alice liddell (inquisitive) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-05-22 17:00:00 |
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Alice’s footsteps were loud to her ears, echoing along the walls of the empty hallway no matter how hard she tried not to. Each step thundered, no matter if she tiptoed or she stomped, her presence ever a disturbance to the world around her. The trip down the corridor felt like a long one, longer than usual, though what exactly was usual was a harder thing to pin down. Everything felt familiar enough, the walls, the grey skies peeking through the windows, the way the rough fabric of her gown scratched at her throat. But there was something different. She felt it in the air, something sending her nerves tingling and the hairs at the back of her neck standing. It made her wring her hands together as she walked, fingers skimming up to rub at her arms at the faint scars and burns on her skin. As she finally stood before the door, the feeling had only slightly dissipated, her nerves still on edges but not finding no target were melting away slowly. She raised her hand and gave a polite knock, knuckles rapping twice, before turning the knob and entering, wondering what she would find there. The shelves were wrong; all of them were pointed down, like arrows, sucked into the vortex of the man’s presence. The glass bottles and foreign tinctures somehow clung to the surface of every shelf despite their plunging angles, as if ready to slide forward into the HATTER’s hand at the least little movement. He held a pen in one hand and a needle in the other, the lot of them glowing, the white fabric of his physician’s coat oh, so very white, the pallor of death and new clouds together over warm milk. His tie, by contrast, was the black of aged death. The color of his eyes could not be properly made out, because he was sitting behind his large oaken desk wearing a pearl gray top hat, the kind a moderately wealthy man might wear about town in the day time. Its brim was tucked low to hide all but the gleam of one eye as he surveyed his visitor. He leaned forward without warning several moments after she came in, a gloved hand coming up and resting flat on the top of the desk in an abrupt riot of motion. The silver needle spun inches from his longest finger, drilling slowly through heavy cream-colored paper set with spidery black script. “You’re late,” he said, in a voice spider’s silk soft. She had started to creep closer before his hand came down upon his desk, making her start, one step back towards the door, even as her heels dug into place. Her mouth was dry as she tried to speak, lips cracking and tongue slow, making her delicately cough into her hand before wetting her lips as she stood under the scrutiny. An apology died on her lips, realizing it wasn’t the right response. Or perhaps it was the right response, but it certainly wasn’t the one she wished to give. Instead she crept forward, steps achingly slow, as she walked. Her eyes, bright and green, standing out against the drab colors of her gown and the dull yellow of her hair, flitted between the shelves and the needles and off to the pen and back again. When she finally stood before his desk she kept her chin up as her eyes met the man, flight no longer an option, nor did she need it to be. “For what?” Idly, she wondered if she’d ever be on time for someone. The gloved hand stretched up in front of his face. He widened his fingers out until the pen slid down, stretching his first finger and his fourth until the length of it slid down the back of his third knuckle. The pearl grey material of the gloves had been hand-stitched by a fine young lady in a shop on the high street of the village not far out the window, only now obscured by dream mist and new realities. The HATTER pushed the brim of his pretty pearl top hat up with the flat of one thumb. His hair was red gold, soft as a baby’s, and he had soft, soft eyes, eyes that could be any color he chose. He smiled at her. “Obviously. For tea.” His gaze swept down her body expectantly, and now the gloved hand fell again down to the desk. He tapped his fingers on the cream paper, tap tap tap, and then stopped. The needle was boring down now into the wood, and the creak of new splinters kept interrupting his words, soft as they were. “Where is it?” She knew that face, or at least it was familiar enough that it pierce the hazy memories of her mind. She recalled him talking about tea, though despite feeling somehow different than before, she couldn’t place it. But the needle was distracting, making her almost flinch as wood broke with every turn and word and she had realized he was waiting for an answer until several moments of silence hung between them. “Where is what?” She felt unsteady and unprepared, though her voice refused to betray her, instead giving way to a hint of exasperation. Questions and her without answers. She was used to that too. The HATTER’s brows jumped upward comically, making the brim of his hat bob on his head so violently that he had to lift his gloved hand and smack it flat on the top to keep it firm on his head. The pen went flying and pinged off a glass bottle, the paste label peeling as an obscure grey substance tipped out onto the floor behind his chair. “The tea of course!” He said it resentfully, as if he simply could not believe she was being so thick. It was precisely the tone he had used at the Hare’s table all that time ago, though delivered in a tone so well modulated that sometimes it became nothing at all in the exact center of unsuspecting words. Some things were different, of course. The glaringly white coat, the white of bright light through distorting glass. His hair was combed under the hat, his lips pink and his expression considering as he leaned heavily back in his chair, slumping down in general distaste of the world. “You are not at all the same. There is something... odd about your pinafore, and your hair is quite in disarray.” He scowled at her, as if she neglected her personal appearance to annoy him. Of course, he said, as if things were so clear! The contempt rang in her ears, dampening her amusement that had come when she watched his hat bounce. And then he had the audacity to criticise her gown, making her look down and smooth her hands defensively over the wrinkles. And her hair! Her hands quickly moved to touch her temples and tuck her locks back over her ears. “There is nothing wrong with my attire,” she replied tartly, nose turning up despite the fact that she agreed with him. There was something amiss and, as if her will was enough, the colors on her started to change, a blue blooming across the fabric, faint at first. Another layer with a white apron carved itself into reality as she stared back at him. “And it’s not my responsibility. You invited me here. How can one be late for tea if there is no tea?” The words slipped out, regardless if it was true or not, and Alice folded her arms over her chest, too late to take anything back. “You're hardly the same either.” The HATTER had always been very critical of the people around him, and it was probably a good thing that very few of his friends bothered to attach hats to their heads, since he would probably despise them right up until the moment he remembered that he made all the proper hats in Wonderland. He had been gone a long time, and his fingers tightened on the brim of his gray hat, digging firmly into the felt. He could be gone, but he would always be the HATTER. Everything in that room focused upon him, and even the clocks began to tick in his direction, sound with new direction. The HATTER broke all the rules. “I,” the HATTER said, putting all the lofty assumptions of his own worth into the single syllable, “did not invite you anywhere. You go where you like, especially if you’re not wanted.” He paused for a split-second and then continued, bringing his hand down again to lie it flat on the broad desk. “And now you are here. If I was here, I wouldn’t have invited you, and now you’re in a place you don’t belong.” Beat. “Again.” He twitched violently in his seat and swept his hand up to take off his hat. In doing so he stood, a very elegant gentleman indeed, with something of the long-legged predators about him--predators like odd stick bugs and spidersilk weavers. The old leather chair moved back behind him, and some of the concoctions righted themselves in their bottles, as if standing to attention. Bowing rather creakily, he attempted to flatten his sweaty red-blond hair. His eyes decided it might be grand to be blue for a bit. He regarded her solemnly. “No invitations, no tea. What are you doing here, Alice?” Alice almost smiled. Go where you like. It was almost a compliment. And then he continued on, her brow furrowing irritably. It wasn't as if she wanted to go most places. Places simply happened, showing up before her with their strange inhabitants and winding paths. This was hardly her doing. “I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t invited.” Which of course was only half true, as there was still the matter of wanting to go somewhere, but Alice wasn’t about to make apologies when she was being so accused. He shifted before her and she drew back, carefully watching him and the room that courted his good favor, rustling and moving to accommodate him, not the guest. Her ire swept away as she got a better look at him, curiosity getting the better of her as she watched his eyes change, her own blinking owlishly at his question a moment later. “I’m looking for the way out.” Of course. The HATTER sighed, much put-upon by these rude and uppity children that ran kicking about and then complained when they got their feet wet. It was a theatrical sigh, as he was a very theatrical person, in his quiet way. He straightened to his full height, completing the image of the long-legged academic, and then carefully placed his hat upon a stand that slid closer to accommodate his long reach. Clear of his hat, he seemed rather kinder and softer, especially around the mouth. His eyes were an unfortunate muddy mix of green and brown at the moment, but he wasn’t paying much attention to them. “Come along here, dear,” he told her, turning about and beckoning an armchair that was lounging about in the corner. It twitched like a bloodhound and then bounded happily near, crouching in trembling anticipation for Alice to sit. “You might as well sit down,” the HATTER added, eying the chair and then turning away to open a drawer. “You pour.” Out of the drawer he pulled out a large silver tea tray, two silk napkins, a china plate of petit-fours, a sugar pot, a little jug for the milk, and finally, with the air of a circus performer, a steaming teapot shaped like an hourglass. The cups and saucers were hand-painted with violets. He continued to talk as all of this went on. “I think,” (again, with special emphasis on I, he being the most important person there) “that if you didn’t do such a good job of hiding yourself a-way, it would be much easier for your friends to come and fetch you.” He said “a-way” in two syllables, obviously attempting to communicate how very irate he was with her, since she’d been naughty and caused him a great deal of trouble. The hat made all the difference it seemed, or at least the lack thereof. Without it he wasn’t towering, wasn’t imposing, and she relaxed in turn. The wariness lingered for a moment, pausing as he instructed her to follow, but curiosity got the better of her, and the enthusiastic armchair captured her imagination. She seated herself with a flourish, cornflower blue skirt billowing with the motion and she smoothed it down before petting the side of her seat cushion with a tiny smile tugging at her mouth. Pouring wasn’t such a terrible task, she thought as she grasped the handle. Now that they had made peace. She had poured his cup already, moving to pour hers, when he continued on, making her stop halfway in the motion. So much for that peace. Holding the teapot she glanced around the room and then at him, at once seeing him in a much more drearer, much more mundane place, where the coats were still white but the shadows resistant to commands, as well as the brighter, stranger, land where tea parties at a drop of a hat, as it were, happened. “I,” she sniffed, still warring on the matter of importance, “didn’t choose to hide myself. And what friends there might have been,” even she wasn’t sure who would count themselves that, despite being close to some, “wouldn’t have come for me. As it were there were some,” she said, emphasis slight on the word and her eyes pointedly stared at the teapot as she finally poured her cup, “came of their own accord, little to do with me.” He gave his coat a little flip behind his waist as he settled in the chair, a both habitual and highly antique movement that gave him the air of a teacher and less of the exotic, impenetrable doctor. The shelves around him had stopped creaking forward, and the desk appeared to be a bit lower to accommodate an easier reach to the cakes. Again he lifted a hand to try to flatten the baby’s down of his hair, and his eyes had retreated to a calm sea green. Youth abounded in his cheeks and the freshness of his neck above the turned collar, and spider-long fingers took up the spoon to stir in the milk. HATTER tutted at the back of his throat. Were it not for the naturally soft voice, he would have sounded like an old grandmamma upon finding mud on the parlor rug. “Everything does have to be about you.” He sounded properly put out about it, but at the same time an odd little tip-tip of his head seemed to cede that yes, perhaps it was true that everything did. Curling pale fingers in a long cat’s tail curve, he lifted the teacup to his lips, but never quite sipped. Lowering it once more and obviously suppressing the need to use it as an enthusiastic gesticulation, he said, with increased whisper force, “You are simply the eye of the storm, Alice. We may not court your good opinion, but I caution you to be wise in whom you put your trust.” He blew gently across the surface of his teacup, and a fine oolong mist sprang upon the dream, thickening until even he was obscured. His voice, thready and intense at once, called through it in breathy echo of her own. “We come of our own accord.” His warning made Alice still, cup hovering by her lips as she stared at him quietly. She held his gaze before her eyes flitted to the mist curling around them, the warning ringing in her ears before his final words cut through her mental haze, but not the billowing mist. “I regretted coming back,” she said quietly, her words disturbing the peaceful surface of her tea, mist pouring off her teacup join the rest. She looked up to see him and found nothing but a fog, making her close her eyes and sigh. “Would you leave of your own accord? If you could?” It was of little use, and the words barely met her own ears before nothing but the mist remained. |