Illusions of Fairferren
Summary: After Alice leaves Wonderland, she returns home to find a very unexpected guest.
Author's Note: Written only because the ending of the movie ever so slightly angered me.
Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland or the characters.
CHAPTER ONE: Belongingfulness
I dip my quill into the vile of blue ink, letting the liquid stain the point. The parchment is strewn out across my writing desk (why is a raven like a writing desk) and carefully, I bring my quill to meet the first page. I write in my best penmanship, a small one atop of the page. I have so much to tell, and my brain races with memories.
The Hatter had told me that I would not remember, but I had. When I had drank my vile of purple Jabberwocky blood, I had wished to come home to my family and to what I know, but I made a second wish as well. I wished to remember. How could I live without the memories of my dear friends? Especially the Hatter. My heart smiled at the memory of him. I just couldn't have forgotten him.
As I am about to write my opening sentence of this curious novel, my aunt calls my name. She always corrects me for shouting, yet it has become one of her prized talents. Especially when she is in need of my presence. After my decline of the proposal, she has been very short with me. She has taken liberty to try and control every aspect she can of my life, including making me her errand-runner and thing-fetcher. It is a very tiresome, ill-becoming task, but I do so because she has allowed me to begin this novel.
She hadn't liked the idea at first. She thought it was foolish that a child should write a novel when there were far more important things to do, like courting for another proposal, but I just had to. If I don't, I fear that these memories might go someday. My grandmother had an acquaintance once, who would often come for tea. She was a very kind woman, but couldn't remember the slightest things. Grandmother told me it was because of age. That scares me. I do not like the idea of age taking my memories from me. Who gave her that right? I certainly didn't. They are my memories to keep, not age's to take. That's why I must write down these curious memoirs.
I abandon my quill and my parchment companions, and head down the spiraling banister. My aunt awaits me below, her arms folded and a scowl upon her face. I start to consider things that begin with the letter "M"
"What are you doing locked up in the writing room? It is a lovely day and the talk of the town is that the Barron of Browerstone is coming for a visit later this day. He may want you to accompany him with an entertainment through the gardens. The roses are in bloom."
I scowl, clearly uninterested in Barrons and walks in the gardens, "I am terribly sorry, Aunt Gertrude, but I do not feel able for a walk today. I believe I am coming down with a headache. Please excuse me…"
I turn, and head back up the stairs, leaving my aunt with her mouth agape. She has been trying to find me a suitor ever since I turned down the duke's proposal. He was a sour thing with a dislike towards garden creatures and held a nasty disposition. No one could blame me for denying him my hand. He was a horrid thing, honestly!
I make my way towards the writing room, and smile at my companions. They sit there, awaiting my presence patiently, waiting for me to bring them to life. I take a seat at the leather chair, and lift the quill. Writing has a calming effect, does it not?
Once upon a time, there was a shy little girl whose curiosity filled her veins and ignited her heart.
She had been constrained to conformity, a plaything for her aunt's aristocratic dreams.
She only wanted the best for this girl, I suppose, and the best was, in her mind, an awful little duke.
He had a sour face and fiery hair.
He disliked animals and creatures and impossible things flew past his pug-head like butterfly wings…
"You are a very talented little boy."
I squint, thinking to myself that I must be, like the greats, going mad. Every writer is a little bit, I suppose, are they not? I smile at the familiar voice, the voice of my memory. My friend.
"Why is a raven like a writing desk, my dear?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," I whispered quietly, knowing now that I must be completely mad. Now I am talking to myself like a lunatic.
"Neither have I."
I smile slightly and return my writing.
"To think, darling child, I have traveled all this way to find you and you chose companions of parchment and ink over me? I am very much so heart-shattered, darling."
It is then I choose to turn around. He is standing behind me, eyes bright and smiling, a smile of joy painted upon his rosy face. I drop my quill and run into his arms, afraid for a moment, if I touch him, he will snake away, like a smoky, invisible presence.
"It is you!" I cried.
"Well, who else would I be?"
"H-how are you here?" I asked, burying my face into his chest. He smells so sweetly familiar, like honeysuckle, peppermints, and gumdrops.
"After you left, the White Queen told me I could have one wish, anything I wanted. I chose you. When you were gone, nothing was the same. There was no…no color. Everything was gray. Sad. The world was full of miserablefulness."
"I missed you terribly," I said, pulling away from him and smiling into his eyes, "I-I am so happy you are here but…"
"But what, dearsome?"
"But you don't belong here. This isn't your world. You belong in Wonderland with your friends and your life. You belong with what you know."
"I belong with you," he paused before adding, "you and me, we are full of belongingfullness towards each other. I am not me without you, and you are not you without me. We are strangers."
"You were wrong, you know."
"Because," I smiled sweetly at him, "I remembered you."
"You are no longer too tall or too small. You are just right."
"Just right for what?" I asked, my eyes smiling into his.