And the next chapter has come into existence!

Warning(s): This is an OC-centric, AU fanfiction, so a lot of things will be different from the books. I really enjoyed the books, but that does not make them perfect - and there were definitely parts of the series that I disagreed with, or disliked, and I decided to change them in this fanfiction. I hope you don't mind, but if you do, I'd recommend you stop reading. Also, this is Morpheus/OC, so if you don't want to see him paired with anyone but Alyssa, this is not the fanfiction for you.

Disclaimer: Yeah, so I don't own Splintered, as much as I wish I did (I am not the genius who came up with the beauty of this Alice in Wonderland retelling [Anita Grace Howard]), so therefore I don't own Morpheus, Alyssa, or any of the characters or scenes or plots you may recognize. (I also don't own the song of the chapter, but I think that's kind of a given.) I only own Elysia Knight, the OC, and the plot surrounding her that you don't recognize from the books. Basically, anything you recognize, I probably don't own it.

Song of the chapter: "Somewhere New" by Everfound

Persephone
Daughter of the Night

Chapter 1
Somewhere New

"There are streets in this city
That are hard to drive through
'Cause they play like an old song
Like an old movie
All of my moments with you."

I first arrived in this world when I was nineteen years of age.

I had graduated from the high-end, private high school they'd shunted me off into the year prior, and with the valedictorian graduation from the expensive boarding school came the announcement of my parents' decision to kick me out of the house (it was more of a mansion than a simple house, but the decision still stands).

I'd been expecting their decision for a long while before, and so it came as no surprise to me when they confronted me a few days after my birthday. My parents and I had never really gotten along all that well, not even when I was younger and worshiped the ground they walked on (I grew out of that phase faster than the time frame in which one may blink only once); we almost always butted heads about one or another, and even when we didn't fight, it still was so tense and awkward between the three of us that we might as well have been fighting.

And so, because I knew them all too well, knew how they thought, and knew that they had gotten tired of taking care of me for the past nineteen years and could not wait to be rid of me, I had made temporary living arrangements with my dear best friend, Anita Lowell, to stay with her, in her apartment while I waited for the house I commissioned to be built in the small town in Texas I had chosen to move to.

It was called Pleasance, like the middle name of Alice Liddell – the girl for whom Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There was created. It was being built in northern Texas, possessing warm summers and cool winters, and its progress was being hurried along by a well-off dignitary who my parents really didn't get along with. I read about its development and creation in the news; it was being covered in extreme detail by the ever-hungry and ever-ravenous press as its sponsor, as I said before, was a well-off and local dignitary whom my parents despised, a descendant of Alice Liddell herself. Recognizing the similarities between the new town and the one in Splintered, I contacted the dignitary and offered to extend my support (and a small fraction of the fortune I had amassed simply by being my parents' daughter) in exchange for being able to live in the town.

It was a deal he could not refuse, and so I immediately called up the family's personal architect and building team to commission a mansion in the newly developing town.

I asked them to make the house as large, and as expensive, as they possibly could and charge it to my parents' personal bank account, instead of my own – or the other one that they had set up in the hopes of bribing me into being calm about being kicked out of the house. It was my revenge for all of the years of misery they'd put me through, as well as the other grievances I had against them.

Resentful? Possibly. Spiteful? Likely. Vengeful? Oh, hell yes. But the building team was more than happy to comply.

My parents weren't exactly the most polite and diplomatic of rich people (they were the perfect example of your stereotypical spoiled rich brats, right down to the last Ferrari), and this particular personality trait was never clearer, or more obvious than when they interacted with the staff of the household. As such, the staff, they were always more than happy to help me get back at my parents in some way, shape, or form whenever they made me angry or upset – which was quite often.

To add insult to injury regarding my revenge against my parents, I called a well-known interior decorator who had gotten a lot of attention from the press in the past for being snubbed pretty badly by my parents. I knew he still held a grudge against my parents, and probably my entire family, for the incident, so he was perfect for what I was planning.

I asked the man to meet me at a nearby café to discuss a business opportunity he couldn't possibly turn down, and he accepted within a matter of minutes. He came at the exact time we had agreed upon, right on the dot of the second hand, and the staff of the café greeted him warmly, as they did with any who passed through their doors; he responded in kind, a genteel kind of man that I admired.

However, when he saw his potential client was, in fact, the child of the couple who had snubbed him and his work, causing his business to crash pretty badly, well, his face drew into a deep scowl, and he stood to leave. I only managed to convince him to stay, to hear out what I had to say, after I had confessed to my hatred of my own parents, those who he hated so strongly.

Once that was finished and done with, I told him exactly what I wanted him to do – which was, to say, to decorate the entire mansion in the most expensive décor he could possibly manage, so that the price would be higher than the Empire State Building. He was about to refuse me for a second time when I added that it would all be charged to my parents' personal bank account, that they would be, unknowingly, funding the entire expenditure. Of course, after hearing that, he could no longer refuse, and he agreed to my demands, walking away with the nastiest look on his face I'd ever seen in a long while.

I spent only about three months living in Anita's apartment with her before I received the phone call that told me that, not only was the mansion completed, but it was also completely furnished and decorated to the fullest extent of the word.

I was so very impressed with both the speed at which they managed to finish the mansion and the quality of work they managed accomplish in such a short amount of time that I paid them a couple thousand dollars more than they'd originally asked for. They protested good-naturedly, of course, but when I threatened to pay them out of pocket, they'd hurriedly accepted. Such was the bond we shared.

I moved out of Anita's apartment the very next day, after I'd received the phone call, and drove my Aston Martin Vanquish V8 all the way to Texas after bidding my many friends a fond farewell, promising to see them again someday. I never did.

I was also blessed enough to witness my parents' reaction to the bill, lovingly signed by yours truly, and let me tell you, the outraged expressions on their faces almost made up for everything they'd ever done to me, done to . . . Well, almost.

It was especially awesome considering there wasn't anything they could do about it. They could try to have it demolished, but I'd sue the pants off them before they could cry, "Mama mia!" – and they knew it.

I was the American sweetheart, the little doll of the nation, the face of everything that America represented and aspired to become, the goal that every single teenage (and pre-teenage) girl secretly held close to their hearts. The public adored me.

There was no possible way they could get me back, and what truly made it all absolutely perfect was that they were the ones who had forced me into the public's eye in the first place, molded me into the girl that would one day become who I am now. Now, it had backfired on them, and, no doubt, they were cursing me in their minds (certainly not themselves, though, as they were always incapable of recognizing when they were at fault).

But when I pulled up to the address that the building team had given me, all thoughts of my parents, and the past, fell away.

When I was younger, I had not ever created a dream house in my mind – mostly because I was far too concerned with becoming the child my parents desired. I had never even realized, therefore, that I might have a dream house, someplace that I longed to live, not until the moment that I first laid eyes on my new mansion.

The mansion was perched on top of a scenic hill overlooking the town, still under construction, and it seemed, to me, as though it might be a guardian angel of darkness, watching over the town as it grew. It resembled a Victorian house, in the style of the Gothic architecture that seemed to spring to life in that time period, with an imposing stature of at least two stories – though it was more than likely three, hundreds upon hundreds of windows of all sorts – all reflecting a glassy glare of the sun, large wings that sent the shape of the mansion from a box into an asymmetrical thing of beauty, steep and truly imposing roofs of gray shingles, and cylindrical towers that seemed to scrape the sky. It had a wraparound porch, with white picket fencing decorated with ornamental spindles and brackets, and the doors were all made of gleaming, polished wood; it was painted a lovely shade of mint green, with white trim to accent the cool colors. I must say now that it was the prettiest little (and I use little in a way that does not suit it in the slightest, for the mansion was anything but small) mansion I'd ever seen.

There was a rustic porch-swing attached to the porch, just left of the front door as I was facing it. It was crafted from Ebony, a beautiful and expensive wood that gleamed black in the sun, and it was adorned with intricate carvings of roses and thorns that caught the light of the setting sun in just a way as to seem hauntingly beautiful. There was a long cushion the color of cream, with matching throw-pillows embroidered with gold.

Viewing it, I had a sudden vision of myself sitting there one lazy, hot summer afternoon with a faceless man, laughing, cuddling with him, sipping sticky, sour'n'sweet lemonade out of elaborately glass-blown cups. I could almost imagine him teasing me for always buying the most expensive things, even if they weren't always the most functional, and I knew I would smack him lightly for that remark. He'd laugh, and I'd laugh. And we'd laugh and laugh and laugh.

I shook the vision off, of both past and future, and parked in the gray cobblestone driveway. I had the keys to the mansion, and the gate surrounding it, in my Chanel handbag, on a key ring, and I dug through the crimson leather purse in search of the brassy, heavy ring of metal. At last, I found it and brought it before me to admire the work the designers had done.

The keys were each in a design reminiscent of keys in the Victorian era, skeletal and made of brass in intricate designs, like ivy and interlocking thorns. No doubt, I knew, the locks would be equally antique and intricate, as the designers who had undertaken this particular part of the project were not the type to cut things short, but the fact that each key was so clearly painstakingly carved by hand, each unique and different from the rest, nearly brought me to tears. They had gone to such extents for me, it truly was admirable.

At some point, along the line for them, this project, my mansion home in the developing town of Pleasance, Texas, it had stopped being their bitter revenge against my parents, and, instead, it had morphed into a gift for me, something to make me happy – an impossible dream.

The idea dancing in my head proved to be true when I walked into the sun-lit, open, and airy kitchen and saw, sitting on my sculpted marble island, a letter addressed to myself. Unfolding it and scanning the contents, I felt my eyes begin to dew with unshed tears.

I was correct; they were thanking me, confessing that, in doing this, building this mansion, for me, they had forgotten their ire with my parents, let it fall behind them into the unchangeable past – I had allowed them the opportunity to forget their grudges, and they would be eternally grateful to me for my help. Though I had done nothing.

Tears spilled over, slipping soundlessly down my cheeks, and I pressed the letter and accompanying envelope against my chest, over my heart.

If only . . .

I sobbed quietly.

If only I could forget, too . . .

I sniffled.

If only someone would come . . .

I wiped my tears away, but more replaced them, drenching my cheeks in their salty drops of sadness. My skin felt hot and tight from the salt, but also sticky at the same time – sticky with built-up emotion.

If only someone would save me . . .

My heart felt as though it were breaking, shattering into thousands of myself; it felt almost as though someone had punched a hole in my chest, and with each and every breath, cool air would rush through the ragged edges, causing me excruciating pain. It felt as though my chest might've been on fire.

I just want . . .

I would never be that selfless, and I collapsed to the floor at the thought, on to my knees, keening lowly as thick sobs of emotion ripped through me.

I just want to . . .

Memories rushed through my mind on a whim, as if having a mind of their own, and they played on the screen of my inner eyelids, torturing me with their endless and eternal images. I would never forget.

I just want to . . .

His face flickered into view, and the pain in my chest rose to new heights. My keening became louder, and, as it echoed in my ears, it sounded to me almost like his voice, his cry, his scream as he . . . No!

I just want to . . .

The beginning of the end started to play on my eyelids, showing me his fright-filled face, playing his screams for me, his big sister, for help that would never come. I reached out, and my fingertips brushed against his; my hand closed around his wrist, and I drew him into an embrace, burying my face into his neck.

"Don't leave me," I begged him, and he pulled away, smiling softly – reassuringly.

"I won't ever leave you, sis," he promised me, hugging me tight. "I'll always be in your heart, okay? Just don't forget me. Please."

I shook my head. "Never," I vowed honestly, and he smiled toothily, my favorite smile of his, though his eyes were darkened by fear.

"I love you, sis," he murmured, pressing his face into the crook of my shoulder and laying there, in my arms.

I tugged him closer, holding him tightly against my chest.

At first, he hugged me back, acquiescing to my silent pleas, but all too soon, it was over; he stiffened in my arms before slumping limply, as though the strings holding him up, tugging him along, had been cut. An apt description.

"No . . ."

He sagged me in my embrace, and when I peered at his face, so like mine – only masculine, whereas mine was feminine – and so lovely, it was exactly as I had feared; the light of life had fled his eyes, leaving them blank and emotionless. It was as though I was holding a life-sized doll in my arms, though I could feel sticky wetness seeping into my clothing and my skin from where he and I touched.

My eyes filled with tears as my hand drew back, dyed scarlet. "No . . ." I whimpered. "No, no, no . . ."

I cradled his head against my chest, ignoring the smear of his crimson blood against my skin and, instead, curling his lifeless body into my lap. My tears splattered against his waxy, pale cheeks, like colorless raindrops.

As if prompted by my crying, the skies released their loads, unleashing a torrent of rain on the both of us – though he could no longer dance in the rain with me. The skies themselves mourned the loss of his life.

"You promised you wouldn't leave me," I whispered hoarsely, stroking the cool skin of his cheek gently. "Hey, come on . . . Wake up . . ."

He didn't respond, didn't wake up as I asked, didn't take a breath or hug me or reassure me he'd never leave me behind, that he still loved me dearly.

"Don't go . . . Don't leave me . . ." I pleaded. "Don't leave me behind . . . Oh, God, don't leave me . . ."

My breathing grew shaky, and soon enough, a piercing scream ripped through the air. It resonated in my ears, shrill and full of deepest despair.

I wondered who it was that was screaming, mourning the loss of him, but I realized, with a jolt, that the screams were my own.

I just want to . . .

New memories played on the inside of my eyelids, replacing my last memories of him.

Slamming doors, screaming at each other, shrieking in frustration, slashing at wrists, smoking in back alleyways.

My parents banging on the locked door to my room; me sneaking out of the window; meeting dirt-streaked teens in dirty, back alleys under the white-washed illumination of the moon; lighting up – striking a match against the wall and watching the orange and crimson of the flame flare up into a flickering light; the light the match throws off creating flickering, dancing creatures out of the shadows that loom over us; lighting the end of the cigarette with the glowing match; breathing in the thick, sour smoke.

Everything played all over again, all of my mistakes – the parties, the alcohol, the tobacco-flavored kisses, the liquor taste on my tongue, the buzz of alcohol wiping away the pain – and everything else, too. The lies, the test, the doctor appointments, the meds. My life going in this downward spiral, impossible to stop – it just went faster and faster and faster, like an out-of-control merry-go-round.

Everything was about to slip just out of my reach, and I wanted it that way – but there would be no way to come back from it this time around. All of the world, though, seemed to halt in its wild spinning when, one morning, I found a blooming, long-stemmed rose on my door-step. It stopped it, stopped it all in its tracks.

"Look, sis! Look!" He shoved a light pink rose into my face. "It's a rose!"

"I can see that," I replied, patting my thigh in invitation. "It's pretty."

He sighed in contentment and, a grin on his face, he laid down on the springy grass of the meadow, his head resting in my lap as he continued to admire the silky, sweet-smelling petals of the coral-pink rose. "I just love roses," he said, throwing his arms out on either side of him without hitting me, the rose still clutched tightly in one hand. "They're so pretty, and they smell nice, too. But, really, sis, I think that I love roses so much because they remind me a bit of you: beautiful and sweet . . . but not without sharp and jagged thorns."

The memory dissolved, and I had to bite back another agonized scream as all of my memories of him began to play, swimming around my head in dizzying, haunting circles.

"Big sis? I'm scared." He poked his head into my bedroom, a hesitant expression on his face. "Can I come in?"

"Of course." I patted the comforter, crumpled into a misshapen ball, next to me in invitation.

"I'm scared. What if the bad guys get Mom or Dad? Or you?"

I smiled gently. "Mom and Dad are too smart; the bad guys will never find them, let alone be able to hurt them. As for me, well, I promise you that they will never get me. Okay? I promise I won't leave you. Ever."

He beamed at me, bouncing slightly as his fears were assuaged. "Then I won't ever leave you either, sis. We'll be together forever."

You lied.

Again, memories of his death played, torturing me on repeat – over and over again.

I just want to . . .

"NO!"

I just want to escape!

There was a bright flash of light, blinding despite the fact that my eyes were shut, and when I forced my eyes open, I found that I was no longer in the airy kitchen of my mansion. I was somewhere new.

It was dark – too dark to make out any details of where, exactly, I was. Curious, I took a step forward, and I found that, despite not being able to see anything except for myself (a dim glowing light given off by my skin was all I had as illumination, and it did not serve me well), the surface beneath my feet was steady and smooth, not rebelling against my presence but not bowing to it either.

"Where am I?" I asked myself aloud, beginning to wander the darkness after having gathered my courage from deep within myself.

I was in a room, that much I could tell, with walls that felt, beneath my curious fingertips, as though they might be made of polished stone. There were velvet curtains hanging in that place, presumably attached to the ceiling, but whenever I would push one aside as to find what was behind it, I found nothing but a continuation of the walls - all made of that same smooth, slick stone.

"You are where you wanted to be," a voice said, and I flinched at the unfamiliar masculine drawl that filled my ears, forcing myself to push back the memories of long ago and focus on what was happening now.

"What?" I murmured lowly, looking around the room in the way that a blind person might search for the origin of a sound that they had heard with unseeing eyes.

"You wanted to escape," the unfamiliar voice stated in continuation, sounding a bit amused; "this is your way out. It is called the Gate."

There was suddenly a small glimmer of light, the tiniest of flickers at the corner of my eyes, and I whirled to face it. Directly in front of me, there was a small key, floating in mid-air. It was tiny, the size of a key that might open a child's diary, and it was made of what looked to be gleaming, polished strips of brass interwoven like many curls of ivy.

"Should you wish to have your old life behind you, to leave this place you so hate, simply take the key and unlock the door that leads to another world," the voice explained to her, somehow patient though she could sense a certain impatience within its tenor, too - an underlying tension that left her bewildered. "And if you should wish to remain in your own world, return to your old life, simply . . . well, don't do anything." It chuckled, the sound bleak and humorless. "But choose wisely, child, for you will not be able to return should you choose to leave - and should you choose to stay, you will not have another opportunity to leave."

There was a mocking lilt to its tone, one that filled me with rage and boiling irritation, but it was offering me such a considerable choice, one that was so appealing and tempting, that I completely disregarded the rudeness in its tone. The anger that filled me disappeared, melted away, and I stared ahead.

If I left, I would not have to see my parents ever again, or face the memory of my dear younger brother. But a the same time, I would never see Anita, or any of my other friends or the staff, again.

Should I stay, I would be able to see all of my friends and important people whenever I liked. But I would be forever trapped by the expectations of my parents, of the public, and by the memory of him.

I looked up, as though I might find the owner of the voice hovering above me in the blackness; I didn't. "Where does the key and the door lead to?" I asked, my voice raspy but emotionless - dripping with false calm - and the voice chuckled once more.

"I cannot tell you that; you will find out for yourself should you decide to take that path."

I sighed. It seemed this was a decision of whether I wanted to be brave or to be a coward. However, I would have to find out myself whether leaving would be a decision of strength or weakness.

"Tick tock," the voice sang in that irritating, taunting voice. "Time's running short; best to make your decision shortly."

I bit back a sarcastic remark and, after a few more moments of reflection, arrived at my decision. My hand closed around the key, feeling the cool, smooth metal beneath my fingertips, and as the mocking, judgmental laughter rang out in the silence, a door, illuminated in a warm glow, appeared, a ways away from me. It was lit up in the same light that the key once was, and it looked to be made of chestnut brown wood with locks made of polished brass, like the key.

"I know who you are," I announced, beginning to run to the door.

The sound of my feet slapping against the ground filled my ears, and I soon skidded to a stop before the door that would lead to my new life, my escape. My fingertips barely brushed against the wood in my admiration, and then I was working on fitting the key into the lock.

"There is only one person in the world who could be so cruel and hateful towards me," I mumbled under my breath. just as I managed to turn the key and unlock the door with a thunking sound that echoed in my ears.

"Oh." The voice sounded surprised. "So you figured it out."

I pushed the door open, and its final whisper followed me as I sprinted into the darkness, running headlong into my new life:

"Well done . . ."

"There are streets in this city
That are hard to drive through,
But I know that my family and friends
Will forgive me
If one day I leave somewhere new."

And that's a wrap!

With this chapter all wrapped up, the actual book will begin! (Morpheus is coming soon! *fangirl squeal*)

I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Answer: I think that I would have saved Wonderland and Morpheus either way, even if I knew that Morpheus was manipulating me and was truly the villain - and not the Red Court as he wanted me to believe. But, I mean, unless it actually happened, I can't say for certainty, so this is, at best, just a guess.

Question of the Chapter: Who do you find better: Morpheus or Jeb? And I'm not talking about as appearance, but rather, who do you think is a better character and who do you think is a better fit for Alyssa?

Ja ne!