A/N: These chapters keep getting longer and longer. Ah…not much else to say, at the moment. All my love and devotion to my beta's – ingenious_spark and fiducia – who make the crap that I spew out slightly more tolerable. Worship them I say! Upped the rating of YIP due to the gratuitous use of foul language and disturbing imagery. Giant thank you's goes out to all my readers and reviewers; I appreciate every kind word and moment spent on this story. Reviews are love, and constructive criticism is always welcome – any way I can improve as a writer is a Good Thing.
Nih-Tanta translates to grandfather. Asling is a term of endearment, rather like darling or sweetheart. Isle is a term of measurement; one isle equals about a mile and a half.
Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland in any form. I do own all original characters, and that just proves my lack of sanity. Seriously.
Ophelia of Nowhere knows how to go about battle and battle strategy, knows it's just enough like chess that she's rather brilliant at it. A lot of people – the mortals that know about Such Things, masses of godlings, even a few deities – believe that it's all just a gift from the bloodline of Teutates. That sort of brilliance at all things War, but Ophelia also knows that it's not. Some people just have quick minds that naturally take that to that sort of thing, while others have enough internal resolve, or viciousness, or even a way to shut out their emotions that they are able to do battle, bring blood and death and destruction. And while they mourn it, they continue to have those Wars in the face of what they believe is right and good and just, and it isn't a matter of bloodlines, it's a matter of mind.
It certainly helps, she knows, when one is brought up on it.
Before she was Ophelia of Nowhere, before her mother was the Hell Queen and before her Da was her Da, Ophelia lived in a cottage in the beauty of Sideways. There was always fighting and blood, death and chaos and the uncertainty of never knowing if everyone she loved was going to be alive the same time tomorrow. Ophelia saw her siblings murdered, either by hands that didn't love, or hands that loved but in such a sickening way that it wasn't love at all, not really, but a disease. Ophelia stayed close to her mother's side when the younger children were born, crying as Kore screamed, as blood and thick fluids soaked the hardwood floor.
Ophelia studied Kore carefully in between children and deaths and at-this-moment-survival.
Kore is a brilliant Maker of War, a grand strategist. Not just epic battles against legions and hordes, but small, quiet battles that are all shadow and secrets and waiting-waiting -waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Ophelia learned it at her mother's knee, really. She learned how to study the layout of land to determine how enemies might place the formations of their armies, and how to use those layouts to her advantage. She learned how to make the hard choices, when to give up and when to keep fighting; when to let Warriors go into battle knowing they will die, when to let the enemy retreat simply because there is no other choice at that time. She learned how to kill, and how to do it in such a way that it is a macabre art and not simply mindless horror.
Her first kill wasn't a kill, not really, but she wanted it to be. She took one of her Mam's dirks – the ones she hides in her tall boots – to That Man. She ran at him when he had her Mammie pinned to the wall, as Kore was choking and flailing, spitting mad, and even at Ophelia's tender age she understood that her mother would have gladly killed him if she didn't fear for the lives of her living children.
Ophelia didn't give a shit. Ophelia stopped giving a shit years ago – figured it would be better to be dead than with Either of Them for a moment longer, and it would save her the trouble of taking beatings for the little ones if every single one of them (herself included) were just dead, dead, dead. No more crying, or hurting, or pain. Just silence and that kind man with the sad eyes, that Wild God that looked at Mammie like she was the world, and touched her like she was made of dreams. He would keep them safe.
(She remembers thinking that she wished he was her Papa and not That Man, and sometimes she supposes she got a bit of Kore's gift for Prophecy, as well.)
She drove the dirk into the soft flesh of his stomach, above his hipbone, and wriggled her thin body between those of her parents. She jerked the knife to the side, tore through muscle and spare bits of fat, and she was too consumed in her thoughts of I hate you, I hope you die, I never want you to touch me or Mammie or Riley or the little ones again to be repulsed by the spray of blood, of fluid, of guts slipping slimy and wet from torn flesh. He howled like an animal, hands clutching his stomach, jerking backwards.
She left the dirk in his stomach, and smiled like her mother.
"Touch her and I'll kill you," she remembers Kore hissing, pushing Ophelia behind her back, "Do you realize what you've done? They hate you, Tali. They hate you."
And then her Papa was on the floor, sobbing and crying, holding in his guts with one big hand, and something like sanity flickering in his brown eyes. He cried until he was sick, and he begged Mammie to forgive him, and Mammie cried too. Riley took Ophelia outside with the babies (only two little ones left, now) and they watched through a window as Kore kissed Papa and tried to drive a dagger through his throat. The Badness took him back, though, and while I'm Sorry Papa might have died to save his family, I'll Kill You Papa sure as hell wouldn't die for them.
Ophelia hadn't taken a life, that day, but she would have, if she had been able to. She thinks of it as her first kill, and sometimes the memory is so painful it comes in Nightmares. And despite the fact she's a grown godling, though young and rather untried, she screams until her Da comes rushing in. He holds her tight, rocks her, kisses her eyelids and gives her dreams of sweet, pleasant, silly things. He stays there all night, all morning, until Ophelia wakes up; he always has, always will, and Ophelia knows that is what makes him Da and not Papa.
Yes, Ophelia was born to such things.
She wanders through Underland, taking in hills and valleys and mountains, lochs and beaches, because know it is much different then planning attacks on a map. She wants to make sure that when the Unnamed Ones make War with Underland that she can put a strong defense, because she'll be damned – everyone will be damned – if they take Underland.
In Witzend she finds a Living Nightmare. It is the specialty of the Unnamed Ones. Not great displays of power, astounding shows of magic; just mindless, senseless brutality, the slaughtering of Innocents. The Unnamed Ones are for Chaos, and Chaos works through their torn minds, ragged souls, and solid, capable hands. A part of her wants to run, run far, far away from the stench of blood and fecal matter, from stinking gut wounds and the gurgling of the almost-but-not-quite yet dead. It makes her feel little, a child hiding in the cottage, peering out the window as Mammie fights like a wild thing, one godling woman against the crazed army the Unnamed Ones gathered.
It makes her think of Michael. That is her worst memory, Michael, because it's hard to remember him alive and laughing and clutching her hand as they race through forest on a summer afternoon, clutching at a moment of peace. But the reminder of Michael makes her vicious, more vicious than she will probably ever be, otherwise, and she draws her weapons. One short sword (its twin sheathed on her left hip), her other hand pulling free a war hammer.
She has the notion that she'll probably die, if she fights the Unnamed Ones alone. But she is smart enough to realize she's got enough survivors guilt to sink a fleet of ships if its weight was cargo, and she doesn't care. She was supposed to die in Sideways, and Michael and the other little ones might have lived, if only it had been her blood that ran like a red river and coated their mother's hands. Instead she'll die in Witzend, surrounded by a small Outland Clan that she doesn't know, but they will become kin in death.
(And she'll go her Mam before she goes to the River, kiss Mammie's cheeks and hands and swear, swear on her gone life, that Mammie was the best Mammie any child could ask for.)
"Ophelia," the voice that speaks is deep and rich, a smooth tenor that is like cold starlight and always, even at its most gentle, for Ophelia carries the sound of the dying. She turns to her right, narrows her eyes on the tall figure that has appeared, and bares her teeth in a snarl. The elder of the Unnamed Ones – her Uncle Gavin, if she cared to place such familial ties to him, which she doesn't – steps forward, warrior locks swinging at the sides of his sharp, handsome face. "Asling, you've grown since I last saw you."
Ophelia resists the urge to spit in his face. She settles for swiftly calculating if she can rush forward and bash him in the head with her hammer before he can stop her.
"You look like your mother," he gives her a genial smile, his eyes doting, "And look – is that Kore's First Swords you have? I hadn't thought you were old enough to inherit them, yet."
Still Ophelia does not answer. The Dark One does not seem to care.
"And you look…" the gentle pride in his eyes fading to something dark and hungry, empty hands curling into tight fists before releasing with the crack of his knuckles, "You look like your Mammie. You know that, don't you, Ophelia? You look…so much like her…"
Ophelia sees that he is lost in his sickness, his disease, understands that he is so entranced by the shape of her face, curve of her lips, and the roundness of her hips that she could probably burst into song and he wouldn't notice. So she walks forward, ignores the tightness of her stomach and throws a swing into her hips. She twirls her sword in one hand, a gesture she learned from her mother; it is not aggressive or warning, but an idle habit that Kore takes when she is thinking or brooding or simply has nothing else to do with her hands.
He gives a whisper of a noise – a groan, a moan, a sigh? It sounds rather like My Korie, and Ophelia sees red moments before she lunges.
Hard metal meets bone, bone cracks and shatters loudly, and blood gushes forward. Ophelia gives a feral smile as he howls and staggers backwards, controls the rest of her swing as she draws her hammer back and twirls her sword a few more times before she takes up a defensive position with it.
"Bitch –" the Dark One is howling, clutching at his shattered head, laughing despite his pain and anger, crawling away, "Little bitch! Like Kore – so much like her – I was right to convince him to keep you, yes, you're just like her -"
"She'll make mighty warriors," a voice that still has the ability to spark raw, sheer, primal terror in Ophelia speaks before there is a rush of air and The Golden One is before Ophelia, hoisting the longer limbed, much thinner frame of his comrade over his strong shoulders. He smiles at Ophelia (Alex's smile, Ophelia notes on a surge of horror), his free hand curling into a fist. Before she can move he reaches out and chucks her lightly under the chin, winking and beaming as though she was small and she'd done something new and sweet. "You do look like your Mam, Ophie, but you got my eyes. And my abilities with that war hammer – I remember teaching you how to swing it."
Ophelia takes a mad lunge forward with her sword – she misses entirely, and the Golden One laughs.
"Too young," he comments, "Too angry. Focus that anger, asling, and then you might be able to do me in."
His bare arms and chest – so thick and corded with muscle that he looks like Atlas, as though he could hold up the world – flex and ripple as he lifts his hand, and kisses the tip of his finger. He taps it against her nose, before the air swirls and both are gone.
Ophelia curses until the trees began to loose their leaves from the vulgarity and anger she carries. She stomps around the slaughter ground, kicks a few rocks, and finally gives in and screams at the sky. She has the feeling they're watching her; she doesn't rightly give a shit.
Eventually she turns her attention to the almost-but-not-quite dead. Its one thing she hates doing, but letting them have a slow death after their minds and cellular structure has been torn to ribbons by twisted Wild Magic is something she can't allow. She doesn't use knives or swords or her hammer; she just puts her hand over their forehead, whispers kind words as she draws their souls from their flesh and sends them on their way to Nowhere.
When that is done, she leaves them where they lay. She'll send members of the White Army and the White Queen's War Council to bear witness to the horrors that are coming to Underland, so they'll understand. If there is no one else to claim the bodies once matters of state have been handled, Ophelia promises that she'll return, and see them properly laid to rest.
By the time she arrives at Marmoreal Ophelia is a positively black fury. She doesn't see any reason to place nice little court games of how-do-you-do and let-me-welcome-you and won't-you-please-accept-this-token-Princess with the White Queen or the White Court. There are monsters in Underland, and she is there to do a job. And really, there's only one to determine if the White Army can defend themselves, much less Underland. She needs to see them under attack. More then that, she needs them to think she is an enemy, and not a foreign Princess that has been sent to test them; so she sneaks into Marmoreal like a shadow, hovering on the edges and watches for a short time.
Then she finds a good portion of the White Army on the training field. She watches them, a rotten taste entering her mouth as she sees them loosing rank and line, falling out of formation – and completely and utterly bungling up a Phalanx formation. Which isn't hard, really, she's helped her Da and Mam and her Nih-Tanta with the training – hell, she'd gone through the training.
How they have fought in a war and not managed a tight Phalanx is beyond her.
Perhaps they'd only grown dull, and weren't useless after all…? Only one way to find out, really.
Ophelia attacks Marmoreal.
After a short learning period, Hamish and Knickerbocker are doing the Electric Slide on the banks of the Snodmod River. They are on a short break, a little over halfway to Marmoreal, and it is mostly to let the two-leggers (that aren't part of the White Army, that is) stretch their legs out. Alice is just thankful for a chance to stretch out, and then sit down with back against a tree, falling limp. Her back has been straight and rigid since they left the Windmill; her humiliation by Hamish is absolute, and she isn't going to allow herself to sag on Tarrant. God knows what he thinks of her.
Mighty Hightopp Penis, indeed.
She's going to kill Hamish.
"It's electric!" Hamish shouts, as he and Knickerbocker slide to the right. Alice has a brief and fierce inner battle that goes something along the lines of; adults don't push people into rivers, I really want to push him in the river – bugger it all, we never act like adults anyway, but – what'll Tarrant think of me if I do that? Don't look at him. Do not look at the Hatter. Shit! I looked at him! If I push Hamish in the river we'll be too busy fishing him out to have an awkward conversation! Quick, push Hamish in the river!
Alice manages to get her palms flat on the grass, moments away from pushing herself to her feet, rushing forward, and knocking Hamish into the Snodmod, when Tarrant sits down beside her. Plops, rather, with a shy smile, a rather…pleased twinkle in his bright eyes, and two steaming cup of tea.
"Tis brillig, after all," he explains as he hands her a cup. "Sugar?"
Alice bites on her tongue to keep from wailing something utterly foolish – like, say, can we just forget the fact I used to write dirty stories about you? (Which would completely take out of consideration that she'd gotten smashed four or so months previous with Hamish and Sarah who lived in the flat below them, and written some steamy bit of fluff that involved kilts and claymores and possibly sex on battlegrounds, but there was no proof, not at all) – and accepted the tea. She nods and he tosses a sugar cube into the cup, eyebrows lifting.
"Another?" He asks all sweet lisp and beaming smile. Alice nods again, and once the second has taken flight and landed with a soft splash, he produces a small container of milk. She isn't sure why he's carrying milk in his pockets, and wonders if it's safe to drink, but allows him to tip a small amount in.
"I'm telling you," Hamish is saying loudly at the riverbank (and gaining the attention of all the Pawns, two Knights, and possibly the Bishop), "Women love men who dance! Alice is a girl – oi, Alice? You like dancing, don't you?"
"S'long as you're not stepping on my toes," She snaps, and gives him an Evil Look. She isn't sure if she manages to look menacing, or only constipated.
"Listen, Alice goes on and on about that Hatter, and how he can Futterwacken," Hamish continues, waving his hands. Alice begins to pray for the ground open and swallow her. "Though that sounds a bit dirty to me, does it to you? Futterwacken? Dance of unbridled joy? Bit perverted, really. Strange sexual practice, I think, really. Dancing is only a cover."
"All in the hips," Knickerbocker says knowingly, "Outlandish mating ritual, I think."
"And that head thing?"
"Well, I suppose women do like that sort of flexibility." Hamish strikes a terribly awkward, twisted up pose.
"A cross between a Futterwacken and Voguing," he explains, "What do you think? Will it draw in the girls?"
"Looks a bit uncomfortable," Knickerbocker wavers, "I dunno, mate…" Hamish grabs his left leg, bounces in place, and attempts to lift it over his head. He fails miseribly.
"Move your hips," Knickerbocker stresses, before rearing back on two legs, and wiggling as he best he can. "Like this!"
"This?" Hamish questions, and Alice thinks she might have to stab her eyes out when he starts doing pelvic thrusts.
"Yeah!" Knickerbocker nickers happily, "Like that – bit more swivel, though, ya know? Like – there we go! Look at that!"
"Ah," Tarrant says, teacup half way to his mouth, eyes wide. "That's…"
"If there is a just and kind God," Alice mutters moments after her hand connects with her forehead, "Lightning will strike him dead now."
"He's very…enthusiastic…" Tarrant trails off, before gives a great snort of laughter and begins to bite his knuckles. "Is he – what is he doing?"
"It's called the Chicken Dance," Alice answers faintly, "Normally it's only done at children's parties or weddings. Only at weddings where there are vast amounts of alcohol, of course."
"I don't wanna be a chicken; I don't wanna be duck, so I shake my butt!" Said bum begins to gyrate. Alice whimpers.
Tarrant has set his teacup aside, has his face in both hands, and is giggling hysterically.
"There's this pub, right?" Knickerbocker says enthusiastically when Hamish leaves the Chicken Dance and lapses into the Macarena. "We'll go up sometime, they've always got fresh hay, and I hear the two-leggers like their whiskey. We'll be swarmed with women. Swarmed."
"S'gonna be great," Hamish cheers, "We'll be the Pimps of Underland!"
"I'm not sure what a pimp is, but it sounds rather flattering."
"Right, a pimp is a man who -"
"Hamish!" Alice finds a stick on the ground, and hurls it at Hamish's head. Instead it hits Knickerbocker in the flank, and he snorts at her, obviously offended. "No! Stop that!"
"I was just explaining what a -"
"No!"
"But -"
"Nein!" They pause, and stare at each other for a moment. Hamish gives a great snort of laughter.
"I'm sorry – but did you just say nein?" Alice scrunches her face up, attempting to keep her giggles inside – she breaks after only a few seconds. "You did! You said nein! Have you been watching World War II documentaries on the telly again?"
"Oh, shut it!"
"Watch her," Hamish yells cheerfully at Tarrant, waving his hands, "She'll end up tying you to a bed, forcing you to lick her boot, and you'll have to call her Fräulein Alice!"
Alice is not unaware that this is a type of…male posturing, or hazing. Not the beginning, no; at that time Hamish had been innocently attempting to show Knickerbocker that they were birds of feather, after a sort. But that last bit? Starting with the Futterwacken on, he was attempting to antagonize the Hatter in such a way that it seemed like joking.
Men were such boys.
"Ya ken," Tarrant answers (Alice is torn between gibbering in hysterical lust at the sudden appearance of his brogue, or retrieving his claymore from where it is strapped to Fred, and offering it to him if he'll only promise to cut out Hamish's tongue), "I ten' ta do the tyin' up in those sor's of matters."
And then he gives Hamish a big, sharp, wicked smile – the sort one man gives another, or a shark shows prey – before he tips his head a bit to the side, and winks at Alice. She chokes – loudly – and gapes at him. Her blush is so violent she can actually feel it on her cheeks, flooding down her neck; she has no thoughts. Every thought that does not involve his previous comment has been driven from her head.
Actually, that is a lie – she has one thought. She is positive that comment will be making staring roles in her fantasies for the rest of her life.
"I think the Hatter broke Lady Alice," Knickerbocker doesn't sound worried, but highly amused. "Look, Freckles, I think she's dribbling on herself."
Alice squeaks, swipes at her chin, and turns her gaze firmly to the sky.
"Nice day," she says in a blind rush, "Er – not raining. Not raining is good. 'Cause we're traveling. I'd hate to get rained on."
"Look, he's blushing," Hamish says a bit nastily, before he's all smiles and laughter once again. "I don't have to worry about becoming an uncle anytime soon, do I, Knickers? They can't stop blushing long enough to get the job done!"
"Be fair, Freckles," Knickerbocker says on a braying laugh, "It's only been a few hours! Might end up an uncle this time next year!"
"Perish the thought!"
"Can we not discuss my theoretical children?" Alice yells loudly, hopping to her feet and stomping to Fred, who is snorting into a bush, and pretending he is only choking on a leaf. She pulls herself on his back, hands trembling. "We're leaving! Come on!"
"Mark my words," she hears Mally muttering to Thackery in the wagon (where they have been blissfully, but uncharacteristically silent), "Freckles is right on that one."
"Bairns!" Thackery bellows happily, and a pat of butter goes flying. Alice thinks that perhaps Thackery and Tarrant both have a bit of problem with hiding food stuffs on their person, and it should be addressed before it becomes a health issue.
She looked down to the top of Tarrant's Hat, watching as he unbuckled his claymore from Fred's saddle before strapping it across his back once more. He swung up after her, and Alice begins to have a very firm discussion with her hysterical, unbelieving hormones when his large hand curled around her hip. It was a hand on her hip, nothing obscene, and her reaction was idiotic –
"We're leaving!" She shouts when no one moves. The Guard hit their feet and race to their positions, while Knickerbocker and Hamish roar with laughter.
"Leave them," she tells the Bishop sternly, "They'll catch up."
"Yes, Lady Champion."
"We're coming, Fräulein!" Hamish bellows, no doubt pulling faces behind Alice's back.
"Log!" Knickerbocker sounds like an excited child knowing he was going to be in terrible trouble for what he is about to do, but truly of the opinion that the joke is worth it.
"Knickers – I'm not – I'm not all the way on, I – ruuugh!"
"That was awesome!" Knickerbocker shrieks, and Alice puts a hand on Tarrant's forearm, twisting to peer around them. Hamish is dangling, one foot in the stirrup, clutching the pommel of his saddle and hanging off Knickerbocker's left side. He is tousled, wide-eyed, and Knickerbocker is positively braying (more like a donkey then a horse, really) in laughter.
There is a long pause. And then,
"Do it again!" Alice snorts at Hamish's words, turning back around.
Fires burn on two sides of the training field, a few scorched but mostly unharmed members of the White Army are setting up a medical tent and carting their fallen comrades off, and a large cherry tree has been split in half. Mirana stares at the destruction around her with a sense of horror that verges on angry, before she turns and sweeps – graceful and rather foreboding – to the woman who is the cause of the chaos at Marmoreal.
She has fair hair – a red gold that is beautiful – thick and in tight curls that form a corona of bright color around the pretty but grim face. She has swords on her hips, small hilts sticking out of her boots, and like Prince Riley, scars litter the expanses of flesh that are not covered by her clothing. She is pulling a garrote made of what appears to be catgut through her fingers in what seems to be a mindless, nervous gesture, and is glaring daggers at the White Army.
She does not seem to notice Mirana moving towards her, and it only inflames the White Queen further.
"Princess Ophelia of Nowhere, I presume?"
"Yeah, what –" Ophelia pauses, turning large golden eyes on the White Queen, before she plasters an obviously forced smile to her mouth and gives a bow. It is not low, she does not drop Mirana's gaze, and Mirana has been a royal for too long to not be entirely insulted by a Princess that she obviously outranks disregarding royal conduct. "Ah, White Queen. Yes, I'm Ophelia."
"We were not…expecting you so soon."
"Took a week to prepare in Nowhere," Ophelia answers with an obvious air of distraction, "But Time lost to me in poker a few months ago, and owed me a favor. I came as soon as I could."
"You made quite the entrance," Mirana smiles, and it is not entirely pleasant, "My Army is in shambles. Prince Riley had informed me that you would be helping to give my Army further training, not that you would completely render them helpless."
"I didn't render them helpless," Ophelia cheeks turns red while she gestures wildly to a groaning Rook that refuses to turn its eyeless face towards her, and is limping as fast as it can past the royals. "That is a sad lack of training, Majesty. I might be a godling, but they should have been able to immobilize me. Listen, I was Aboveland not to long ago, and the Royal Navy kicked my ass in a training mission. And they're all mortals! Mind I didn't use any godling Magic, but still…"
"And is this your idea of training, Princess Ophelia?"
"No," she answers bluntly, "It's my idea of finding out how much work I have to do with them."
"It is rather strange, don't you think?" Mirana laughs and it has the edge of a knife, "The Hell Ones insisting there is a War coming, and yet there has been no indication inside Underland itself that such a thing will happen?"
"The Unnamed Ones are sneaky," Ophelia bites off, "Up till now they've been keeping a low profile, they don't want -"
"Up till now? The only thing that has occurred, Princess, is that you have destroyed my Army!"
"On the border of Witzend, three and a quarter isles you'll find the remains of an Outlandish Clan. Featherfeet, I believe. They were slaughtered. It is the work of the Unnamed Ones."
Mirana and Ophelia stare at each other for a very long, very tense moment.
"You will forgive me, Princess," Mirana says breezily, waving one hand through the air, "But after your recent display, what is to make believe that you didn't slaughter the Featherfeet? If they are actually dead, of course."
"Listen, lady," Mirana's eyes go wide, her mouth drops, and her eyes nearly cross as she tracks Ophelia's finger as it jabs towards her nose, "I am a child of the Hell Ones; I am a Warrior, and I have trained under Teutates himself, alright? I defend people - I don't mindlessly attack them. And if you have a problem with my family sticking our necks out to help you? Then I sure as hell can leave. But you better be damn well aware of the fact that if I go, not a single one of us will come when you need us most."
"You might be a Princess of Nowhere," Mirana's voice is cold and hard as she speaks, "But I am the Queen of Underland, and I will not have you -"
"Majesties," Mirana jerks her head to glare at Chessur as he appears, spreading his paws between the two of them. "I believe there is far too much royal ego in one space at the moment."
"Chessur, this is a matter of state, matters that do not -"
"Ogma?" Ophelia squeaks, her eyes wide. She stares at Chessur as though she is seeing a ghost, before she gives a crow of delight, and begins to point rapidly at the Army. "Ogma, oh – I'm so glad you're here – tell her! Tell her I'm right!"
"Unlike your mother, when I state my dislike for politics, I am not being witty."
"The White Army is crap," Ophelia almost wheedles, "You know that! Anyone with training can see it!"
"The White Army has grown lax in times of peace," Chessur agrees, his smile unfading, though he shakes his head and clicks his tongue. "Civilians always seem to forget that there is always peace in between Wars."
"That is not lax. That is stupidity. Have you seen them trying to do a Phalanx?"
"It is rather pathetic."
"S'all good, though," Ophelia puffs up happily, "Between us, we can set them straight, can't we?"
"I'm afraid this will be up to you, godling. I won't take part in it."
Mirana watches – unsure of what exactly is going on, mouth slightly agape – as Ophelia visibly wilts.
"What?" Chessur rolls on to his back, curling his front legs behind his head. "Why? But you're the -"
"What I was a very long, nearly forgotten time ago is of no importance. I certainly won't hold you to a marriage proposal you proffered when you were barely weaned from your mother, now will I? You see, now, Princess; things change, and the past is not binding to the future."
Ophelia blanches almost violently, scuffs her toe into the grass, and directs her gaze to her feet.
"You…remember that, then?"
"She was a charming child," Chessur winks at Mirana, "Precocious, some might say."
"You asked our Chessur to marry you?" Mirana isn't the sort to stay angry for very long, and the thought of a little Princess asking for Chessur's paw in marriage is…well, it's hysterical.
"He was taller back then," Ophelia mutters defensively, "Less furry. Had opposable thumbs."
"Poor dear must be remembering someone else she proposed to. Now you're breaking my heart, Princess. How many of us were there?"
"What? No, it was you, I -"
"No, no. It must have been someone else." Chessur smile takes on a warning tone, and Ophelia gulps.
"Er, yeah. Sure. Someone else. It was probably Leonidas, I've always a thing for warriors." Ophelia and Chessur grin at each other, and it is an entirely unpleasant sight.
"You must forgive me," Mirana takes Ophelia's hand and tucks it into the crook of her arm, because Ophelia is looking rather small and almost childlike (those great big eyes in that pretty little face, those cherubic curls and the pink dart of her tongue…yes, Mirana really does need to see about adopting, this is getting pathetic), and leads her towards a side entrance to Marmoreal. "Your…entrance…was quite startling, I'm sure you'll understand."
"I wasn't trying to be rude," Ophelia says, and Mirana is starting to think the girl is rather on the blunt side of things, "But I needed to see the White Army under attack, without having to be fighting a true enemy myself."
"I can see the logic in that," Mirana agrees after a moment, nodding once, "I suppose I will forgive your damages to the training field, my Army, and the death of that poor tree. Though I expect an apology to its family."
"Ah –" Ophelia blinks a few times, before nodding. "Yeah, okay."
"Now, you said that the Featherfeet had been attacked?"
"Oh, Alice!" The White Queen flies like a cloud caught in a stiff Northern wind down the steps of Marmoreal's main entrance, and though there is a tired look in her dark eyes, she is all smiles when Tarrant doesn't bother to wait for Alice to slide from Fred's back herself. He grips her around the waist once his feet touch the ground and lifts her off, and Alice – tired and hungry and rather overwhelmed by, well, everything that has happened to her – is completely and totally distracted by the way she brushes his body when he brings her down. "My Good Champion, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you!"
Alice has no time to gape and blush at Tarrant like a schoolgirl, because he is doffing his Hat and smiling happily at the White Queen, who pulls Alice into a tight hug and presses a kiss to her cheek. Alice knows that for Mirana, she is the same Alice as before; Alice who defeated the Jabberwocky and put her back on the throne, and Alice does have all those memories. But it's a bit startling to have a Queen treating her like a long-lost sister or some such, and she can only give a startled laugh and loosely hug Mirana in return.
"You must be exhausted," Mirana tuts at her, "Your room is ready for you, and a meal is waiting there."
"I – yes, thank you, Your Majesty."
"Mirana," the Queen says gently, tapping her fingers against Alice's cheek with a fond smile, "We are old friends, you and I. And Tarrant – you look positively beamish!" She moves a bit away from Alice, smiling with obvious pleasure at her Hatter.
"It is a beamish sort of day, Majesty," Tarrant agrees, one hand idly smoothing down his left eyebrow, "Beamish, indeed. It isn't every day Alice comes back, now is it? Though it would make every day quite exciting, though I woul'nae wan' her tae be gone so long, ye ken, gone an' dead an' –"
"Hatta," Mirana says softly, resting a hand on his arm.
"Fez," he breathes, before giving a strained smile and refusing to meet Alice's gaze. "I'm fine. Thank you."
"What am I, chopped liver?" Hamish mutters, drawing the White Queen's attention. Her eyebrows lift as she peers at him, and he swings off Knickerbocker, lightly slapping the horse on the neck, to which Knickerbocker begins to chew on Hamish's hair when he moves forward.
"Ah, Majesty – er, Mirana – this is my very dear friend, Lord Hamish Ascot," Alice gestures towards Hamish, who gives her a sharp, amused look at his title. (He is in line for the Lordship, though Alice figures that if Mirana doesn't know he isn't quite a Lord yet, it won't cause any harm by stretching the truth a bit. Though Truth might not like being stretched out, so she must watch her words carefully). "Hamish, the White Queen Mirana."
"Your Majesty," Hamish bows low, and when Mirana presents her slender hand, he kisses the back of it. Alice resists the urge to snort at him.
"Lord Ascot, how delightful! I wasn't aware that Alice was bringing friends with her. You are from Aboveland, I assume?"
"Yes, Majesty."
"You must tell me all about it. I know little of Aboveland, but it does seem quite interesting."
"Of course, Your Majesty." Mirana smiles kindly at him before turning back to Tarrant, and there are shadows in her eyes as she takes a step closer to him.
"Hatta, I know that you must be quite tired from your trip, but I'm afraid I…I do need to speak with you."
"Is something wrong, Your Majesty? Perhaps you need a new hat?"
"I wish it were only my desire for a hat, though I must tell you that I would like a new sun bonnet. No, I fear this is much more grim." Tarrant gives her the look of a man who doesn't expect to hold onto any happiness he finds for very long, and Alice suspects it isn't only her heart that it breaks. "Would you follow me to my study?"
"Of course, Majesty."
"Tarrant -" Alice acts without thinking, her hand gripping the sleeve of his jacket, catching up and holding in place. He meets her gaze, and she searches for the words to say. Don't leave me, but she can't say that. Please be okay, but she knows from the grim lines beside Mirana's eyes and the dark curve of Tarrant's mouth that he won't be. "I…would you like me to come with you?"
She's overstepping boundaries, and she knows it, because the White Queen issued the invitation to Tarrant and not Alice. But she's being hailed as the returning Champion, so maybe that gives her a bit of leeway.
"Alice," he breathes, and looks at her with something like wonder and resignation combined. He puts his hand over Alice's, rubbing his thumb against her wrist and gives her a tired smile. "Do you know I wasn't even sure if you knew my first name?"
"I do," Alice practically whispers, "Obviously, as I've said it. Would you like for me to come with you?"
"I would like it," he bends and hovers next to her, as though he is torn between several actions. Finally he brushes his lips across her cheek, and when he pulls back, he looks positively shocked at his daring. "But I am afraid you need a solid meal and bit of rest, and I have matters to discuss with our Queen. Perhaps…we can take tea together, tomorrow?"
"I'd like that," and Alice means it, though she suspects there might be a frown tugging at her lips, because she doesn't want to wait until Brillig to see him again. But there's nothing to be done for it, and he is giving her a soft smile, and following the Queen into Marmoreal.
"Bonnets and carrots!" Thackery howls from the wagon, jerking to his feet, He looks around blearily, apparently startled awake by his own shouting (though how his shouting and not his snoring had woken him, Alice will never understand), before he bounds out of the wagon and flies into Marmoreal.
"Would you like me to go with you?" Hamish mocks Alice, fluttering his eyelashes at her before he pulls a face. "Alice-bear, you're about pathetic."
"You do understand I'm going to have to kill you, Hamish. Don't you?"
"Hey, I brought you to Underland!"
"You also humiliated me in front of Tarrant."
"I was joking."
"Mighty Hightopp Penis?" Alice hisses, jabbing him sharply in the ribs with her elbow. He opens his mouth to reply, but Mally is thumping Alice on the ankle, and she looks down, her noise of surprise cutting him off.
"Come on, Alice," Mally orders, and Alice lowers her hand to scoop the dormouse up. "I'll show ya to yer room. The White Queen'll send someone to take Freckles to his own later on, I 'spect."
"Don't forget to come see me!" Knickerbocker yells at Hamish.
"Later, bro!"
"Bro? You seriously just called him bro?" Alice squeaks as she puts a hand to her forehead, continually baffled by Hamish's attempts at being cool.
"Man thing," Hamish says seriously, before following Alice and Mally into Marmoreal.
"We need to talk," Ophelia's voice is hushed and low as she loosens the shadows from around her, allowing her figure to become visible in the delicately and beautifully appointed corridor outside the rooms the White Queen has provided her with. Her hand snaps out and latches onto Chessur's tail - if she wasn't quick with a bit of muffling magic, his yowl would have drawn all of Marmoreal to them. She twists her magic further, holding him in place; his attempts to evaporate tingle and then burn, but Ophelia is stubborn and has endured much worse, and she resolutely drags him by his tail into her room, as though he is a furry, hissing balloon.
She steps onto her balcony, quickly surveying the training field, which is empty and faintly charred, before she places one foot on the railing and boosts herself up. She stands for a moment, giving Chessur a wide grin before she leaps. They plummet a solid three stories, and Ophelia yanks a clawing Chessur to her chest to shield him from damage as she lands. She falls into crouch, planting her feet firmly as she bends her knees until her bottom is nearly at her heals. She sits like that a spare moment before standing upright, quickly darting from shadow-to-shadow, until she is hiding herself and Chessur amid a group of cherry trees.
"Right," She holds him up by his tail, zaps him mightily when he attempts to claw her, and gives him a stern look. "Either you can agree to sit here and speak with me without evaporating when I let you go, or I can keep you like this."
It takes her a minute to remember to release the bit of pressure around his mouth that distorts and quiets sound.
"-I'll mount your head on my wall, you devious little godling!" Chessur pants heavily, glaring daggers at her. He is grinning most grimly, all teeth and no humor. "Let go of my tail!"
"Are you going to poof?"
"Even if I say I'm not, what's to stop me?"
"The fact I'll hunt you down, find you, and perhaps suggest to my Da you made forward advances towards me? He won't pause to hear your side of the story, he'll just rip you apart."
"You're a brat."
"Daddy's little princess," Ophelia sings, before giving him a shake. "Are you going to talk with me or not?"
"Yes, fine – just release my tail at once!" She lets him go, and he straights himself, hurtling onto a branch that is out of her reach. She doesn't have to heart to tell him that out of reach or not, she can still get him down with an excess of force if she wants to. "What is that you're so instant on speaking about, godling?"
"Like you don't know," she narrows her eyes and folds her arms across her chest. "Spill, Ogma."
"My name," Chessur hisses slowly, tongue curling and darting over his teeth warningly, "Is Chessur."
"Your name is Chessur," Ophelia agrees darkly, "And Ogma, and Ogmios, and -"
"If you continue this," Chessur warns her quietly, "I will speak to the Council."
"Oh, shit, if you knew how many times the Council has had people complaining about me to them," Ophelia rolls her eyes, propping her hands on her hips, "They don't even listen anymore. They just send Da a note, I get my hand smacked, and life moves on. So do it. I dare you."
They spend a long, long moment glaring at each other.
"I am not longer that creature," Chessur says stiffly, "I will not fight, godling."
"You have dominion over Underland. It was your duty to step in and help defeat the Red Queen. Obviously, Alice of Aboveground took care of that. And now? The Unnamed Ones are here and they are going to attack, and you aren't going to do anything? When the Council finds out, it won't be a slap on the wrist and being shunted off into a corner. They are going to tear you to pieces, I don't care what you did for them in the past."
"Underland takes care of itself."
"Underland can't defend itself from the Unnamed Ones!" Ophelia shouts, punching the tree he rests on. It shudders and groans, and she lays a calming hand over the cracked and flaking bark. She draws in a deep breath, and attempts to keep calm. "I'm not just here because of my skills, you have to know that."
"Bribed your Tanta, did you?"
"No," her words are sharp, her eyes haunted, "I look like Mammie. They'll want me for that, and…if they capture me, they know they'll be able to draw out my parents, and all our allies. They want this to be the beginning of the end."
"Yes," Chessur agrees after a moment, "I know."
"I volunteered to come," Ophelia continues softly, "In the hopes my presence here will make them act rashly. It might give us an upper hand in the matter."
"You're putting yourself in grave danger," Chessur says after a time, twisting his head to a positively unnatural angle, "However, I don't see how it applies to me."
"You won't help me train the Army," Ophelia lets out a breath, "After the long years you spent as Champion to the de Danann and the Council, I can't fault you that. I've trained with my Mam, my Da, even my Nih-Tanta. But I'm young…and as much as they want to see me become strong, there is only so much they can teach me. I need someone vicious. I need someone not afraid to truly test my boundaries and harm me, if it comes to it."
"You want me to train you?" Chessur laughs, a rich noise, eyes glimmering brightly. He leaps from the tree branch, hovering high enough in the air so he can meet her solid, unwavering gaze head-on. "Godling, you are quick, and clever, and brave. If I were my old self, I would admire you greatly for those things. And if I were young and in your position, I would ask the same thing."
"That's not an answer," Ophelia says softly.
"Not an answer you want to hear, you mean?"
"If you train me, I'll go before the Council myself and praise you to the sky and back. I'll make them think you're the best Watcher any Universe could ever desire."
"I am quite good at speaking on behalf of myself, godling."
"A boon," Ophelia says quickly, and the desperation is clear in her eyes. "I'll give you a boon."
There is a long, long lull. Birds call and crickets chirp; bullfrogs sound from the water garden beyond the training field, and Ophelia hears none of it over the pounding of her heart.
"What sort of boon? What are your terms?" Chessur gives her a wide, sharp grin. Ophelia knows she's placing herself in terrible danger by dong this, but it has to be done.
"Anything you want. I'll give you anything you want so long as it does not harm family, in return for your training of me. And I want a proper training – the real deal."
"Anything I desire, so long as it does not harm your family? It's an interesting idea, godling, but what do you think you could offer me?" The air around Chessur swirls violently, whipping warmly around Ophelia before she takes a step back, watching with resigned eyes as he takes a form she doubts he has worn in eons.
Ogma the Champion stands before her. The Smiling God is smirking, teeth bared, green eyes glittering as he leans forward, head tipping to the side.
"A marriage contract?" He laughs; mocking the frivolity of her youth and the question she had once posed him. Ophelia resists the urge to punch him, simply balls her hands into tight fists and meets his gaze as directly as she can. "Heirs from a Princess of Nowhere? I have nothing to be given to offspring, godling."
"You once desired heirs," Ophelia answers, swallowing hard, "And it's not marriage or heirs – not if you don't want that. An open-ended boon, Ogma. Your choice of how I'll repay you. You train me, and I'll give you anything you desire, so long as it does not harm my family."
"Does not harm your family," he repeats, and laughs in her face, "Not does not harm myself and my family? Interesting choice of words. What if I want you to kill yourself?"
"I'm a Hell Child," Ophelia says without pause, "I will return to Nowhere. I'll drink from the River, and in time, if I so choose, my mother will bear me once again. Much less traumatizing childhood the second go around, can't say as I'd mind."
"What if I want to harm you, for the insults you've given me?"
"I spent the first three centuries of my life in Sideways with the Unnamed Ones," Ophelia hisses, "If you believe what you could do to me will be any worse then what they've already done, you're sorely mistaken."
"You have a very low opinion of my creativity, godling." They stare at each for several heartbeats, before Ophelia pushes herself on her tiptoes, shoving her face closers to Ogma's.
"I'm not afraid of you," she tells him (and it's true – she's too afraid of the Unnamed Ones to fear anyone or anything else), eyes spitting fire. "Take the boon or leave it."
He reaches up, a calloused hand (Ophelia wonders if he practices in quiet, empty places where no sees him, or if the calluses are so much a part of him that he can't make them go away even when he looses the form for centuries at a time) wrapping around Ophelia's neck. He smiles fleeringly at her, before leaning back, and squeezing her throat in an almost mindless way. Ophelia catches her breath and refuses to jerk out of his testing grip.
"Accepted," he says firmly.
"The terms of your side of the boon?"
"I haven't decided yet," Ogma tightens his grip so suddenly that stars flash in front Ophelia's eyes, and her hands jerk up. She wants to claw his grip away, but instead she slams her thumb into his throat, listening as he catches his breath so roughly the mere sound is actually painful. To his credit, he doesn't loosen his hold – he grips harder. Ophelia slams her hand upwards into his nose, before hooking two fingers in his nostrils, digging her short but sharp nails into the sensitive flesh, and does her best to rip it off his stupid, smiling face.
"Fucker," Ophelia spits when he releases her, and attempts to drive her knee into his groin, simply out of spite and to watch him hit the ground cursing and gasping and possibly vomiting on himself. He seems to anticipate her move before she makes it, grabbing her arm and twisting it behind her. He slams her into a tree, the bark scraping her cheek until blood is drawn, and it digs into her stomach and breasts. He pins her there, laughing in her ear, before he pats her hip with his free hand.
"We'll start tomorrow night," he tells her, "Meet me here when Marmoreal sleeps. And do remember, godling, this is a sworn boon with a true God – if you change your mind, I get to forcibly collect my debt."
"I won't change my mind," Ophelia jerks in his grasp, attempts to knock his feet out, attempts to use sheer, brute strength to push off the tree and into his body, knock him backwards and gain freedom. Her struggles are entirely in vain, and he laughs at her. "Since this isn't part of my training, how about you let me go?"
"Think of it as a warm up."
Ophelia calls him every dirty, foul name she can think of. When that's over with, she makes up a few. He's positively roaring in laughter by the time she's done, big arms and thick chest shaking as he drops his chin, resting it on the top of her head as he laughs into her hair. She finally gives up and twists magic that tastes of fire and burns like her Da, pushing at him. He hisses – he even loosens his hold – but he doesn't let her go.
"Are you quite done, godling?"
"Eat shit and die."
"Pride won't help you with me," Ogma tells her in a rather conversational tone of voice, "It will only make things much worse. Though I suspect it will be quite fun."
He disappears suddenly. Ophelia slams her hands against the tree, pushes herself away from it, and counts to five thousand, seven hundred and sixty two. It doesn't help – she's still fuming mad. Eventually she stomps out of the trees and across the training field, in full view of anyone who might be looking, because she really just doesn't give a damn.
If she notices a pair of glowing eyes on top of her wardrobe when she strips and crawls into her borrowed bed, she very firmly ignores them, because pointing them out would be letting him win. And Ophelia of Nowhere doesn't loose to anyone. Not even the Champion Ogma turned Cheshire Cat.
"Tarrant," Mirana says in a weary tone, her back to the Hatter that is sitting in a chair before her desk, his hands folded in his lap. "There's more."
More, Tarrant almost asks her, more then Unnamed Ones and Gods and godlings? He doesn't ask, though, because she wouldn't say it if it wasn't true, and he needs to focus, pay attention, catch every detail. Alice finally, finally returns to Underland…and there is War brimming, a War where the White Queen will no doubt ask for her Champion to stand for her once again, and Tarrant can hardly stand the thought of it. So he stops thinking of it, and focuses his extra energy on the stitching of Mirana's gown.
"Princess Ophelia claims that these Unnamed Ones attacked an Outlandish Clan," Tarrant tenses violently in his chair, and from the pounding in his head he can guess that his eyes are murderous amber, "I haven't sent anyone out, yet. I…wanted you to accompany them, Tarrant. You are Outlandish, and if other Clans, or the rest of this Clan has found the…bodies…then they will be more responsive to our investigations if you are there."
"Which Clan?" He asks thickly. Mirana turns and gives him large, sad eyes. "Which bluddy Clan?"
"Featherfeet," Mirana says quietly, and then, "I'm so sorry, Tarrant."
His mother hadn't always been a Hightopp woman. No, she'd been Featherfeet – and what little family Tarrant has left is with them.
"Who," he asks, elbows on his knees as he leans forward, hands covering his face, "How many?"
"Several," Mirana answers, "But I'm not sure as to who, Tarrant. There is no proof that it is any of your direct kin."
Direct kin, Tarrant almost scoffs. Kin is kin, Clan is Clan. He's already lost all the Hightopps, and that is his shame, being the last. But the Featherfeet…? His cousin Moira's due for a bairn, soon, anytime, really. She came to visit him not long ago, big as a barn, and kissed his cheeks and held his hands. He's got baby clothing made, hiding in his satchel, and he'd meant to send it out to her by messenger in the next few days.
But what if…?
"When do ya wan' me tae go?"
"I know it's very much to ask, Tarrant, but tonight would be best." He only nods, rubbing his hands across his face, catching a thimble in his eyebrow.
"Would you at least eat something before you leave?"
"Nae," he shakes head, "I coul'nae…after this…?"
"I'm sure," Mirana says very softly as she moves across the space between them, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, "That Alice would like to see you before you leave."
He nods again, and when he stands he forgets even to bow before he leaves the Queen's study.