Chapter Ten: Unthinkable, Unspeakable (1)

[manniness]

OK, Live Journal just hates me.  Yet again I need to post one chapter in two entries.

 

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The hardest part about being a mother is also being a queen.

Mirana stands on the balcony that has suffered through dozens of crashing tea tables and regards the setting sun, her eyes looking Queast-ward, but unfocused. She does not see the sunset. She does not see the ridge of the mountains that ring Mamoreal as they are silhouetted in the rosy light. She is, actually, trying very hard to see Nothing at all. To think of Nothing. Thinking and seeing are not pleasant pastimes when one is Waiting.

Mirana has never had any particular aversion to Waiting. As a queen, she knows that many things take time and waiting is often the wisest course of action.

But as a mother... and under these circumstances... Waiting is a torture she cannot bear!

She had never explicitly said so aloud, but even prior to this... turn of events, she had been waiting. Although, at the time, she had not known what it was she’d been waiting for. Tarra’s departure had too closely mirrored Alice’s on the dawn of the Trial of Threes for her to not feel apprehensive, for her to not imagine the unwanted attention of the Fates, for her to not wonder if perhaps that tingle of dread had been a warning: Something is coming...

And it has. The fear now has words to define it: Tarra has disappeared, been taken by rebels, is somewhere between Crimson Harbor and Gummer Slough in one of the tunnels that had once funneled death and decay away from Iracebeth’s castle.

There had been nothing positive in Bayto’s report. Nothing concrete she could console Tarra’s sisters and brothers with. Nothing except the promise that Alice has gone after her and both Mirana and the Queen’s Champion will do everything they can to bring Tarra home. And yet, for a fleeting moment – when she had first heard the news – Mirana had experienced an inexplicable moment of relief, as when the thorn finally breaks the skin after tormenting one with the possibility of deeper pain and injury for so long. Had it been odd – wrong? – to taste the flavor of relief in the back of her throat? Perhaps. She certainly feels guilty enough over it now... now that the Unknown has become...

Unthinkable.

Unspeakable.

Tarra!

The night wind arrives with a gentle, cool puff of a sigh. Mirana does not shiver until the weight of her husband’s warm long-fingered paws settle on her shoulders. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized she was cold.

For a minute – maybe more – neither speaks. But, of course, the questions – the doubts – are never silent.

“Have I made the Right Choice?” she hears herself whisper. How long has it been since she’d last used her voice? No, no! She does not want to revisit that memory. And yet the question she has just asked is inexorably tied to it. She sighs. She does not want to face herself right now... and yet there is no one else to face. Were she to look into her husband’s eyes, she would only see a reflection of herself, her own doubt, her own fear, her own imperfections.

His fingers stir, massaging her taut shoulders. She does not relax one whit but they both take comfort in the gesture. “I can only say what I’ve already said, Mish’rya,” he murmurs, his voice sounding equally as rough as her own.

“Then say it again. Please.”

He does:

“We must consider our people. They trust you and that is a gift too precious to break.”

She nods: She must not break her Vows or their Trust.

“But we cannot abandon our daughter to the mercies of the rebels. We would never forgive ourselves.”

She blinks several times in order to see past the hot and stinging watery veil.

Yes: if she allows harm to come to her daughter... if she does not act when Tarra needs her...

“We have responsibilities to protect our people, even from themselves.”

Mirana bites her lip. Her fingers curl tighter around her upper arms. For once, she fears that releasing them into the air to dance with the breeze will send her spinning out of control, into madness. Perhaps this was what had driven her sister to such extremes. Perhaps a moment very much like this had shattered her spirit and torn her mind apart. Were she faced with these rebels who have taken her daughter, would she hear herself shout: Off with their heads!

Dale continues, “We can trust Sir Fenruffle to carry out your orders. No one will be harmed. The army will use its numbers to force the rebels to surrender and they will bring Tarra home.”

Mirana does not ask if even that much will damage the White Realm beyond repair. What will her people think, believe, fear when they see her army descend upon the orchards surrounding Crimson Harbor? Will they think the worst has happened: the White Queen has turned... Red? Will they trust her explanation? Will they rise against her, hurt each other, endanger her children?

But if she had chosen to do nothing... How could the citizens of the White Realm respect a queen who – when her own daughter is in peril – does less than everything in her power to save her? How could she trust herself to be the ruler they expect her to be? To leave Tarra there, to weigh her life cruelly and impartially against those of her citizens, would damage her soul irreparably.

The Decree is no easier to contemplate now than it had been when she had given it hours ago.

“The army is ready, Your Majesty. What are your orders?”

“My orders... Yes. Yes, it’s time. Sir Fenruffle, march to Crimson Harbor. The army may defend itself and detain the rebels but there will be no causalities, sir. No injuries. No weapons used with the intent to cause pain or death. I Forbid it.”

She had tried to define and keep to the line between being a Mother and Queen. She had thought she had identified it, had stayed true to both her selves.

Now, as she waits, Doubt fills the empty space beside her where her Champion should be standing

Mirana lifts a hand and covers her husband’s where it still grips her shoulder. (Is he trying to hold her together or anchor himself? Perhaps both...) She aches to ask her Champion, her friend, what she ought to have done. Warfare – even one without deadly weapons – is not something Mirana has ever contemplated. Not even when her sister had begun her brutal campaign for dominion over all of Underland. (Although, yes, she had been rather too willing to sacrifice Alice for the sake of All, but Alice hadn’t been a member of Underland at the time and, somehow, it had seemed easier for Mirana to pit her own “monster” – a being from Up There – against her sister’s Jabberwocky. Now, she sees how unforgivable that had truly been. And she still has not repented properly for it!) And even when Mirana had issued the Champions’ Challenge to Jaspien and his co-conspirators, she had done so at Alice’s behest. She had trusted her Champion’s plan, her judgment, her foresight. She has none of those things to guide her now.

She draws in yet another deep breath. The Mother within her struggles against the White Queen, the Woman who has Taken Vows... She wishes Dale could be the one to help her, shore her up, to justify her actions, to shoulder the responsibility of it all. When she had asked, he had advised her to the best of his ability, despite being as deeply biased on the matter as she is herself:

“If we attack in earnest, more lives other than our Tarra’s may be lost...”

He had not meant it as a deterrent, but as an observation. She had watched as he’d struggled to sound – to be! – impartial, to be a king first and a father second. Though his expression had twisted with pain and panic, he had restricted himself to stating an observation; Mirana, however, had taken it as a warning. She had dared to press him, to test the strength of his objectivity:

“And if her life is lost because we do not attack... because we rely on only the strength of the army’s numbers?”

Dale had done his best to reassure them both: Alice is with her; Leif is with her. Either of them would sacrifice their lives for Tarra. Tarrant’s ingenuity and Alice’s genius will prevail. Irondirk had proven himself years ago, when they had asked him to hunt down all traces of Valereth and Oshtyer, to be a loyal and resourceful servant to the Crown. He will make a positive contribution to Alice and Leif’s mission...

On her shoulders, Dale’s long-fingered, amber-furred paws stir, remind her that she is not alone. It helps... and yet it doesn’t: for a moment she does not feel alone, but she is. She is the queen. This – the assault – had been her decision and it could only have been her decision. Right or wrong, she’d had to decide. She had not asked – forced! – her husband to shoulder this burden. It would have been unforgivable had she put this weight upon his shoulders; she will not permit herself to blame him later should her decision turn out to be the Wrong One. She knows what the consequences of the Wrong Decision may be, but that does not help her identify the Right One. Even now after it has been made and implemented and it is too late to turn back.

“We will know soon,” Dale says, more to himself than to her. Mirana doesn’t mind; she is not the only one who is allowed comfort here. Although, honestly, she knows she ought to be making a better effort on his behalf. “Very soon.”

“Very right now, if you wish, Your Majesties.”

Mirana feels her own eyes widen at the sound of that voice. Gasping, she turns, transferring her grip so that she now clutches one of Dale’s wrists in both of her hands. She looks around him toward the center of her office and there the Cheshire Cat appears on wisps of swirling teal smoke, grinning. As always.

“Chessur!”

“Yes, as always, excellent observation skills, Your Majesty.”

“Have you seen Tarra?” Dale asks before Mirana can.

“Yes, earlier this morning. At the time she was quite safe and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. She appeared to have those.. rebels rather neatly in hand.”

Mirana lets out a sigh of relief... until the memory of Sir Fenruffle’s proposal and her Decree return to her.

“I do hope this means you’ve already pardoned me for not announcing myself at the door but I thought you might like to hear that as soon as possible. In addition, Alice sends a rather urgent message. Although...” he drawls with a slightly worried squint, “I couldn’t help but notice the lack of... army. Perhaps Alice’s concerns were quite valid after all.”

“Her concerns?” Dread returns, beats against her skull and pounds on her breastbone.

Chessur fidgets. “Don’t tell me you’ve acquiesced to any feather-brained, pompous propositions recently... Have you?”

The White Queen draws herself up to her tallest, straightest, most regal bearing. “Perhaps I have. I shall have to hope Alice and I are of one mind on the matter of feather-brained, pompous endeavors.”

Chessur grins sheepishly. He offers no apology for offending her, nor does she expect one from a Cat. “Then I’ll just get on with the message, shall I?”

“Thank you. Although,” she muses, “I suspect there is quite a bit more than that you could tell us.”

“Indeed I could, and indeed I shall. However, I suspect that will take several teatimes.”

She arcs a brow at him. “Is that your very tactful way of requesting a tea service?”

“Well... I have traveled rather far today. Tea would be most appreciated.”

The queen strides back into her office from the balcony and tugs on the Calling Cord.

Seeing this, Chessur is immediately and quantitatively more agreeable. “First and foremost, I think I had better start with Alice’s urgent requests.”

She nods.

“If you would, please have a carriage for three sent to Causwick Callion, along with a dozen from your guard and some basic injury remedies.”

“Causwick... Callion...?” In her shock, she drops the mask of the queen and stares.

“Yes. Interesting development, isn’t it?” the cat remarks. “But I wouldn’t worry that history is repeating; Alice and Tarrant are not alone, per se, in Jaspien’s Castle. The staff there seem to think very fondly of her and, as I happened to cross paths with the Bandersnatch on my way here, I was able to point him in the right direction; he is galumphing into that dreadful swamp even as I speak. However, I doubt he’ll agree to bear a third person when Jaspien insists on accompanying your former Champion and Royal Hatter back here. And then there’s the matter of his luggage. It would appear that the Prince of the Callion is a man of considerable baggage, Your Majesty.”

Mirana goggles at him for a very long moment. “Yes, I see,” she finally manages. “This will require several teatimes.”

The Cat grins wider. “Well, I certainly won’t complain and, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, I do believe you might also benefit from multiple servings yourself.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Chessur,” she replies, moving toward the tea table just as a knock sounds on the door. Tea is ordered and Alice’s requests addressed and when the three of them are alone again she reaches out a hand to her husband. No, they are not perfect monarchs – their hands, clasped on the tabletop, attest to the continued fear and apprehension that they feel as Parents – but they are in Control again. Alice has sent the singularly most important thing a monarch who is facing a rebellion could ask for: reliable information.

But before Chessur can divulge the wealth of knowledge he has gathered, a rather doggy sort of knock sounds on the office door.

Biting back a growl of frustration, Mirana calls out, “Enter!”

Warily, Bayne does. “I beg—your pardon for—interrupting—Your Majesties—but Sir—Fenruffle—ordered me to—deliver this—as quickly—as possible.”

She holds out her hand for the scroll tied onto the underside of his collar. He makes a valiant effort to hold still despite his heaving sides and turns his face away so that the foam and drool on his jowls do not smear her skin or the sleeves of her dress. She has half a thought to thank him for his presence of mind, but then the scroll is unrolling and its contents shouting at her in silent black ink and...

“No,” Dale rumbles. “This is not possible!”

Mirana stares at the Champions’ Challenge in her hands. She gapes at the perfectly worded issuance of Intent to Do Battle and the signature beneath it.

She does not even reprimand Chessur when he evaporates and then brazenly hovers over her shoulder.

“Ah, yes. I was getting to that.” He sends an irritated glance at Bayne, who puffs his chest up as much as his panting breaths allow. “Tarra appears to be cooperating with the rebels. If I’m not mistaken, it was she who assisting them with the drafting of this Challenge.”

“But... no. No, your ears must have fooled you, Chessur,” she somehow manages to say. “Tarra is the child of a Soul Bond. How could she... How would that even be possible?”

Chessur does not reply.

Bayne’s only contribution is his continued winded breathing.

Dale curls his arm around her shoulders.

The wordless silence is heavy enough to crush oyster shells.

This is why she should not ask questions to which she already knows the horrifying answers. But no. No! Mirana will not consider these blasphemous thoughts now. Not now!

Mirana shakes her head, refusing what she hears, what she thinks, what she suspects.

“She stood against Alice. Resisted rescue,” Chessur continues in tone meant to be merciful. “And both Leif and Irondirk are their prisoners.”

“Alice...?”

“Yes, if what Mallymkun told me is true, Tarra fought Alice when she dared to attempt a rescue. Tarrant was badly injured – in the melee, I believe; although, I confess, I never really confirmed the details of when and how it had happened. Still... They were forced to retreat. I found them at Causwick Castle, where Alice no doubt traded a guarantee of safe passage to Mamoreal for succor.”

Dale growls. Mirana rubs his arm. Yes, she knows that promise was not Alice’s to make – that favor was not hers to give – but Mirana would rather allow her that latitude than contemplate any harm coming to her Champion or her Hatter.

“Have you heard why Prince Jaspien wishes to visit Mamoreal?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

Mirana drops her gaze to the parchment – already wrinkled – in her grasp. She stares at her daughter’s handwriting, at her signature which promises her life for the cause that these rebels have rallied themselves around.

No! This was not supposed to happen!

And yet it has.

Mirana realizes then, as she stares at the Declaration of Intent to Do Battle, that she would never have truly believed Chessur and his tale of her daughter’s apparent participation in all of this. She would not have wanted to believe it. The very idea that Tarra would – could! – move against her own mother, against her own family, against the White Crown is inconceivable.

But not impossible.

Tarra had never taken her Vows.

And if the Soul Bond is permitting her daughter to do this, to even think it, then there must be some merit to what these rebels fight for... Otherwise, how could Tarra have signed her own name here, on this document? Otherwise, how could the moral compass that the Soul Bond provides for their children permit this?

Otherwise, how could Princess Tarranya of Mamoreal become the Champion of the New Resistance?

But there is another option:

Or, a small, very Dark part of her mind whispers, if the Soul Bond and the moral compass that it provides has... broken...

No. No, no, no. That thought is far worse than considering the possibility that Mirana is in the Wrong and these rebels fight for a Just Cause. That thought is far too terrifying to contemplate.

She draws a deep breath and glances at Bayne. He has gotten control of his breathing finally and is waiting for her response. Sir Fenruffle is waiting for her response.

But the White Queen has no response to this. Despite the warmth of her husband’s arm against her shoulders, Mirana is utterly alone.

I need my Champion!

“Chessur,” Mirana asks shakily. “Does Alice have a plan?”

“Well, she did not say as much to me, but...”

“But?” she prompts.

Chessur sighs fondly. “But, my dear queen, when doesn’t she?”

And because that is absolutely true, Mirana manages to collect herself. Tarra is fine. An assault is not necessary. Alice will be here soon. Everything is under control.

“Yes,” she replies, speaking with confidence for what feels like the first time since Master Setteeson had arrived so many days ago. She pats Dale’s hand and concurs, “Yes, you are quite right, Chessur. When doesn’t she?”

It is not a question.

It is a guarantee.