manniness | Chapter Eleven: Duty and Betrayal (2)

And the second half...
This entry is rated M for non-explicit sexual situations.

*~*~*~*

Tamial Hightopp – purveyor of the Past and sharer of Secrets – has been demoted, just as he’d expected.

That doesn’t make him feel any better, though.

He watches from the parlor window as the carriage pulls away. The carriage in which Uncle Hamish and Win are riding. The carriage they will take to the company office to look up the name of the captain and each member of the crew that had sailed on the ship Lowell Manchester had left for America aboard. The carriage that will take them on their adventure. Or rather, the carriage they will use to complete Tam’s Adventure.

Yes, he’s jealous. This time yesterday afternoon, this adventure had belonged to him and Win. Just the two of them. If he’d known that Uncle Hamish would be taking his place, he wouldn’t have been so quick to confess to what they’d seen in the looking glass, that’s for sure!

Or... is it?

Tam sighs. Last night, despite telling secrets and confessing to Things he Should Not Have Done – confessed voluntarily! Without being caught or even suspected beforehand! – he had felt... Well, of course he’d been scared at the time. The things he’d seen had been scary. And thoughts of his punishment for being so reckless had been a little frightening. But, last night, he’d felt... stronger. Strong enough to take his punishments – whatever they would be – because it had been more important to help Win. Last night, he’d felt a little bit... heroic.

Today, however, he feels like a heel.

It could have been him going out with Win, infiltrating Uncle Hamish’s office during the man’s “croquet match” and trying to deduce who might have done Lord Manchester’s dirty work for him aboard the ship. Lowell hadn’t boarded it already dead, of course! So... how had they done it? Had it been the captain and a poisoned bottle of liquor? Had it been a sailor and an argument over a card game? Had it been an anonymous shove during a storm, an “accidental” knock on the head?

Tam shivers. His Imagination is making his mind a very Dark and Unsettling place today. The weather doesn’t help, either; it’s raining. Again.

He’s tempted to go back upstairs to the looking glass and request a nice sunny day to escape to!

At the thought of sunny days, Tam recalls the gardens around the castle at Mamoreal. He misses those warm days. He misses his friends. He wonders about Lanny and Ian... and he wonders about that little rath they’d found before Tam had been told to pack up his things.

“We’re going home to Iplam,” his Fa had said and, at the time, the words had made no sense whatsoever. Iplam had always been That Place Where We Spend A Few Weeks Every Summer Working Hard Building and Fixing Things. It had never been home. Not to Tam. The castle was – is – home! And he misses everything about it:

His two best friends and the croquet pitch...

The four young jabberwockies that sometimes swoop down for a visit and the gossiping cherry trees...

Thackery’s nonsensical and haltingly told tales as he bangs around in the kitchen...

Mally’s stern lectures on the proper way to pass the sugar at tea...

The hat workshop...

The balconies...

The chatty doorknobs and grouchy keyholes and...

“Tamial? Are you all right?”

He looks up as Aunt Margaret lays a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t want her to see him cry, so he turns back to the window and glares out at the gray day and rain-drenched street.

“I wanted to go with them,” he mutters.

She sighs. “And they would have invited you, but your father is very upset that you’d traveled through the looking glass without permission.”

“You didn’t have to tell them...” Oh, the betrayal! Why, when he grows up, he’s going to be Different. No, he won’t run around telling adventuresome children’s parents what they’ve been up to!

“Yes, I did, dear,” she replies.

Well. There’s really no way to argue with that. He huffs. Grown ups!

“When can I go home?” he asks, then winces when he realizes that “home” is in Iplam, not Mamoreal. He sighs. At least the weather’s better there than it is here!

“Your father said he would come and get you tomorrow night.”

Tam nods and, having nothing else to say to the woman who had turned coat and ratted him out, he heads out of the room and toward the stairs. As Tam has no interest in books or sewing or younger cousins, he finds himself in the dusty attic again.

He listlessly searches for that parasol that Aunt Margaret had requested but he hasn’t been able to find yet. And still can’t.

He wastes the rest of the day up there... with all of the other forgotten, useless, homeless things.

*~*~*~*

After the Challenge – containing the queen’s acceptance and Alice’s signature – has been sent on its way to Crimson Harbor and the rebels (and Alice’s own apprentice) there, Alice finds the royal family in the queen’s tower parlor.

Over the years and with the birth of each child, rooms had been opened and refurbished along the spiral staircase; this tower has always been the home of Mirana’s family. Always. Well... with one recent exception: Tarra had moved into Alice’s old Champion’s quarters the same day she had donned her uniform for the first time. And this is not the first time Alice has had to interrupt the queen’s private time with her family although this is the first time doing so has unsettled her.

Yes, just as she had suspected – imagined, dreaded – they are all taking this turn of events Very Badly. Tarrant especially. There is nothing Alice can do to change what must happen – and it must happen; after deliberating on the possible outcomes during the journey back to Mamoreal, Alice had realized that this sacrifice must be made... she only hopes it will have the effect she hopes for – but her job now is to see to the queen and her children’s safety and wellbeing. There will be time for Tarrant soon, she knows. But this – her duty – must come first.

She opens the door, surveys the room, and calls forth every ounce of courage she has. She must show them that everything is fine. They must have confidence, faith, and an open mind or Alice’s death will be for naught.

“I will show you that there is nothing to fear,” Alice says, holding out a hand for Amallya to take. The young hattress is still in shock – hearing that your sister will fight for the enemy on the morrow is rather startling news – so it takes the young woman a moment before she notices Alice’s outstretched hand... and takes it. Mirana looks up from where she has pressed her face into Thacie’s hair. Next to her, Alicibeth holds her mother’s hand, looking very pale and drawn. Alice includes Chestor, Dalerian, Leivlan, and the king in her invitation. “Come with me.”

They do.

She leads them through the castle corridors and up the winding stairs of the Far South Tower... to the room where Absolem still guards and oversees the Oraculum. When she opens the door, he is perched on the podium that holds the scroll. Waiting.

“Am I late?” she asks him with a wry smile.

His wings rise and fall in the approximation of an exasperated shrug.

“Yes,” she continues, “but I’m sure you’re used to it by now.” She imagines Absolem would very much like to call her stupid again and the memory of him doing so tickles her. She struggles to keep the humor from eking out: Tarrant would most definitely not welcome the sensation. Not now. Not today.

“Look,” Alice invites the queen and Mirana steps forward to regard the silent oracle. The scene is the same as it has been for over a year:

Tarra stands with Leif beneath the arbor, his First Claw is on its leather cord but around her neck and his expression is one of pure flunderwhapped wonderment.

“How could this still be the future if Tarra isn’t still acting as your Champion?” Alice asks her and Mirana shudders, reaching out blindly for her. Alice gathers the queen in her arms as the king, whose paw is resting on his wife’s back, takes his turn peering down at the scroll. Their children follow him.

Although everyone is still unnaturally silent, there is a measure of hope to it now that lifts the horrible weight from their shoulders and smooths the frowns of worry from their brows.

Mirana makes no move to untangle herself from her Champion’s embrace and so Alice nods for the king to escort the children out the still open door. Gesturing, he gathers everyone and herds them into the stairwell.

“You see?” Alice whispers softly to the queen – her friend – as the door closes behind the king and the children. “Everything will be all right.”

“No, no it won’t!” Mirana insists. “How can you even think that when you will be dead and it will be my daughter who has murdered you?”

Alice places her hands on the queen’s arms and gives her a gentle shake. “Stop. Stop this, Mirana, and listen to me! I will not turn Tarra into a murderer. I will not.”

The queen stakes a deep breath and opens her eyes.

Alice promises, “The hand that delivers my death will not be Tarra’s.”

Mirana’s brow clears as Alice’s oath is absorbed by the silence. But then she frowns in thought, “Alice, whose hand then, will it be?”

She reaffirms her grip on her friend’s arms for a moment before dropping her hands. “I cannot tell you; please don’t ask.”

“But... I don’t understand...”

“I know you don’t and I’m sorry. But I need you to have faith in me, in my promise to put a stop to the rebellion, to bring your daughter home safe and unharmed. Yes, she will be Changed by these events, but she will not carry the stain of murder on her hands or soul.”

Mirana examines Alice’s face and Alice submits to the searching stare. After a long moment, the queen nods. “I believe you, Alice.”

“Thank you.”

For another moment, neither woman moves. And then Mirana sighs out a breath of relief. “Everything really will be all right,” she says and, finally, it is not a question.

“Yes. And when the time is right, step forward and offer the rebels amnesty and open negotiations.”

“Negotiations? You still believe they will want to fight after they watch you... a woman... a wife and mother... fall on the battlefield?”

Alice assures her, “It is my intention to turn them against Death, not War. The issues that gave rise to this rebellion will not have gone away. They must be addressed. We must find a way to allow the people of the White Realm to partake in all traditions that have shaped their heritage. Even fighting.”

“But I have forbidden it. The risks... My vows...”

“I know. But you will find a way,” Alice consoles her. “I trust you, Mirana, my most saganistute friend. You will find a way.”

The queen’s eyes mist with tears and Mirana’s voice quavers when she speaks. “I should forbid you to die, Alice. I will never forgive myself if I do not.”

“Don’t think on it,” Alice tells her. “Think only of Tarra, of peace, of Underland. And yes, some sacrifices must be made for that, some concessions must be given. But it will not be in vain.”

Mirana nods, defeated by Alice’s logic. Alice reaches around her and raps on the door. A moment later, the king – who stands alone on the landing – opens it and ushers his wife outside.

“Are you coming with us?” he asks softly. The sadness in his eyes tells her that he had overheard their conversation. Alice doesn’t mind; Mirana will need him to be strong for her and he will best accomplish that by understanding what she is facing.

“Not yet, Your Majesty,” she replies in an equally soft tone.

He nods. “I shall leave the door open, then.”

Alice watches them go and only when the door at the base of the turret has shut behind them does she turn back to Absolem.

“There is one thing – two things – I would like to know,” she begins. He does not look surprised by this. But, then again, nothing surprises Absolem. “Will Tarrant be all right? Will Tam understand?”

For a long moment, Absolem does nothing. He gives her no indication that he had even heard her. But then he flaps his wings, rising over the Oraculum. With practiced ease, alights on one half of the scroll and walks it closed. He continues walking and, beneath the rolled up parchment, the top of the podium moves as well. Absolem measures out a length that seems agreeable to him and then, with a flick of one of his legs, kicks it open.

Alice steps forward and looks down at the scene. It is – undeniably – of the future, of the distant future. And the scene is one that she once mentioned to Tarrant moments after she’d realized it might be Possible. And it is more than Possible. If all goes as planned, it will be Fact. A Future Fact.

She sighs. “Thank you, Absolem.”

He nods and closes the Oraculum once more. There is no reason to linger now, so Alice turns toward the open door and makes her exit.

She knows where she has to go next. She follows her feet through the castle, taking a path that is as familiar as it is missed. She goes home: to her and Tarrant’s and Tamial’s apartment, where her husband is waiting for her.

“He’s in a foul mood,” the keyhole warns her.

“Yes, I can Feel it,” she agrees and opens the door.

The room looks exactly as they’d left it when they’d left for Iplam. White sheets are still draped over the furniture. Aside from the un-sheeted looking glass through which they had sent their son to London only days earlier, Tarrant is the only source of realness in the entire room of ghostly, vague shapes.

“You took the sling off,” she observes.

“I’m fine,” he insists. In the wake of his declaration, the silence somehow seems more... alive, inescapable, malicious.

“Margaret sent a letter while we were... away,” he lisps, not looking up from the closed book in his hands. “It’s on the table.”

Alice doesn’t alter her course to collect it. She sits beside him on the sofa and wraps her arms around his shoulders. “What did she say?”

He leans his head against hers and lets out a breath. “Tam has gotten into trouble. Galumphing about London with Winslow. Opening up looking glasses and traveling into the past.”

“Did he?”

“Saw Hamish and Lowell’s duel. Your sister wants to know if that’s really possible.”

“And did you reply?”

“Aye.”

She waits a moment, but when he doesn’t elaborate, she gently teases, “And you told her that anything is possible so long as you believe it is?”

He takes a deliberate breath, swallows, and then reaches for her arm.

“I cannae do this,” he declares, not looking up from the tome in his lap. “Please, Alice. Let us save Underland another way.”

Alice pets his hair and inhales his scent. She doesn’t answer his plea with words. Anything she would say at this point would merely be a siren’s call to the madness and she wants him sane. She will not waste a moment with him; she will not let the madness take that from him, from her, from them.

Instead, she collects the book – an encyclopedia of anatomy that had once been part of her mother’s library – and sets it aside. She’d shown him earlier precisely which diagrams they will need to concern themselves with. Alice knows she will not be able to avoid all pain, but she is not interested in tormenting herself, either.

She takes her husband’s right hand and presses it against her skin, positioning his fingers just so. He caresses the unmarred flesh with his fingertips and his gaze focuses on the area. Tomorrow morning, she will be cut open, bleeding... dying...

“No,” he whispers, snatching his hand away and pulling her close. She falls gracelessly in his lap, clutches his shoulders with her hands. “No,” he insists. “No.”

She wants to tell him that everything will be fine; she has seen the future in the Oraculum, after all. She knows that they have only to follow the path that is before them and everything will be just fine. But Tarrant takes no comfort from that document. He trusts prophecies – “And with his Vorpal Sword in hand...” – not rolls of dried up vellum, the images upon which have been known to change from time to time.

Alice closes her eyes and draws upon a line of poetry that had caught her eye one night when she’d been quizzing Tam on his lessons:

“In a blaze of pragmatic invention, he shall wrestle with Fate, and shall reign...”

“... Alice...”

She turns toward the warm breath against her cheek and groans into Tarrant’s hot, insistent, wet mouth. She forgets about the queen, about Jaspien, about the battle on the morrow, about the sacrifice she will make, about the hearts that will be broken.

She gives herself to him and he Takes her. She is his to do with whatever he desires, whatever he must.

He is not gentle.

But, then again, she has never asked him to be.

When his hands tremble, when he leans over her and hesitates, she reaches for him, calls him back to her with a touch, assures him that he is not alone. She is still here. Still his. She takes in the pain from his heart, halves it, marvels at the intensity of his despair. If she had believed he were capable of answering coherently, she might have asked him why...

Why...?

But she doesn’t ask and he cannot say.

Which is fine, in the end. They Speak with hands and lips, legs, hips, and tight grips.

No words are necessary.

*~*~*~*

Notes:

1. The line Alice quotes is from “The Manlet” from The Hunting of the Snark and Other Poems and Verses. Lewis Carroll. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1903. Or check it out here on this webpage: http://www.poetry-archive.com/c/the_manlet.html

2. Why does it have to be Alice who dies and not, say, Tarrant who is also a Champion of Underland? The answer to that is actually very simple and if you can guess it before I “explain” it in the story, I will be one Happy Author. (^__~)

3. And now we see why the scene from the Oraculum (which Mirana first witnessed in the Epilogue of Book 3) is important. Indeed, how can Tarra and Leif still be together in the future if she has betrayed her family? The answer, of course, is: they can't. Hence Alice's faith in her apprentice.