A/N: I know it's not quite enough after the wait I put you all through, but I am terribly sorry. I missed you all terribly, and YIP, though I'm forever going to hold a burning hatred for this chapter, after the hell it put me through writing it. As always, more thanks than can be imagined goes to my amazing beta fiducia. Not only does she get to decipher half-finished and then forgotten sentences, she has to listen to me rattle at her constantly. She's a saint, guys, seriously. :D Any errors found are my own.
And please don't kill me when you get to the end, because the ninth chapter will be posted shortly. As in, not in a few months time. ;)
Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland in any form. I do own all original characters, and my sanity suffers for it daily.
Alice wakes suddenly, startled out of a deep, dreamless sleep by something she cannot immediately identify. She lays curl on her side, one end of a long, thick pillow tucked between her knees, the other against her chest, her arms wrapped limply around it. She cracks open her eyes and stares across her room, which is covered in both shadows and moon glow, the fall of the light and the shapes it makes is nothing she is used to. It takes her a few moments but she remembers where she is, in Underland – in Marmoreal, to be exact, curled up in an amazingly comfortable bed in what she was told is the Champion's Apartment. Hamish is passed out in a smaller room that holds a daybed curtained in silk that is embroidered with Vorpal swords and tea cups.
He looked ridiculous when Alice checked on him bare minutes before she collapsed into her own bed, brushing her long hair, squeezing droplets of water from the ends every now and then. The bed was nearly too small for him, far too feminine, and he was absurd looking in his Stewie Griffin pants. Alice had wished, briefly, for a camera to capture the moment, but accepted she was simply out of luck on that front before going to her bed, collapsing onto the mattress and promptly passing out. Exhaustion is a brutal creature, and certainly for one such as Alice, who has traveled to what she thought was a make-believe land, snogged her (supposedly) fictional first love, and then traveled several miles on horse back. Her thighs still ache from that trip, because the responsibilities of an adult do not often allow Alice time for polo or pleasure riding.
She thinks she will have a lot of time to ride Frank over every inch of Underland in her new life.
She closes her eyes, planning on very easily slipping back into her sleep – because she is hovering just on the edge of it, barely awake at all – when she feels a mingling of both flesh and cool metal run over her cheek, catching several tendrils of her thick hair and tucking it behind her ear. She bolts upright, her breath catching harshly – loudly – in the silent room, her feet pushing against the soft sheets as she drags herself up the mattress and towards the headboard, her heart beating violently in her chest. She thinks she may faint or cry or scream, at least until she hears a well-known voice uttering what is no doubt a dirty curse in Outlandish, and realizes that one of the tall shadows is a man in a Hat.
More to the point, it is the Hatter, wearing his fine Hat, sitting on her bed. In the middle of the night. And she has probably just given him heart failure – she cringes, slapping a hand to her chest as she collapses against the headboard, closing her eyes. If it were a movie or a particularly sappy novel, she would have woken gently, all fluttering eyelashes, and known who it was immediately. At the very least, she wouldn't have nearly jumped out of her skin. She works to calm her breathing and her heart rate, the hand not on her chest lifting to shove hair out of her face.
"I'm sorry," Tarrant lisps very softly, sounding both abashed and ashamed. Alice opens her eyes, watching the silvery light illuminate the bottom portion of his face as he tucks his head down, Hat brim insuring that his eyes are only a bright, apologetic glint in the darkness it provides. "I didn't mean to scare you, Alice."
"S'fine," Alice promises him on a quivering breath, flapping one hand at him, "Really. Just wasn't expecting anyone to be – you know – in here with me."
"I'm sorry," Tarrant repeats, large eyes glittering from the shadows that obscure everything but the strong jut of his chin and the deep mauve bruise of his lips. They look almost purple in the dim light, and Alice – hazy minded anyway, due to just being woken up, and so suddenly to boot – is hardly able to look away. She's fairly certain she has had a dream (or several) that start quite like this in her lifetime. Like that one, that tends to end in dribbling honey and -
Well, then, probably not the best train of thought to keep on at the moment.
Alice swallows hard, and forces herself to actually listen to what her – the – just the Hatter, thank you – what the Hatter is telling her.
"Thought I would say goodbye," he has several ribbons and a bit of fine, dotted netting in his hands (Alice has no idea how they came to be there – she reminds herself to start paying attention to what is in front of her, and not what is jumbling about in her mind). He is pinning the ribbons to the netting, and then plucking a threaded needled from the cuff of one jacket sleeve, hands taking up quick, nervous stitches. "I wasn't – I wasn't trying to wake you up, as I said, I only thought I ought to say goodbye. To you, I mean."
"Wait," Alice throws both hands in the air as she sits upright, leaving her reclining position against the headboard, hair puffing wildly around her face and shoulders as she narrows her eyes, "Goodbye? Where are you going?"
"I..." Tarrant chokes on whatever he isn't saying, stitching faster while he darts her an unreadable look from his shadows. "The Queen," he finally says, "Has asked me to perform a task on her behalf."
"But why do you have to leave?" Alice takes absolutely no notice of what the Hatter has created, only watches as he tosses it to the table beside her bed, his hands folding together before he draws in a deep breath.
"The Queen," he says again, "Needs me to go."
"For how long?" Alice demands, brow furrowing, tired mind whirling. She has only just gotten him back, is looking forward to truly learning all about him, becoming his friend and – and maybe more – and he is being sent away?
"I should be home before brillig," Tarrant sounds pleased, his crooked smile wide, making Alice's heart skip a beat or two. "In time for tea, Alice."
"Oh," Alice feels very stupid, very quickly, her blush so violent that it feels as though it is actually burning her. She looks down at her knees – bare – and curls the fingers of both hands around the hem of her t-shirt, tugging it towards said bare knees in short, repetitive motions. "Well, that's good, then."
"'Tis, at that," Tarrant assures her, lisp forgotten as his stronger, natural accent begins to slowly take over. It makes Alice's stomach tie up in a knot as the burr begins to weave around the edges of his words, not entirely formed, but hinted at. It makes her wonder at what is actually hiding behind his nervous giggles and happy, lisping cries of her name – it makes her question the memories she has of the brash madman with blazing eyes and bared claymore. If Tarrant hides all of that behind his lisp and courtly Royal Hatter persona, what in the world has Alice yet to discover?
The possibilities – at least the ones she is imagining – make her toes curl under the blanket that is far down on her shins, and her cheeks start burning again.
She really can't be blamed for having dirty thoughts about the man, she decides firmly, given that it is the middle of the night, he is in her room, and they are on her bed. Put all that together, and any woman with a pulse and a Hatter would be diving to the depths she very quickly is.
"It's not dangerous, is it?" Alice is joking when she asks that question, floundering for something to say that is not, 'So, how about a snog for the road, eh?' because that's what she wants to ask. She is startled when, beneath his Hat brim and shadows, Tarrant's eyes flame brightly, narrow, and he bears his teeth. His hands fist on top of his thighs; he doesn't say anything, not a single damn thing, and it makes a violent knot of worry twist up in her stomach. They sit there, looking at each other, and Alice is shocked to feel her hands beginning to shake, the side-affects of her mental and physical exhaustion, her suddenly interrupted sleep, and fear.
Alice has dreams of memories that tell her how cruel and dark Underland can be. A moat full of bobbing, decaying heads, mouths open, sightless eyes filmy – at least, those that had yet to be plucked out by the birds. Tongues swollen, choking useless throats, protruding violent – except for those whose tongues had been cut out first, to stem their cries of downal wyth bluddy begh hid until it was off with their heads, only a few short days afterward. She remembers a burnt out clearing, imagines the screams of Tarrant's Clan as they died; and then she remembers the dungeons of Salazen Grum.
Still Tarrant says nothing. Alice might have liked some very pretty lies, all lisped so finely that she would do her best to believe them even though she knew they weren't true. On the same hand, however, she would resent him for those lies, because trust was something she sorely needed at this time, when her world is upside, falling out from under her. She has stepped through a Looking Glass and has little idea of what it is truly going to come to mean to her, or the choices she only admits to herself she is going to be forced to make, at some point.
"Oh," Alice finally breathes so softly, almost sadly, and at that Tarrant actually, physically winces. "Why – why are you going, then? Why not some of the guards? Knights, bishops, whatever."
"S'my duty," his burr thickens a bit more, and he leans forward, reaching out with fingers that are not afraid, no, but wary – he is as unsure and startled as Alice, she realizes, and she leans into his touch, until he's cupping the side of her face. She leans until he does the same, only forward, and his hat brim is knocked out of the way, until their foreheads are pressed together. Alice is aware of a great many things at that moment; the warmth of his skin, the tea-scent of his breath, the tremor of her hands and the worry that something awful might happen to him.
It is apparent to Alice that there is something between them. At this time it is nameless, because it is in some ways new, in others very old; it is fragile, delicate, and it needs to be tended like a young plant. It could very easily be torn or damaged, a leaf ripped from the stem by an unaware passerby, though she imagines that if it is it nurtured, cared for and tended to, it will become a mighty tree tall enough to poke holes in the clouds, able to offer protection under it's branches, a home in it's roots.
Alice thinks that those choices she doesn't want to think about having to make – what she is going to give up, her family or the world she has always dreamed of - are going to be easier to make because of this man.
"I don't care when you come back," Alice says very suddenly, strongly, and Tarrant jerks back, eyes wide, startled and hurt. Alice feels like kicking herself, and waves her hands in the air between them. "No, I mean – I don't care when you come back, as long as you come back safe. Alright?"
Tarrant stares at her for a long moment, before he tips his chin, and his eyes are a glimmering emerald flecked with gold. He smiles at her, tongue prodding the dark gap between his teeth before he speaks. "Aye," he agrees, sliding his hand from her cheek to the back of her neck, "Alrigh', Alice."
And then he kisses her. It is a very soft kiss, a bare press of lips, barely parted and gentle. Alice's breath bubbles in her throat, her head growing quite light as she angles herself more towards Tarrant, her stomach quivering. He takes a long time kissing her, until Alice is raw and breathless, fingers curled in front of his jacket. She tugs at the fabric, whines in the back of her throat and nips at his lower lip, slipping forwards until she is practically in his lap. He gives a great, gasping sort of groan before he tips his head down, kisses her cheek and jaw before pressing his face into her neck. He takes a few long minutes to hold her, arms wrapping tight and strong around Alice's waist and back.
"Promise me you'll come back safe," Alice whispers into his hair, her eyes shut against the shadows and moonlight, every lung full of air she takes in filling her up with the unique scent of the last Hightopp. "Please promise me. I've only just come back, I don't want – there wouldn't be any point in staying here if you – if -"
"I promise," Tarrant cuts her off, pulling her fully into his lap. His fine Hat falls to the mattress, as tumbled and disheveled as its maker and owner, when Tarrant presses his forehead against Alice's shoulder. His voice has strength in it, some magic that is of Underland and Tarrant himself, and Alice feels it pull tight around the both of them. "I'll come back to you, Alice."
They hold each other for a time, and Alice has to fight the words she wants to say, but knows she cannot. Please stay, don't go, don't leave me when I've just come back and found you again – she thinks he would stay, if she asked. She imagines that for her, he would defy the Queen he fought so hard to see put back on the throne of Underland. Alice also feels, down to her very bones, that it would be a betrayal of the worst kind if she used his obvious attachment to her – or who she had once been, Alice is not sure if she is the same or not – and she swallows them back, pushes them into her throat and chest.
She does not try to stop Tarrant when he shifts from his lap, arms and hands gentle as he lowers her back to the mattress, busies himself with folding the blanket and sheet back over her legs and waist, up to her chest and under her arms, tucking her in. His hand hovers over the fabric, not quite daring enough to smooth the wrinkles where it lies across her chest. Instead he gives her a smile, but it is too dark for Alice to read the color of his eyes and get at least an idea of his mood.
Tarrant takes up his Hat, setting it back into place before he smooths his coat and stands. His eyes are pained at the separation, but his steps are determined as he moves towards the half open door.
"Fairfarren," Alice calls quietly from the bed. He turns to look at her, once again all shadows and angles under the brim of his Hat.
"Fairfarren," he answers her, pausing a moment, as though he is going to say something – he shakes his head, hard, and leaves quickly. Alice listens to his footsteps, the opening of the door to her apartment of rooms and then the soft snap of it closing. She isn't quite sure why, but she puts her head on her knees and cries when he is gone.
Ophelia awakes from a sleep she has been indulging in for two hours, at best. There is only a short time before the twilight of dawn hours begins to lighten the world, and for a moment she simply lays still, one arm thrown above her head, blanket in her hand. She is covered from the top of her curls to her toes, and she doesn't want to move, to fully wake up. She wants to sleep another half hour or so before she has to go to the training field and meet with the Bishops. She doesn't even really want to do that, because Ophelia isn't a very good teacher. She's rather got a sink-or-swim sort of approach to things, and she doesn't think that tossing the White Army at the Unnamed Ones with a stern parting of, "Live or die, it's all on you," is really going to do them any good.
I promised, I promised – I promised Alice -
"The fuck -" Ophelia snaps upright, blanket falling around her waist, eyes darting around her room. Her temples begin to throb and a chill races down her spine. Goosebumps break out over her, and Ophelia can taste the ancient, powerful magic of Underland it's self as it begins to prod at her with all the subtlety of a caveman with a club.
I promised Alice I'd come back safe, I promised Alice, I promise – I promised -
Ophelia digs her palms into her eyes, rocking forward as she is assaulted with the half desperate cries of a man she can see as plain as day, kilt whipping around his thighs as he stands in the stirrups of a great, lathering stallion. They are racing through a forested area in the darkness, and there are shadows in the trees, stalking them, picking off the White Guards that accompany the man in the Hat. The magic that had awoken her, is now attacking her, is like a knife in the gut, harsh and insistent.
"You see," she practically snarls as she rips back the covers and slips from the large bed she has been provided, stumbling towards the pile of clothing the floor, "This is what happens when you don't fight anymore! I'm not even a part of this world, really, and it's already bossing me around!"
"What are you talking about?" Chessur asks from atop the wardrobe, two glowing eyes opening in an unhappy, tired squint. "I was dreaming of dormice, whatever could be important enough to wake me up from that?"
"Orange haired bloke in a hat and a kilt," Ophelia plucks a spare dirk from the top of the vanity as she is hopping into her breaches, tossing it at the Mostly Evaporated Cat. Chessur's eyes disappear, and the dirk slams into the wall blade first, vibrating dully. "He's about to be killed off by some minions of the Unnamed Ones, and Underland is quite insistent that he doesn't die. Made some promises to an Alice, and Underland wants them kept. This should be going straight to you," Ophelia pauses as she tugs her tunic on, continuing as she wrestles into her leather vest. "But since you won't fight, you great coward -"
"Godling," Chessur says in what Ophelia is starting to think is his Ogma voice, all threat and darkness, "What are you talking about?"
"I don't know," Ophelia grumbles, at this point hopping on one foot as she attempts to get herself into her high boots, "All I know is that it's going to be a fight."
"What is going to be a fight?"
"Don't you listen? Minions, guy in a hat, very bright hair – nice legs – ha!" Ophelia gives a cry of triumph as she gets her left foot shod, the laces tightening and tying themselves. She begins to jam her right foot into the remaining boot, once again hopping about. "The White Army is useless, and you're too blasted busy clawing up furniture to help -"
"Godling..." Chessur purrs warningly from somewhere behind her. Ophelia ignores him.
"Questions later," Ophelia straps on her weapons as her second boot laces tightly and double knots it's self. "I gotta go."
It is the first time the Cat is given a taste of his own Disappearing Without Warning medicine in many years, and he isn't entirely sure he approves of it.
Tarrant promised Alice that he would return in time to take tea with her at brillig. He promised, and his words, the memory of her sleeping under his gaze, and then her kiss and the scent of her hair, rockets through Tarrant's poor mind with the force of a mome rath on a warpath. He promised Alice and so he must return, despite the fact that he set out for the land just over the boarder of Witzend with sixteen White Guards, and there are only four left. They are being picked off, one by one, there one moment and gone the next, their gurgling, tortured screams echoing through the Bigh Shidewe Wood. Tarrant can almost feel their deaths, knows that those brave chessmen are gone, and a part of him fears if he ever returns to this place (if he lives long enough to return) that he will be stalked by their ghosts from the shadows of the thick trees.
"Roon," he burrs fiercely into the ear of his mount, an Outlandish war horse by the name of Corann, digging his heals into the flanks of the stallion. The war horse gives an angry, shrill cry, head lowering and neck straining as he puts on another burst of speed. Tarrant stands in his sturdy stirrups, leaning over Corann's neck, the saddlebags that had once been attached to his thin saddle – Outlandish in design, what Tarrant had grown up using – already an isle behind them, tossed off to remove weight. "Fas'er, coom on!"
"Ah – am -" Corann huffs out, darting hard to the left to avoid a large rock that they nearly slammed into. "Cannae see, s'tae bluddy dark!"
Behind them a Knight screams mightily, and there is the terrible, Nightmarish sound of bones snapping. Tarrant leans even farther, face nearly in his mounts mane as he gasps for air.
"I proomised," he breathes fiercely, "I proomised!"
Tarrant can only imagine what is chasing the squad of men that escort him, and even then he only has a name: Unnamed Ones. It is all the information he has, and that is more then enough.
"We nee'tae loose 'em!" Corann gets out, working hard as he darts into a well-know – to those who have traveled the area well, at least - side path through Bigh Shidewe, one that will loop around and lead them back towards Marmoreal – if they can actually escape Bigh Shidewe that is. Tarrant wishes he could turn around, fight off those who are attacking, save the White Guards that rode with him. He knows his only hope, however, is to run; once again, he'll be the only survivor, and the thought turns his stomach, even as it makes his blood heat in a mad rage.
Shadows begin to dart through the trees along side the path. Tarrant knows they've been caught, and reaches behind to where his calymore is strapped to his back, freeing his claymore. He holds it near to his chest, waiting until a shadow comes close enough to lash out and draw first blood.
He never gets the chance. There is a tremendous bang of displaced air, and Bigh Shidewe is illuminated with a positively blinding crack of light, golden and white, spearing outwards. Screams escape the woods, hisses and howls as the shadows fall backwards, blinded and hurt. Tarrant curses vividly, tucking his head down, hiding his eyes against his forearm, squeezing Corann tightly with his legs as the stallion rears back several steps, front hooves pawing the air.
An arrow, loosened from a violent roll of shadows at the edge of the path to Tarrant's right, shoots under Corann's lifted legs, where Tarrant would have been if his mount hadn't reared.
"Wot teh bluddy -" Corann roars, falling back on four legs. Tarrant strong arms the horse to keep him from spinning around, eyes landing on the figure that has very suddenly appeared in the path before him.
It is a woman. Small looking, lean and vicious. Her hair is a bright aureole around a strong, pointed face. She meets his gaze for a split second, and Tarrant thinks he's been gutted when he meets her bright, golden eyes, feels his blood rush and skin prickle as she bares sharp teeth and pulls a set of swords that glow with the same light that had burst through Bigh Shidewe Woods only moments before.
She takes a strong stance, feet braced and planted like tree roots, and Tarrant swings one leg over Corann, dropping from the stallion as he takes his claymore in a two handed grip. This is it, he thinks, I promised, I have to fight, I promised Alice I'd be -
She doesn't attack. Rather, she doesn't attack him.
She spins to Tarrant's right, swords slicing a shrieking path through the air, cutting through shadows that have darted forward and are baring yellow teeth and sharp, dirty talons. Strong arms lift, one blade twirling above her head as the other is drawn nearly behind her back, her right leg lifting as she executes a hard spin. Her blades lash out, cutting through shadow-flesh, sending rotting, foul smelling blood splattering along the fertile earth.
When her right foot hits the ground she drops into a low, strange stance; a muted growl escapes her throat as she leans forward, arms extending before snapping back into her body, and the ground howls before slamming upwards. Tarrant shouts, rocking backwards, hitting his knees as rocks grind and shriek as they rub together, the earth following the pull of the woman's sword dance, forming high, deadly sharp peaks to cover her left flank.
She whirls once again, dancing to Tarrant's left, mimicking the same movements; again the earth responds, grinding impossibly upwards. She lets out a howling noise when that side is finished, golden, glowing eyes nearly popping from her skull as the tendons in her neck flare outwards, and her face becomes mottled and red. Tarrant thinks – for a moment – that it is from the effort, before her swords hit the ground and a swarm of prickling pain slams into him.
Magic, he realizes – there is old, old magic at work. And it is attacking the woman – attacking him.
Every nerve in Tarrant's body wails. He roars, falling onto his elbows, back bowing, teeth biting through his tongue as his muscles lock and attempt to pull away from bone. He can hear the woman screaming, primal, wordless cries of rage and agony while his feet beat a helpless tattoo against the dirt path.
I promised, he thinks, and then Alice – the pain lessens only slightly. Slightly is enough for him to stagger to his shaking legs, taking up his claymore – blade dragging the dirt behind him as he spits blood and hobbles brokenly towards the arching woman. She is on her back, arms curling painful into her chest, one leg bent at an impossible angle as she screams and screams and screams -
She rocks violently onto her legs, straightening her arms so hard that Tarrant can hear joints snapping. Her curled fingers claw desperately at a pouch on her belt, and Tarrant drops his claymore to the ground, attempting to help her wrestle the pouch open with both hands. It doesn't matter that he doesn't know her, it only matters that she has moved the earth and is painfully golden, has fought off clawed-shadows to save him – together they manage to tug the laces from the pouch.
Her fingers cannot grasp the horn that is inside it. But together they press it between their palms and twisted fingers, bring it to her mouth where she is frothing like a winded horse, the white speckled pink and red with blood. It shakes violently as it is pressed to her lips, and Tarrant hears what he suspects is a rib crack – like a falling tree – inside her chest as she fights to inhale -
The horn releases a sound that Tarrant can never hope to describe. It is a low thrum that rocks the very earth she had moved; it is a high, desperate scream for help.
The woods fall impossibly silent. The pain lessens even further, and Tarrant wavers violently, nearly toppling to his side. The woman lets out a loan groan, fighting completely to her feet, somehow managing to shove the horn back into its pouch.
"Swords," she wheezes, jerking her chin towards Tarrant's abandoned claymore, "Swords!"
Tarrant lunges for it. When he stands again it is in his hands, and the woman is holding her own. They move until their backs are close, and the woman kicks out one foot, knocking it into his calf.
"Know...how to use that?" Tarrant smirks at the question, eyes gone wild and Mad.
"'Boot as well as ye used yers," Tarrant answers, before shadows flood down either end of the path.
Tarrant knows nothing for a long, long time. It is only the slash-twirl-dodge-lung-block of fighting; there is no hair to grab, feet to trip, or eyes to properly blind, however, and it makes him fight even dirtier. He uses his hands, his teeth, his sword; he fights like the violent Madman he has so often been accused of being, because he survived his Clan – he will survive this. Alice is alive, alive and at Marmoreal, and he'll be damned if he'll be torn apart by half-formless shadows in Bigh Shidewe Woods the morning after she arrived home.
After she's come back to him, made him promise that he will come back to her -
The thought spurs him on.
A stiff, hot wind rushes forward; it flutters Tarrant blood-splattered, torn kilt around his knees, blows his hair around his face and neck. The shadows roar and fall back, fleeing from the hot gale – Tarrant thinks, for a moment, that the woman is moving the earth again. But no, she is behind him, back pressing against his as she goes half-limp for a moment, a sound somewhere between a sob and battle cry escaping her throat. He twirls around, catching her with one arm, fingers pressing against her left elbow and finding it jutting out – it had been dislocated at some point.
The earth shakes, and Tarrant learns why as figures flood up the Bigh Shidewe Wood path. Mounted peoples, hounds of impossible sizes, warriors on foot, weapons drawn. The woman points down the path, shuffling backwards and taking Tarrant with her, until they are both pressed against the barrier she had created along the edge of the little road.
"Hurry," she shouts hoarsely, "Go after them, they're near by!"
"Ophelia!" A young man vaults off a massive mount that Tarrant, upon eying the ebony creature, begins to think is an actual Night Mare. He races forward, grabbing the blood splattered woman – Ophelia – Princess Ophelia of Nowhere, Tarrant guesses. He holds her up, face as pale as the reflection Tarrant receives when he looks into a Glass. "Did you see him? Did you – did he -"
"I'm fine," the princess assures the golden young man who is so stricken at the sight of her injuries, though her lips turning blue and there is a swelling lump on her neck that doesn't allow for movement. "It's alright, Riley."
"We've got to get you home," he picks her up, cradling her against his chest, and Tarrant notes – rather dully, because he is quite shocked and nothing is processing properly (which is probably a good thing, as he thinks he might go Mad for a dreadfully long time if he thinks on the events of the past hour) – that the curly haired youth can only be the Prince Riley his own White Queen had spoken to him about has violently trembling hands and glimmering eyes. "You're such an idiot, Ophie, why did you come out here?"
Tarrant does not hear the rest of the conversation. Instead his ears are filled with a violent, throbbing noise, and his sight falls out of focus. He staggers to the side, attempting to catch himself on the earthen wall behind him. Instead he slips down it, pains seizing his chest as an awful, metallic taste floods his mouth. It speaks to his past that experience has taught Tarrant the taste is his own blood, and there is something terribly, horribly wrong with him.
But I promised – he thinks rather desperately, before he slips into a silent blackness.