Chasing White Rabbits
Summary: The Mad Hatter becomes engrossed with a strange human girl. What begins as a break in a routine to destroy the perfect exemplar of a human and protect hell by any mans necessary, ends in the unloved to be loved. But this love soon fails, for a fallen angel could never be loved nor love.
Note: Belial is a WO-man (well, as woman as an angel can get). No question about it. She has no male parts (if you know what I mean, *winkwink*). So, henceforth, Belial will be referred to as a "she".
It should also be noted that this is un-beta-ed, so far.
Disclaimer: I do not own Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, nor do I own Jefferson's Airplane's White Rabbit. And yes, I do believe Mr. Carroll was smoking Opium while writing Alice's Adventures.
Chapter Two
The Bottle on the Glass Table
Alice contemplated the ticket lying on the table over a glass of absinthe. The strong yet soothing liquid ran through her throat and through her veins; the ticket tempting her fragile mind. The waiter offered her another, and although temptation was strong, she retained herself. Her brother would be waiting for her at home for his supper and she needed to finish the last suit of the day before she closed up shop. But the ticket's soft texture called her back to the present, to the little café... No, she was ridiculing herself by even thinking about the strange man! He had his face painted. In public! And talked to strange young ladies that sat on the side of the road in the rain... And dressed in such exotic clothes... And talked with an intriguing accent... And...
She shook her head and took another swig of her glass to find it empty. She was about to call the waiter to take up his offer but found her brother walking down the road to their house. She left a few francs and left the café quickly, a bolt of material under her arm.
"Francis! Attends-moi!" She flagged down her brother from further down the road, trying not to make a spectacle of herself.
He waited, like a good brother and even offered to take the bolt of material. He could smell the alcohol off her breath and even if she would defend her position endlessly, saying she was only having a coffee, Francis knew his sister drank. He was possibly the only one that had seen this as a problem; and therefore he wondered if could be a problem at all. Whether she was drunk though was another matter and he wasn't about to risk the bolt of material in the process of figuring out. She didn't let him touch it but took his arm and they walked down to their town flat.
"Hard day at work, my dear brother?"
He shrugged his shoulders, adjusting his neck tie with his free hand. The wind was rushing in fast. It was definitely heralding the coming of winter. He looked to his sister, she wasn't wearing a coat.
"It's mid-November, Alice, where's your coat?"
"My coat? Of all things to worry about."
"Where is it, Alice?"
"Oh, Francis, the sleeve was falling off. I just hadn't the time to repair it."
He slapped his free hand to his forehead. The sleeve was falling off. Story seemed to fit seeing as the stupid coat was nearly seven years old. It was a ratty little thing. The fur around the collar smelt rancid. The threading was coming apart. He needed to buy her a new one, if she wasn't going to.
They walked into the house, unlocking the door before they did. The house was beginning to feel frigid, Francis noted, this would be a very frightful winter. Alice went right to work and he left her. He went up to his room to finish balancing some books. Before he did, he looked to his sister for what seemed like the first time in so long, taking note of the heavy lines criss-crossing her forehead. How old was she? He knew that she couldn't continue this, this charade. To put him through school next year... and Oxford, of all places as well. It was a nice fantasy, but nothing more than that.
Not a moment of being alone, a tinkle of a bell announced a costumer. Alice turned around with a painted grin but that painted grin suddenly turned into an open jaw. She couldn't believe her eyes. The woman was a pure gem, all prim and proper, much unlike the dirty child she grew up with.
"Émilie, tu est... You are..." Alice was at lost for words; that was unlike her.
"Thank you Alice." She took off her little lace gloves one by one, gingerly holding them in her delicate grasp, a playful smile on her lips.
"What are you, "she contemplated for a moment, not believing the sight before her, "doing here? Your boat—"
"Yes, my boat is leaving tomorrow morning. But... A letter isn't enough, Alice. I won't leave you without a proper goodbye. There's too much I'll leave behind if I don't say my farewell to you; face to face."
Alice was silent. She really wished Émilie hadn't. She really wished that letter was the last of it. The numbers of the people she could count on were slowly dwindling. And one of these numbers was on her way to the Americas to join her new husband in Québec. She wrote to Alice describing in detail her first trip to the French colony and how it reminded her of France. It was as if she had never left. Alice knew that France did not mean their friendship to Émilie. Then, why was she here?
"We will write, like always." Alice assured, if it would assure her any. They hardly did write to each other, especially after Émilie found herself a strapping young man as her husband. The dirty little rambunctious girl became an obedient housewife right under Alice's nose.
"I pray that we do, Alice."
They looked at each other, without much of a word split between them. Alice did not advance to her childhood friend, nor did Émilie make an effort to meet Alice behind her counter. There was a sense that everything that needed to be said was said. There was a sense that nothing else could be said or should be said for fear that Émilie would not go on with it. She needed to leave France. She needed to leave Rouen and rid herself of stagnant memories.
"Come with me."
And she knew that Alice needed an escape more than anyone she knew.
"No, Émilie."
But duties held her back.
"You can make a new life for yourself! And for Francis! There is nothing left for us here, Alice. France is a dying country, a place for romantics to mourn over. The West is opening its door to people like us. Young, strong willed people willing to make a new life for ourselves. I've even begun to learn English!"
"I'm a tired old woman now. I can't leave here and start a new life. I'm an old stubborn relic. I won't learn English."
"Alice—"
"I belong here, Émilie. If I go to Québec, what will ensure that I will want a new life? I'm quite comfortable here."
"No you aren't. You're suffocating yourself here!"
Alice smiled disarmingly, "if I go to the West, I'll only further myself away from Oxford. I won't deny my brother of his deserved education."
Émilie heard the carriage pulling up to the small shop but Alice made a point to remind her, "go. You need this new life... for yourself. You needn't worry. Send me word when you've reached Québec."
Émilie just seemed to passively accept Alice's response. She knew it was worthless to try in the first place, but she did, hoping that something would awake in her. Hoping that her long dead wilful spontaneity would awake and drive her away from the small town flat in Rouen that was seemingly emptying quite quickly. She saw her fiancé step out of the car, gesturing to her.
"Take care of yourself, Alice."
"You as well, Émilie. Don't poison your new fiancé with your horrid cooking."
"I'll try."And she step out of the store and into the carriage, not looking back in hopes of leaving with some dignity.
Alice took her purse, and when she saw that the carriage drove far enough away, she walked on into the brisk evening. The craving for that drink she neglected had arisen. She walked up to the café, ignoring all that attempted to make small talk with her. Why all the townspeople that knew of her seemed to be out in such an evening, Alice couldn't understand. She just curtly nodded and lined herself to the café. She allowed to host to seat her and ask for her poison. She would have responded cyanide to make small talk, but she knew he wasn't there for such frivolities. He probably had a pretty little wife at home, perhaps a child. She asked him for a glass of absinthe, like she always did. She loved this café. No matter how many times you ordered for the same thing, they chose not to remember it and you weren't given stares.
She was placed in the back of the café, by herself, despite the couple beside her, sipping their Venetian coffee and the man swirling his scotch around large blocks of ice. She pulled her wrap closer to her shoulders, trying to bat off chill that was climbing in her flesh. But the waiter had come sooner than expect with her order and Alice expected the chill to leave her. She sipped luxuriously at the drink, trying to seem sophisticated, although the hunger for the drink was almost savage.
When the drink landed into her stomach, she received a strange taste for the arts. Particularly a magic show. Perhaps more of the drink would land her there. Perhaps she would meet the Illusionist. Perhaps he would buy her another drink. She laughed to herself which got her nothing but strange looks from the couple. The man was drunker than she was, for he was laughing to himself at his own strange thoughts and paid no attention to any looks. She called for the waiter and asked him for another. He nodded and went off. She made a mental note to give him a well deserved tip. Perhaps another drink would instead drown this temptation and her loneliness would flutter away.
The door bell tinkled for the fifth time since she arrived. But this time she decided to pay attention to who entered. Something in her stirred and made her hand cover her face. Not here. Don't make him notice that I'm here. Not here.
"Mademoiselle," her head snapped to the waiter, causing some alarm in the waiter, "votre boisson."
"Merci." She was about to take the cup but someone had taken the cup into their hands, smiling widely. It must have been the paint that caused the illusion; it was impossible for someone to have such a great smile.
"Je vais servir la jeune dame." He had indeed found her, caught her in the act of being strange, yet again.
She had gotten up, placed francs onto the table and was about to avoid the magician, but his hand grabbed her arm, gently holding her back. "Please, Alice. I just wish to return something to you."
"What is it?" she was about to be brief with this encounter. Somehow she wanted him to tied her down and hold her back indefinitely. But she knew how wrong it seemed. Oh the man was in her house, she invited him to her house! The neighbours could have seen if they were looking out in the pleasant rain! But something...
He let her arm go to fetch something in his pocket. He placed a handkerchief over the drink, quickly tugged it off and exposed a ticket in his hand.
"You had forgotten it here. Whether you meant to or not—"
A sudden relief took over her so strongly she ignored her conscience and let her thankfulness out, "I can't believe I had forgotten it! Thank you!" She took the ticket and noticed her grave mistake. She let him know that she was wistfully looking at that damned thing, contemplating the possibility of actually going to a show.
"It is my pleasure, as always." He took his hat off and bowed deeply. It was his intention to further pursue her weakened state, but he decided not to take the unfair advantage. It wasn't his style. Let the taste for him brew a little while longer. And he walked out.
She held the ticket to her bosom, childishly blushing. The man was indeed an illusionist: creating this unjust world of fantasies that made her believe she was indeed living them.
She looked to Amosdeus, a constant look of distain plastered above the make-up, above the soft alabaster skin, "take care of her."
He let out a long winded laugh that nearly folded him over onto the floor, "you're leaving your little Alice here? With me? To rot away? What a sudden change of priorities!"
She nearly spat in his face for such blasphemy. But she remained cool; he couldn't possibly be worth it. "I don't have to explain myself to the likes of you."
He knew well enough that Hell was in a mighty uproar ever since her precious Lucifer vanished without a trace. Oh yes, he knew that Lucifer was nowhere in sight. He knew that his little right hand was left to clean up his mess and keep Hell from imploding onto itself. He had seen all of those little sacrifices pushed off the edge of the altar, a rather humorous look of surprise and betrayal before they plunged to their death. But there was only one girl she allowed to keep for herself. And she killed that one too.
"Oh Belial, why don't you just pull her plug? You know she won't wake up. And if by some miracle given to you by God," she smiled at this, he knew she would; God wouldn't give her the time of day. He did name her worthless. "If by some miracle, she wakes up, she'll never be your little dollie. She won't have it, you know it. She'd rather strangle you... possibly with her own bare hands."
"Again, I don't have to answer myself to the likes of you." She let kiss linger on the plane of glass and walked out of Amosdeus' mansion.
He waited until she was out of hearing range to strike up a conversation with the Living Dead Girl, "she's gone now. You poor thing; you desperately tried to escape her little web and you end up like this: a doll locked away in a cabinet. I always knew you were different than the others. Smarter. You saw what a lying swindler our little Belial is. Guess it was too late. The others fell in love with her too. But she killed them. You fell in love with her and you killed yourself. Too bad. Really. It's all just too damn bad." He placed hand to where Belial's lips had been only moments ago, "I guess that's why I love her! She's a living, breathing tragedy! And she takes the rest of us for the ride."
A.N: So, here it is. I'm trying to build up the romantic suspense! -lol- Tell me what you guys think! And I don't think that Absinthe is still legal by that time... Oh and, "Je vais servir la jeune dame" means: "I'll serve the young lady."