Story: Yesterday I Was A Different Person
Rating: T (for the moment)
Genre(s): Humor, Romance
Summary: Alice Kingsleigh lived in a fantasyland of pocket-watch carrying rabbits, teatime with a Mad Hatter, and a smiling cat that is forever on the prowl for a finely crafted top hat. Then she steps through a Looking Glass into the vast world of Underland, where her childhood stories and constant dreamtime companions are flesh-and-fur real.
A/N: Ho. Snap. Bitches. This chapter clocks in at 7, 280 words – the largest yet – and it seriously got out of hand. Also, this fic has grown. It is now threatening to become Epic, and I am Not Amused. Oh, well, it happens, I suppose. Hope you all enjoy this chapter. Thank you all for your kind reviews and words – they really do make my whole day! Much love and thanks and my life-long devotion go to my beta CrazySpark for putting up with my tense-switching, word forgetting, and general lack of spelling skills. As usual, constructive criticism is always welcome, as anyway I can improve as a writer is a Good Thing.
Also, Tanta is term that basically translates out to daddy. Just, y'know, FYI.
In response to Annonymous: To your first question, it's not a matter of getting stuck creatively. It's just making the words fit right. They like to knot up on me, tricky buggers. As far as the second goes, the issue of Time and how it flows will be addressed later on. It's certainly not a constant ratio – kind of…whatever Time wants. He's a bit wishy-washy like that.
Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland in any form. I do own all original characters…or they own me. Something like that.
The exhaustion is catching up with Hamish quickly; certainly when Alice's head is resting on his arm, warm and comforting and everything he's ever known in life. Underland is no less of an Adventure with Alice at his side – no, it is even more of an Adventure, just waiting for them to let themselves loose – but he is certain that Adventures, Bandersnatches, and learning how to Futterwacken can wait. His feet ache, his muscles are sore, and his sun burn is insisting to his nerves that several hot pokers have been lodged under his skin, and it has shrunk two sizes to small for his body on top of that. Alice against him is a bit uncomfortable, but after traveling to another world and returning home only long enough to grab her and go back to it, the pain is worth it.
He takes a drink of his tea, loops his arm around Alice's shoulders, and smiles at Tarrant Hightopp. The man is in his chair, settled into the wingback like a brooding, frizzy haired angel of vengeance who has forgotten his flaming sword. He hasn't said a word since they left the dusty room in Thackery's windmill cottage, only been able to dart his eyes between Alice and Hamish and back again. Or rather, he stares at Alice with a flood of emotions Hamish can't entirely understand – wonder, awe, lust, desperation, what looks a bit like obsession and probably is, and Hamish isn't sure he likes that – before his eyes move to Hamish, and he's being glared down by a bright-eyed monster of jealousy. Jealousy, he discovers, is not green. It flickers between bright yellow and burning orange, and there are hints of red to it.
Hamish resists the urge – but only just – to stick his tongue out at the man. Just because Alice has been obsessing about him since they were children doesn't give him the right to give Hamish the sort of look that could have made trees catch flame at twenty paces, for nothing more then wrapping his arm around Alice. Tarrant and Alice had a…friendship, of sorts, in Alice's past life. And Hamish? Hamish has been her best friend since they were children; no, since they were infants, really, and their mother's have all the embarrassing snaps to prove it.
"Alice Kingsleigh," Chessur's sly voice purrs through the morning air like the rough side of velvet, mist swirling lazily before he forms in the seat opposite Alice. She jumps, sitting upright and giving that blasted Cat a look torn between surprise, nervousness, and the joy of greeting a lost friend. Hamish – who has never really had to share Alice with anyone else, because no one has ever been as close to her as he has been – isn't sure he likes it. These…people…have a history with Alice that Hamish is not a part of, cannot touch or slide into. He knows the stories and knows them well, but Hamish Ascot had not even a minor role in the glorious tale of Alice of Aboveland, Champion of the White Queen.
Hamish resists the urge – but only just – to throw a teacup at the cat.
"Welcome back to Underland, Alice."
"Thank you, Chessur," Alice smiles widely at him, eyes sparkling as she leans forward a bit. "It's nice to be here."
"You took your time, of course," Chessur stretches out his front legs, claws kneading the tablecloth as he grins at her. "Was it necessary to go and die before your return, Alice?"
The sound of china shattering pulls all eyes towards the Hatter. His face is pale – even paler then usual, which Hamish hadn't thought was possible. His eyes swirl frantically, unable to choose a color, until they settle on a sickly yellow rimmed with red. His lips, so dark they appear to be nothing more then bruises, curl off his teeth and he narrows his eyes on Chessur. Hamish realizes, with a dull sort of horror, that the teacup the milliner had been holding is shattered in his grasp. Shards of china of lodged themselves in his fingers, his palm, and blood drips, mingling with the tea as it falls.
"Dinna talk 'bout Alice," Thackery whispers worriedly, eyes swirling from the Hatter to the Cat to Alice, before her nervously begins to chew on a butter knife. "We dinna talk 'bout Alice, Chess, we cannae talk 'bout Alice, Chessur, we cannae talk 'bout –" Thackery clamps his teeth on the knife before grabbing his ears, pulling them over his eyes, and diving under the table, shaking violently.
Hamish stares at his empty seat for a moment, before slowly turning his head back to the Mad Hatter, who makes fear trickle up and down his spine with the bleak agony reflected in his sickly yellow gaze. Hamish can't stop himself from gulping hard, as though it would remove the near physical lump of worry clogging his throat, tightening his arm around Alice, dragging her closer against his side, dropping his chin as though he could hide her face in his neck and their proximity to each other would keep her safe.
The Hatter's mouth opens and closes several times, growls and grunts and whines of half formed words escaping his throat, dribbling from his lips ("Why – Alice – die – why – my Alice – my Alice…"), and Hamish realizes that he would willingly die for Alice. Because with the Hatter watching Alice with those mad, sickly eyes, Hamish is positive that the man from their stories is gone. Alice died once, long ago, and though she is returned, the Hatter was taken over the edge by the loss of the woman he cared for. And Hamish will do everything his power to keep that madness away from Alice. She is too sweet and good and kind, too clever and charming and, at soul, naïve, to handle such…ferocity of emotion and shattered mentality.
He stands quickly, his movements quick, fast and jerking. He drags Alice's chair to the side, knocks his own over, and places himself between the Mad Hatter and Alice. He has never headed a rebellion, never fought in a war, and never used a lethal weapon. The Hatter has. The Hatter can kill him, easily, with his bare hands, and Hamish knows that because the knowledge is reflected, no need to be spoken, in the burning eyes that are locked on him.
Hamish resists the urge to the throw a teacup at him – only just – and stills his trembling knees.
"My Alice," the Hatter rasps, standing from his wingback, knuckles glowing white in the as he leans forward.
"Wrong," Hamish says firmly, clearly, "She's my Alice, now. And I don't plan on giving her up to a lunatic with yak hair."
The tea table is silent. At least until Alice squawks, and punches Hamish in the side hard enough that he is sure his burnt skin has cracked, and his ribs have shattered, and he is dying.
"Excuse me," she says loudly, hotly, wrath glimmering the depths of her bright eyes as she stands, as well. Her hands rest on the slim swell of her hips, index fingers hooking through the belt loops of her jeans as she leans forward, darting her eyes between Hatter and Hamish and back again. "I'll have you both know, I don't belong to anyone!"
Two mouths drop, as two minds attempt to process what they have just been told. There is a strange moment of awkward solidarity as their eyes meet; the Hatter had claimed Alice so many years before, when she was another Alice Kingsleigh, when she went on a quest to slay the Jabberwocky and free Underland from the Red Queen. Hamish has kept Alice since they infants, learning how to walk; he held her hand as they ran through mud puddles, curled around her for naptimes and bedtimes, and been drawn into her very soul, as surely her stories were a part of her essence.
They have each, firmly, believed and clung to their ownership of Alice Kingsleigh. And she has just verbally kicked them in the teeth.
Hamish, being the saner of the two men in question, begins to hastily backtrack and explain.
"I don't mean belong, belong," he smiles as winningly as he can when his ribs are creaking and his breath is gasping, "I mean, you're…like my sister, yeah? I can't let any bloke go around laying claim on you, now can I? Got to keep you safe, Alice-bear."
"Don't you Alice-bear me," Alice hisses, eyes narrowing. Hamish gulps, and debates the merits of hiding behind the Hatter. "I can take care of myself, Hamish Charles, and you know it!"
"He's mad!" Hamish insists, pointing frantically at the Hatter, who is glaring him down. "He's entirely 'round the bend. 'My Alice,' he says, like you're a dog, or something. I was just protecting your virtue!"
"I lost my virtue to Spencer Brown when I was seventeen," Alice snarls scathingly, "So shut it."
Hamish squawks, much like a chicken with abruptly plucked tail feathers. Chessur chuckles, looking even more sly and pleased then is his usual want, a gesture of one expressive paw keeping Mallymkun quiet and from jumping to Tarrant's defense with her hatpin.
"Women's virtue," Thackery chirps from under the table, peeping out almost pleadingly at Tarrant, "Keepin' lassies safe, he is, Hatta!"
"Safe!" The Hatter bellows, and Hamish darts firmly in front of Alice as hands began to wave. "She died, ye slurking urpal slackush scum!"
"I came back!" Alice howls, kicking a chair over. Everyone – even the Hatter – stops and stares at her. Hamish, knowing the signs of a Right Proper Alice Rage when he sees one coming, scuttles to the side, and then backwards, and keeps himself out of arms reach of both Alice and the Hatter. "I am here now, and unless I choose so, I belong to no one but myself! And if anyone has a problem with that, I suggest they take their testosterone driven, chauvinistic, male posturing elsewhere, before I choke them to death on a crumpet!"
"Crumpet!" Thackery darts out from under the table, snags two, and lobs them. One bounces off the Hatter's chest, and the other crumbles rather tackily against Hamish's cheek. The Hatter takes a step forward, trembling, thimbled hand reaching out, hovering in the air beside Alice's cheek.
"Yer my Alice," he says firmly, desperately, swallowing hard. "Ye always been my Alice."
"Didn't ya hear 'er?" Mallymkun can keep herself quiet no longer, it seems, and she's hurtling across the tea table, pointing her hatpin threateningly at Hatter. Mallymkun, Hamish knows, is naturally aggressive – but her little heart has always been warm and soft and half in love with Tarrant Hightopp, and she has only ever confronted him to draw him out of his madness. Even the Hatter stares at her, blinking rapidly, hand dropping from the air. Mallymkun's tiny chest is heaving, round ears and whiskers twitching as her dark eyes glare. "Listen to yerselves! She's a person, ya know, an' the Champion of the White Queen! If Alice says she don't belong to no ones, she don't!"
"Mally," Alice says with a blinding smile, "Thank you."
"Nerve of these men," Mallymkun sniffs, sheathing her hatpin, "Actin' like they can jus' lay claim to whatever comes 'round. I ain't sayin' ya ought to have left like ya did," she pauses, a glowers a bit more, before visibly softening, "But ya had thin's to take care of, righ'? Thin's to do? Yer back, now, all that matters, innit? That ya came home."
"Yes," Alice's eyes are bright, and Hamish realizes she is moments away from tears. "I am home, Mally."
"Must be knackered," Mallymkun, Hamish sees for the first time, has not only the soul of a warrior, but also the heart of a mother hen. She hops and scurries forward, crawling onto Alice's palm when it's proffered. Once she's settled on Alice's shoulder, she pats and smoothes a bit of hair near Alice's ear, tutting under her breath. "Imagine that, comin' all the way to Underland, and bein' tugged around like ya are. I think ya need a bit of a lay down, Alice."
"I am rather tired," Alice admits, smiling a bit sheepishly, "Traveling through the Looking Glass does take a bit out of a person. Even the Champion."
"'Course it does," Mally says firmly, still patting a stray curl down, "Come on, now. Let's go inside and find ya a soft bed, how is that?"
"Sounds wonderful," Hamish and the Hatter stared, befuddled and rather worried at the sight of the two fiercest women they have ever known bonding so fiercely and suddenly. Alice tries to glare at him, but gives up, and settles on looking only a bit put-off with him. "Hamish needs to rest, as well. He's about to fall asleep on his feet, I can tell."
"Thackery has several beds available," Chessur announces, taking a long drink of tea, "Unused for some time, but serviceable."
"Unused?" Alice asks, darting a glance towards Mallymkun.
"This lot wouldn't leave," Mally answers, looking rather grim, "Hatta wouldn't stop waitin', and Thackery wouldn't go without him. Slept at this table quite a while, we have. Mind, I can cozy up in a tea pot, but them being as big as they are…well…"
"Thackery," Alice turns, reaching out and running a hand over one of the Hare's soft ears. He shudders, eyes drooping, giving her a look of such adoration that he closely resembles a hound. "Go inside and rest."
"Hatta," he slurs, gesturing towards the stiff figure behind Alice, "He won't – spoons -"
"He is," she says firmly, "You go on, as well." Wordless he turns and scrambles to the house, shouting about pillows and butter. Alice turns around again, picking up Mallymkun and settling him on Hamish's shoulder. Hamish, who has watched everything with a wary sort of trepidation, wonders if he is moments away from being stabbed in the jugular. Death by hatpin. What a sad, terrible way for it all to end.
"Mally, would you take Hamish to a room?"
"I thought I'd go with ya," Mally droops a bit, though she juts her chin out and puts her hands on her hips, "We need a plan to keep this lot in line!"
"We do," Alice grins, "But I need someone to keep an eye on Hamish. Otherwise he'll end up sleeping outside the door to whatever room I'm in. He's a bit irritating, this one." Mally snorts, rolling her large eyes, before she grabs Hamish's ear lobe and yanks hard.
"Right then," she says firmly, "You an' me are goin' to have a lie in, Freckles, an' ya ain't gonna bother Alice or Hatta!"
"But – but –" Hamish stutters, blinking frantically. "We can share a room, can't we, Alice? We always do. Have before, I mean. I don't think there's enough room for us all to have a bed to ourselves."
"I…" Alice swallows hard and blushes, before darting a glance at the Hatter, "I'm not all that tired, really. I could kip on the sofa, or a chair. I thought I'd see this one to bed."
This one, Hamish realizes, means Tarrant Hightopp. He is violently displeased.
"No," he says firmly, "Oh, no. If you go into a bedroom with him, I know what'll happen! 'My Alice' this, and 'My Hatter' that, and next thing you know I'll be Uncle Hamish! I won't have it! Your father'd kill me if I let you -"
"Hamish," Alice says so quietly that the violent hidden in her tone is almost hidden, "I am an adult. I do not need your permission to do anything. You need to realize that."
"I just want you safe," Hamish says desperately, stepping forward. He grabs her hands, bends low – leaving Mallymkun to grab his hair and hang on tight to keep from sliding off his shoulder, "Alice-bear, I know that…you've always been connected to this place. And I know you've always had feelings for…that man. But we aren't children, these aren't stories, and he…he could hurt you."
"He won't hurt me," Alice says in such a way that Hamish can almost taste her conviction. "He wouldn't ever hurt me."
"You don't know that."
"I do," she pats his cheek before sliding to the side, moving until she can take the Hatter's hand. He look he gives her is rapturous, and Hamish scowls. "You silly man, you ought to have slept."
"I was waiting," he lisped, giving her a shy, wondering sort of smile. "I knew you would come back, Alice."
"And I have," she smiles in return, and Hamish feels his stomach roll. "Let's get you settled down."
"No! No – I mean –" the Hatter flounders a moment, before swallowing hard, shaking his head. "Please, Alice, don't make me stay without you again. I…won't sleep if you…if I don't know that you…"
Hamish growls under his breath. Mallymkun tugs violently at his hair.
"I suppose it won't hurt," Alice smiles at the Hatter, all cheeks rosy and eyes bright; a bit timid, a bit heated, and full of muchness. Hamish resists the urge to vomit. "Like a sleep over, yeah?"
"You – you can't take him to bed with you!" Hamish nearly shouts his words, tossing his hands into the air and gesturing wildly. Alice turns on her heal, giving him an accusing sort of look.
"At twenty-three, if I want to shag him blind for the next two weeks straight, I don't need your permission for it. Besides, Hamish, all we're going to do is sleep. He hasn't had a proper rest in ages, and as I told Mally, I am rather tired."
"I know you," Hamish nearly howls, "I know what you'll do!"
"It's none of your business!"
"You can't take him to bed!"
"And just why not? Give me one solid reason why I can't share a bed with him?"
"Because!" Hamish realizes that isn't going to work, and begins to grasp at threads. Finally he puffs his chest out, looking rather smug. "Because you don't even know his favorite color!"
"Yes, I do," Alice answers firmly, "Me."
"What?"
"Me. I'm his favorite color." The Hatter is giving her a wondering, delighted look – his cravat has flared wide (if that wasn't a phallic symbol Hamish would eat his pants), the colors on his face and suit brightened dramatically.
"You aren't a color," Hamish mutters sullenly, "Doesn't count."
"She is," the Hatter says with obvious devotion in his gaze and voice, his fingertips brushing lightly against her cheek, "She's the most beautiful color in the world."
"I'm going to be ill," Hamish grumbles under his breath, but gives up and turns, stomping towards the windmill.
"Do ya love 'er?" Mallymkun asks from his shoulder, once she has directed him to a little bedroom under the stairs. The bed is barely large enough for Hamish, but he curls up on his side, head on the thick pillow, huddling under the musty blanket. Mallymkun lays on the pillow in front of his face, her gaze on the ceiling.
"Alice?" He asks a bit dumbly, "'Course I do."
"Idiot," Mallymkun sighs, "I mean, do ya love 'er?"
"What – like – no! Alice and me, we're just friends. We tried dating once, you know," Hamish admits, nose curling, "We tried to kiss – we couldn't do it. It was revolting. Like trying to kiss a sibling."
"He does," Mallymkun's voice is soft and sad and resigned, "He's always loved her."
"The Hatter?"
"Hatta," Mallymkun agrees quietly, "He's gotten worse since she's been gone. Alice came back, though, an' I suspect he'll be much better. He really…really loves 'er, Freckles."
"I know," Hamish agrees quietly, "I've always known that. But what kind of friend would I be if I didn't try and protect her? What if he lost his mind, had a – a fit, you know, and hurt her?"
"He wouldn't," Mallymkun turns on her side, voice muffled and rather thick, as though she is close to tears. "She's the one person he could never hurt."
Alice is laying in a strange bed with soft sheets and an old smelling quilt, cursing herself for not having thought to brought a pair of jim-jams to Underland that are less lounging about the flat watching telly with Hamish and more suited to crawling into bed with the man she'd been fantasizing about for…well, forever. She's wearing one of Hamish's old shirts that has Manchester United across the front, faded and soft from hundreds of washing, and a pair of shorts that have Manchester written across the bum. She feels like a teenager, or a virgin, or even both. She's neither, and it annoys her that the strange bed and dusty room and Tarrant Hightopp can make her feel as such.
His hat is on the dresser across from the bed, sash pooling on the beaten wood like a ripple of pink cream water. Alice rather feels that it is looking at her as though it is torn between amusement and scandal. Amused because she is mourning her sleepwear, scandalized because she is vividly recalling all the good bits she's ever read in the trashy romance novels she and Margaret swap. She has visions of being ravished running through her mind, ravished by the Hatter, with lots of purple prose that involve throbbing members and love canals and joining in not only flesh, but soul. She shouldn't be thinking those sorts of things, because she isn't a shy virgin, damn the world. She certainly isn't on par with the Chattaway sisters who have had more sexual encounters and partners then most Taiwanese hookers, but she isn't a blushing maid awaiting her soon-to-be-lover.
Tarrant Hightopp is not her soon-to-be-lover. True, she has been fixated on him for several years. And yes, he obviously cares deeply for her. But that doesn't mean he loves her, or even desires her. Perhaps he feels for her in the same way Hamish does, like a brother, like siblings – Alice has to bite her lip at the thought, and hates the fact that a knot of pain forms in her stomach.
She nearly jumps from the bed when the door creaks open. Tarrant had insisted on leaving when she changed into her jim-jams. Alice finds it adorable and sweet and she very much wants to snog him for it. But she won't, because they aren't like that, and she is stronger then her hormones. Really.
He'd changed as well, while he was gone. She eyes him a moment as he slips inside and shuts the door, looking anywhere but at Alice and the bed; he hasn't changed, not really, but he had shed his cravat and jacket and waistcoat. He is in shirtsleeves, trousers, and even his feet are bare of stockings. The light streaming through the window glints off the red curls on his toes and lower legs, and Alice feels a completely irrational surge of lust.
She debates the merits of pressing a pillow over her face until she passes out. While it would save her the horror of doing something idiotic - like throwing herself at him and begging him to do unspeakable, filthy things to her body - it would probably trouble him greatly. And so she only sits up in bed, curling her legs to her chest and giving him a smile. Which is rather useless, really, given that he is scuffing his toes against the floor and staring, firmly, at the ceiling.
"You do look knackered," Alice says; smile widening as his eyes dart to her. Tarrant gives Alice a look that is caught somewhere between frightened and delighted, scrubbing his bandaged fingers against his fabric covered thighs. The realization that he is without his thimbles makes Alice's breath catch, her heart squeeze, and her thighs tense. "How long has it been since you had a proper rest, Hatter? In a bed, I mean?"
"I don't need a bed," Tarrant gives her a beaming smile, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I can sleep anywhere, me. Really, Alice I – I hardly ever sleep. Chairs are just fine, really. I enjoy sitting, and I can sleep sitting, and it does'na really -"
"Hatter," she cuts him off as he begins to ramble, her smile soft. "You certainly aren't sleeping in the chair. We slayed that Jabberwocky together, you and I. After that, we surely can share a bed."
He looks at her. Directly at her, into her eyes, and he is not a lisping Hatter of silly rhymes and manic giggles. Nor is he a flame-eyed creature of madness and vengeance, bent on destroying his enemies. He is a man, simply a man of flesh, bone, and blood; of desires, wants, and needs. Alice locks her jaw to keep from letting the gasp escape her throat, curls her hands in the quilt over her up drawn legs to keep from lying down and not so subtly offering herself to him.
She feels quite certain there is only one mad person in the room at the moment, and it is her.
"'Course," he breathes in a voice much deeper then his usual want, words thickened by his rough brogue. "'Course we can, Alice."
Alice does her best not gibber at him like a teenager meeting the Jonas Brothers, and is very proud when the only thing that manages to escape her lips is a soft squeak that sounds vaguely like "Right," and possibly drips with lust. Possibly. There is no proof, however, and Alice refuses to admit it. Even to herself.
He crosses the room in four strides, and stands beside the bed. Alice tugs her smile back into place, slips down, pulling the quilt back to pat the sheet-covered mattress. "Come on," she offers, toes thankfully hidden, because they are curling. The man has not even touched her, is only looking at her (as though she is a feast and he is starved, as though she is life and he has only just been freed from a death sentence), his eyes vivid, swirling between crimson and orange. They settled on a bright, burnt color Alice can't name, and her heart begins to do double time.
She is ready to start screaming at him to do something, just please stop staring like that, when he takes the remaining half step and sits on the edge of the bed. His back is taunt, his shoulders one tense line under the linen of his shirt. Alice wonders what it would be like to smooth her hands over those angles, to feel warm flesh and hard muscle, and bites down hard on her lip.
Twenty-three years she'd been dreaming about this man, entirely under the assumption she'd never come face-to-face with him. Now she is in his bed, and she is torn, so torn. She wants to tackle him. She wants to do things to him that she refused to do with Spencer or Franklin or Thomas, she wants to learn his body, trace his scars, kiss her way down his body and lick her way back up. She wants to learn his secrets, his thoughts, his madness and cleverness and kindness. She wants to know him as no other person possibly would or could or can, and it is so strong, this urge, to press against him and drag him to the bed that his an actual, physical ache in her stomach and hands and mouth.
She doesn't want to break this fragility between them. She absolutely fears scaring him away, finding out that while she has yearned for him her entire life, he has not wanted her in the same way. She thinks it would kill her. She knows it would. And so she scoots herself against the wall, tight, tighter still, and lets out a breath that sounds rough even to her own ears.
"You've got to lay down," she only half teases, "You'll get a crick in your back trying to sleep like that."
He says nothing, but swings his legs up, settles on his back. They both shift a bit, doing everything they can not to touch, to avoid it, because Alice has feeling if he touches her it will be like wild fire, and she will burn and break and consume him in her own drowning need. Eventually he is under the quilt, and nearly falling off the bed. She is pressed against the wall, and her neck is at an awkward angle, and they are both clutching the quilt and staring at the ceiling and it is awful.
The man hasn't properly slept in too long. And now he is finally in a bed, and uncomfortable; they have already established, previous to him leaving to strip layers and for her to put on sleeping clothes, that any attempt Alice might make to rest in a chair will result in the Hatter becoming rather cross. He wants her there, but they are uncomfortable, and it's useless –
"Bugger this," Alice grumbles, before she twists and turns, leaning over Tarrant and grabbing the wrist of the arm farthest from her. He gives a shocked noise (a needy noise, if only in Alice's mind, and she suspects that one indrawn breath is going to fuel her fantasies for many restless nights to come), pulling at him until she is on her side. She tugs his arm around her stomach, threads their fingers together, and curls her body into his. He is tense against her, breathing shallowly, trembling from the tautness of his muscles.
"Alice?" He asks very softly, as though he is frightened of being too loud.
"Is this bad?" She asks, "Are you uncomfortable?"
"Nae!" He nearly shouts, before his face is nuzzling into her hair, and he is going limp. His breath is warm across her cheek and neck, his arm tightens around her body, and he curls his knees so he is surrounding her, holding her captive from behind. "Nae, s'fine, Alice…my Alice…"
"Sweet dreams, Hatter," Alice breathes, shifting even closer as his free arm wriggles his way under her head, until he us her pillow and blanket and everything she will ever needed in the entire world.
"Beautiful dreams, Alice…"
The Land of Nowhere is covered in shadows, with two moons glimmering brightly, heavily pregnant and full as they hang in the sky amid twinkling stars that form extravagant constellations. Their light drips into the large, vaulted sleeping chambers of the royal couple, where the God of Wild Places lays sprawled amid sheets spun of dream silk, his skin glowing against their dark color. The Iron Queen rests on her side, trailing her hand over his back, eyes closed as she listens his breathing, and the Dream Song that sings out from the Earth and Universe, pulsing through her blood, matching the pounding of her heart.
There is a faint ripple in the vibrations of air and Earth and Song, so small and well hidden that few would have noticed the disturbance. The Iron Queen is not one of many, however, and her eyes open, fingertips faltering in their downward path across her husband's side. She leans forward, pressing her lips against his shoulder, leaving a damp imprint of her lips, before she pulls back, sliding across the sheets. Her feet dangle from the edge of the bed, as she stretches her arms, her body bare in the dim lighting as she rolls her neck. The sound of bones snapping is sharp and sudden in the hush, though her husband does little more then snort, and continues with his rest.
"Chessur," Kore smiles into the darkness of her chambers, before she slips from the bed and stands, ambling to the large vanity that takes up position near the doors to their balcony. The air wavers into mist, the mist forms a lithe body, and it quickly turns into the gray-and-blue Cheshire Cat who bestows upon her his trademark grin. "What an odd time for a visit."
"Odd?" He questions, spinning lazily in the air, "In what way?"
"Cern rarely sleeps," she darts him a sly sort of look as she nabs the dressing gown hanging from the back her vanity chair, pulling it on and belting it around her waist. "And night does not always come to Nowhere."
"Night comes everywhere," Chessur corrects, "Even to Nowhere."
The Iron Queen turns and leads the Cat from the room. She doesn't dare open the door for fear of waking the Wild God, and so she simply passes through it, body going to mist before recollecting. A wave of her calloused hand sends the hearth fire burning, candles sputtering to life in the large sitting room. She settles herself on a large chair, curling her legs under her body as a cup appears in her hand.
"Something to drink, Chessur?"
"Tea would be lovely, Majesty."
"Majesty? Odin's beard, Chess, what game are you playing at this evening?"
"That would be telling. Thank you," Chessur curls his agile paws around the thick mug when it appears, inhaling the steam of Innocent Dreams, before he takes a short drink, savoring the sweetness and it bursts to life across his tongue. "Pity we can't have this flavor taken to Underland."
"It would kill most mortals," Kore smiles only a bit smugly, brushing her hand through her hair. Poets have called it the color of a captured sunset, while others compare it to spilled blood; it is the color of passion and lust, battle rage and a failing sun. It is a sign of her bloodline, and she wears her father's colors with pride. She leans back in her seat, green eyes glittering at the Cat – eyes as green and bright as Chessur's, as they are cousins, of sorts – and they share a similar smile. "I would hate to put unready Dead before my good husband's Throne."
"You simply don't want to do the work."
"I do hate Audiences and Judging," Kore admits, shrugging, "Boring, really. Now, what brings you to Nowhere?"
"I have the most interesting news. If Her Majesty permits me to speak."
"Wouldn't matter if I didn't," Kore lifts one bright eyebrow, aiming a rather arch look, "You speak even if I don't want you to."
"Never, Majesty, never..."
"Mmhmm…"
"Alice of Aboveland," Chessur declares with relish, "Has returned to Underland."
"Has she?" The Queen sits upright, attempting to widen her eyes into an expression of shock. Her grin gives it all away, though. Chessur laughs, taking another drink of tea.
"You already knew, then?"
"I may have," Kore admits without a hint of shame, "She is rather important to me, you know."
"One of your blood?"
"No, no – but the Hightopps, ah, they are blood-of-my-blood. What is dear to the last of that Clan is dear to me."
"It has nothing to do with politics, of course."
"Politics," Kore flinches as though it's a dirty word, "I never get involved in that if I can help it."
"Strange words from a Queen."
"It's why I'm good at my job. I haven't been kicked off my throne, have I?"
"Not for lack of trying."
"Well, honestly," Kore attempts to look innocent, and fails miserably. "If you're going to send assassins, at least get the sort that are good at it."
"It would take an army to remove you, Kore."
"They've tried," she beams, "They failed."
"Vicious creature."
"Naturally." They fall into a lull, sipping their tea, staring into the fire.
"Why?" Chessur asks suddenly, and the rapid movements of his tail suggest irritation. "Why did you let the girl die in the first place?"
"Everyone dies," Kore answers softly, "It was her time."
"Life in one hand, death in the other," Chessur says in a vicious sort of tone, "You could have saved her."
"I couldn't save my own children," Kore snaps, "When Death comes, and there is no hiding. Death came. She was called to Nowhere to stand Judgment before Cern and myself, and I could do nothing to change this. There is a plan, Chessur, and not even I -"
"You have changed Destiny before!"
"And what did I loose?" The Queen finds her feet, hair fluttering around her as her eyes turn gold and her lips pull back off impossibly sharp teeth. She snarls like an animal, chest heaving. Her tea hovers in the air, wavering violently, sloshing over the sides of her mug. "My own children went to the River and drank to forget, Chessur, and there was nothing I could do! Had I stepped in, Alice of Aboveland would have died in battle before her time, and the last of the Hightopps would have went with her!"
"Tarrant has suffered more then enough," Chessur says sharply, "He doesn't need to be a pawn in your games. Neither does Underland."
"You hold dominion in Underland because I allow your presence," Kore hisses, and her words drip with violence and thinly veiled power, "I allow your immortal hide to walk among those mortals and help guide them along the Path. Do you recall our bargain? You remain alive to keep watch over Underland. If your cowardly hide turns against our Vow, I'll toss you in the River myself, and you'll never hold a corporeal form again."
"They've lost enough."
"They'll loose more," Kore snarls, "If you attempt to change what is going to happen."
"Do you think I don't know?" Chessur swirls upwards, head spinning several times before he disappears, reappearing directly in front of Kore. His eyes are cold and his smile sharp, his breath hot against her face. "I have heard the rumors, Daughter of Teutates. I know the Unnamed Ones are walking in Underland. Do you think I'm stupid enough to believe that you are simply looking after the last Hightopp, or Alice Kingsleigh?"
"I do what I must," Kore breathes threateningly, her face tight, hands balled into white-knuckled fists at her sides.
"You are a war monger, and you send mortal children to fight your battles."
"Do I?" The planes and lines of Kore's face ripple and sharpen, until the bits of her humanity edge away, and she is a creature born of star shine and blood and magic, inhuman and impossible and terrifying. She steps forward, nose-to-nose with the twitching Cat. "Would you rather I unleash my armies upon Underland? Could you imagine, Cat, what would come of it? Underland would fall under my blades, and my husband's, and my living children's. We would destroy an entire world to see vengeance done. The White Queen would be a price for this, you know, I have heard it in the Song. You fought bravely, for the first time, to see her regain her crown. Would you like to see her dead to keep it when the Unnamed Ones take Marmoreal?"
"Sometimes," Chessur says softly, "I simply cannot tell when you are lying or not."
The Hell Queen's mouth opens wide, and beyond her pink tongue and wet teeth shines a world captured in her throat, a universe spinning endlessly. A convergence of immortality and power that burn mortals to dust and ash at a mere glimpse of it. The Cat hisses, scuttling backwards on quick paws.
"Alice of Aboveground will help to secure the line of the White Queen in time," Kore whispers, Prophecy riding her words, "Her womb will give forth royal children of Hightopp blood, blood-of-my-blood. Before she ripens with children, she will see battle. She will help drive the Unnamed Ones from the fertile soil of Underland. If this does not happen, Chessur, it will not only be Underland that falls. First Underland, then Above. The Otherworld, and Nowhere. All Universes will burn, Chessur, and all the godlings and deities will not be able to stop if they gain Underland."
"I won't fight," Chessur purrs, flittering away, "I despise battles."
"I never expected to see you on the battlefield."
"Will you ride with Alice? Or your Hightopp kinsman?"
"It is undecided," Kore hedged, face softening as she turned away. "Cern…worries."
"You have always been obedient to the point of stupidity when it comes to your men, haven't you, Majesty?"
"I will skin you," Kore speaks evenly, though her blade appears without warning, and Chessur finds himself unable to breath or move or disappear. He hovers, lungs screaming, fur bristled as the point of a sharp blade is pressed to his throat, and the Hell Queen Kore smiles prettily at him. "I will make you into a fine wrap, and wear you in winter."
Chessur manages to hiss, eyes wild.
"Cern has lost me too many times," she continues, "To not worry. And I have hurt him too badly to act without weighing my options. I will, of course, ride with the Champion and last Hightopp if there is no other choice. They have been given my support, and I will not turn my back on them. I fear, however, for the rest of the mortals if I appear in battle. I forget myself. Curse of Tanta's blood, see? It obviously skipped you. You've no taste for battle."
"No taste for blood," Chessur spits when the magic loosens its grip and he topples to the floor, gasping and shaking, mind too fogged to evaporate. "Not like you."
"Do you recall when you had a man-form?" Kore asks, making Chessur spit and hiss at her. "Do you? We rode together, you and I, and you fought bravely. It was the last time you displayed such loyalty to your kin, Ogma!"
"Do not call me such!" Chessur hisses violently, lurching to the air, clawing at the air in front of her face.
"Mock past wounds," Kore said quietly, "And I will do the same."
"It was a long time ago," Chessur disappears, though his eyes glimmer meanly from across the room, "It is a legend, now. Mostly forgotten. I have no taste for war."
"War is coming, however," Kore sighs, her blade disappearing. She runs her hands several times through her long hair, before gathering it in one fist and pulling it over her right shoulder, where she begins to braid it. "We can't escape this. It must happen. The Unnamed Ones make shadows, and I will not give them Underland. I will not give them anything."
The White Queen dreams of a grand Audience Chamber of black marble and slick veins of white, where the tumbling ivy and open flowers rain down from the ceiling and crawl along the walls. The dais at the far end is lifted high above the common floor, and it holds two thrones of stone and bark and flowing, twisting branches. Only one seat of power is occupied, and it holds a woman with flowing scarlet hair and pale skin that shines like rainwater and Wild Magic.
"White Queen of Underland," the voice that pulses forward holds such power that Mirana feels faint, her knees weak and eyes wide. Only once before has it whispered to her, when it spoke of a Champion to face the Jabberwocky and a crown restored to its rightful owner. "Do you know who I am?"
"Dream Weaver," Mirana said softly, one hand pressing to her stomach as the other flutters weakly beside her head. She steps forward on trembling legs, lifting her chin, "Iron Queen, Hell Queen. Beater of the War Drums, Speaker of the Prophecies."
"Call me Kore," the Goddess before her smiles, and gestures Mirana forward. Mirana follows the invitation rather weakly, her head pounding harshly. "One queen to another, yes?"
"Majesty," Mirana dips into a small curtsy, head bowing.
"Do you know that Alice of Aboveland has returned to Underland?"
"No," Mirana's dark eyes go wide, her lips pulling into a pleased smile, "Has she truly?"
"Underland once more has a Champion. At this moment she rests with the last of the Hightopp Clan."
Mirana and the Hell Queen stare at each for a long moment. Mirana does her best to stifle her laughter and a sly wink, and settles on beaming pleasantly, despite her throbbing headache and trembling stomach.
"I thought you should be made aware."
"Is there a reason I should have a Champion again, Dream Weaver?"
"Since you have taken vows," Kore says dryly, "Of course. You know, Mirana, I simply don't understand a Queen refusing to battle for her kingdom. I could teach you. I'd be happy to teach you."
"I've no desire to take the life of another."
"My father is the King of Battle," Kore says loftily, before she gives a smile that is a bit sheepish and rather girlish. "Suppose that's why the thought of never going to war unsettles me. Are you quite sure I can't teach you? Just a bit? How to throw a punch? I have a monster right hook. Really, in my family you have to learn how to punch – I've got twenty-nine brothers, me, and two sisters. I take very much after my Tanta, of course. I'm quite gifted."
"Thank you," Mirana swallows, shaking her head, "But I must decline."
"Pity," Kore sighs, before leaning back in her Throne. "Well then, that's all." And then she stares.
Mirana does her best not to fidget.
"Well? Was there something else, White Queen Mirana?"
"I – well, Dream Weaver, I'm not entirely – you see, I don't quite know how to leave."
"Oh – oh! Yes, yes, I always forget this part. Sorry to interrupt your dreams, Majesty. You know, politics never wait…ah, well. Sweet dreams, White Queen."
"Majesty," Mirana curtsies once more, before jerking upright in her bed, heart pounding violently. She sits, shaking, as the magic of the Dream Weaver lingers in her mind and chest. She stumbles to her feet, nearly tripping in her clinging bedding, before she runs – forgetting to be graceful in her rush – to her bathing chambers. Her knees slam hard onto white stone floor, and she is violently sick for a long time.
She should have known, she muses, when she decided to a nap. She never takes midday naps – she should have known…. Eventually she gives up on dignity all together, as even the White Queen is not meant to travel to Nowhere, to be faced with such immortal powers. She sprawls on the cold tiles, one hand shielding her eyes from the brightness of her white and gold bathing chamber and the sunlight from the windows.
"Must send guards," she whispers to herself, "To fetch Hatta and Alice. I should do that now."
She doesn't move.
"I really should."
She moves her hand, cracks her eyes open, and is nearly sick on herself.
"In a moment," she promises the large chamber, "Yes, in a moment."
In a moment turns out to be several hours, and she is very glad that the entire Court and Council are banned from entering her private chambers unless it is a matter of life-and-death, as she would have been forced to do something drastic if they had caught her sleeping on the floor of her bathing chamber.