Please see first chapter for disclaimer, rating, warnings, pairings, etc.

Author's Note: Again I find myself apologizing for a long delay. This chapter was incredibly difficult to write - I had to keep distancing myself from it every few paragraphs, especially once I reached Tarrant's parts. I tend to tie myself emotionally to whatever is going on with the character I'm writing, so I got drained so quickly writing this chapter that it took me a good while to get through it. Once more, I apologize for the long wait, and hope you enjoy this chapter! Thanks again for all the lovely reviews and alerts!

-Chapter 10-

Backgrounds

Alice had decided to borrow The Chronicles of Alice from Mirana. The White Queen had seemed reluctant to give it, at first, but finally conceded that the Champion deserved to know the truth of what had happened in the past, no matter how horrible it was.

She followed Tarrant back to his workshop. He returned to his hat-making with no small bit of distraction - it was obvious Things were weighing as heavily on his mind as they were on hers.

Settling into the chair in the corner he'd had brought in just for her, Alice lifted the cover of the book to delve into the secrets beneath.

The story started out quite similar to her own, actually. Other Alice had tumbled down the rabbit hole from her world, found the Room of Doors, and become not-proper-Alice size by drinking the pishalver. Even once she was out of the Room, her story mirrored Alice's in most respects. She'd met several animals, and a Hatter, though she thought the whole thing just an elaborate dream of her own restless, wandering mind's making.

Alice was even interested in the story - until things started going horribly wrong. Other Alice's friends and acquaintances began to die, brought down by either the Jabberwocky or other Evil Creatures in league with him. The monster had learned there was an Alice in Underland, and he'd stopped at nothing to try to get rid of the threat she posed.

Hatter Alistair's brother constructed a sword, a weapon filled with Magic and a consciousness of its own. It was almost as bloodthirsty as the Jabberwocky, but the difference was that the blood it longed to taste was that of the creature, and not any human or other animal. The semantics of it were still a mystery - it seemed the brother was reluctant to tell how he'd forged the sword and made it so it could only be used on the Jabberwocky, and the secret died with him.

But the Vorpal sword lived on, in the possession of Other Alice. Once Alistair had helped her realize she wasn't dreaming, she became focused on slaying the Jabberwocky and freeing Underland and those of her new friends that were left. But, as Alice already knew, things were not meant to go that way - at least not yet. It would be many, many years later when she arrived to fulfill the same purpose.

As the words and images grew ever-darker in cast, Alice had to force herself not to look away. At last she reached the image that had so badly disturbed Tarrant earlier: The Jabberwocky with his head lifted in triumph; the broken, lifeless body of Other Alice grasped desperately in Alistair's arms; a river of black beneath them that was surely meant to represent Other Alice's spilled blood.

Alice's stomach twisted and churned, and she realized she couldn't finish the book. Even the little bit she managed to get through of Alistair's deadly grief was too painful. It was too much like her own Hatter going Mad with anguish and then perishing.

Slapping the cover of the book closed (yet still unable to banish those awful images), Alice set aside the book and glanced up toward the worktable. Tarrant was holding up a new hat thoughtfully, turning it this way and that, a frown of dissatisfaction on his face. With a snort of derision, he gave it a toss and immediately turned to work on another.

Launching herself out of her chair quickly, Alice just managed to stretch and catch the discarded hat before it hit the floor. Holding it carefully, she examined it from brim to tip-top, trying to see what was so awful about it. She was no hatter, of course, but she couldn't see anything wrong with it.

"Tarrant?" she asked, daring to come closer to the worktable.

"Aye, love?" he said distractedly. His fingers were flying across the table expertly, organizing colors and stitches and ribbons and other bits and bobs.

"What's wrong with this hat?" she asked, lifting it.

Glancing up, he blinked owlishly at the headpiece for a moment before turning back to his current project. "The colors are all wrong," he said curtly. "The ribbon was supposed to be yellow, the flowers green, and the peacock feather was really supposed to be a daisy. I don't know what's the matter with me today, but it seems like I'm unable to do anything right." Lifting the hand holding the scissors, he impaled the stack of orders sitting to the side with the sharp blades before gazing at her forlornly. "I just can't concentrate. I keep messing things up, and the orders just keep rolling in."

Alice glanced back down at the hat. She rather liked the blue ribbon, white flowers, and peacock feather. "I think it's a beautiful hat," she said loyally. To prove her point, she settled it atop her blonde head and smiled.

Tarrant's gaze softened. "Perhaps there was some point to making it, after all," he said good-naturedly. "It was meant to be an Alice-hat."

She peeked up at the brim. "You mean I can have it?" She had just been trying to get him to see that just because the colors were mixed up, it wasn't a bad hat.

"Of course! I don't see any other Alices around, do you?" Almost immediately the smile slid off his face, and his eyes sparked yellow. "Other Alice…" His expression crumpled into misery, and his battered hands lifted to cover his face.

"Tarrant!" Afraid he was falling into a bout of Madness, she scurried forward to secure his wrists and pull his hands away from his face. "Tarrant, it's all right," she said soothingly.

He reluctantly yielded to her grasp, his injured hand dangling at his side as the other reached up to touch her face. "That could just as easily have been you," he whispered. "Now that we know there was one Other Alice, that must mean there were more Other Alices. And more Other Alices made finding the Alice all the harder, and finding the Alice made all the harder means there was a chance that you might not have been the Alice, and you not being the Alice meant you would have been as doomed as all of those Other Alices, and you being as doomed as all of those Other Alices-" His voice picked up speed and volume as he spoke more and more frantically.

"Tarrant!" Alice shook him slightly.

The yellow seeped out of his eyes as he stared unblinkingly at her. "It's a Bad Thought to consider losing you," he lisped. "Even without the Bond, I never would have survived it, I just know I wouldn't."

Even when she'd been in Otherland and he in Underland, completely cut off from each other, he'd been her best friend. He'd been the only one to believe unfailingly in her, to declare without a shred of doubt that she was the Alice, no doubt about it. But, she had to wonder, would he still have been so confident in her if he had known about Other Alice and her story?"

Tarrant gazed anxiously at her. "What are you thinking?"

Alice firmly pushed away the Bad Thought. What was the matter with her, questioning her Hatter's loyalty? She had only to look at him to see the devotion and admiration in his eyes and painted on his face. That was one thing she adored about him, that he never tried to hide his emotions. "Nothing important," she assured him. "Just that I think my throat is a little dry. Would you care for some tea?"

That sufficiently distracted him, and Alice managed to breathe a sigh of relief as she went to fetch a pot and some cups from Thackery in the kitchen.

He shouldn't pick it up. He knew he shouldn't pick it up with every fiber of his being and more. In fact, the Voices were veritably screaming at him not to even Think about touching it.

But Tarrant's hand reached out of its own accord, his fingers wrapping around and lifting The Chronicles of Alice. He was sure Alice hadn't meant to leave it in his workshop, but what with tea and then dinner, she had forgotten about it, and so had he. Until now.

Tucking the book into an inside pocket of his jacket, Tarrant blew out the lamps in his workshop and headed for his quarters. Alice had retired early, saying she was a little tired. And he could see the circles under her eyes, though he had a feeling they were brought on more from concern than genuine fatigue. That was why he was shutting down his workshop and heading for his own rooms early - he felt too tired, emotionally if not physically, to put forth the required effort to make good hats.

Once he'd entered the common room of his quarters and locked the door behind him, he went straight to the comfortable chair by the fireplace and settled in. For a moment he held The Chronicles of Alice on his lap, staring at the surprisingly benign cover. It was amazing how something so plain and harmless could hide such a horrible and ugly truth.

As before, his fingers took on a mind of their own and opened the book. He thumbed through the pages, looking at the illustrations more than actually reading the words. He enjoyed reading more that most, but after Alice and Mirana's reactions, he wasn't sure he wanted to read the words. There was sometimes an awful Power in words, and he had no desire to invoke that, not tonight.

Tarrant wanted to put aside the book. He really did. He wanted to get up, fix some tea, then go to bed and sleep until the Tiredness left his bones and the Images his mind. But he remained transfixed by the illustrations, locked in place by first the sweet innocence of them, then the sinister darkness that found ready echoes in the Madness of his own mind.

He flipped yet another page, and then there it was. The Horrible Image that had affected him so deeply earlier in the day.

Suddenly the leather cover seemed to be burning his hands, and he dropped the book with a yelp. Throwing himself out of his chair, he backed away from it, almost expecting it to come alive and chase after him. A serpentine chill slithered up his spine, and he wrapped his coat a bit tighter to ward off the cold.

What had he been thinking, picking up that Cursed book?

Still shivering, he went to make his desired tea. He didn't bother waiting for it to cool, gulping it down even though it burned his tongue and everything else on the way down. The pain gave him something else to concentrate on, at least until it was gone. Once it was, he went straight to his bed, shucked his shoes, Hat, coat, and cravat before huddling under as many blankets as he could pile on, trying to ease the icy panic that had found its way into his very veins.

He closed his eyes, trying to picture a blank black canvas. Each time the paintbrush of a memory tried to creep in, he shoved it away. He was afraid to try to invite a good thought in for fear of the bad somehow managing to slip in, too. So he desperately clung to the blankness until his mind slipped into sleep, and he had no more control…

He knew, somehow, that he wasn't himself. He'd heard of Out of Body Experiences, but had never really believed in them. Until now.

Looking down at himself, he thought that he looked an awful lot like his actual self. The bandages were much the same, as were the thimbles and stains and mercury burns. He could feel the comforting weight of a Hat on his head, but when he lifted his hand to it he realized it was missing its peacock feather and sash. He thought about taking it off to get a look with his eyes instead of his hands, but something else captured his attention first.

Alice (or was it really Other Alice, since he had to be Other Hatter?) stood in the same armor she'd worn on the Frabjous Day, the Vorpal sword clutched in her hands. Her jaw was set with determination, her eyes bright as she faced down the Creature she'd sworn to slay.

He wanted to shout at her. He wanted to warn her to turn back, to drop the sword and run, because she was going to die. Even though his mouth was open, his throat refused to work to release the words that were rapidly bottling up to the exploding point inside him. Gritting his teeth, he tried to move so he could pull her away, but his feet refused to work, too.

And then the Jabberwocky was there, all teeth and claws and glowing red eyes. Its battle cry was so loud that he had to lift his hands to his ears to keep from being deafened by the sound. Yet Alice stood stoically, sword lifted, eyes blazing, every inch of her oozing confidence.

It took only one swipe with the Jabber's wicked claws. Alice was flung aside like a rag doll, her body sailing across the battlefield to land in a broken heap at his feet.

Only then did his invisible chains release him. Dropping to his knees, he scrabbled for her shoulders, turning her over to get a better look. The chest plate of her armor was peeled back like the lid of a can. Her chest was a shredded, bloody mess, skin and muscle indistinguishable from the remnants of her shirt, her bones visible in some places.

He clung to her, cradling her against him despite the mess, sticky blood spilling everywhere, though its stream was slowing as her life-force congealed in death. Her eyes were open, a hint of defiance still lingering there even though she no longer saw. The expression on her face was twisted with surprise and pain, and he knew there had been a single moment of suffering before she had died. The crimson staining her lips spoke of that if nothing else.

The explosion of searing white pain in his head was as sudden as it was excruciating. He slumped over Alice, one hand falling away from supporting her to brace himself so he wouldn't put any weight on her, though he knew logically that she couldn't feel his touch any more, no matter how softly or roughly he handled her.

"Alice," he moaned. He wasn't sure if he was mourning her, or begging her to come back to him, or just begging her to help assuage the agony in his head.

He felt the last thread of sanity Alice had kept him clinging to snap, and the Madness roared over him like a cool wave of water over a raging fire.

It was the clamoring in his head that finally snapped Tarrant out of his sleep. He shot up in bed, shoving off the constricting blankets that had been smothering and cooking him. He heard something rip in his haste, but ignored it, desperate to get free, to get away.

His heart thrummed like a drum, so loud it almost drowned out the Voices, at least for a while. For a moment he sat completely still, eyes darting restlessly around the room, taking in the familiar surroundings of his quarters in Marmoreal.

It was a dream. Nothing more than a dream. He needed to keep telling himself that, because he knew deep down inside that while it had been a dream, it was also a reality, something that had happened a long time ago to another Hatter and another Alice that had not been as lucky as he and his Alice.

This time his headache had nothing to do with his and Alice's lack of proximity. It was brought on by the realization that, had he stayed asleep even a moment longer, the Madness in his dream would have overpowered the last bit of sanity he had left, and this time it would have been Alice suffering until she died, as alone and broken as Alistair had been all those years ago.

~To Be Continued~

I'm so sorry for the depressing fog hanging over this chapter. Tarrant's dream sequence was adapted from the original images I had in my head when I conceived this story, only slightly changed to fit as a dream sequence instead of an actual series of events. Thank you all again so much for being so patient with me and my sporadic updates, and I really hope you enjoyed this chapter!