" good morning, tarrant. " the name is SLUGGISH on her tongue: she much prefers his nickname, still, even now, TANGLED UP together - a mess of hair & legs & LOVE. a soft touch of her nose to his, a profession of feeling even if the words themselves do not come. " it sounds rather funny, doesn't it ? silly, that your name should sound funny. you've always been HATTER to me. "
SLEEP has always been a hard concept for Tarrant to grasp. First as a child, with a mind as insistently active as Time himself; then, an amateur Hatter who simply had no time to sleep when he could be trying to impress his father perfect his craft. Then, of course, the nightmares. They are fewer, now, and in a peaceful Underland, he no longer needs to keep his guard up at all times. ( He knows they won’t ever really go away, as Forever as his shadow or his burnt palms or his maddening madness or )
Yes, she has always been the key to saving Underland. Tarrant didn’t know, couldn’t of known, that she was the key to saving him.
For all of Alice’s wonders, she unfortunately cannot do much to help him in his quest to catch more Sleep. Oh, she’s helped with the nightmares, certainly, and he catches her when she falls from her own night terrors to the waking world. The real problem is this: he never wants to waste a second with his eyes closed when Alice is right here.
And so, he’s already awake when Alice, his Alice, returns to the Land of Wakefulness. ( They’ve discussed the possibility of Lands of Dreams many times by now, and have yet to reach a conclusion, but Tarrant is rather fond of his theory. ) When she touches her nose to his, as familiar an action as it is, Tarrant is rather concerned he’ll hurt his cheeks from smiling. A secret, knowing what that means, for just the two of them. ‘ Why is a raven like a writing desk ? ‘
“Well, I wasn’t very good at introductions when we met, see? I mixed it all up in the first place. Not sure if I remember why, now. Or if there was a Why. Things were all mixed up, then, it wasn’t just me. Was it?”
His eyes grow distant for half an instant, but he’s back before you can snap your fingers, not even long enough for his eyes to turn from green to amber, and oh. Alice. And suddenly, his irises are the softest shade of lavender. He doesn’t even need a looking glass to know.
“I very much enjoy whatever you call me, as long as it comes from your lips.”
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