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: Uh, yeah. So, I had thought for sure this chapter was going to force me to up the rating. Hamish had other ideas. Surprise, surprise. I rather like this chapter – I don't know how anyone else will feel about it, but I'm rather proud of myself for managing to balance plot and the Alice/Tarrant-glee fest that is happening in my head. So. Good for me! Uh, forewarning that my lovely beta is off camping, and I've a had terrible two days, so I'm posting this after only my eyes looked over it. Whatever mistakes you find are my own, and I'm so so sorry. But. There ya go. The usual thanks and love and GLEE goes to all my reviewers, who are kind to this piece of insanity and overwhelm me with the enjoyment they take from it. As usual, constructive criticism is always welcome, as any way I can improve as a writer is a Good Thing.
Disclaimer: I don't own Alice in Wonderland in any form. I do own all original characters, and I doubt anyone else is brave enough to try and take them on. Can I claim the Mighty Hightopp Penis? Or does that fall into the public domain…hmmm…
Alice dreams of a wind tousled field that is covered in wild flowers, where the sunshine is so thick it is nearly tangible enough to touch. The leaves of the trees are so green and vivid it is almost painful, and the sky is bluer then Alice has ever thought possible. She twirls slow circles, taking in the landscape, amazed and in awe, her heart pounding painfully in her chest as the ethereal, unearthly beauty soaks into her skin and awakens her creative spirit. In the distance is the thatched roof of a cottage, and smoke drifts in lazy curls from the chimney. There is the sound of running water, a creek bubbling over rocks, and it is singing soothingly into the air.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Alice spins quickly, looking towards the cottage. A woman is standing in the field with her, amid the high grass and flowers, with no tracks to show her progress. Alice imagines, a bit hazily, that they make quite the striking picture amid the tall purple flowers and the white bursts of the daisies. The woman smiles, but it is sickly, as though she is fighting bile or tears. She spreads her hands, gesturing towards the sky and field, the cottage and the brown, picturesque view of a lane peaking through the trees. "Perfect. Everyone thinks it's perfect."
"Perfect?" Alice repeats questioningly, and something about that word – that suggestion – makes her look harder. Nothing changes. Not the sounds or colors, the sky or the cottage. But nothing, she knows, nothing in the entire universe is completely, utterly perfect. "That's…wrong. Isn't it?"
"No," the woman swallows, throat working hard, before she begins to walk forward. The grass and flowers seem to grow taller, stretch farther into the sunlight as though she is water and they are given life from her presence. "This place is visually perfect. You're an artist, Alice. You can see that."
"It shouldn't be, though. Nothing is ever this…bright." Alice pauses, head swimming violently. She brings her hands up; pressing her palms to her temples before her vision suddenly rights it's self. She looks sharply at the woman, who is standing within touching distant, now, directly in front of her. "Where am I? Who are you?"
"Nowhere," the woman pauses, her smile softening, eyes crinkling in a way that suggests to Alice she enjoys laughing. "Well, a bit outside of Nowhere, actually. Little pocket universe known as Sideways."
"We're…Sideways?"
"Yes," the woman agrees, head tipping as she reaches out, brushing her fingertips over Alice's cheek. Golden sparks between their skin, and Alice gasps, taking a quick step backwards, her eyes wide. "We're Sideways. Rather appropriate, really."
"Who are you?" Alice repeats, and then, "What are you?" Because there are clouds in the golden eyes before her, clouds that swirl into stars, stars that converge into plants, and there is life and death and rebirth, all there in her eyes and voice and hands. Alice drags in a deep breath, but it doesn't help as she is being sucked into the Universe, several Universes; she can hear the cries of newborn children, feel the death of masses, of planets, or every bit of life ever. She sees herself, ageless and vast and outreaching, swollen with child. Life Giver, a voice whispers, carry blood-of-my-blood, bring strength to the Crown –
"I have many names," Alice blinks and is drawn back to herself, and while there are secrets in those yellow eyes (eyes that so resemble a certain milliner's when the Badness comes upon him), there are no longer supernovas or a pulsing, beating Song that shook Alice from her bones outwards. "I'm many things, actually. My name, however, is Kore.
"Names have power," she continues with a gentle look, "So use it wisely and do try and remember that bit of advice, dear."
Alice stares, her mind caught up in a whirl of thoughts and half-formed images she can barely grasp.
"I am a mother," Kore says, "Yes, that one is important. Always a mother, first and foremost. A wife. A sister, a daughter. A woman. I am a Queen and a Goddess – but, dear Alice, once upon a time I was as fragile and mortal as you are now."
"Goddess?" Alice repeats, and her heart jumps somewhere into her throat.
"Goddess," Kore assures her with a laugh, cupping her cheek. "Sweet girl, do you have any idea how dear you are to me? You remind me of myself, when I was young. I remember what it was like for me…of course; we didn't have anyone to guide us. Bast and myself. I am less known by my given name, but Bast – Bast you might know."
"Cats," Alice holds in her urge to ramble, curling her fingers into her palms, "Egyptian, right?"
"One form," Kore laughs again, "But yes, she's always had a fondness for cats. Walk with me? I have a bit of a story to tell you. You do like stories, don't you, Alice?"
"Yes," Alice answers automatically, turning and falling into step at Kore's side. They meander through the field, and Alice smiles as Kore gestures towards a rabbit darting between the high grasses. "I do like stories."
"This is an interesting story, I think," Kore bumps their elbows together, "Though perhaps that is only because it's mine. As I said, you do remind me of myself. I will do everything I can to help you, dear girl, but there are Rules even I must obey. Idiotic rules, sometimes, but the Council insists on them."
Alice isn't sure what to say, and so she is silent, slipping her hands into the pockets of her blue jeans.
"Once upon a time," Kore pauses, laughing, "I do love that phrase. All right, once upon a time, a little girl was born in Arkansas. You've heard of it, I'm sure. A state in America?"
"Yes," Alice agrees at Kore's sideways glance, her eyebrow arching high. "I know it."
"No one thinks there is anything overtly special about this girl. Her mother was young, perhaps too young for children, but life is strange like that, isn't it? There is no father in the picture. Just this woman and her child and her mother's family. The year is 1971 at her birth. This girl is named is Kore Leigh, and she has the usual sort of childhood. Games and books and toys, cousins and friends and school work, later on. But there is always a tickle in the back of her mind, this half-formed notion that there is Something Else in the world."
Alice understands, at once, what Kore means. She remembers being young, loosing herself in the thoughts – memories – of her Wonderland. Of knowing, just knowing, there is so much more in the world…
"But that's a silly thought, isn't it? The world is as it is, and nothing more. Magic isn't real, no matter how badly she wants it to be. There are no dragons to be fought, or wars to wage by sword and will alone. So she begins to grow up, and tries to put those thoughts behind her. When she is fourteen, however, she's riding her bike home from school, and it's raining. A truck looses control, and careen towards her – and this is it, isn't it? Head on collision with a Chevy, I mean, honestly; we didn't have to wear helmets or things like that in those days. Smoosh, dead, gone. But," Kore gestures expansively, looking a bit proud as she guides Alice out of the field and into the trees. They find themselves, fairly quickly, at the edge of the swiftly moving creek, and Kore settles herself on a fallen tree. Alice takes a seat beside, and Kore continues speaking as they strip their shoes and socks from their feet in preparation for dipping their toes in the water.
"But there's that tickle, isn't there? That belief? And her hand flies out, and she just somehow knows that if she presses hard enough, looks far enough, she can see Life and Death and everything in between. And she doesn't want to die, refuses to die on Maple Drive, in the rain, with tread marks from a truck on her stomach. And she pushes – and Time stops. The birds in the sky, the wind, the truck, the rain. And the girl is sitting there, hand outstretched, sobbing hysterically, because she nearly died, and the world has paused, and she has no idea how to undo what she's done.
"Within moments people arrive. Gods and Goddesses, all members of the Council. Her father is there, Teutates. He has her red hair, and her eyes, and she just knows it's him at first sight. So there's one question answered, why she always thought of that Something Else, how she stopped Time in its tracks. But there's a thousand more questions, now, because it's come to light she's a godling, and everyone is whispering about Destiny and Fate and Prophecy. A few want her killed, simply to preserve the Universes and Life. Teutates won't hear a word of it, and she's whisked away from the mortal world, and taken to Nowhere.
"There's much more to the story," Kore admits after a moment of silence, glancing at Alice, "But there are things you need to know before you can hear the rest of it. You see why I say you remind me of myself, don't you?"
"So, what," Alice tugs at the legs of her jeans, making sure they don't fall from where she has rolled them to her knees, swishing her feet in the creek and staring into the water. "Are you suggesting I'm a deity of some sort?"
"Do you think you're of godling blood?" Kore meets Alice's eyes, and they stare at each other for a long, long time. Alice sees stares in Kore's eyes, again; their light is glittering silver in her hair, and there is something cloy and intoxicating on her breathe when Kore's pink dart darts out to swipe at her lips. It makes Alice shake her head, turning her gaze to her knees.
"No," she says firmly, "I'm no godling."
"Not a hint of it," Kore says with something that sounds like pride, and bounces her shoulder off Alice's. "Not like me. That's a question for you to think on until we talk again – what are you. Have any idea's, yet?"
"I'm Absolutely Alice Kingsleigh," Alice shrugs, pushing her fingers through her hair. It's easier to not look at Kore directly; the cloaking of power and light flickers, and several images fall rapidly in and out of place. An older Kore with crows feet and laugh lines and a thicker waist; an old woman, fingers gnarled, staring into the creek with dark eyes; a young woman, hands pressed her stomach, tears trickling down her face. "I've never wanted to anything else."
"Slayer of the Jabberwocky," Kore says before she laughs, and leans back, palms on the ground behind the log they sit on. She stares upwards to the sky that hangs between the branches of the trees, peaks between the jealous, hiding leaves. "You are so young, Alice Kingsleigh. I don't know if I should envy you for your youth, though."
Alice turns her head to look directly at her; but as catching glimpses of Kore out of the side of her eyes had shown her different images, looking at the flowing water and opposite bank did the same. Alice jerked, nearly falling from the log, while Kore continued to stare upwards, looking pained.
"Visually perfect," Alice says, because she remembers Kore telling her that. She pauses, blinks, licks her lips and turns to face the opposite bank full on. Unlike with Kore, it takes only a matter of will to see beyond whatever covers the true image. She is quiet a moment, before she looks to Kore again. She takes in what she had seen, the towering stones and the drooped tree branches and flows what her instincts tell her. "Who died here?"
"How many," Kore corrects, before swallowing, "Five. My children. I have always had beautiful children. Beautiful children…" She trails off, closing her eyes, and when she speaks again it is though her words come without thought, as though she doesn't mean to speak them. They resonate inside Alice, and she wonders how the world doesn't crack and crumble and fall apart from the sorrow in that powerful voice.
"I was born with the Circle inside me – Life, Death, Rebirth. I help oversee it. I am the Iron Queen, but when they…there was no stopping, not then…sacrifices had to made, one child for another, one child for many, and they…oh, my beautiful children…"
Iron Queen, Alice hears, pressing a hand to heart in her attempts to still its frantic motions. She remembers old books, musty books, full of heroes and tragedy and a stolen bride.
"Persephone?" She whispers, and looks to Kore again. The pain is wiped from Kore's face, and she turns head, still leaning back, eyes crinkling as she smiles. "Like…with the pomegranate?"
"Morals," Kore sighs fondly, "What silly stories. But yes, there was a pomegranate. One of the few things you lot got right."
"Why are you…why am I…?"
"Because there is a War, dear girl, and despite my best efforts, it is coming to you. Or you have come to it. I would take it away if I could, but blood-of-my-blood cannot escape the Fate our line. We are born into War. And you have tied yourself to my blood, and so it is now your Fate, as well."
Alice wants to ask more questions, but her gaze is drawn back to the creek bed. The land is not sick, no; but it seems distorted, as though too many tears have fallen on it. Stone monuments rise up into the sunshine, taller then Alice but not nearly as tall the trees, and hiding in their shadows is a figure. A man, impossibly slender, long limbed, graceful. His hair is as dark as night, sweeping past his shoulders, and two carefully twined braids fall from his temples, bumping his sharp cheeks and jaw. He looks at Alice with eyes as pale and blue as the hottest part of flame, even the coldest ice, and Alice shivers.
"Who is that?" She asks, leaving Kore to stare at her, brow crinkled. Alice points to the man, who – even across the divide of the flowing water and banks and monument stones – appears startled that she has seen him, is pointing him out. "In the trees, do you see him?"
Kore curses, and the words are foreign; they are captured lightning and rolling thunder, the force of an earthquake and fierceness of a tornado. Alice trembles, her skin too small, heart too large, mind buzzing. She wonders if she will die in a Dream that is Not, die at the side of the Iron Queen Kore, so close to where her fallen children are laid.
"Sister," the man calls, and steps forward. Past the trees and stones, until his boots are at the edge of the water, and Alice can see how Other he is. Is not in his form, no, he looks like a man, as Kore looks like a woman. But there is magic twirling around his limbs, brightening his eyes, and power stirs like air currents when he moves. At Alice's side Kore bares her teeth, opens her mouth, and Alice is burning alive when she looks to her, as she stars and worlds, glimmering in her throat, captured and stolen and held safe – "I've come to pay my respects."
"Get away from my children!" Kore does not raise her voice. She doesn't need to. There is enough sheer hatred and barely leashed power that Alice fears the sky will fall down on their heads. She takes to her feet, whirling reaching out and pressing Alice's cheeks between her palms. "I will see you again, sweetling. Think on the questions I have asked and that I haven't. Names have power. Remember that."
"Who is that?" Alice demands, pushing up to stand, glaring over Kore's shoulder. He looks nothing like a Jabberwocky, but there is evil in his eyes, his soul, and Alice longs for the Vorpal blade. "What is he?"
"Wake," Kore whispers, pressing her lips to Alice's, a chaste kiss that is rather like a mother-to-child. "Wake, Champion, and be kind to the blood-of-my-blood."
The Dream begins to waver violently. Alice watches as light blooms from the Iron Queen, swirls up and around her, and swords appear in her hands. She digs her bare feet into the dirt before she takes off, running across the water, a scream escaping her throat as the man laughs, lifts his hands which suddenly hold a blade surrounded by towering flames.
Alice wakes on a choked gasp, heart pounding like a drum in her chest. She chokes on whimpers and cries of fear, nearly shoots out of her bed like a rocket when she becomes aware of the grasp on her body when the limbs holding her tighten. But her frantic gasps have brought to her the scent of tea and linen, sandalwood and man, and she remembers where she is. She is in her Wonderland, in the Hatter's bed; Tarrant is curled behind her, around her. She is safe.
She curls tightly into him, closing her eyes against the afternoon light, pressing her nose into the crook of his elbow. He mutters in his sleep, something thick with brogue and possibly in Outlandish, and Alice has no idea what the words mean. But the sound is soothing, and she clings to him. She is troubled by her Dream-Not-Dream, of course, but surely there is nothing truly wrong when she is being held so safely, and Tarrant is so warm around her. She closes her eyes and sighs, promising to think more of the flame haired Iron Queen and the flaming sword wielding man who called her sister, there at the banks that held the remains of Kore's dead children, but only when she was ready. She had for more important things to do; things like returning to sleep, waking up again quiet and relaxed in Tarrant's arms.
It doesn't matter how he feels when they are sleeping, Alice realizes. If only then, right then, it feels as though he cares so deeply for her that he clings and clasps tightly, and Alice feels sure that if he never wakes, if they spend forever and beyond in his musty bed holding each other, she will be content.
"Your Majesty," the Steward of the Marmoreal bows rather stiffly before his queen, white curls falling errantly from the thin ribbon that normally holds them in place at the back of his neck. Mirana, feeling as though she has been run over by the Bandersnatch, reclines as gracefully as she can manage in the chair behind her large desk. She nods once towards Elisud, who has been in her service since before she had taken the title of Queen - in truth, he had actually been in her parent's service, but it was much the same, as Time passes on.
"Steward Elisud," Mirana acknowledges him, fluttering one hand and smiling as kindly as she possibly can when so much as a twitch of her lips makes her aching stomach roll violently, "Is there something I can assist you with?"
"A section of guards have been sent to escort the Royal Hatter and your Champion from the March Hare's residence, as you requested."
"Wonderful," Mirana's smile widens, her chin dipping in a short nod. "Thank you for informing me, Steward Elisud."
"There is…" the Steward pauses, clearing his throat once, fingertips and eyes jerking to the side as his jaw clinches and releases in several tight movements. "There is another matter the requires your attention, Majesty."
"And that would be…?"
"A messenger has arrived, Majesty. He refuses to provide the missive into any hands but your own." Mirana's dark eyebrows lift in a silent query, and she leans forward, fingers wriggling in a soft gesture of unease and worry.
"Where is this messenger from?"
"Nowhere," the Steward gives her a desperate sort of look, "He claims he comes from Nowhere."
Mirana stares for a long moment, shock slackening her face. Her stomach heaves once again, and she drops one hand to press it there, hoping that touch might ease the rolling and rocking movements of her innards. She stands as quickly as she can, schooling her expression into one of gentle inquiry, and not the shock-panic-worry that is zinging through her blood and pounding through her already aching, trembling mind.
She had been Summoned to see the Dream Weaver – and now a messenger has arrived from Nowhere, insisting only to provide the message to her…there is something afoot, Mirana knows, some game that she is yet unaware of. Underland has been whispering to it's Queen for quite some Time, now; newcomers, shadows, golden light and eyes and blood – Mirana can only guess at what is happening, though there is a part of her that feels sure she will not find all the answers on her own.
"We will meet with him, then." The Steward jerks his head once, taking a shaking step forward.
"Majesty, I must ask you to take guards with you."
"Guards?" Mirana's eyebrows rise once more as she floats around her desk, tipping her chin and blinking dark eyes at her Steward. "Whatever would I need guards for, Steward? It is only a messenger."
"He is a messenger because he carries a message," the Steward says lowly, shaking his head once. "But he is much more then that, Majesty. Please. Take guards with you."
"To ease your mind," Mirana promises him, moving quickly forward, taking his care and Time worn hand in her own. She smiles at him, earning a shaking, trembling twist of his lips in return. "Come, now."
She calls five guards to her before she goes to the throne room, and they take up position around the small dais that holds her throne. Elisud stands behind her throne and to her left, hands carefully folded before him, eyes nervous and darting as he watches that slender double doors that mark the entrance to the grand room. Mirana dismisses the courtiers – unsure of what this message might hold, unwilling to risk an upheaval in her Court – before she gestures to have the messenger brought in.
No name is announced – Mirana assumes he refused to provide it.
The man that comes before her, long strides eating up the space from the doorway to the dais, is striking. Golden curls halo about his handsome face, a bit too long, and it gives him a roguish air. His eyes are golden, bright and striking. He is tall, well muscled – his arms are bare, as well as his neck and a bit of his chest. Mirana can see the scars that flow over him, a roadmap of battles fought; they line his wrists and arms, shoulders and neck. One is particularly frightful, puckered and white and old, and it begins on the side of his neck and dives under his leather tunic. The Healer inside Mirana winces at the sight of such things, and her already ill stomach turns uneasily.
"Mirana, White Queen of Underland," the man does not drop to his knees or grovel, as many tend to. He simply bows, neck stiff, back straight. "I bring you a message from the Hell King and Queen of Nowhere."
"Underland does not often correspond with Nowhere or it's royals," Mirana answers him, working hard to keep the smile on her face, "What has brought their attention to Underland?"
"Their Majesties wish to inform you that they believe there may be two certain godlings in Underland. The arrival of these men bring only chaos and darkness, White Queen, and it is the deep wish of both the Wild God and the Iron Queen to see that Underland is safe and protected from this threat. The High Council is of the same mind as well, and extends their wishes that you will accept the help of the Hell Ones in this matter."
"All of Underland is indebted to both the Hell Ones and the High Council of the Gods for their offers of protection, as well as their thoughtfulness. It should be noted, however, that I am in possession of an army of my own, and the security of Underland has always been – and will continue to be – my greatest goal." Mirana softens her smile, extends her hand and lowers her eyelashes a bit, "It is assured that Underland is well protected, messenger."
The man moves so swiftly that Mirana cannot track him. She can only shriek as a spear flies past her head, and leaps from her throne, one hand gripping her skirt as she takes several steps to the side. Elisud grabs her arm with a cry of "Majesty!" before tucking her behind him.
The messenger stands, once again, before Mirana's throne. Her five guards are incapacitated on the marble floor, two groaning and dazed, while the remaining three are knocked out entirely.
"White Queen, please allow me to assure you that your army would fall before the Unnamed Ones swiftly. I am considered a skilled warrior in Nowhere, Your Highness, but I am afraid that unless Luck was granting me favors, I would be felled by the Unnamed Ones." The messenger takes two steps forward, hand lifting, tugging away the soft leather of his tunic. He directs her eyes to the scar that so caught Mirana's attention before, and even though laces have been loosened, Mirana still cannot see the entirety of it. It is ugly and mean looking, and it makes Mirana's head throb worse then it already was. "One of them gave me this when I was but a child. A child that should have been dear to him, do you understand? They would ravage Underland. If they take Underland, others will follow. Aboveland, where the mortals reside. Nowhere, the Otherworld – Kore, Speaker of the Prophecies, has Seen this."
Mirana stares, swallowing hard, both heart and mind heavy and troubled.
"May I ask," she speaks quietly, "Do they train all messengers in Warrior Arts in Nowhere?"
"I am a messenger on behalf of my parents, not by trade," the man bows again, not taking his eyes off Mirana. His smile is a bit amused, and entirely smug. "I am Prince Riley of Nowhere, eldest child of Kore and Cern."
"Ah," Mirana says breathily, forgetting float on her way back to her throne. Settles herself carefully on that seat, smooth her skirts, taking time to gather her thoughts. "It is important, if they are sending a Prince of the Realm to bring news, then."
"You have no idea how important, Your Majesty," Prince Riley swears, his eyes bright, "Underland is not safe."
"And what are your kind parents offering Underland, Prince?"
"After careful thought," Mirana saw his lips twitch, and reads between the lines enough to assume that careful thought meant heated debate that bordered on violence (or perhaps that was her Imagination running away with her again), "They have decided to send in a skilled warrior to evaluated and then provide your army with additional training. If need be, we are more then willing to supplement your own warriors with our own armies. My parents would take great honor in defending Underland – they will take up their own weapons, if it comes to that, to defend this land."
"Who are these Unnamed Ones?" The prince stares at her for a long, long moment. His face drops all emotion and expression, his eyes darken and his lips narrow, and he is only a cold, stoic mask. His hands, Mirana is startled to note, tremble finely at his sides.
"They are every Nightmare and Ill Thought in all Time," he answers her, "They are…they are Chaos. We saw the trouble you had with your sister, the Red Queen. The things that she did to Underland would be a joy in the face of what those creatures can – and will, if given the chance – do. To name them gives them power, and so I will not speak that secret to you, Majesty – I hope it is not seen as an offense to you."
"No," Mirana waves her hand, fingers curling and releasing gracefully. "I understand, Prince. Are you the warrior that they will be sending – have sent?"
"No," the prince's smile comes to life, grows wide and almost boyish. It takes little for Mirana to picture him as a young child, dirt on his nose, causing mischief and climbing trees. She has a sudden and violent urge to feed him and fluff his pillows, possibly tell a bedtime story or two, and makes a note to see if it's possible to visit an orphanage and adopt a child or twenty to sooth her maternal urges. "There is a particular warrior that my parents have in mind, and will send, if you so accept our offer."
"And this warrior…?"
"Princess Ophelia of Nowhere," he says rather happily, and is cheeky enough to give her a wink. Mirana decides she likes him immensely on the fact that he is full of enough Muchness to power a Muchness train to the moon and back again. "My sister. She is highly skilled, Majesty. She takes after our mother."
"I'm sure," Mirana says shortly, before pulling her smile back into place.
"Others will come in and out, with your permission," he blinks, and looks much younger the she suspects – physically or mentally - he actually is, "We're…a close family, White Queen. We dislike being apart for long times. If it wouldn't trouble you, of course, I do understand if you would not wish more then one godling cluttering up Marmoreal at once – however, we would like the opportunity to see our sister, visit her, help her, while she is here."
"Far be it from me to keep family apart," Mirana's smile is much more genuine this time, and she gives him a soft look. "You may visit your sister anytime you please. Prince Riley, please inform the kind Hell Ones that Underland accepts their offer of guidance and protection."
"They will be pleased to hear this, Majesty," Prince Riley bows, curls falling his eyes as he gives her a dimpled grin of relief.
"Would you like to rest?" Mirana offers, one hand moving elegantly towards the still gaping, trembling Steward aside her throne, "Elisud can see that a room is arranged for you, and that you are fed. I am sure you are tired after your travels."
"I can't stay," the prince informs her, before his dimple is back in sight, "But I wouldn't mind a bite to eat, if it wouldn't trouble your Majesty overly much."
"Of course not," she answers with a hint of laughter in her words. She turns, wiggling her fingertips at the Prince. "Stewart, please see that food is prepared for our visiting Prince. I will dine with him in my sitting room."
"Majesty," Elisud murmurs in a way that Mirana knows to mean he is displeased with her choices, but he turns and leaves, following her orders at once.
When Mirana stands, the prince offers his arm. Mirana accepts it with a soft beam, and she can only imagine that his mother beat such courtly manners into his head.
"Um," the prince says after a few steps, "I'm…sorry about your guards. I needed to get my point across, however, and it was the most efficient option."
"I have taken Vows," Mirana says rather loftily, holding her skirts with one dainty hand, "I do not often condone violence. But if one man can topple five of my best knights, I do believe they can pick themselves up and make their way to the training fields to perfect the Warrior Arts they have devoted themselves to."
Behind her there are several low grumbles, and the Wounded Pride is an actual taste in the air from the conscious guards.
Alice wakes in the late afternoon, in soft layers of sunshine, with the quilt twisted around her feet. She is hot and sticky, her mouth tastes foul, and she is being groped. One of those things does not belong in her normal wake-up rituals, and her eyes shoot open as she realizes that there is a calloused, bandaged hand cupping her breast. She struggles to breathe. A hand that is attached to Hatter, a Hatter that is named Tarrant, a Tarrant that Alice has always wanted to be in this exact position with –
She wonders, for a moment, what the appropriate reaction is. She wants to shriek and squeal and fall apart, like a teenager getting a kiss from idol. She is horrified at what Tarrant would think of her if she does such a thing, and so she nearly bites her lip in half to keep quiet, to keep calm, to not freak out.
Tarrant Hightopp is groping her. In his sleep, but that isn't the point, he is groping, and – and –
Alice decides she feels a bit faint, and sags weakly against him. At least until she feels, from the closeness of their bodies, that there are parts of Tarrant that are Quite Pleased to involved, and are not sleeping. It is, actually, wide awake, and ready to greet the world. Or Alice. It takes a supreme effort to not roll the sleeping milliner on his back, yank his trousers down, and take horrible advantage of him. Alice is vaguely surprised that she can resist said urges, and to congratulate herself, she allows her mind to run away and bask in all the dirty, filthy things she would like to be doing at the moment. Several minutes of that lead her realize that maybe - just maybe - getting herself all worked with steamy fantasies is not a good option.
And then she thinks about how awkward it is going to be when Tarrant wakes to finds his hand on her breast. What if it's only a subconscious action, because he is male, she is female, and this sort of thing happens in a bed? He'll be horrified. He'll probably never look directly at her again. She likes his eyes too much for that.
Alice slips her hand under her shirt, which has ridden up and is covering very little aside from Tarrant knuckles and parts of his fingers, and takes a hold of his wrist. It is only natural that Fate – who has been kind long enough – goes back to chortling in amusement at the fools she loves to torture. Meaning that Tarrant takes that moment, that exact moment, to mutter, and shift, and begin to wake up. Without letting go of her breast. Actually, he caresses it bit, brushes his fingers over her nipple; Alice's toes curl, and her tongue ties into a knot, and she is fairly certain her brain is on fire. Spontaneous cranial combustion.
She pauses to collect herself, breathing deeply, and then curses herself for breathing at all. It only makes the…issue…rather worse.
And then? As Alice is debating if she can move his hand without fully waking him, as she twists a bit to peer at his face and judge his level of alertness, he opens his eyes. They are like bright moss, deep and hazy and happy. He smiles at her, pink lipped and magenta cheeked, the gap between his teeth endearing. Alice is fairly certain her emotional knees are bruised from the crash landing she takes as her heart soars, her body tenses, her breath whooshes – as Tarrant keeps smiling, and tugs her closer, and says, in a wonder drenched voice,
"Good mornin', my Alice."
Alice says something that sounds rather like "Guh," gives up on speech entirely, and vaguely wonders if she's dribbling on herself while she smiles like an idiot, or if she is only doing the idiotic smiling bit. They spend an absolutely obscene amount of time smiling at each other. Alice would have made fun of any anyone else doing such a thing – but she can't seem to stop smiling, and it's obvious Tarrant can't either. So there's nothing to do but smile, and it would be silly to smile at, say, the chair, or his Hat, so the smile at each other.
It's completely logical, she insists, absolutely logical.
They only stop when Tarrant shifts a bit, and his attention his drawn to the fact that his sleeping hands were idle, and looking for something to do. The only thing to occupy themselves with had been Alice, obviously; one was outstretched and tangled in her hair – the other, however…well, Alice already knows where it is at, and she had accepted it, but Tarrant hadn't been allowed Time for such a thing.
"I'msosorry," he says in a violent rush, hand raking down her belly (Alice shudders, wriggling as he moves his hand, so she is on her opposite side, facing him to stop her neck from screaming at her), and a little voice in Alice's head promises a touch like that isn't entirely accidental. But his hand moves quickly, and he presses it to his thigh, looking mortified. "I'm sorry, Alice!"
"It's fine," she assures him, though she can feel the blush heating up her cheeks, "I…really, it's fine."
"Nae!" he insists, eyes wild as he props himself up on one elbow and scoots away from her. Their lack of physical contact is like a pain; an ache that burns and tears flesh, and Alice can't stop from wincing. "I dinna – I shoul'na – ye dinna wan' me ta –"
"It's fine," she says firmly, and she suspects that Lust is pretending to be Logic, because it seems the best way to convince him that really, groping her – awake or asleep – is okay in her book is by kissing him. So she lunges forward, knocks him on his back, nearly sends them tumbling both off the bed. Their lips press together awkwardly, slid a bit off to the side, and Alice's nose bumps into Tarrant's face. If she hadn't been so overwhelmed by Tarrant and Touching and Touching Tarrant, she would have howled in mortification and fled.
As it was she could only give a soft, nearly wordless gibber, sighing against his chapped lips, propping herself with one arm against his chest as she slides her mouth into a better position.
And then she truly kisses the Mad Hatter.
Tarrant, for his part, is still. Perfectly so, painfully so – to the point that tears prick Alice's eyes, and she wonders if she can be quick enough to make it to Tarrant's claymore (against the wall, beside the bed, next to Tarrant) and impale herself on it out of sheer humiliation before Tarrant can stop her. She starts to pull away, her mouth opening, a soft noise that might have been "Sorry," leaving her lips and brushing against his – and that, it seems, is what it takes to awaken the man under her.
His hands find her hair, and they dig in, tangling in her already messy, sleep knotted curls. He holds her in place as he comes to life, a groan crawling from his chest to his throat, drips from his tongue and into Alice's body – he shifts, and drapes a leg over Alice's as he catches her bottom lip between his teeth, nips twice, swipes his tongue over the small pain and makes stars explode behind Alice's eyelids. She gives a noise – something breathless and needy – realizing only dimly that her hand has gained a life of it's own, and shoved its way under Tarrant's shirt. She curls her fingers over his ribs, finds skin and old scars, and both entrance her.
Tarrant growls – actually growls! – and Alice finds herself on her back, head on a pillow. Her legs move of their own violation, opening, and Tarrant settles himself there, in the cradle they make. He frees one hand from her hair, props himself above her with it, and when Alice opens her mouth he tastes deeply of her. She moans – writhes beneath him, pushing against him, world spinning apart and remaking, as this moment, this moment, is the realest thing she has ever, ever known.
He gives a noise – low and deep and desperate – and Alice nearly cries as she realizes it is her name. She wants to hold him against her, claw at fabric until there is nothing between them but air and sweat, and know the feeling of having him inside her body. She has never felt this way before, never, and it is nearly ripping her apart –
It takes her a moment to realize that the pounding she hears isn't her heart. And it isn't, as she fancies for a brief second, Tarrant's.
There is someone knocking…
There is someone knocking on their door.
There is someone knocking on their door, and she is going to brutally murder them.
"No," she gasps when Tarrant lifts his head, his ragged breath gusting across her face. Her hands move upwards, curl over his cheeks, attempting to drag him back down. "No, no – please ignore it, please –"
He groans – the pounding continues, but he swoops down, kisses her again, leans heavily against her, pressing her into the mattress. Alice curls her legs upwards, locks her ankles together at the small of his back and swears on – on everything holy, on – on Hamish's Star Wars figurines, that she is never, never, never letting him go –
"Alice?" Hamish's voice bursts their bubble. Tarrant growls, and it is not a happy noise. He lifts his head, narrows his eyes, and Alice thinks he is attempting to kill Hamish with his brain. "Stop playing with the Hatter's bits, there's walking chess pieces outside that the White Queen sent to take us to Marmoreal."
"I just woke up," Alice says, and hopes that explains why her voice is husky and trembling, and it has nothing to do with the fact Tarrant has dropped his head and is kissing her neck – and – and– "Oh, God…"
"Oh, God, what? What are you two doing in there?" The doorknob rattles, and Alice realizes that Tarrant had locked the door when he came into the room that morning. Alice could kiss him for it. In fact, she just might. "Alice? Don't make me break the bloody door down! Stop touching Alice, you pervert!"
"Hamish," Alice howls, "I'm going to castrate you if you don't go away!"
Tarrant flops onto her, and begins to giggle violently against her shoulder. Alice debates setting Hamish on fire.
"We're awake," she snarls at the door, "We're awake, and not doing anything now," the now she adds on just to hear Hamish give a girlish shriek of disgust from the hall, "So go away!"
"Ten minutes," he informs her, "And then I'm really breaking the door – ow! You stabbed me!"
"Stop threatenin' 'em!" Mally roars – as much as a dormouse can roar, at least. "An' go on! An' I can get in there, ya two! Don't make me come get ya!"
Alice feels rather like a scolded teenager. Tarrant giggles turn to badly muffled howls. Alice sighs, and puts a hand over her eyes.
"Not how I imagined this happening," she mutters, "Not at all."
Tarrant kicks the bed a few times, and his laughter is so uncontrollable at that point that he begins to snort. The mood is officially ruined, and Alice is going to kill Hamish, have a firm discussion with Mally, and…and she snogged Tarrant Hightopp.
The fact is only just beginning to set in.
She snogged Tarrant bloody Hightopp.
"Guh," she says, and when Tarrant lifts his head and shows her his twinkling, teary eyes, there is only a moment of silence before they are both giggling like school children on a playground.
The White Queen thought of nearly everything when she sent guards to the rather motley crew residing at the Windmill back to Marmoreal. A small cart was sent for belongings and Thackery, and Alice has only brief moment to envision the March Hare on horse back before she is wincing and shaking it away, knowing it would be rather…traumatic for all involved. Thackery hops into it after he and Tarrant's small collection of belongings are placed on it, Mallymkun on his shoulder, the two of them chattering away about wheels and teacups.
What they hadn't been expected was that there would be a second Abovelander to take to Marmoreal. And so there are only two horses – one for Tarrant and one for Alice – waiting for them. Alice supposes she's going to have to ride with Hamish, and has a moment of thankfulness that she and Hamish are avid polo players, and will have no problems on horseback. Except for the riding together part, that might cause problems as they have a disturbing tendency to fight over everything. Their mothers are always horrified to watch them dance, as if Alice doesn't keep herself under control there is a hard battle between them as to who will lead, and the struggle can turn a waltz into a graceless stomping fit.
"Aren't you handsome…" Hamish croons to the nearest horse, a dappled gray stallion with bright eyes and flickering tail. He runs his hand over the warm, soft neck of the animal, looking completely besotted.
"Thank you," the stallion answers, turning to eye Hamish. "I've never been much for red heads, but you aren't a complete loss."
Alice shoves her knuckles in her mouth to keep from roaring with laughter as Hamish hops backwards, eyes wide and mouth open.
"Alice," he doesn't take his eyes off the animal, though he pitches his voice into a low tone of disbelief, "Alice, the horse is talking to me."
"What, were you expecting a mute?" The stallion asks, ears lying back as he stomped sideways.
"Ah," Hamish pauses, blinking several times, "Well…where I'm from, horses don't talk."
"How strange," the handsome fellow replies, ears picking back up, as he mulls this news over. "Perhaps they're shy?"
"Perhaps," Hamish agrees faintly.
"Well, then, m'names Knickerbocker, and I'll be taking you back to Marmoreal."
"Hamish Ascot. It's a pleasure to meet you, Knickerbocker." The bewildered look does not fade from Hamish's face.
"Freckles!" Thackery shouts from the small wagon, and Knickerbocker gives a nickering laugh.
"Freckles!" He says cheerfully, "Well, that's more fitting them Hamish! Come on, Freckles, up you get! I do hope you know how to ride, I hate carrying around blokes that are always falling off."
"I'm quite proficient," Hamish rallies himself wonderfully, taking hold of the pommel of the saddle and placing his left foot in the stirrup. He pulls himself up before swinging his leg over and settling into place, taking up the reins. "So, Knickerbocker, how do you feel about jumping?"
"How high do you want to go?'
"How high can you go?"
"Lad," Knickerbocker chortles, "You might want to hang on once we get started."
"Any fences around here, you suppose?"
"Several. I'll give up sugar cubes for a week if you don't land in a brook before we get to the Castle."
"Oh, it's on."
Alice has to laugh at them, because Hamish is doing his male posturing thing with a horse, and it's so…sweet to watch, really, and so right. As though this is where she and Hamish are both meant to be, with talking horses and Mad March Hares, on their way to Marmoreal -
"Alice?" She turns, and is met with the sight of Tarrant. He is fully clothed (which a shame, she can't help but think with a pang), Hat firmly in place, and – and yes, that is his claymore across his back. Alice's brain gives a shriek of gleeful lust before it completely shuts down, leaving her to stand, gaping at him like an idiot. He gives her a shy smile, gesturing towards the remaining mount. "I am sorry, Alice, but it seems we'll be riding together."
Alice comes this close to cheering out loud, before she plasters a smile on her face and nods several times.
"Yes, yes of course – I certainly can't ride with Hamish, seeing how he and Knickerbocker are going to be jumping every fence and ditch they can find on their way there." And then, because if she stares at him any longer it will move from Wondering to Creepy, she darts forward and quickly sets one foot to a stirrup and settles her on the horse. She leans over the neck of their mount (another stallion, jet black with white socks and a pale starburst on his forehead), and introduces herself. "I'm Alice Kingsleigh."
"I know," the stallion says in obvious glee, "I know! The Alice, Alice of Aboveland, Champion Alice! I'm so honored to take you to Marmoreal, Champion, really, m'wife is never going to believe this! And I – oh, I'm Fred."
"Fred?" Alice questions, absurdly tickled at the idea of the grand fellow being named Fred.
"Fred," he says firmly, "Short for Fredrick, but only my mum calls me that. Ah – might want to scoot up a bit, Lady Champion, the Hatter is coming up."
Alice turns her head, peering to the left, her body flooded with flames as Tarrant gives her a…a yes, she would call that smile roguish rather then shy, from under his Hat brim moments before he vaults upwards. His long legs swing over either side of the horse, and he slips his feet into the stirrups that Alice left empty for him. Alice swallows hard when his arm comes around her waist, tugging her back against him – not tightly, no, not nearly as tightly as she would like – holding onto her as he takes the reins with his other hand.
"Are you ready?" He asks, and she doesn't look at him, is mortified because she is having the thoughts of a teenage girl, not a supposedly mature adult that is beyond turning every comment from a handsome man into something suggestive.
"Yes," she clears her throat, horrified to hear her voice squeaking, "Yes, yes quite ready."
"Positions," A Bishop cries loudly, and Knights take up stances aside the horses, two pawns flank the wagon, while a Rook takes up station behind them all.
"Oi, Alice!" She turns her head to look at Hamish, who isn't glaring Tarrant down – as he had been doing all afternoon, once he and Alice had left the bedroom – and is actually smiling, looking sun burnt but happy. "This is kind of like that story you wrote. Remember? We were…oh, thirteen? Fields of Passion?"
Alice has to pause a moment, blinking as she thinks back. She never wrote – oh wait. Yes she did. It involved herself, Tarrant, and a horse. And a shaded glade where she lost her virginity, and –
"Hamish!" She squawks, looking horrified. "You – you -"
"So," he grins, and Alice wishes she had something to throw at him, "How is The Mighty Hightopp Penis?"
Of all the things for Hamish to remember from that piece of romance-novel inspired rubbish she'd written those long years before…
Tarrant chokes – loudly. Alice swears even louder. Hamish cackles, digs his heals into Knickerbocker's sides, and they shoot off, darting between a Knight and the Bishop, speeding away from their company.
"Lord Hamish!" The Bishop cries, waving one hand, "Sir, I must ask you – we need to stay – come back here!"
"Fence!" Knickerbocker bellows while Hamish whoops, and then they are flying through the air, and the sunlight glints off Hamish's hair and Knickerbocker's flowing tail and mane. They land gracefully in an unworked field beyond the falling down fence, while Hamish chortles and Knickerbocker prances, before he picks up speed to take the return jump over the fence.
"I'll kill him," Alice announces in mortification, "I'm going to kill him."
"Mighty Hightopp…" Tarrant chokes, and Alice lifts her hands, hiding her face behind him. The Knights are wheezing in a manner that suggests that are close to falling into hysterical gales of laughter, and doing their best not to. "Wot kind o' stories ye writin', lassie?" Tarrant asks, before he's laughing rather madly. Alice groans, shaking her head, and refuses to say another word.