Prompt: Dreams.

Rating: Strong PG-13.

Warnings: Angst, some horror themes, some parts are slightly gruesome.

Length: 4,476 words.

Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland (2010). This is a work of fan-fiction.

Dreams

By Naranne

The first thing she sees is the doorway.

The first thing she feels is a sense of utter terror, and a horrible feeling that someone – or something – is watching her.

Somehow, she knows she somewhere in London, but she has never been there before, and does not know where in the city she is.

She is standing in the middle of the pavement, yet there is no street to be seen – beyond her is simply grass, stretching onward and onward as far as the eye can see, should she have chosen to turn her head. She does not. She is fixated by the sight in front of her, but she does not know what it is about it that enthrals her so.

It is not a fancy door – it is slim, of an unremarkable make and colour, and beside it rises the remainder of its building, a white monolith stretching skyward. She risks a glance upward. Above her, the sky is in turmoil; turbulent, dark storm-clouds swirl endlessly, restlessly, chaotically against a blood-red canvas.

Neither is the door unique, being merely one of many stretching from left to right as far as she can see – she does not know what purpose the buildings lining the faux street serve, and it does not seem to matter. She takes a step forward, and several things happen all at once.

The world seems to spin, and the ground trembles violently. She is thrown forward, colliding with the smooth surface of the door; the force with which she is hurled at it should have been enough to cause bruises to bloom and the door itself to splinter, yet neither of these things happens. In the distance, she hears a rush of heavy footsteps, and a gun being fired – it is a sound she has not heard in a long time, but it is one she recognises instantly nonetheless.

Another shot, and another, in quick succession.

The hurried footfalls cease for a moment, and then pick up again, far slower this time, and quieter, surer. Somehow, she knows the source is far away: she has time to get through, to get away, but fear grips her mercilessly regardless– there is only one pair of footsteps now, and she does not have to think long to know what happened to the rest. With sweaty, clammy hands, she grapples at the doorknob, but it will not turn. The door is locked.

The world spins again, more forcefully this time. She collapses to the ground, landing on her hands to prevent her head from colliding with the unrelenting concrete that grazes her palms and knees. She spits out a mouthful of hair, and snatches a glance outward, for the footfalls have ceased entirely.

In horror she realises there is a dark, tall figure coming toward her from the grass. She tries desperately to pick herself up and force her way through the door – and for the first time, realises what she is wearing.

The corset is tight, oh so tight, and as she staggers to her feet she feels it constrict, squeezing her stomach and her lungs, squeezing the life from her. She takes great gulps of air as she wavers on her feet, for suddenly she cannot get enough. Spots of light dance before her eyes, bright and dark, colours and swirling patterns. Her head swims.

Sweaty hands clamour for a purchase on the doorknob, but to no avail. A horrible feeling of trepidation steals over her, and with deliberate, aching slowness, she turns, and freezes. The figure is closer, yet the light which illuminates everything else around her with such clarity does not touch him – he is but a silhouette, dark, menacing, threatening. He stops, and cocks his head to the side, as if evaluating her with a calculating, piercing gaze from eyes she cannot see. She wants to run – needs to run – but she is frozen, muscles refusing to obey.

He raises an arm, and the light catches only one part of him – his hand, gripped surely around a gun, finger poised on the trigger. The moment seems to last forever, as the thimble-tipped trigger finger slowly exerts pressure, and he finally fires.

Alice screams.

It is the eve of the Frabjous Day, and Tarrant Hightopp is restless.

His bare feet wear an incessant pattern into the carpeted floor as he paces to and fro, muttering to himself under his breath. He is filled with a tumult of emotions – a black joy that the day is finally at hand, worry that a Champion will not step forth, disappointment for the one that was meant to fill the Champion's role, anxiety. He knows that they cannot force Alice to take up the mantle of Champion, yet at the same time, the eerie image of the Oraculum swims before him…

Sighing and ceasing his pacing, he runs bandaged fingers through frizzy, untamed hair, wincing slightly and clicking his tongue when his thimble gets caught in a wayward curl. His top hat is resting on the bed-side table, yet he keeps an eye on it just in case (it would not do for Chessur to attempt to steal the sweet hat, not at all). He takes deep, calming breaths and mentally chastises himself – he must be fully rested for tomorrow, and worrying is not accomplishing anything.

However, just as he walks over to his bed, he hears a shout of, "No, please!" from other set of guest rooms joined to his own, the sound muffled. His eyes widen, and he rushes to press an ear to the wall. He hears a cry of distress, and another.

The Hatter's blood runs cold.

Alice.

She is caught amidst a great group of people ploughing relentlessly onward down a steep, seemingly endless hill, the harsh, mid-day sun beating down upon their backs. Their destination looms in the distance – a great, grand collection of buildings, old and prestigious, flags undulating atop spires although there is not a breath of wind to be found. It dimly registers in the back of her mind that it is a school, and the people marching there are students – as if triggered by this realisation, the clothes of each and every person become identical, sharp reds and blacks standing out against the lush, green fields that surround them. She is the only one to wear something different; her sky-blue dress is incredibly out of place, and although she is not questioned, she feels multitudes of curious eyes on her, and fights down an increasing feeling of unease.

There is a unanimous sense of purpose about them, and as she glances about her, familiar faces start materialising among the crowd. To her left, Lady Ascot strides with confidence, her aristocratic arrogance blending in perfectly with the crowd; a glance behind her tells her that her mother has joined them, her clothes, like her daughter's, separating her from the remainder of the body, though her flowing, blood-red gown is as different to Alice's simple blue dress as is possible, the black hearts embroidered on its hem harshly unnerving. However, the only one Alice pays any attention to is her sister, walking directly in front of her, her adulterous husband nowhere to be seen.

With quick steps she catches up to the older girl, running fingers over the huge, ostentatious red bow which fits snugly in place at the end of Margaret's intricate braid. Pushing down a sudden feeling from deep within her that this is wrong, wrong, wrong, Alice opens her mouth to speak, and assures her sister confidently, "She will like that. It is so very large and vibrant."

Margaret turns over her shoulder, and with a wide, pleased grin, replies, "Thank-you. I do hope so."

Something within her gags and cries out, although outwardly she returns her sister's smile with a nod. It is as if she encompasses two different people, one outraged and horrified at what is taking place, and one perfectly accepting, unable to understand the disgust of the other, yet giving it no more thought than is necessary.

They trudge onward, inward-Alice screaming and crying that they must not go any further, outward-Alice marching along complacently with the crowd, perfectly happy with the current situation. She glances to the side of the road, and what she sees causes her step to falter. A small, iron post has been erected, and chained to its cruel, hooked tip, is a tiny figure which both Alices recognise instantly. Mallymkun's eyes are closed, her clothing ragged, and her famous hatpin is nowhere to be seen. Her breathing is very shallow and rapid, the pulse beating in her neck weak. The fire both Alices remember her for has left her – inward-Alice recoils and tries to move to free her, but outward-Alice merely notes with a calm detachment that the mouse has little time left and continues walking, ignoring the furious protests from deep inside of her.

The scene changes suddenly. The buildings are much closer now, and people are starting to pass through enormous gates of wrought iron, decoration twirling in intricate designs, coming together to form a large heart at the gates' pinnacle. Grim-faced guards stand either side of the gate, watching everyone with suspicious eyes as they pass, some gazing up in wonder at the sight surrounding them. Walls rise up, encircling the school – distantly, outward-Alice wonders who it was they were built to keep out, or who it was the students needed protection from. Inward-Alice snaps that they were not built to keep people out, but to keep them in, before dissolving into cries of unease and shouts of distress.

She stops, the crowd parting around her and flowing onward, not giving her a moment's thought or a sparing her a glance. One of the guards eyes her curiously, yet she does not notice. Of their own accord, her eyes are travelling upward, to admire the extravagant spires.

However, what she sees is far from something to be admired, and her hands fly to her mouth as she gasps. In an instant, both Alices fuse into one again, united by their horror; she takes a step back, faltering. Impaled on a thin, cruel spike amongst those undulating red and black flags is the body of the White Queen. Fresh, warm blood stains her once pristine white dress a dark, dark red and mats her long, flowing curls.

Alice cries out, falling to her knees in despair, unable to tear her eyes from the gruesome sight before her.

Through the legs of the mindless crowd she can make out a grotesque, golden statue of a bulbous head that takes up the entire centre of the courtyard, the crown topping it gleaming in the sunlight as if to mock her. As she forces her eyes tightly closed, realisation hitting her, three words repeat themselves over and over in her head like a mantra…

I did this… I did this… I did this…

A loud, persistent knocking on the door to her rooms startles Mirana of Marmoreal from sleep, and with a gasp, she sits bolt upright in bed, taking deep, calming breaths to rid herself of her momentary fright. The knock at the door sounds again, louder and more urgent this time. With a slight sigh of exasperation, Mirana rolls out of bed, wrapping herself in a jacket to make herself more presentable – and to fight the slight chill, something she had not noticed when wrapped up in her blankets.

Even at this late hour, she manages to stride elegantly to the door. She fumbles with the key for a moment, sighing at the fact that a lock was considered a necessity, even in Marmoreal itself. The sight that meets her eyes when she finally opens the door is something she is not expecting – the Hatter stands before her, eyes wide, green with mere flecks of yellow, fist raised to knock urgently on her door. Again.

She blinks. He is distraught, rocking back and forth slightly on his feet. A grin born of what appears to be relief spreads across his face at seeing her, and, slightly bewildered, Mirana gently allows him in.

"What is it, Tarrant?" she presses, once she has him seated with a glass of clean water in hand.

He sips before answering, and when he does, his words come out all at once. "Alice—worried for her—shouts from her room—we shouldn't have done this, forced this on her, 'tis our fault, yes, our fault, but she is distressed we have to see if she is alright, see if—I need ye to give me the key—"

"Tarrant."

He blinks at her in confusion, as if noticing her for the first time. "I'm fine," he chokes.

All traces of sleepiness and exasperation now gone, concern grips Mirana, and she realises that perhaps the shouts she had heard were not figments of her imagination, part of a mere dream, after all.

She looks her friend straight in his mad, worried eyes. "What has happened to Alice?" Her voice is firm, unshakeable. "Tell me now."

She is lying down, she realises, as she blinks groggy eyes. A bed, yes – but it is not hers. It is not a familiar bed. It is hard, and cold – oh so cold – and she has not a stitch on, yet there are blankets on the bed, and the brief thought of why she had not covered herself with them earlier is lost as she scrambles to reach for them and pull them over her. The rough material scratches her skin, but it is some warmth, at least, and she savours it, shivering, waiting for her natural warmth to return to her. She glances down at her body, underneath the wool, and realises there are bruises there – a myriad of different hues cover parts of her skin. She cannot remember how she got them, and it does not seem to matter.

Where am I? How did I get here?
A quick glance around tells her she is tucked into the corner of a large room; behind the bed, there is a stairwell, leading downward, yet a locked gate bars the way; the carpet covering the floor is rough and thin, but spotless. Beyond the stairwell, the room extends some way, yet she is its only occupant. An old, dull chandelier hangs from the ceiling in the room's centre. A feeling of hopelessness steals over her. She shudders, but it is not from the cold, this time.

She tries to wrap the blanket around herself in a crude imitation of a dress so that she can get up, can move off the bed, can get out of there, for suddenly she realises that it is the last place she wants to be. There is menace hanging in the air, silent, foreboding. In vain, she tries to move, to get away, but her muscles are frozen and refuse to respond.

I am trapped.

Squeezing her eyes shut tightly, she wills herself not to cry. She will get out; she knows there must be a way out –

Voices. She hears voices, voices she recognises, at that.

Her eyes fly open, and she looks to the source, to her left – a row of five chairs has materialised, and on them are seated people she knows, people she trusts. Only one chair is empty.

They were not there before. Something is wrong – I have to get out – Perhaps they will help me?

She opens her mouth to speak, to ask them for help, ask them which way it is to get out, yet she recoils when she gets a chance to look at them properly, and instantly she knows that for all they are friends and family, they will not help her. They do not even look at her, conversing amongst themselves. She cannot make out anything they are saying, yet she instinctively knows that whatever it is, it does not bode well for her.

She bites her lips, chokes back a sob. She is alone. Alone, and trapped.

Running her eyes up and down the row of chairs, she takes note of each individual seated before her. Lord Ascot, Mirana, the Hatter, her mother – an odd, unnatural blend of universes and worlds, yet there is a sense of dreadful unity about them. The one empty seat is between the Hatter and her mother, and briefly she wonders why it has not been filled.

She glances at the Hatter, and realises he is deep in conversation with Mirana. His eyes are hidden from her.

Help me. Hatter, please…

Curling up into a ball, she pulls her legs to her chest and hugs them to her, burying her head in her knees, her eyes tightly closed. Rocking herself back and forth, she reminds herself that she is strong, stronger than this. She would find a way out, she would not cry, she would not –

What's going on… what's going on… why won't they help me?

There is a high pitched laugh which she recognises instantly, and she lifts her head up enough to see what has changed, for its owner was not there before. Surely enough, seated in the empty chair between the Hatter and Helen Kingsleigh is Iracebeth of Crims. Bile rises in her throat, and if the group was unnatural before, it is made even more so now, as Mirana greets Iracebeth with a kind word and a nod. She shakes her head, not believing what is happening, what she is seeing.

The Red Queen reaches into a pocket of the coat she is wearing, and to each of the other four people, hands a knife – each one is different, some serrated, some curved, some larger than others. She scrambles backward, pressing up against the wall as if she would disappear, melt into it, pressing herself into the corner furthest from the terrifying quintet, pulling the blanket tighter around her.

No, no, no, no…

She watches in utter horror as each examines the knife given to them, nodding and thanking Iracebeth for her thoughtfulness in bringing them. Each knife is clean, yet somehow she knows that each has been used to draw blood before – blood of her friends – blood of innocents –

"There's another knife in that one, isn't there?" her mother remarks casually, pointing to the handle of the large, serrated blade in the hands of the Hatter.

"Why, yes, I do believe there is," he replies, pushing a dent on the wooden handle, and extricating another, smaller, knife, a flat blade with no handle. The light reflects off its silver surface, giving it a wicked gleam. "Thank-you, Helen."

She shakes her head furiously, refusing to believe what she is seeing. The Hatter looks up at her curiously, as if evaluating her. For the first time, she sees his eyes, and an absolute, blood-curdling fear takes hold.

They are black.

She opens her mouth to scream, yet though her throat is chafed raw by her efforts, no sound escapes. Silent sobs rack her body. He laughs, a cold, chilling sound that raises the hair on the back of her neck. He grins madly, his fingers dancing up the length of the blade, spots of blood staining the carpet.

No, Hatter – Hatter, please, no –

Suddenly, there is a tremendous crash from her left, and her head whips around to the source of the sound. Barking and howling, Bayard has broken down the gate blocking the stairwell, and for a moment, she is not sure whether to feel relief or whether he has come to join the grisly five before her. Mallymkun rides atop him, gripping his collar with one hand, hatpin held aloft in the other. As they charge toward the others, the mouse lets loose a fierce cry, combining with the angry growls and barks of the bloodhound.

The five dissipate, vanishing into thin air, wisps of smoke all that is left of them, tendrils curling and weaving behind the two animals who were her saviours.

As one, Bayard and Mallymkun turn to regard her. She knows she should thank them, yet as she opens her mouth to do so, her eyes roll backward in her head, and she passes out.

Thank-you…

The moment the door has been opened, Tarrant charges into Alice's rooms, leaving Mirana standing guard by the doorway, all thoughts of propriety gone. The sight that greets him causes him to cry out in consternation: Alice thrashes in her bed, blankets tangled around her legs, her brow soaked with sweat. She cries out, flinging her hands in front of her as if to defend herself. From what inner demon, he can only guess.

"Alice!" he shouts, rushing to her bed-side, wringing his hands. "Alice, wake up!" She moans, tossing and turning.

"Wake up, ye silly lass, wake up!" he growls, kneeling beside the bed and casting a helpless look over his shoulder to Mirana. She comes immediately to his side, placing a gentle hand upon Alice's sweat-soaked brow. The Queen frowns, eyes closed in concentration a moment.

"She is caught in a nightmare," Mirana tells him, expression calm yet tinged with worry. "It is nothing serious. Do your best to wake her, Tarrant, but be gentle. I'll return with something to ensure she sleeps the rest of the night dreamlessly."

He is dimly aware of the sound of the door closing behind the Queen as she leaves, but his attention is returned wholly to the girl in front of him as she thrashes again, moaning in distress. He reaches out a hand to her arm, rubbing her skin lightly, trying to calm her, trying not to grow too distraught at the helpless sight in front of him. His touch seems to soothe her, and the Hatter breathes a sigh of relief as she lies still.

"Alice!" he tries. "Alice, wake up, please."

Ye canna' do this now, ye silly girl… please, wake up…

Her eyes flicker open, and he feels a hopeful grin begin to stretch across his face, before she squeezes them tightly shut again, her face screwed in up in distress. "NO!" she shouts desperately. "Please—no! – Leave me alone!"

Her pained cries tug at his heart, and he clambers onto the bed next to her, gripping her shoulders, shaking her in a last attempt to wake her before Mirana returns. "It was only a dream, Alice, please," he murmurs, stroking her sweat-soaked hair back from her forehead. "Wake up… wake up… it's not real, it canna' hurt you…"

She stirs, and mumbles something, yet she seems more at peace. The Hatter lets out a breath he did not realise he had been holding. Warily he watches her, waiting to see if she has heard him, or if she will tumble back into her nightmares. A long moment of silence ensues, where she is still, to all appearances sleeping peacefully, yet he is loathe to leave her. What if she fell back into her personal horror whilst he was gone?

However, her eyes slowly flicker open, and he grins.

"Welcome back, Alice," he says softly, knowing he should leave now that she is waking. He reasons that he should at least wait for Mirana to return, and decides to stay by her side to make sure she is alright, and to ensure that once she falls back asleep, it is peaceful and free of terror. Removing his hand from her brow, he keeps one on her arm in what he hopes is a soothing manner, and watches warily as she blinks in confusion and looks around.

The moment she seems him, her eyes widen.

Inexplicably, she screams, pushing him away from her violently – he tumbles backward, landing forcefully on the cold floor. She scrambles backward, pressing herself against the far wall and shaking her head fervently, putting as much distance between them as possible. Alice squeezes her eyes shut tightly, and he can see her mumble, "No, no, no, no…" even if he cannot hear it.

Picking himself up, Tarrant tries desperately to comprehend what has just happened, and valiantly refuses to be angry with her. Instead of anger, worry clenches mercilessly around his heart – what could she possibly have dreamt that would cause her to react so terribly to his presence? His heart breaks for her as he hears her start to sob. Picking himself up off the floor, he makes his way over to her slowly.

"It's me, Alice," he murmurs, trying for the tenderest tone he can muster. "It was just a dream, and it's over now. You're awake."

Tarrant stops a few feet from her, watching as Alice looks up at him, the fear slowly fading from her red-rimmed eyes, frightened tears still spilling over. Tentatively, he steps closer, reaching out a hand to her. She flinches, eyeing him cautiously. He cups her cheek with one hand, mirroring her efforts to calm him in Salazen Grum, and whispers, "Alice, why is a raven like a writing desk?"

Alice's eyes widen slightly, and with a sob, she replies brokenly, "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologise. Nightmares can often do funny things to one head, you know." A rueful smile crosses his face. "A bit like being mad does funny things to one's head."

"You must think I've lost my muchness again."

"Not at all," he responds confidently. "After all, without fear, there would be no need for courage."

She gives him a tearful smile and thanks him softly, and suddenly his arms are full of Alice as she cries out the last of her tears into his shoulder, seeking comfort to drive away the darkness of her nightmare. Murmuring to her the same soft, comforting words that he remembers his mother whispering to him as a child after a bad dream had tormented him, he wraps his arms around her tightly, smoothing her hair with one hand.

"Stay with me," she mumbles, so quietly that he is not sure he has heard her. However, the slight remnants of her fear in her voice are enough that he does not pause before assuring her that he will, keenly, keenly aware of what tomorrow holds for both of them, whether she chooses to accept the mantle of Champion or not.

From the doorway, Mirana watches the scene unfold, tonic in hand. However, she chooses not to interrupt, quietly placing the small glass bottle on a chair a few feet into the room, before leaving the room, giving the Hatter and her would-be Champion some peace before the sure chaos of the day to come. Closing the door softly behind her, a small smile persists about the lips of the White Queen as she seeks her own bed, satisfied that Alice is in safe hands, and that she will not be troubled by nightmares again that night, tonic or no.

A/N: Well, um. That was weird.

Sorry if they're out of character, or for typos, etc.

Until next time,

Naranne

P.S. I will finish this fic here. After that, unless this site fixes itself, I will be on LiveJournal.