"Oh Hatter…I fear I may never see you again…"
Those words, those resounding words, echo back to him on the loneliest of nights when he is left alone with his mad thoughts.
And by all accounts, in a normal land where normal rules apply, it should have made him even madder than usual.
But here, now, he understands it with clarity.
He will never see Alice again.
A strange feeling twists in his gut, creeping up to his erratic beating heart, curling like a creeping vine and squeezing the organ that aches so much of late.
"My dear Alice. In the gardens of memory…in the palace of dreams…that is where you and I will meet."
When he had uttered those words, he had believed it wholeheartedly.
But Alice would move on with her life, have adventures of her own. Make new friends. Maybe even meet someone who would capture her heart…
The thought hurts more than it should.
…And then Alice will eventually forget. Like she did before. She would forget Wonderland, and in turn she would forget him.
Tarrant Hightopp. The Hatter.
Tarrant's vibrant green and yellow eyes turn a shade of deepest blue at the thought.
No! She wouldn't forget. She's the Alice. His Alice. Alice who possessed so much muchness. She would never forget him. Never.
"But a dream is not reality…"
Tarrant closes his eyes, unwilling to picture the doubt in her sky-blue eyes, nor the promise of goodbye.
No! he did not want to see it. He did not want to face it.
A high-pitched giggle escapes his lips.
"Why is a raven like a writing desk?" he asks aloud, his lisp more pronounced than ususal.
There's no answering smile, no curious enquiry as to why a raven is like a writing desk. Just…silence.
There's an ache in his heart that resembles something remotely close to a belly ache. A very curious belly ache indeed.
Tarrant reaches into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdraws his pocket watch. Snapping it open he peers at it, his bushy orange brows wiggling quite spectacularly. He gives it a thorough shake and presses it against his ear, listening intently. Then slowly he lowers the watch, tucking it securely back into the safe confines of his pocket. His eyes stare unseeing into the distance.
Seven years. Alice has been gone seven years…
And not once has she come to see him in his dreams. Only in his waking thoughts.
Dreams…reality…who is to say which is which?
But one thing is very clear: In both dreams and reality his Alice is noticeably absent.
"Goodbye, Hatter," she says, her voice tinged with a sadness he has never known her to possess.
It really had been goodbye. The truest of all goodbyes.
His Alice is gone.