A/N: Two chapters for the price of one! Merry Christmas, fandom. :) (Attack monkeys are not needed to make me post, see? Not one! Unless it's a gift of a attack monkey, and not a monkey chewing my face off...) And ets hear the praise for fiducia, who is just straight up amazing! Chapter ten will be along in a week or so, I suspect. :)

And if I don't see y'all before then, happy holidays!

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 is in the hallway outside of her Apartment at what a freshly buttered clock claims is half past eight in the morning, stomach growling, feeling awkward in a pair of blue jeans and a Tom Petty t-shirt, and Hamish by her side like an overgrown spaniel. They are peering up and down the pretty hall, windows between the doors leading in and out of the two apartments on either side of the hall allowing sunlight to stream in. Hamish had spent several minutes running in and out of the Champion's Apartment, attempting to find the window on the inside wall – but there was only wall, bookshelves, or paintings to be seen. He went so far as to open a window and hang out of it, right into the morning sunshine and cooler air of morning.

"This place," he pronounced as he pulled himself back inside and latched the window shut, "Is mad, isn't it?" He sounded very pleased about it, and it made Alice warm. Her entire life she had suffered for her poor Hammy, who was so caught under the restrictions and ideals of his mother that he was hardly ever allowed to do anything more interesting then watching a football game or two. Even then he had to remain quiet until she was out of ear shot, or Alice's father was in attendance; Charles could get away with nearly anything. Prudence, despite her sneering claims otherwise, held a soft spot for Charles Kingsleigh. Everyone, Alice is forced to admit, holds a soft spot for her father, though. Even an old stick in the mud like Hamish's mum.

Underland, Alice knows, is going to do absolute wonders for her Hamish. It had given him brightness and creativity when they were children, when he would have otherwise grown up as boring and bland as his mother, and now it will grant him a life of Adventure! Alice is more than pleased that he is at her side, accompanying her into the world that had so haunted her – and by proxy, Hamish as well.

"Right," Hamish asks, both of them peering that way before they turn their heads to stare down the opposite side of the hall, "Or left?"

"I don't know," Alice admits. She ponders it a moment, before slanting a sideways glance at her partner-in-crime. Well, Minor Crime, and they were never actually charged (knock on wood). "If you built a castle, where would you put the kitchen in relation to the Champion's Apartment?"

"Ground level," Hamish answers her after only a brief moment of thought, "In the very back."

"Right or left?"

"Left," Hamish proffers his arm and Alice takes it. Together they sweep down the hall, noses in the air, attempting to look as regal as possible, even though Alice has paint stains on her faded jeans, and Hamish is sporting a shirt that reads Trust me, I'm a Jedi, and a fierce sunburn that looks absolutely painful. He is quite used to burning, however, and he suffers through it with only winces and an absolute refusal to let Alice even breathe on his shoulders and the back of his neck, which gained the worse burn Alice has seen on him in years. Out of kindness, Alice has promised to refrain from beating him about the head and shoulders until he starts to peel.

"Jedi?" Alice can't help but jump when the Cheshire Cat speaks from only a few feet ahead of them, sounding as though he would rather be anywhere else. "Dare I inquire, Freckles?"

"I left my light saber at home," Hamish answers Chessur rather blandly, tugging Alice to a stop as the toddler sized Cat appears before them. He isn't smiling, or even looking at them. He is curled up, tail fluttering about under his nose, paws tucked against his fuzzy stomach. "Otherwise I'd give you a demonstration."

"Thank God," Alice can't help but mutter, "You broke my favorite lamp last time you played with your light saber"

"You're just jealous that you don't have an LED Yoda light saber that makes sounds," Hamish sniffs, nose rising so high Alice fears he will give himself a crick in his neck. "Don't worry, though. Alice-bear, I forgive you for your pettiness."

"Has the Queen come to speak to you this morning, Alice?" Chessur breaks in before Alice can explain to Hamish, possibly with artwork, why she is the better Jedi in every way – with or without a LED light saber that makes sounds when moved – and his voice is so terribly terse that it makes Alice's stomach clinch. Her mind flies immediately to Tarrant, remembering how he had come to her after dark, and how he hadn't been able to tell her his task for the White Queen was a safe one. She doesn't like the Cat's troubled eyes or twitching mouth, the nervous knot in her stomach or the fear that – before it has even had a chance to truly begin, she has lost -

"What's happened?" She asks, tightening her grip on Hamish's arm. She does not tuck herself against him and hide, but he is a solid comfort that keeps her standing, and his comfortable, well-loved warmth helps bolster the voice in Alice's mind that is boisterously telling her she is worrying over nothing.

"You'll want to come with me," Chessur watches Alice quite intently, "And do keep your leaking to a -" A violent bang of displaced air cuts the Cat's uncomfortably and surly warning in half, leaving the hair on his neck and down his back to lift in jagged ends as he swirls around, claws exposed and planted firmly on air. A woman has appeared – no, Appeared, Alice corrects herself in shock – behind Chessur, scarlet hair streaming in a wind that visibly whips around her. Her eyes are a blazing gold, her face sharp and cruel and inhuman; black talons lengthen her fingers, and her sharp teeth glitter at Alice even from so far away.

Alice feels almost faint at the sight of her. It is Kore – Persephone of Hades – the woman from Sideways, from Alice's dream -

After Underland and her Hatter, all of her friends and the Marmoreal they are currently residing in, Alice should not be so surprised by her dreams walking into her waking life. She is, however, because she had always, in some part of her heart, believed her Wonderland was real. It had tormented her, that belief, but it made her arrival much easier to handle than it might have been. One dream of a flame haired Goddess does not a believer make, however. At least until she looks like Death incarnate, rocketing forward on bare – bare, shiny, cloven hooves and slender, furry ankles, actually.

She is much less human then Alice remembers her being.

"You!" Kore snarls, her voice so guttural Alice is surprised she can form human words at all. Hamish gives a cry of alarm (terribly close to a shriek, actually, but Alice can't really blame him on that front) and begins to tug Alice backwards. This monstrous version of Kore is entirely focused on Chessur, however, and she lunges, catching nothing but Evaporated mist in her talons. At least, that is all Alice thinks she catches, until there comes a feline yowl – one that makes Alice's eyes water, spine arch, ears ache – which bleeds into the screams of dying man. Chessur flickers back into form – but there is also the superimposed image of man, kneeling, large hands wrapped around Kore's forearm.

He is large, a massive wall of flesh and muscle. His hair is gray with shimmering blue lights when the sunlight bounces off of it, two long braids swinging from his temples, and he grins at Kore from under the shaggy length of his beard.

"I'll kill you for good, this time," Kore hisses, spittle forming at the corners of her mouth. Chessur arches his back and claws the air – the man rocks back-and-forth on his knees, moving on the seemingly insane Goddess's arm where it is inside his chest. "You worthless, no account, yellow traitor! Turncoat, coward, pathetic excuse of flesh or fur! I will gut you, skin you, hang you from my wall and keep your soul to play with, until you are insane, lost, nothing of yourself and a mockery of what you once were!"

Alice starts to lunge forward, to save Chessur – the man – both of them, either of them, she doesn't know. She only wants to stop Kore, because there are supernova's spilling from her mouth, a burning light that sends cracks down the mortal flesh Kore wears, allowing shimmering bits and pieces of Goddess-flesh to peak through. It burns Alice to see it, and Hamish is collapsing, first to his knees and then leaning against the wall, hands gripping Alice's thigh to hold her close to him.

She cannot move when Chessur laughs.

"Troubled," he gurgles, blood falling from his sharp teeth, into his fur and beard. "Korie Leigh?"

"My daughter," Kore howls, stars burst to life in her hair, creating a vibrant crown. Darkness swirls around her, despite the fact it is daylight, sweeping around her shoulders and arms, cloaking her like a robe. "You might have fought, Watcher, you might have helped my daughter and blood-of-my-blood before they were allowed to reach such a state!"

"When did it become my place to fight battles that belong to young godlings and Mad -" Chessur gurgles before he howls, bowing backwards as Kore advances on him. Alice thinks that is entirely possible her hand is wrapped around Chessur's heart, either of them, Man or Cat. Ribs poke, white and cruel, through his flesh and fur.

"Kore," the Goddess goes still and silent at the thundering voice that somehow manages to whisper through the wide hall, causing her shadows to curl in on themselves, hiding against each other. She bares her teeth and snarls, before her eyes slide to the side, her head turns, and she is smirking-smiling-sneering at a massive man who is walking towards her. He is dark haired, and like the Man Chessur on his knees he wears two thin braids as well – that and the fact they are they are both large, thickly muscled men are the only things they have in common, however. This man has no sly, Cat-like angles to him; he is blunt, solid, and sure. He has reflective sunglasses slipping down his narrow nose, stubble on his chin and jaw, and he is wearing a simple white undershirt. Blue jeans, so old they are nearly white and open at the knees, grace his legs, and his feet are covered in heavy boots. He folds his arms across his chest, slows to a saunter and then stops altogether, eying Kore and an About To Be Slain Chessur/Man Chessur with an unreadable expression.

"Kore," he repeats in a lilting accent, "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going to kill him," she informs the man without a hint of remorse – she looks rather excited about it, actually. Hamish moans and presses his head to his knees. Alice supports herself on his huddled, burnt shoulders, and tries to keep calm.

"Sweetheart," he sighs, reaching out, threading his fingers with shadows and scarlet hair, a star falls down until it rests on his second knuckle, "You are scaring the Champion of Underland and her Hamish terribly."

Kore slants them a glance, and she hunkers her shoulder. She does not remove her hand from Chessur's chest.

"I can make them forget," she defends herself, "I'm going to kill him, Cern, and nothing you can do is going to stop me."

"Sweetheart," he sighs again, looking rather tired, "We don't have time to explain to the Council why you killed him."

"I always have Time," Kore says loftily, "He is my brother, after all."

"Tempus won't like all the paperwork," this Cern points rather sensibly, "And he's quite stung with Underland in general, at the moment, over his own blood, no less. Come now, sweetling, let go of the Cat."

"It seems your wife has stolen my heart!" Chessur can't seem to keep the quip to himself, and he groans, vivid green eyes rolling violently as Kore does something to him.

"Twice you have left what is dear to me when they needed some help, and you could have provided it," Kore whips towards Chessur, pushing her face close to (both) of his, forcing him to confront the power swirling in her throat, dripping from her tongue, "The third shall be the last thing you do in any sort of form. Remember who you were, and what you stood for. I once called you a beloved friend and ally – now I cannot even call you trustworthy!" Kore straightens, plants one hoof in Chessur's chest (both of them, once again) and uses the force of her kick to shoot him off her hand. The man sprawls at Alice's feet, before he is only the Cheshire Cat again, rough pink tongue caught between his teeth as bones begin to snap and mend in a violent show of healing.

"What if," Kore says as she turns and leans into the man's chest, hooves and furry calves turning into pale skin and little feet with short clipped toe nails. Her fingernails go from talons to bitten down stubs, and the stars and shadows that had both crowned and robed her disappear, as though they had never been. "What if we had – I can't loose another, Cern, I can't loose another -"

"We won't," he tells her, rocking side-to-side, chin on top of her head; even though he has to bend down to achieve that task. "We won't loose any more babies, Kore, neither of us. I promise you. Now – I believe you have a meeting to go into with Titania?"

Kore grumbles something against his chest, and Alice can't hear it. She slips onto her knees, wrapping a comforting arm around Hamish.

"Go on," Cern urges Kore, rubbing one large hand up and down her back, "Go. The High Council needs convincing, and I can't think of two more terrifying Queen's to get the task done. I will stay with Ophelia and our young Hightopp."

Alice's heart gives a curious, painful jerk in her chest.

"I love you," Kore says quietly, standing on top toes to kiss the underside of his chin. "If she wakes up, you'll send for me, won't you?"

"Of course," Cern pulls off his glasses, revealing dark blue eyes that glimmer warmly on what can only be his wife – which would make him Hades, Death in the flesh, and Alice's skin begins to crawl at the thought - "And I love you, even though you're an over dramatic girl, and a trial to put up with."

"Don't get me started," Kore takes a step back, out of his grasp, settling her hands on her hips, "Or you'll be crawling under a rock to get away from me."

"Nag, nag, nag – go on, woman."

Kore disappears, and Death gives Alice, Hamish, and the half-broken Chessur a rather tired smile.

"You'll have to forgive her," he says as he bends and offers Alice and Hamish each a rough hand, pulling them upright, even going so far as to help Hamish prop himself against the wall. He hunkers down, peering at Chessur's face. Alice suspects that if he were still showing off bits of man flesh, he would be pale and pained – as it is, his jagged teeth are clinched and he is grinning almost manically at the ceiling. "A mother is a vicious warrior. I'm sure you recall that, old friend."

"It's been centuries since someone handled my heart so roughly," Chessur grates out, laughing, hind legs twitching, "And in such a forward manner! You might talk with her about propriety, Cern."

"I'll put that at the top of my Honey Do-list. Need a bit of help?"

"Whatever for? I'm perfectly fine!" Chessur Evaporates without a sound, simply fading into mist. Cern sighs before straightening, brushing his hands together. Despite his handsome face and the fact he has arms like tree trunks, there is something almost comforting and fatherly about the way he looks at Alice and Hamish.

"Poor children," he sighs, holding out those large arms and gesturing forwards, "Come here, come along. We need to talk."

"The – the fuck -" Hamish wheezes, shaking violently, his eyes gone half-wild. Cern's mouth goes tight, and he brushes his fingertips over Hamish's forehead before Hamish jerks away with a cry of alarm. Alice cannot blame him for it at all. "What are – what are -"

"Poor children," Cern sighs again, taking off his sunglasses, hanging them from the front of his shirt by one ear piece. "Eat something, and then we'll talk."

"Eat?" Hamish practically squeals, "I can't eat after that, I'm -"

"You can," Cern assures him, and when Alice and Hamish each get a guiding hand on the back of their necks, turning them around marching them down the hallway, Alice is positive it is in their best interest follow.

Cern explains who he is to Hamish over a breakfast that is laid on delicate bone china on a round table that is covered in a prettily embroidered table cloth (bread-and-butterflies fluttering from flower to flower, seeming to stop and have conversations before they move on to the middle, peeping up at the people eating atop their home). Hamish takes it much better then Alice expected him to, in that he did not faint even once. He is the God of Wild Places and the Hunt, as well as Life, Death, and Rebirth.

"I was born a godling, crawled right out of the Cauldron without any warning. The High God and Goddess weren't expecting it, I don't think, but they kept me as tame as they could," he explained, giving the fragile china he pours black coffee into a frown, as though it might catch fire and burn him when he picks it up. Hamish has no such worries, however, and is gratefully attacking the bitter brew – Alice is actually surprised he isn't drinking straight from the silver pot it was brought to them in. "Found Nowhere and claimed, and eventually went from a godling to a true God. Then I met Kore, and, well..."

"Well?" Hamish prompts, warming up to the deity quickly. There is something about coffee drinkers, Alice sees, that draws them together, no matter that they are two entirely different people. If they can both agree on a blend, then surely they must be eternal soul mates.

"Well," Cern repeats, before sighing and taking a long pull of his drink. He sighs happily, cradling the little cup between his hands. "It's a very long story after I met her. Go on, finish eating."

"You're not going to, like..." Hamish pauses, searching for the right word, "Reap me while you're here, are you?"

"Morrigan's knickers, no!" Cern curses, sitting his cup down to wave his hands in the air, "I mean, well, as long as you don't do something really stupid, like jumping off the tallest tower of Marmoreal! Then you're fucked, kid, and we are going to have a very long talk before I let you have corporeal form again."

"I won't," Hamish promises, looking a bit twitchy all the same.

"Alice, dear," Cern points to her plate, "Eat your eggs, please."

Alice prods them with her fork.

"I'm not very hungry," she informs him in a Tone that always makes Hamish look at the toes of his shoes and never, ever question her on anything she says or does unless it is absolutely life-threatening. "You mentioned Tarrant Hightopp earlier, what happened? Is he alright – is he here?"

"Alice, dear," Cern does that whispering-thunder voice, making Alice's chair shake under her even as toast, small knife, and pat of butter rise into the air. The butter is quickly and evenly spread on the toast, leaving Cern to reach up and snag it, leaning back in his chair and showing her too many of white teeth. "Eat your eggs, now."

Alice eats her eggs, leaving not even crumbs of them on the plate. Hamish practically licks his plate clean, and then eyes it, as though wondering if he should attempt to eat the china, just to be on the safe side of things.

"Very good," Cern praises them both, reaching out and patting Alice's hand, giving her a pleased smile and nod. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Keeps your energy up! Why, when Kore and I were – never mind. I'm getting a bit random in my dotage. Turning into Dagda, he could talk for England...right. Young Mister Hightopp -"

Cern cuts himself off, tapping his long, blunt fingers against his knees, staring towards the sky, a frown curling at his lips. Alice chews on her tongue to keep from screaming at him.

"Hightopp was traveling through Bigh Shidewe Wood, early this morning, accompanied by a White Guard numbered sixteen strong. In an attack planned, formed, and no doubt led by the Unnamed Ones – but you don't know about them, do you?" Cern pauses, brow furrowing before he waves his hand. "That can be explained later, though. Hightopp and the guard was attacked by a horde of shadow demons -"

"Demons?" Hamish drawls in horror, eyebrows crawling towards his hairline. "What do you – like – you -?"

"No, no, not me," Cern levels a faintly reproaching look on Hamish, "Good grief, boy, what are they teaching you these days? Honestly. Where was I? Unnamed Ones, Bigh Shidewe – right, they were attacked the shadow demons, and most unfortunately all the White Guards have passed into Nowhere -"

"Nowhere?" Hamish questions rather faintly.

"They're dead," Alice says in a whisper-thin voice, hands trembling violently. "Aren't they?"

"Bodies die, Champion," Cern tells her gently, "Souls rarely do. Yours has gone to Nowhere several times, and it will come back again; and look at you, twice you've been Alice Kingsleigh, Champion of the White Queen, Marmoreal, and Underland! Those brave soldiers will follow the Wheel of Life, just like you did."

Alice cannot summon up more then a nod, fear twisting her gut. What if – what if Tarrant – she can't even think it. The thought causes a violent ache in her chest and steals her breath.

"My daughter went to the aid of your Hightopp," Cern tells her very gently, one large, heavily calloused hand reaching out to grip Alice's. She finds herself clinging to him, because he is solid and strong, and his eyes hold secrets, so many secrets in their starry depths - "Thanks to Ophelia's assistance, the Hightopp is alive. He is -"

Alice can't help but let out a great, wavering noise of relief, slumping against the back of the chair and allowing her eyes to close. She isn't one for tears, normally, but she wants to cry, now that she knows he is alive, and – she had been so scared! She has only just come back to her Wonderland, after all, and what is the point of being there if there is no Hatter, or tea parties, or riddles, or rhymes, or games? Alice thinks the world would loose color and words would loose grace if he was to leave it anyway.

"There, now," Cern croons softly, reaching up to run a hand over her golden hair, his eyes and touch gentle, "I didn't think of how worried you must have been, I'm sorry for dragging that out. He is alive, but he is wounded -"

"Wounded?" Alice rockets to her feet, tugging her hand from the God's and fairly turning a helpless circle as she looks towards the entrances back into Marmoreal. "How badly? Where is he?"

"Alice," Hamish nearly whispers, taking her elbow as he stands, shuffling their chairs out of the way to hover protectively over her. "Calm down."

"Calm down!" Alice feels the blood rushing to her head in one great, rolling surge of anger. "I've only just gotten him back, Hamish! Do you realize that? I died before I came back to him, and he went even Madder waiting on me! Now I am here, and he is wounded, and I am eating eggs as though – as though that even matters!"

"He's unconscious," Cern speaks up, not standing, once more staring at the sky. "He's suffering from the Waste– means he's burnt out, magically, I mean. It's going to take him a while to fully recover from. Weeks, I would assume. He has external injuries that are not pleasant, but they will be gone within a few days. Not only is the White Queen looking after him, my daughter Rhiannon has arrived, and is assisting in the Infirmary. I can show you to the Infirmary, if you would -"

"Now," Alice nearly snaps, before she remembers the thunder of his voice and the stars in his eyes, and thinks to tack only a slightly less demanding, "Please."

"I'm at your service," Cern spreads his hands, and if he is anything other then sincere, Alice really doesn't care.

"Wake up, you foul little godling!" Ophelia slams into the solid floor of the White Army's Infirmary, pain rocketing like liquid fire from neck to the rest of her body. Her stomach churns in the wake, and she scrambles to her knees; even though she is of divine blood she still has healing left to do, and though she has been tight scrapes, she can't remember ever feeling so weak or useless after a battle. Magic had wrapped her from every side when she fought to save the life of the Hatted man, fought against the demons that flickered from shadow-to-shadow, seeking godling blood to strengthen them. She had been drained, turned over and dumped out, and now she feels as though she is a cold, empty cup that is threatening to collapse in on it's self without volume to keep her sides up.

"Stand up," rough hands grip her shoulders, dragging her to her feet. They release her before she has found her balance and she wobbles and wavers violently, stumbling several steps forward before she curls her hands into fists and locks her knees. Her right one is a mess, Rhiannon had told her before a combination of Will'O'Wisp and Northern Wind had knocked Ophelia right back into unconsciousness, a state she had been free of for perhaps a quarter of an hour before she was once again drugged. "Weak, pampered little girl, can't you even stand on your own?"

"Kiss my glow in the dark ass you mold licking, two-faced, cowardly -" Man-Chessur's hand appears, devoid of arm or body, and slams into Ophelia's face with the force of a train. It is an open handed hit, and Ophelia is dimly thankful; she thinks his fist would have killed her. Rhiannon had informed her of her injuries in the short time she was awake; a ruptured tendon in her neck tops the list, and Ophelia nearly howls as violent pain slashes from her skull to her toes as her head jerks with the force of the hard slap. She twists as she falls, landing across her bed. She struggles to her feet, tasting blood and seeing red even in the dim shadows of the Infirmary.

The Hatted man is abed, close to Ophelia. A young woman is with him, settled in a chair, bent at the waist and sleeping on the mattress beside him. Her hand clutches his, and Ophelia finds the scene rather sweet, the pair of them in the moonlight, before a boot is in her back and she is being ground into the mattress.

"Get up," clothing is tossed to the bed beside Ophelia, "Get dressed. Quickly."

"I can barely walk," Ophelia snarls, wriggling and swinging her elbows and hands behind her, attempting to free herself. The boot presses harder, and Ophelia feels her back slowly but surely dislocating. "Or bend my head, and I'm Wasted, Burnt Out! How do you think I can train if I can't -"

"Do you think your Golden father is going to stop attacking you when you're wounded?" The boot leaves Ophelia's back, a massive body replaces it. Ophelia squeezes her eyes shut, chest aching as she Remembers things that make her believe Ogma's hissed words. "Or your uncle? I was there, you know, when your mam was taken from Bellan Moir, I saw what he did to her. He'll enjoy you, weak thing; you'll be easy to break and remold. You'll make a nice replacement for your mammie, won't you? He didn't stop when she was injured – he used her harder, very nearly ripped her open to break her. You won't even be able to fight him -"

Ophelia snarls like an animal, thrashing violently, stars bursting behind her eyes as she slaps outwards with a mean press of magic. It slams into the Man Chessur, who gives a mean laugh and stands.

"Training field," he tells her, the tip of one boot pressing against the bend of her injured knee, a warning of what he Could Do. "Quickly, or I'll kill you now. It would be a blessing, godling. I would be much nicer then your father or uncle."

Ophelia struggles to her feet, panting, rage boiling inside her chest. She nearly rips the aged, faded pajamas someone had brought her to wear off, hopping into a pair of trousers, gritting her teeth to stem tears as she jerks a leather tunic on. Rough hands appear out of the air – Ophelia feels so angry she is faint when she realizes the bastard had stood and watched her dress, again – tugging hard at the side laces, until she is tied into the training armor she favors. She jams her feet into her boots, unlaced and sitting at the end of her bed, pleased when they lace themselves up for her.

She clomps to out of the castle and to the training field, vision swimming, hands trembling violently. She can't fight, she knows that – she can't fight, she can barely bloody walk. But she would rather die then give that evil, nasty Cat the satisfaction of watching her fail. If he does kill her, at least she knows that her parents will introduce a world of hurt on him; no amount of smooth talking or Evaporating will save his furry hide from her mam, and she hopes they will wait until she is recovered from the River to watch him be skinned. Alive, preferably.

"Look at you," he sneers, circling her, a cruel amusement in his large eyes, a Cat playing with a Mouse. Ophelia isn't used to being seen as such – she's a royal child, a Wanderer of Nowhere, and of Teutates bloodline; the general masses are scared of her, without Ophelia having to do a thing to make them that way. She isn't stalked, ordered about, slapped around - "I've fought armies – legions! - in much worse shape then this, and you can barely summon up enough strength to do more then glare at me!"

"Give me my swords," Ophelia snarls, letting her anger push her past the pain that is sweeping through her body, mingling with the after affects of the potions she has been given for Healing. "I'll show you how much fucking strength I have."

"You don't deserve to carry them," Man Chessur snaps, swirling around to stand in front of her. He glares her down, large body outlined by the moon behind him, his face in shadows. "You're a pitiful, pathetic creature, and I won't let you sully Kore's First Blades with your fumbling, shameful attempts. Watching you pretend to be a warrior was sickening! You'll fight me with what you have here and now – yourself! Nothing else! No godling magic, not that you have any left..."

He lunges for her without warning. Ophelia attempts to dart to her left, used to being light and nimble, quick on her feet. Her wounds and exhaustion slow her. He doubles a fist, drives it into her stomach, and watches her fly backwards. She hits the ground gurgling on bile, but she finds her feet as quickly as she can, centering herself in a low, defensive crouch even though she has spots in her vision.

Ogma, Champion of the Tuatha dé Danann, beats the living hell out of Ophelia that night. By the end she is unable to stand, her stomach is heavy and filled with sloshing warmth, and she is choking on her own blood. She knows her injuries are worse then when she began; she has internal bleeding, she cannot see from her left eye, and she thinks her knee has snapped to the point she is permanently lamed. She has never fought so hard in her life, and all she has to show to for it are death wounds and the bleeding lacerations she gorged into Chessur-Ogma's stomach when her instincts had kicked in and talons (not nearly as large or deadly as her mam's, but more weapon then she'd had before them) had developed. She lays on the ground, wheezing as her lungs fill with fluid. Man Chessur leans over her, one hand touching his bloody abdomen.

"This is it?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "Useless! I haven't got enough Time in any world to turn you into the warrior you ought to be." He bends over her, letting her see, with her one good eye, the tip of thick, rough pink tongue poking from between his jagged teeth. He bites down, blood dribbling from his mouth as he grips her chin and leans over her. Ophelia struggles as best she can, but despite the fact she has the will to fight, she hasn't got the ability. His mouth presses over hers, bleeding tongue forcing her lips open, the pressure he puts on the hinges of her jaw keeping her from biting him. His blood fills her mouth, slips down her throat and Ophelia gags, almost retches. He sits up on his knees, fastening a hand over her mouth, forcing her to swallow.

"You aren't worthy of my blood," he tells her, not cruelly, not even with amusement, but matter-of-factly – and Ophelia hates the fact she believes him. "Not yet. But you will be Healed. Much better then the potions and poultices you would normally receive." He lets go of her mouth, and Ophelia rolls on her side, vomiting violently. The fluid clears her lungs and chest, the blood comes up from her stomach, and she collapses on the ground, trembling and desperate for a proper breath of air as inside her chest her ribs snap-crackle-pop like breakfast cereal as they heal.

By the time vision begins to return to her left eye, she is being lifted by Ogma. Everything turns to Mist and Darkness, coldness trickles between Ophelia's fingers and she can hear voices, so many voices – and then they are standing in her borrowed bed chamber at Marmoreal. Man Chessur strides forward and lays her on the bed, not carefully but with no extra force or cruelty. He bends over her, going about unlacing her tightly pulled and laced boots.

The drinking of ichor is taboo. Ophelia doesn't know why, exactly, but she knows it is. In many cases it can be healing to a godling or another deity, but it is practically forbidden. She can count on her fingertips the times her parents have loosened their veins to save each other, and in bardic tales of her parents the act is seen as an act of complete devotion. Ogma has no devotion towards Ophelia, neither her to him, and she knows this is not case; love did not make him act. There is something else, her mind is quick to tell her, he is playing at some game.

She is still the Mouse. She does not understand the game that she is now a part of, and she realizes that an open-ended boon with the Smiling God was probably not her best idea. In fact, it's starting to look as though it will be worse then the time she set her Mimi Velma's house on fire.

"Sleep," Man Chessur says firmly as he pulls at her arms until she sits up, his fingers making quick work of the laces of her leather tunic, before he is yanking it off of her. Ophelia grits her teeth and forces her weak arms to snag a pillow to protect her modesty. What little she has, at least. "Idiot girl, I could care less about what ever fair wares you think might interest me. Put that down – down!" He easily wrestles the pillow from Ophelia, and she levels a glare on him that could cut through several sheets of steel, remaining stiff legged and taunt while he attempts to get her trousers off her.

He plants a hand in her chest, holds her down, and rips her trousers off. Ophelia bites her tongue on a shriek of outrage, hating the fact she is too weak to do more then kick him in the arm. Which does absolutely nothing but make her feel a bit better.

"You'll never be wed," he tells her seriously, jerking the blankets out from under her before pulling them up, until she is covered from toes to collarbone. "What a mulish girl you are!"

"Die in a fire," Ophelia suggests, earning herself a snort and shake of his great, silvery head.

"Rest well, godling,"

"No, really," Ophelia insists, "Die in a fire. Like...now."

"Tomorrow night," he tells as he fades into nothing but a leering sort of smile, "I might let you choke on your own blood rather then give you mine."

"I'd rather choke," she insists in return, before exhaustion sweeps her under and she passes out.

Tarrant wakes in the morning, feeling very much as though he has spent several months in the dungeons of Salazen Grum, at the tender mercies of Stayne and the begh hid. He aches from top-to-bottom, as well as inside-and-out. He knows that the ceiling he peers at when his eyes open is the Infirmary of Marmoreal – he has spent quite a bit of time there over years – but when he flattens his palms to the mattress he lies upon, he finds his right hand tangling in something soft and warm. He looks down, and in the pale light of dawn, he is greeted with the sight of Alice, sprawled along the edge of his bed, about to slip from a chair she had drawn close, snoring softly and looking terribly uncomfortable.

From the state of wrinkled clothing and the tangles in her loose hair, he suspects she has been there for quite some time. His heart swells violently, stomach filling with bread-and-butterflies as he lets his bare fingers tangle up with her bright curls, a smile curling his mouth even though he is pained, exhausted (despite all the time he has spent sleeping, how strange!), and aching. His Alice returned to Underland (to him, a pleased voice whispers in the back of his mind, and not all the Usual Sort of voice, which is dark, dreadful, and disheartening – this one is quite happy!), he kept the promise he made to her, and she has slept at his bedside while he has been ill. It touches him more then he thinks he could ever explain to Alice, and he rubs the softness of her hair between his thumb and index finger, closing his eyes and luxuriating in the fact that after so bluddy long, he can touch her.

"Oh," he breaths happily, and then less so, "Oh!"

Alice, he realizes, has to be terribly uncomfortable where she is at, half on a chair, half on his borrowed bed. He doesn't want her made uncomfortable – it might convince her to Leave, to go back Above. Tarrant doesn't think he could survive that, and it pushes him to movement.

He struggles to sit up, maneuvering around until he is sliding from the bed. His nightshirt falls past his knees, and his toes cringe at the touch the cold floor, but he wobbles and wavers until he can paddle around to Alice. Tarrant takes a deep breath, clinches his teeth, and hoists her into his arms, against his chest, and the entire Infirmary is very contrary and spins several mad circles about him. He braces his knee against the edge of the mattress, even while everything moves around him, and lowers her gently, until she is on the far side of the bed. He pulls at the blankets until she is partly under them, and slips back into the bed. Behind her – arms wrapped around her, as they had done on her first day back, when she had stepped through a looking glasses and told him she was home.

Alice grunts, wriggling until she is a bit farther down in the bed, toes on top of his feet, knees curled, and one arm flung forward, hand hanging off the edge of the bed. Tarrant can't help but grin as he nestles against her, inhaling deeply of her scent. He goes back to sleep, warm and comforted, content to be injured and drained if it gives him an Alice to hold on to. (He doesn't have Nightmares of Dead Alice, Rotting Alice, Alice in a Pine Box, being lowered into the ground – not when she is pressed tight against him.)