When I first sat down to do this, I couldn't even think up a proper first paragraph...and now here I've ended up with over 3,000 words of hurt/comfort, romance, and plenty of adorable Hatter - even after I said I wouldn't go over 2,000. In the words of our lovely heroine, "Curiouser and curioser." *wink*I do hope you like it, and it's not a disappointment. I even went so far as to post it on Facebook first and ask advice, so I really, really hope it's not a disappointment and you all like it! Remember to review - hoping to make it past 50 reviews on this one!

M is for Magnanimity
Part II

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if he'd ever see the sun shining a strip through his patched twill curtains again, or hear the wind arguing raucously with the pounding rain on his windows, or smell a freshly-brewed pot of tea, or get the chance to say goodbye to Thackery the March Hare and Mallymkun the Dormouse and McTwisp the White Rabbit — or tell Alice how long he had waited for her to come back to him.

It was worth it, you know, his own tired voice murmured weakly in his mind. It'll be worth dying if she can save us from this awful place.

Then, another thought jumped up, bringing with it more passion than the first. It'll be worth dying if she can save herself.

A peaceful feeling wriggled its way past the more morose ones crowding his mind and body. He almost smiled, but he did not have the strength.

It was an oddity, really. For timeless years, he had awaited her prophetic return to Underland, waited anxiously for the day when she would destroy the Jabberwocky, free all the innocent creatures of the land, and at last avenge his once-thriving family that had been unjustly murdered by the accursed Bluddy Behg Hid and her cold army of Red Knights. From the moment Absolem the Caterpillar had breathed to unroll the Oraculum, and he had seen the long tresses of curly hair, he had not once doubted that little, fearless Alice had the muchness to do it. For years to come, he had sat in that broken tea party chair, halfheartedly dodging objects hurled by Thackery and silently enduring the high-pitched tantrums squeaked out by Mally, waiting breathlessly but faithfully. He had imagined the moment she would find her way to their little part of Witzend, dreamed of when he would see that small, round face harden with determination, fantasized about when he would feel real hope again.

Then, at last, Chess had led her to their table, and his eyes had beheld her. She wasn't a little child any longer (though in light of her size, it took him a moment to realize), and when he had discovered this, it had stunned him. The reality of what the years would do to her had not struck him until that moment. She was a beautiful, graceful young woman, a delicate but sturdy white rose dressed in blue.

He had thought this was only better, that it made her muchier than ever. Even when she forcefully refused to slay anything, and demanded that he put it out of his mind, he had known that her path was unchangeable. She would do it, not just for the fact that it was written by invisible hands on a yellowed scroll, but because it was Alice, and he knew Alice, even if she could not remember him or the muchness she possessed.

He still believed in her, and he did not doubt the power she held or the connection she had with the Vorpal Sword. That was why he was here now, because by desperately helping her along her journey he was doing his feeble part in saving Underland - saving his beloved world and all those in it.

As he lay there, wheezing in painful breaths, he realized there was more than his yearning for the lovely White Queen's rule that caused him to allow himself to be taken prisoner for Alice, even to the place he loathed more than any other: Iracebeth's Castle. But what was it? Why was it? He did not know, and it seemed now that he would never have the opportunity to know, if the Knave had his way and he was beheaded in the morning after the trial before the Bloody Red Queen.

What an utter moron, his thoughts gradually became erratically scattered, as they sometimes did when he was especially mad. And completely blind that she is surrounded by utter mutiny!…She wants to murder little Alice….They won't, they can't….They cannot have her…. (1)

Footsteps echoed hollowly in the corridor outside his cell. The Knave was returning.

He did not move. There was no reason. He had no chance to run, and no strength to fight. So he merely lay there and waited for what he could only expect would be more spite-born agony.

The cell gate moaned shrilly as the Knave entered (reminding him rather comically of Mally). He saw a flash of black and red in his peripheral vision, and braced his eyes as the looming figure moved toward him. There was an indistinguishable whispery sound, like how the silk of his hats sometimes sounded when it accidentally brushed the ground, and he twitched in surprise when gentle fingers brushed his sore back.

"Hatter?"

His breath caught. The soft, sweet voice was definitely not the Knave's. Surely it couldn't be real. He must be delirious. Dreaming. That's it, that's all. Only a lonely dream…

Even so, he wanted to answer, he really did, but the words seemed to be stubbornly stuck somewhere in his dry throat.

Two strangely large hands gripped his shoulder and rolled him onto his back, jarring him back to full consciousness and knocking the barrier from his throat.

When the pale, feminine face filled his vision, he could not have cared less that the movement had sent a wave of fiery pain through him.

"Alice?" he mouthed without sound, gazing at her in unreserved disbelief. It was impossible. She had a path from which she could not stray….

"What has that monster done to you?" she hissed uncharacteristically, that familiar cool fire alighting in her eyes as they skimmed over his bloody clothing.

"Just a bit of a tea party," he whispered hoarsely by way of explanation.

"Hardly," she countered. His eyes followed her movements as she reached into a lopsided pocket of her makeshift dress and removed a rag with a single red heart imprinted upon it and a matching canteen.

"Is that really you?" His question was no more than a low, mildly curious murmur as she poured some of the cool water onto the cloth.

"Of course it's me," she told him as she wiped his forehead gently, sending a new, thankfully painless sensation coursing through him. "You didn't think I'd let you give yourself up for me, did you? I'm far more muchier than that."

He made a sound like a chuckle, but it hurt too badly to let the feeling reach his expressions. All at once, dawning realization assaulted him like daybreak.

"You should have gone to the White Queen, Alice!" he gasped excitedly, his voice raw. "You must go now! You must go before the Red Queen finds you, and has your head cut off! Then the Oraculum will be changed, and you won't kill the Jabberwocky, and Iracebeth will reign over Underland forever…"

"Hatter!" she cupped her palm on his clammy cheek firmly before he became too excited and harmed himself further.

In response, his eyes slid closed and his entire body relaxed at once, the last small bit of energy left in him having been exhausted in that tiny outburst. Then, his ashen forehead wrinkled and his fists clenched, every muscle twitching the slightest bit.

"I'm fine," he whispered tightly.

Alice knew better. Her eyes ran again over his dirty, rumpled clothing that rested limply on his thin frame, making him look all the more forlorn and fragile. His whole body trembled; a shudder rippled through him every few raspy breaths. Dark spots glistened in the white moonlight seeping through the barred window; the coppery scent of blood still lingered faintly in the cell.

She reached up and undid the bronze buttons on the front of his loose printed shirt (noting peculiarly that the once-bright colors seemed gray and dull now). She slowly slid it back to reveal the smooth, white flesh of Tarrant's torso. His chest and stomach were marred gruesomely with still-trickling cuts and aggressive black bruises — but worst of all were the burns. White streaks crisscrossed his beaten flesh, surrounded by dark purple-black and deep red that stained his perfect, pale skin. Each burn looked angry and hot — an early warning sign of infection.

Trying to force the initial revulsion from her features, Alice somewhat shakily rewetted the rag and lightly placed it over one of the stripes where a thin layer had been burned away, thinking rather sadly to herself that it seemed everything else in this world was extraordinary in comparison to hers, including the suffering of good and blameless people.

Then, with a gasp, she instantly wrenched the cloth away as a half-choked groan forced itself from the Hatter's worn throat at the intensity of the unexpected searing pain.

Alice could not keep the total sympathy and guilt from her lovely face as she apologetically pressed the palm of her hand against his clammy forehead.

"I am sorry. I'm-" he began between pants.

"Don't you dare say 'fine,'" she cut him off purposefully.

His unnaturally light green eyes flickered open, focusing on her fair face and softening. Vague humor twinkled in the corners.

"M is for malice," he breathed with a small twitch of a smile, and she felt some of the tension fade into a little smile. (2)

"I must do this, Hatter," she told him gently, the solemnity returning at his unintentionally guilt-inducing words, teasing though they had been. "I'm sorry, but you could get ill, and it would only harm you all the worse."

He did not reply verbally, but cut his eyes meaningfully at the bandage wrapped around her upper right arm. She ignored this; her own small injuries were nothing in comparison to what he had endured for her.

"Why have you come, Alice?" he whispered as she wiped a smarting cut on his shoulder.

She met his eyes and read the imploring and worry in them that she did not fully comprehend.

"I told you, Hatter," as he winced at the sting of water on a deeper cut on his forearm. "I came to rescue you. If the Knave of Hearts tells the Red Queen that you've been protecting me, she'll have you beheaded."

"If he does, and I am, it is for Underland, and it is an honor," he answered resolutely, and at his noble and selfless words she could not stop the rush of admiration she felt for him.

"But you cannot just give up," she said evenly. "The March Hare and the Dormouse and the Tweedles still need you! And I…"

With a small effort, his eyes settled on hers, alight with a childish sort of curiosity.

She laid her hand soothingly on his steadily-moving chest (careful not to touch any injury) and, losing all guarded pretense she was wont to have, she peered into his wide-set, mercury-poisoned eyes.

"I need you, Hatter," her tender voice filled his ears, sending odd, indecipherable feelings of peace and contentment and pure, unadulterated joy coursing through him all at once, overwhelming the pain for just a few blissful moments.

How long had it been since he'd heard words such as that? How many years had passed since anyone looked deeply at him like she was now? Yes, he knew Thackery and Mally and McTwisp and all other members of the Underland Underground Resistance depended upon him. He was their leader, their guidance, always knowing what to say and do, always willing to break whatever laws necessary to ensure their safety. He had a certain, strange way about him that made the Underlanders see that, even though he was very far gone in his madness, they could feel protected and welcomed with him always; perhaps they even loved him. Still, most were too sorrowful and angry at their tortured lives to think to voice it aloud, and some even too crazed — most were a combination of all three. He could not blame them for never thinking to comfort him….

And to be truthful, since the day his clan had been slain, he — whether consciously or unconsciously — had perished the notion that he would hear those words again. In some awry, hurt part of his mind, he blamed himself for not having the ability to save at least one small of the Hightopp children. Maybe he even felt he deserved hurt all these endless years.

Yet now, the words that he never expected to have directed at him poured from the mouth of the little girl he had loved from the firs moment she had smiled up at him, took his hand and said his name for the first time. She had sat down beside him then, politely sipping from the teacup Thackery had hurled, and he had grinned outright at the little giggle she offered to his wondrous tales of smiling cats and frowning carnations. When the time had come to say farewell, Tarrant had found himself wishing deeply that this little cherub could stay, could be raised and cared for by him and his clan and friends. He had every belief in himself that he (with the help and company of Queen Mirana, Thackery, Mally, and all Underlanders who had also taken a fancy to her) could give her a far happier life than she would have aboveground.

He had let her go then, with the unspoken promise from the honorable White Queen that she would someday return. Here she had, and once again he was taken with her; only now, it felt…different, in a way…

"I don't know why," Alice was saying, and he felt her speaking from her very heart as she lowered her eyes, "but I know I do. Somehow, somewhere deep inside me, I feel that I know you already, that I've needed you my entire life." Her eyes flickered to his again, and he was stunned to see uncertainty hidden in the depths. "I feel like I know you from a dream, Hatter, but I don't understand it, because it is too senseless to be real, even though you know me as well. I think I'm still dreaming now, but even though I can hardly recall you, I feel as if you're different from my other dreams, and I don't understand why. I don't understand anything anymore…" she trailed off.

He pondered this for a few moments of silence. "Perhaps you don't have to understand it, Alice," he murmured, his voice stronger with the need to erase that look from her pure face. "Perhaps you have only to believe that you are our Alice, the Alice of Underland, not just hardly Alice."

"But what if I'm not?" she argued, and the desperation she had been containing nearly frightened him. "What if I cannot save you, or the rest of Underland? I've never slain a deer or fox or even a fish, much less anything like a Jabberwocky; it's nonsense that I could just because some wrinkled scroll on a toadstool says so! I am only Alice, Hatter."

He pondered again, then, in a reflective and haunted voice, he mumbled, "A long time ago, at a tea party in Witzend, a little person told me that everything is what it isn't." (3)

"Perhaps in Underland this is true, but not in England," she answered, thinking of the innocent-looking rabbit hole that had brought her here…and why did his words sound so mysteriously familiar?…

Tarrant smiled ironically, but a great deal of it was lost in his weakness. "Little Alice, there is so much you still do not know. You aren't what you think you are, you know. You are a little more, and a little less. You have muchness, I know you do; you've just not used it in so long it's gotten lost in the non-muchness. You've got to learn to use it again."

"How do I do that?" she questioned willingly, pouring more clean water onto the rag as she noticed his breath becoming more haggard at the end of his little speech.

He twisted his face in a mixture of still-present pain and concentration, then replied honestly, "I believe you'll have to find it on your own, little boy. Falling down a deep dark hole is the best way to learn to climb out of one, or so I've heard."

"But I don't think I can do it alone," she told him, though her lingering dread was somewhat abated at his candid, if unmerited, belief in her. "It's very deep and very dark, Hatter. I might slip and fall if I try to climb out."

This time, he did not think; the answer spilled out without any deliberation whatsoever.

"Then I will climb up behind you and catch you if you do," he vowed with a goodness and purity that was scarce in the souls of people in her world.

Alice looked into his eyes, daringly hopeful, and she saw it. Yes, there it was. The one constant that she could believe in this mad world. The one curiosity that really was what it appeared to be. The one solid thing she could lean on that would not collapse and send her spiraling.

At in an instant, she understood how it was this brave, mad hatter could survive through so much in his still-young life, even standing with enough strength to hold others up with him.

For several more sweet minutes, both were lost in their deliberative thoughts of each other, and then he coughed from the exertion of speaking. It was only one, pitiful cough, but it was enough to make him gasp, startling them both back into the present. She moved again, and his drained eyes followed her as she barely touched a burn on the base of his throat with the dripping rag.

It stung, but he was prepared, and so swallowed the whimper. Wordlessly, she continued to a scorching burn on his ribs, letting her other fingers brush the top of his limp hand when he tensed and a stifled groan escaped him. He rolled his head so that his cheek pushed steadily against the ground and his eyes closed; he tried to focus on the feel of her thumb stroking his hand.

As if she could read his thoughts, she continued to stroke his cold hand soothingly for the next several minutes, even moving to touch his hair when she cleaned a particularly bad burn, never becoming restless or agitated, always maintaining the same tender touch. Gradually, the agony lessened as the water cleansed the dirt from the wounds.

Alice tore strips from the layers of her thick curtain-material dress and tied them around the worse burns and cuts. The weary smile of thanks he offered only served to deepen the affection she held for him all the more, and before she knew what she was doing, she was caressing his bruised cheek, running her hand down the side of his neck caringly.

At this, his eyes drifted closed, and remained so for longer than a minute. She was inexpressibly glad to hear that his breathing was deep and even, no longer was it broken pants through distress. She assumed, as she replaced the rag and canteen back into the large pocket in her dress, he had finally been soothed enough to allow sleep to claim him. She froze and looked up, surprised when his voice whispered into the silence, saturated with the same contented emotions she herself was feeling:

"Alice?"

She released the lowest button on his shirt that she had been refastening and moved into his line of sight, her hand unconsciously bracing against his cool chest (she did not notice when his breath caught for a split second).

"I believe I was wrong," he declared sleepily, his eyes shining with a hint of mischievousness when they met hers. "M is not for malice, after all."

Alice couldn't help but smile at this rather random statement; silly, it seemed, after all the deeper words they'd shared only moments ago. "No?"

"No." He trailed his pin-bloodied fingers along the vein in the top of her delicate hand, then encased it completely. His soft Scottish accent faded into no more than a passionate whisper. "M is for miracle."

For the first time since before she could remember, Alice Kingsleigh's heart clenched at the glimmer she saw in his large eyes, and she felt that if she were anything like her sensitive mother and sister she might shed a tear or two at his heartfelt (if unique) way of thanking her — even though she was, however indirectly, the reason for his torture. And, in the end, he was the one who had helped her the most, it seemed.

He outright gasped, his eyes wide as a teacup dish, when she planted a kiss on his forehead and stated into the suddenly warm, blushing skin,

"M is for magnanimity."

THE END…
…or is it?

(1) "I've been considering things that begin with the letter M: moron, mutiny, murder, malice…" - spoken by the Hatter, quoted from the movie.

(2) Same as (1)

(3) "If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't. And contrariwise, what it is, it wouldn't be, and what it wouldn't be, it would, you see?" - spoken by Alice, quoted from the original book. (From what I can deduce, it was probably directed at her older sister, but she might've said it to the Hatter at some point as well.)

This has quite literally been the most fun writing I've had in just about any story so far. Was it satisfactory to all of you, though, is the question now.