather, Alice. Hunting will teach you to kill." Tarrant paused to watch her reaction. She gave no outward reaction to this news, but he saw the quiet pain in her eyes. Her naturally gentle nature, while not like Mirana's aversion to violence, made her hesitate to hurt another living thing, but that couldn't stand. She would need to be ruthless in the coming battle.
"Not to worry, lass. Enough animals from your above have fallen through rabbit holes that Underland has a burgeoning population of rabbits, birds, and even a nascent herd of deer that won't speak to you, nor invite you to share tea. They don't have the magic in their blood to every truly belong here, nor to be anything more to you than the game you ate above." The gruff manner in which he spoke, his accent thick and voice gutteral belied the pain in his heart.
He tried to take his mind off of her shock by setting up their campsite. A roaring fire was prepared and a small tent, just large enough for them both to be shielded from the elements comfortably were their only comforts. Only their weapons and several canteens of water from the ride out laid up against a tree nearby.
Endless days of training, hunting, gathering, and running ended with a cooling dip in the brook bordering their settlement. She learned to draw the bow and aim true, for the food to satiate her hunger depended upon it. The hesitation to strike a death blow slowly abandoned her. Despite her initial objections to his methods, Alice realized Tarrant had been correct. Her faux battles with him had taught her the skills and technique, but it had never been real. This was terribly so.
At night, they would sit by the fire and relax, resting their sore muscles, bandaging cuts and scrapes incurred during one of their battles when necessary, and talking of the past. They spent their time between the sun setting and falling into slumber learning one another. It didn't take Tarrant long to realize this most remarkable woman was the best friend he would ever have.
But always, Tarrant kept his distance from her, and she from him. An unspoken understanding existed between them, it seemed.
Tarrant was careful to never broach the subject of the future with her in their long talks. In truth, he was too afraid to hear her speak of plans to return above once the battle was over. Tarrant's heart had barely survived her second departure from Underland; a third would surely shatter it beyond repair.
But he knew not that thoughts of him coming up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her back into his chest haunted her in dreams. In the mornings, she could still feel his warm breath against her neck, his lips softly covering her neck with wet kisses until a fire burned within her. Had he only asked, she would have told him she was praying each evening not her vespers nor was she reciting the rosary, but pleading to a God she wasn't sure existed in this land that Tarrant would want her to stay. That he would ask her to stay, with him.
Back back in London, Alice would have caused quite the scandal. Not only was she routinely donning men's breeches, rolling around in the dirt learning to fight and was using her knife or a swift arrow to kill her dinner, but each night, she and Tarrant bedded down together in their shared tent.
They laid out their bedrolls separately, bidding each other pleasant dreams, but after the first few nights, Tarrant woke to find her snuggled up against him. Sometime during the long dark hours, she had unconsciously moved to his side. He smiled. She is a stubborn one, our Champion. She won't admit it while she's awake, but in her sleep, she has feelings for me.
Deciding to those times he could not suffer rejection, Tarrant waited for her breathing to even to the calm breaths of sleep, and pulled her up against him into an embrace. Depending on how she fell asleep, some nights, he pulled her back to his chest and cuddled his knees up into the bend of her own. Others, he gently kissed her forehead and wrapped her arms around him as he did the same, tucking her head beneath his chin.
The moments as he drifted off into his own dreams and as the sun made its first appearance of the day were the most wonderful he had ever experienced. Alice was a slept deeply and never woke until he called her name and handed her a cup of tea. How he longed to be so forward during the light of the day, to pull her into his arms at any time he wanted, to confess the feelings in his heart. But she would never know his secret, nor would she ever cherish these nights as he did.
Alice, usually an un-usually sound sleeper, awoke suddenly one night from a haunting dream. In it, she had sat with an old man in a house inside a tree. The grizzly, grey-haired man looked kind and read her stories from the large collection of books that lined his walls, enchanting her with his ability to weave a tale. She struggled to remember him. Did she know him? Was he real? She couldn't tell. Her mind warred within itself, struggling to remember, but denying it was anything more than a dream.
Groggy, she was immensely pleased to realize the warmth surrounding her was not her blanket, but Tarrant's body. He had hauled her up against his chest and was holding her close. The dream – or was it a memory? – was quickly forgotten at the pleasure of the contact.
Testing his reaction, Alice shifted slightly in his arms. At the movement, Tarrant stirred, and ran his hand up and down her arm a few times, causing goosebumps to erupt over her body and a tightness in her chest. He murmured something in her ear that sounded suspiciously like 'my Alice' and settled back down.
Daily, Alice found herself running over the events of that day – the day – they had kissed again and again, hearing him confess his love, then awkwardly take it back, shrugging off words which should never be spoken lightly. He hadn't meant it when he had told her he loved her. As much as she longed for him pull her into a warm embrace or to brush a kiss against her lips, she dared not raise her hopes, lest they be crushed again.
Their discipline never wavered by the light of day. Oh, Alice, where has your muchness gone? You should just ask him. No, she couldn't. When he had kissed her above, Tarrant told me he was simply caught up in the moment, in the excitement, desperation to return the Champion to Underland. He doesn't really love me, how could he? He is this perfect Underlandian being, handsome, brave, more committed to the safety of Mamoreal and Mirana than she had even been to anything. And how could ever deserve him after abandoning her dear friend years before?
Alice couldn't stand the rejection of someone who she valued so much, so she remained silent. He was her best friend, confidant, the man who was trying his hardest to keep her safe. She couldn't ruin that by admitting she was falling in love with him. Or that she was doing nothing but lying to herself when she denied that she had already completed the fall.
Instead, she trained herself to wake before he did each morn. She would lie still and breathe in his spicy scent, fighting the urge to turn to him and place kisses along his throat until he groaned her name. Alice laid still in his strong arms until he woke, feeling him squeeze her gently in the ghost of an hug. He would get up softly, sometimes lingering in the morning light, to prepare her tea, while she pretended not to notice.
The pattern continued for the weeks they were in the woods, but not once did he show her any special attention that would lead her to believe he's anything more than her dear friend, confidant, and tutor. In the silence, both their hearts were breaking.