Author's Note: Ok! Time for chapter 2! 3 Mirana and Tarrant belong to Disney and Tim Burton. Thibault belongs to Eiji-Akito-kun on deviantArt. All other characters belong to me.

Warnings: None.

Enjoy!

The waves of the Crimson Sea crashed against a rocky shoreline. Tarrant Hightopp of Crims sat on a bluff and watched them. Since he was young, he had loved the sea, and this was his favorite place to visit. The sound was soothing, entrancing. It lulled his mind to a place far from the duties at the castle and the less than pleasant memories that provoked his madness.

After the war, he had been reinstated as the Royal Hatter, but rebuilding the kingdom was no easy task. The months of never-ending problems and worry had taken their toll on the Hatter. He'd taken a reprieve from his duties to escape the tense atmosphere at the castle and to try and control his mind.

He knew he was getting worse, though he would never admit it. The signs were subtle, only the Dormouse and Chessur had picked up on them. But they were there nonetheless. He had lost all of his memories from before the madness set in, all but one. The memory of a boy with pure white hair taking hold of his gloved hand, kissing his sweet head and knowing that nothing would ever compare to that moment, fearing for the boy's life and safety even among the confines of the castle, and sighing in relief at the locks of snow.

Tarrant tensed, sensing another's presence. He took to his feet quickly, looking to discover his queen standing before him. "Your majesty, surely you have far too many duties to be following an old hatter out on his vacation."

"Please, Tarrant, don't do me that disrespect. You know who I am."
"As you wish, Mirana."

"As for my business here, I had news that simply could not wait for your return." Tarrant caught the look on her face – concern, mostly. "It's about Thibault."

"Thibault? Thibault's dead. How could you possibly have news about Thibault?"

"He's not dead."

Tarrant's entire world stilled. "But… that's impossible."

"Oh, Tarrant, you should know better than to believe that. Tarrant, he escaped the Horunvendish day. He's been living in the Outlands all this time." His mind spun, overrun with thoughts and memories. Thibault had been alive this whole time? In the Outlands? Why hadn't he considered that? Why did he just assume his death? How had he survived? The Jabberwock – it destroyed bodies so completely – the chances were just too slim that he had survived, but, he had. The idea knocked the wind out of him. "Tarrant!"

"What? Oh. Did you see him? Touch him? Are you sure?" This was one of the only times Tarrant's mind was completely calm, completely focused. "Does he…" Tarrant hesitated, "Does he remember me?"

Mirana shook her head. "He wasn't there. He sent two of his men to me."

"His men?"

"Yes, and from what I gather from the two gentlemen, he has been leading for quite some time." A smile etched at her lips. "He's been in control of the colony since a year after the Horunvendish Day."

Tarrant couldn't help but feel a bit of pride swell up inside of him. Thibault was a leader. He knew who Thibault was. He knew he had a son, but he couldn't remember the sound of his voice or the color of his skin. The years they spent together had been swallowed by the madness. His knees buckled, and he frantically grabbed at his temples.

Mirana felt her heart swell and she reached forward and caught him. "Oh, Tarrant. What has happened to you?" He wrapped his hands around her neck. "Tarrant, what is wrong? He's alive. He's alive, Tarrant. He made it."

"I don't know who he is." Tarrant whispered.

"What are you talking about? Of course you remember… he's your son."

Tarrant refused to look at her and shook his head. He buried his head in her neck and began to cry. "I… don't… I don't remember him." Mirana could scarcely hear him. "I know he exists, but I don't remember him."

"I don't understand. Tarrant, look at me. Look at me." She lifted up his head and gasped. His eyes were black. She could only remember seeing them go black once, shortly after the Horundevish Day. "What do you mean you don't remember?"

He sighed. "My memories have been lost. I don't remember him. I can't remember him. I don't remember anything from before."

This time, Mirana was glad she had come alone. Her chief knight had insisted that she take some men with her to protect her and she had refused him. Truthfully, she was more than happy to be out of the castle. Tarrant wasn't crying anymore, but his face showed utter defeat, and this was worse than any number of tears that he could shed.

Mirana said nothing. How could he not remember? Thibault, oh, Thibault, had been their life. He was everything that mattered then. Even the kingdom seemed to come second to him. When he died – or so they thought - everyone left alive mourned his absence. Thibault had this way of bringing people together that neither Mirana nor Tarrant possessed. How could he have forgotten?

Tarrant stiffened suddenly and let go of her. "I…er…I'm sorry, Your Majesty." He sighed, and wouldn't let Mirana see his eyes. "When will we see him? Where is he? I mean, I know he's in the Outlands, but where in the Outlands?"

She felt her heart ache. Oh, what she wouldn't do to get the Hatter to trust her again. "The two men said the camp isn't far past Grumpus Bluffs. It will take them a while to get back. I don't know what will happen."

Tarrant's eyes flashed through different colors. "Oh! Mirana! It is so good to have you here. You simply must stay for the night. Here, let me make you some tea." He grabbed her hand and led them back to his camp. He had a fire still going, which Mirana felt to be incredibly dangerous, given the number of times the March Hare has set fire to things. He began heating water for tea, all the while whistling a tune. Mirana was quite perplexed at his sudden change in demeanor, but she knew, if nothing else, that she would never truly understand his behavior. That was one of the things she loved about him at first. He could change in an instant, with not a rhyme or reason to be found. It was invigorating, at least in the beginning. After Thibault was born, she grew to despise that part of him. It wasn't what Thibault needed. He needed stability. Tarrant, as much as he loved the boy, could never provide that. It just wasn't in his nature.

Thibault could be just like him though. He seemed to enchant everyone in his presence. Even when he was just a baby, he tried to entertain everyone. The older he got, the more people loved him, and the more he loved the spotlight. Alone, though, Thibault became an entirely different animal. He was moody, angry. He would yell and get so angry. Mirana could never understand it. She didn't understand how he could be so happy in one place, yet seem so miserable and angry with his family. "It isn't you," Tarrant would always tell her, but in truth, he couldn't explain it either. Neither of them knew why their son acted the way he did.

Now, Tarrant was jabbering on about different projects he was working on for at the castle, and Mirana struggled to keep up. All his talk about different fabrics and patterns were lost on her. Not to mention, he didn't seem to even breathe when he talked like this.

He poured a cup of tea and passed it to her. Their hands brushed. Tarrant's eyes widened and he pulled back instantly, mumbling something in Orlandish that Mirana couldn't quite understand. They sat in silence for a moment, watching each other. Mirana couldn't help buck think he was still the most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes on. Most people wouldn't think so. His unkempt hair and wild eyes were off-putting to most. Some were even scared of him. They knew each other as children, and Mirana had always thought of his wild eyes as something she wished she could have. Tarrant hated them, naturally, but she loved them. She loved the way the colors would mix together and the way he could tell her exactly what he was thinking without ever having to say a word. She loved his pale, marble skin and the mass of curls in his hair. He despised it, all of it, and tried to counter it with his constant formal dress. His love for clothes was unparalleled. He had better skills than anyone in Underland.

"I could help you remember." Tarrant stared at her. They hadn't spoken like this in years. They just tried to exist together. "I remember. I could tell you stories. Sure, they wouldn't be your memories, but it's something. Maybe it will help you remember."

Tarrant said nothing, just kept staring. He sipped at his tea.

"Come on, Tarrant." Mirana urged. "What do you say?"

He said nothing, still. Just sipped more tea.

Mirana sighed. "When Thibault was four, we lost him. I had been busy in the castle, and I thought I told you to watch him, but I didn't. You were working on a gown for one of the headmistresses, and thought I had him. When I realized what had happened, we tore up and down the castle looking for him. No one could find him. Not even Chess." Tarrant was listening intently now. His eyes were a mix of green and purple spots. "I had never been more scared in my entire life. I felt like we had searched the whole castle when Mally found him, hiding in the bureau with a pair of scissors, and a very poorly stitched hat."

Mirana looked up to see Tarrant smiling for the first time since she arrived. "He was crying, saying he wanted to make hats like daddy. You picked him up, and you took the hat he had made and set it on top of one of your models. The two of you sat down at your desk and I watched as you took it, fixed up the stitching, and made it perfect. I could never forget the look on his face. He wore that hat every day after that. Nothing I tried convinced him to take it off. It didn't matter that he was wearing a white suit and we were meeting with diplomats. He still had to wear a little green hat with a golden crown sewn on."

Tears glistened in Mirana's eyes. Tarrant looked frustrated. "You had a way with him that no one else did. He loved you so much. Still does, I'm sure of it."

Thibault paced back and forth in his tent, grumbling. "When will they be back?"

An older woman stood in the room with him. She had been lucky – Thibault remembered – to survive. She was old enough to be his grandmother and had been very badly wounded on the way to the camp. Now, she served as a mentor for Thibault, and had become a sort of shaman for the tribe. She was old and wise, and everyone called her grandmother. "Patience, young Thibault. They will be back soon enough."

He glared at the woman, eyes turned red. "You don't tell me what to do, woman!"

The old woman stood up straighter, and before Thibault could stop her, she wacked him in the shins with her cane. "Didn't your mother teach you any manners?" She began to mumble under her breath. "Slurking urpal little ungrateful child…"

Thibault sighed. "I am sorry, Grandmother. I merely wish to see my own mother again."

She laughed, "And you will, my boy! You will! Just be patient, child. Be patient. You have enough worries as it is, eh? Did I hear today that the hunts were unsuccessful this week? You might want to worry about that first. Your people need you, you know."

"Grandmother! I know! You don't have to tell me, I know!"

"I do not want you to forget your people in this. They will not survive without you. You must put them first. Remember where your duties lie." The old woman bowed to Thibault, and left the tent without another word.

Thibault sat down on his bed and ran his hands through his hair. There was so much that needed to be done. The tribe could tell he hadn't been at the top of his game lately. They knew that this whole ordeal was distracting him. He worried that dissension would arise among the people; he knew not everyone admired his leadership. Many thought he was too young to be in charge, even he thought it, at times. But the people would have none of it. They said the needed a ruler of royal blood, even if he was only half royal. He was all they would accept as a ruler.

Truthfully, he wished they hadn't.