Continuing Tales

One Promise Kept: Book 2

A Alice in Wonderland Story
by Manniness

Part 13 of 17

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Still He knows.

Tarrant stands beside the queen on the terrace overlooking the croquet pitch.  His eyes – very rarely blinking – stay focused on the two figures below. When Alice stumbles, he deliberately curls his hands – now both free and splint-less! – into fists against the stone railing. When she exclaims in frustration, he narrows his eyes. When she drops her arm too early, her body shaking with fatigue and her breaths panting, Tarrant mutters in Outlandish.

Beside him, the queen watches the duel with unusual intensity. It is her presence here, actually, that had convinced him of it; he’d suspected last night, but now he knows it’s true: Alice has a Plan.

And, apparently, the queen must also participate in it, for certainly, she would not be here otherwise. The White Queen has never shown any interest in the daily requirements of Alice’s training and duties, but now she shows that and so much more.

The queen looks... Concerned.

On the field, Alice once again stumbles under Leif’s advance. She cries out when she falls back, but manages to keep the scimitar up. Barely.

The muscles along his jaw tense. His lips form the shape of her name and his breath hisses between his teeth.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the queen turn in his direction.

“Halt, Alice,” Leif commands in a clear tone.

“No,” she argues. Tarrant hides a smile; the title the Queen’s Champion is a euphemism for stubborn. “I can do this.”

“No, you can’t.”

“I can.

“Well, you’re not,” he growls. “I’m... frankly... mystified as to how you think you’re actually going to be fit enough to face whatever creature Jaspien elects to Champion the day after tomorrow.”

Even from this distance, Tarrant knows Alice’s determined scowl when he sees it. “With practice. Again.

Tarrant tenses all over as they resume the fight, circling each other on the pitch.

“Tarrant...” the queen breathes out, her tone weighted with compassion.

Luckily, at that moment, Alice attempts a very ill-timed attack. “Don’t!” he snaps, his eyes touching upon the queen’s for the merest of moments.

“Let Alice do what she must,” he murmurs just loud enough for the breeze to carry to the queen’s ears and no further. “Our Champion appears to be a bit rusty,” he continues in a louder, more jovial tone. “Do not worry, Your Majesty. I shall do my part to assist her in her preparations for the coming battle.”

“I... thank you, Tarrant,” she replies carefully. Her dark eyes narrow slightly with speculation, but Tarrant doesn’t dare give her any further indication of his thoughts. This is not the time for reassurance. Not if Alice’s Plan is to work. And how does Tarrant know this? The queen’s silence tells him. She does not attempt to reassure him, not with a gesture or a smile or a word. Nor does she attempt to make things right with a decree or a suggestion or a solution.

This is the time for caution and deception and roles. Alice and the queen have not said as much, not in so many words, but they’ve spoken to him in other ways:

Alice’s horridly-timed arrangements the evening before.

Her obviously sub-standard performance during today’s morning training practice.

The queen’s newfound obsession with Alice’s abilities.

And the silence. The utter and complete avoidance of explanations.

Yes, there is a Plan. Tarrant can feel it.

And if ye’re merely deluding yerself tha’there is one, lad?

Well, if that’s the case... then pretending otherwise might actually be beneficial. Despite his outward calm, Tarrant knows he’s but one more tragedy away from crumbling. He forces himself to ignore the history of pain between himself and his wife...

Yer lover, ye mean. Never did get ‘round teh asking f'r Alice’s hand, did ye?

This time, when Tarrant fists his hands and tenses his jaw, the actions are not forced.

Yes, yes, he knows he’s failed her. He should have asked her...

He should have accepted a promise that would have made her better, safer, happier!

Ye slurvish, undeserving, slithy-shrifty greizin’-grommer! Ye’re no better than th’those booly-gebers after the queen, more’n happy teh lift a sword agains’th’Champion if it means getting’wha’ye want!


At the sound of Mirana’s urgent whisper, he shakes himself, blinks, glances at her and summons up a tight smile. “I’m fine.”

“It’ll be over soon,” she tries to comfort him, her gaze returning to the field. “It’s nearly time for lunch.”

He relaxes. Yes, yes, he just has to focus on that goal: the end of this deception, the ultimate safety of Mamoreal and Alice herself. And then...

And then...!

The sound of metal clashing from below draws his gaze. He takes a moment to evaluate Alice and when she seems... well, not fine but barely competent, he feels his expression draw into a scowl as he considers his rival for Alice’s affections.

Tarrant knows she’s fond of the creature. And the son of a flea-bitten, Squimberry-sucking feline has the added advantage of not having hurt Alice as... thoroughly as Tarrant has.

I never meant to hurt her...

The very thought of having done so pains him. He clenches his left fist tighter to keep a grip on the emotion, to keep Alice from suffering from it through the heart line.

Ye never mean’teh, but ye did’urt her. Badly.

Yes, yes, he had.

She won’ trust ye after that.

She might.

She won’ choose ye.

He could still ask.

Ye’re a fool, lad.

Yes, he’s quite certain he is. Always has been. Always will be. But just for Alice. Only for Alice.

On the field, Alice and the lion lower their scimitars.

“You’re going to get yourself killed, Champion Alice,” the lion growls at her before stalking into the castle. Tarrant watches Alice clean the handle of her Shuchish sword with a rag, her head bowed, and aches to go to her. But he knows he can’t. That is not his role now. His role is to help her, and to do that best, he must not be near her any more frequently than she allows, for if he were to let loose everything he feels, needs to say, must confess, cannot help but plead for...

No. No, Alice is working now and he must not interfere!

Tarrant eats lunch in the kitchen with Thackery banging around on the stove behind him, but he might as well be alone. He wonders if Alice is as well, if she’s enjoying the over-salted stew the March Hare had prepared. He wonders if she can barely bring herself to notice the taste of it. He wonders if that might be because she’s too busy thinking about him, too.

“Ge’ yerself out o’ mae kitchen, Hatter, ye lovesick fool!” Thackery announces, tossing a soggy paw-full of potato peelings at him.

Tarrant twitches out of the way in time and heads upstairs. He tries not to notice the rooms he enters. He merely fetches the broadsword and leaves. He tells himself he hadn’t noticed the too tidy chair where Alice hasn’t thrown her night shirt and pajama trousers. He reminds himself that it’s normal for her boots to not be by the door. He consoles himself that her hair brush and pot of healing ointment have been tucked away in the drawer and not taken away.

No, no one is going to take away his Alice again.

And when he finds himself on the croquet field rather than above it, when he finds himself facing off against his Alice rather than watching over her, when he has to swallow back the words that would remind her that he has left his heart in her keeping – Alice, why is a raven like a writing desk? – when he lifts his sword and raises it against her and uses all of his strength to drive her back, to push her, to test her, when his heart breaks with every manufactured moment of this staged duel, when his greatest desire is to throw away their weapons and feel her hold onto him as he begs her forgiveness, Tarrant Hightopp merely smiles.

He does not trust himself to dare more than that without bringing everything crashing down around them. And he would rather suffer the madness, locked in the depths of the dungeons of Crims for every moment remaining in his existence, than hurt Alice again, risk her Plan, lose what is left of her trust.

Alice, I trust you, he says with his silence.

Alice, come back to me, he begs with every arcing thrust of the broadsword.

Alice, choose us, he pleads with every step he takes away from the croquet pitch, away from her.

With all that he does not – cannot! – say, he wonders if there’s any chance that she hears him nonetheless.


It’s confirmed: Alice hates secrets. Even when they’re her own.

If the day she’d returned from Iplam had been difficult, the one following it had been torturous. Leif had scoffed at her, growled at her sudden lack of skill. She had wondered at his disgust – has she perhaps succeeded too well in this deception?

Where has my friend gone? she wonders but forbids herself to speak the truth or to show it in her expression.

And, even worse, she’d faced the Hatter’s silent protest, his resignation despite his cooperation. And yet... there had been something about him. Something...

His eyes! she’d realized as he’d sheathed his broadsword and bid her a good day following their training exercise.

“Please feel free to call upon me if you should need further assistance, Champion,” he’d mumbled, lisped. And then he’d glanced at her and his eyes had flickered from grass-green to rich aqua.

And, at that moment, she’d realized how very much she has underestimated him.

He knows.

But of course he does! This is the man who had sacrificed himself to capture in order to draw the Red Knights away from her. This is the man who, upon seeing her – absurdly oversized – in the throne room at Salazen Grum, had hatched a scheme to make himself more available to her, in order to assist her, to further the Resistance. This is the man who had choked back his own madness in order to make hats for his sworn enemy so that he wouldn’t be tossed back into the dungeon where he would be useless to Alice. This is the man who had, shackled and with little more than a powder puff and a bottle of perfume, fought Stayne when he’d come to arrest Alice for that ridiculous allegation of unlawful seduction! This is the man who had stepped forward and stabbed the Jabberwocky’s tail to give her a few extra seconds during the battle to gather both herself and the Vorpal Sword.

“I’m an idiot,” she murmurs to herself, closing the door to her old bedroom and leaning back against it. Of course, Tarrant would figure it out, see past her pretenses. She has never met anyone who sees further, more clearly, truly than him, mad though he is at times. But then, it’s that madness that has always made him so very special to her. And, she believes, special in his own right.

Fate, how she misses him!

Soon... she tells herself. Soon.

Soon, the moment of battle will be upon them and, in that moment, Alice will no longer have to act the part of the broken, stubborn, unreasonable and utterly defeatable Queen’s Champion. Just a little longer, she thinks. Word travels fast in Underland. Surely, by now, Jaspien and the others have heard about my incompetence, have assumed I haven’t recovered from my collapse, are feeling smug and overconfident about the Challenge...

And with everything to gain and nothing to lose, with an easy victory practically guaranteed, there should be nothing preventing one of the mercenaries from standing as Jaspien’s Champion.

Yes, soon – and gossipmongers enabling – the White Realm will be safe once and for all. But, in the meantime...

Alice sighs and reaffirms her decision to follow through with her plans. The plans Tarrant also seems to know something about...

Somehow, the next day is worse now that she knows he knows, for she cannot trust herself to smile or wink or even reach for his hand without cracking entirely. If she removes the mask, everything else will be exposed as well.

I miss you.

I want you.

Let me come home...

She endures Leif’s disapproval. And then, later that afternoon, she suffers through Tarrant’s barely-hidden acceptance, pride, and gently glowing support. The only comfort she can give herself is that no one but her is close enough to him to be able to see these things as easily as she can.

“With your permission, Champion?” he lisps, lowering his sword after an utterly unproductive hour spent on the field.

Alice nods, sheathing her own. “I suppose I’m only marginally more proficient at this than the queen’s writing desk would be,” she muses, her heart thumping painfully. You shouldn’t have said that, Alice! It’s too soon! One of you will do something or say something foolish and give the secret away! Someone could be watching, listening, sending word to Jaspien! Yes, the prince of Causwick Callion must not be made aware of the true nature of this game: of Alice’s intentions and abilities, of the queen’s resources, of the—

“I haven’t the slightest idea why you’d say such a thing, Champion,” Tarrant replies, scowling at her but regarding her with eyes that have deepened in color past aqua to indigo. “Of course, you mustn’t forget your muchness on the morrow.”

“I won’t,” she replies, strangling all emotion from her tone. Still, she feels oddly... accomplished – satisfied, content! – at having finally been able to answer Tarrant’s “Raven...” from two nights ago.

His gaze lingers on her for a moment. Were there no spies to fear or gossips to be wary of, Alice would have kissed him. That is, if he wouldn’t have given in to the impulse first. The fact that the desire is there, vibrating in the air between them and yet he doesn’t so much as twitch his fingers toward her, reminds her of the task she has set out to do.

“I don’t doubt you will, Champion,” he lisps in response to her vow. And with an odd salute-like nod, he turns and heads back into the castle. Alice forces herself not to watch him go. She turns toward the trees and places a hand on the nearest one.

“I’m so tired of this,” she tells it in a whisper. And then she wonders if anyone might have heard that confession... and if the words are even now on their way to Causwick Callion.


“Spies are everywhere,” Mirana had disclosed. “We must assume so, even if it is not true. Caution is of utmost and paramount importance at this point.”

“In that case,” Alice had replied, Uplandian logic flickering in the depths of her eyes and making her look rather... devious. “I have a suggestion for somewhere... isolated we might speak.” And with that, Alice had opened the vanity mirror in the queen’s office to a very odd, stuffy-looking room.

“Alice... are you sure?”

“It’s just gone lunch, it looks like,” the Champion had estimated with a measuring glance at the sunlit windows through the glass. “And no one has used this room since my father died. We won’t be bothered.” And then Chessur had watched as Alice, Sir Avendon, Chief Minister Mogrimon, and the queen had sipped Pishsalver and had stepped through the looking glass. Chessur had been unable to hear the discussion, but he had watched, had stayed behind to keep the looking glass open. He’d waited – bit impatiently, he must admit – until the queen and the dignitaries had returned and indulged in a corner of Upelkuchen.

“Alice would like to speak with you now, Chessur,” she’d informed him.

He’d practically purred with self-importance. Chessur had swum through the mirror and drawled, “And just why would the Alice wish to see me on this side of the looking glass?”

Alice had smiled and told him her plan. Her fantastically, breathtakingly, wonderfully mad plan.

Tarrant is going to be very sorry he’d missed this, Chessur had mused as he’d followed Alice back to Underland and then set off on his own mission. A mission that has contributed in a small but necessary way to bringing them all here and now: to this battlefield.

The late morning sun peeks out from behind a wispy cloud as Chessur takes in the lines of menacing, scarred, battle-hardened mercenaries standing with Jaspien, Valereth, and Oshtyer. He waits for the moment of unease he usually feels in such... political situations, but it doesn’t come.

Yes, Alice’s plan is that good.

Chessur turns and grins at Alice. “Well, here we are, Champion Alice.”

“Yes,” she agrees, grinning back in relief. “I think we managed it, Chess.”

“Oh, I know we have. And now...” He smirks at the two men standing on either side of and a pace behind the Queen’s Champion. “Now the question is are you going to ruin the surprise for everyone... or not?”

Tarrant grins at him, his eyes flashing a deep, confident green. “The only surprise, Chess, is that you never guessed I already knew there was supposed to be one!”

Chessur looks down his nose at the man. “I’m sure you think you do, however...”

“What don’t we know?” the Shuchlander interrupts.

Chessur enjoys the sly look Alice gives the lion over her shoulder. Yes, he enjoys that look very much. Then she turns back to Chessur, arches a brow and announces, “That Chessur has someplace and something he needs to be at the moment.”

He sighs at the reminder; the mission he’d performed at Alice’s request will be for naught if he doesn’t get to it. “Right you are, Alice,” he admits and disappears. It’s a shame he’ll miss hearing the lion’s protests and the image of a puffed up Tarrant would have been rather amusing, but Alice is correct: Chessur has a battle – and a bit of bullying – to prepare for.


Alice has been waiting for this moment since the day the queen’s suitors had first stepped inside Mamoreal Castle.

She’s a little startled to realize this, for how could she have known then that she’d desire vengeance so passionately now? At the time, she hadn’t even realized the vague discomfort she’d felt at seeing these men pass through the castle gates would grow and twist into such utter disgust. She despises them.

How dare they even think of approaching, laying eyes on, or threatening her queen!


Tarrant’s soft whisper calls her back from the edge of her mounting fury. She blinks, huffs out a breath of laughter, and says, “Thank you. I’m fine.”

On the two-tone, cracked and shifted square stones, Nivens does the honors of announcing the particulars of the conflict. Again. Mirana tries to convince Jaspien to forfeit. She appeals to his vanity, his pride, but without a heart, there’s no way she can succeed, so Alice isn’t surprised when he turns on his heel and marches back to his army, leaving the queen’s plea unanswered.

It’s to be a fight, then. Which is just as well. All this planning and preparation would have been for naught otherwise. Mirana and Alice share a long look as the queen returns to this edge of the field. With a slight nod, Alice acknowledges the permission she’s been given.

It’s her turn now.

When the queen is once again standing surrounded by the White Guard, Alice shifts her weight and directs her voice to the Outlander and the lion.

“Step out with me.”

Leif looks at her. “What? It’s not permitted for anyone other than the Champion to—”

“You won’t be fighting anyone,” Alice tells him confidently. “But you’ll give them pause while I make a proposition.”

“A what?”

“A proposition,” she repeats. “How else should one deal with an army of creatures who specialize in enlightened self-interest? Do you honestly think they want to fight us? To risk dying?”

“And you believe they don’t?”

“I know they don’t. I know them.” Alice glances out across the battlefield. Jaspien’s Champion has yet to step forward. He’s waiting for Alice to make the first move. She says, “I know what they really want. Even if they don’t know it themselves... yet.”

Tarrant giggles and Alice turns and gives him a beatific smile.

“Had you figured that part out yet?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Alice, you will never cease to utterly overwhelm me.” His broad grin gentles. “Why is a raven—”

“—like a writing desk?” she finishes. “I haven’t—”

“—the slightest idea,” he murmurs with a luminous smile.

Alice smiles back. “Come on, then. Let’s get this over and done with.” And then she strides out toward the center of the worn and weathered clearing. She can hear Tarrant on her left, her weaker side, and Leif on the other. Across the way, an Outlander Alice instantly recognizes steps forward flanked by a hyena and a bear. They cut quite the imposing figures as they stride, lope, and lumber toward her.

“Ah, Lassling! Does be-giddy me’eart teh clamp eyes on ye again!” the Outlander announces.

“Davon. You’re looking well,” Alice replies, her left hand on her scimitar.

“Och! An’ye be rememb’rin’ me name!” The brash man wags a finger at her. “Ye tol’me ye’d done f’rgotten it alr’dy!”

Alice sighs. “I tried.” She shrugs.

Davon laughs. “Ye lied, ye canny lass! Ye even‘ad us all thinkin’ ye’ad somma’ agains’Outlanders.”

“What makes you think I don’t?” she counters.

He replies in a mocking whisper, “M’be ye hav’nae noticed, but that lad there–” He nods in Tarrant’s direction. “–he’s an Outlander sure’s I am me-self.”

“Truly? I never realized.”

Davon laughs again. “Ar, ye’re still a deligh’Alice!” He sobers suddenly. “’Tis too bad I’ll hav’teh be killin’ ye.”

And with that, he draws his sword, swinging it upward in a motion meant to cleave her from thigh to chin. But Alice knows this man. She has fought him... and she has survived him. The scimitar is in her hands before she can even form the thought to draw it. She dodges the blade, strikes the underside of it as it arcs upward, sends it flying across the battlefield, and then employs the sort of rotten, cheating, dirty, underhanded tricks Davon and his kind respect.

A kick to the knee, a knee to the groin, a fist to the kidney, and then using the grip on his wrist to twist him around and down to the ground, Alice finds herself leaning over the man. She has his arm in the sort of grip she’d used on Tarrant months ago when the madness had consumed him after he’d discovered that she’d gone through the looking glass without him. Davon kneels on the stone tiles with Alice’s knee pressed against his back and her blade at his throat. She keeps him there, arm twisted up against his back and his weight precariously balanced upon his knees, his neck pressing just slightly against the sword’s edge.

Before he forces her to kill him, she plays her cards.

“I, Alice Kingsleigh, Champion of the White Queen, do hereby offer amnesty to all those willing to throw down their weapons and accept the gift of land and property within the lands of Queen Mirana!”

Her voice carries across the echoingly silent plain.

And then someone laughs.

Alice doesn’t take her eyes off of Davon. “Is something funny, Argur? You’re not tired of living day-to-day with naught but two or three iron coins clinking in your pocket?”

“Don’t got any pockets, Lassling!” he counters between brays.

Alice smiles. “Of course! What would you need them for? Not for riches, certainly.” Ignoring his helpless, hiccupping chuckles, she raises her voice, “None of you will ever see a single gold coin as long as you follow this path. Why do you fight?!

Her challenge rings out like the pealing of a silver bell.


No one answers her, for she already knows their answer. She has seen it in the hard flash of humor in their resigned gaze; she has heard it in their hallow, shallow laughter; she has felt it in the hate and disgust they pour into every charge, every attack, every swipe of a blade or club or paw: nothing. These creatures have nothing. Nothing to lose and now everythingto gain!

“Those of you who fight for a better future for your families, for yourselves, I offer it to you freely!” Still, she doesn’t dare take her eyes off of the Outlander on the ground before her. “And those of you who fight in hopes of meeting Death itself...” Her smile is dark and vicious. Even if they can’t see it clearly at that distance, she knows they’ll hear it. “... I’m more than willing to oblige you. Here. Today.”

And with that, Alice whistles. From the depths of the woods surrounding the battlefield, the red and gold livery of Galandonland’s Army steps forth, taking their place on the west flank of the White Army. To the east, the royal blue colors of Shuchland step forward. But that’s not all. From within the queen’s forces come two terrifying beasts: the frumious Bandersnatch and the nightmarish Jabberwocky.

“Keep your weapons and flee,” Alice invites them. “Keep your weapons and die. Or throw down your weapons and swear allegiance to the White Queen, vow to lift a weapon only in defense of your queen and family and your own life and we will welcome you into our lands, into your land, where your city is waiting to be built. You have my word – the word of Alice Kingsleigh of Mamoreal, the word of Alice Lassling! – that I speak the truth!”

Finally, she releases Davon. She removes the scimitar and – knowing she cannot afford to give ground now – gently shoves him away from her. She watches him warily, waiting to see if he’ll draw one of his many, sharp-edged throwing stars.

Although she knows no one man or beast leads this rabble, she knows they all listen to this Outlander. Many times, he’d been the one to come between Alice and one bad-tempered beast or another. She doesn’t trust him – no one trusts each other in this company of mismatched, money-loving monsters – but she knows he’s the one she’ll have to win over first.

She watches as he stands, his back to her. She trusts Tarrant and Leif to keep Argur and Boreal out of her way.

“What say you to my offer, Davon Irondirk?”

Slowly, he turns. She notes his hands are held in front of him, palms up. He smiles, revealing his crooked, chipped, stained teeth and tells her, “Aye, Lassling. I say aye teh yer offer.”

Alice nods, accepting his answer.

“A city, you say?” Argur muses in his off-note, screechy voice.


He tosses his battered short sword aside. Boreal follows suit. The sounds of weapons clattering against the stones is nearly deafening. Even the Jubjub bird, with its ghostly, ghastly eyes on the grinning Jabberwocky, stands down.

No!” Valereth screams. “You’ve made a vow to me! You will fight or face the consequences of breaking it!”

Davon shouts back, “If ye’ll r’call, Mister Valereth, we signed on teh work f’r a wage, no’ teh die in a battle.”

Alice grins and adds to Valereth, Oshtyer, and Jaspien's general misery with relish: “Step forward Prince Jaspien, Viscount Valereth, and Lord Oshtyer to receive justice!”

“And if we don’t?” Oshtyer sneers. “You’ll have your new pets do your bidding?” Clearly, he’s referring to the surrendered mercenaries.

Alice laughs. “Why would I impose upon them when I have other pets who are already looking forward to sinking their teeth and claws into your hide, my lord?” She raises a hand and gestures the Bandersnatch and Jabberwocky closer. Their steps thunder against the stones, shaking the ground as they advance snarling. The disarmed mercenaries hastily move aside until it is only Jaspien, his cohorts, and their most loyal stewards who remain, alone and abandoned and on the rather unpleasant receiving end of the hungry and untamed attention of Alice’s... pets.

“What’s it to be, gentlemen?” she asks. “Will you come forth? Or will you be dinner?”

The Jabberwocky lets loose a hungry rumbling growl that makes the hair on the back of Alice’s neck stand on end, even though she knows she has nothing to fear from this twitching, dark-as-a-starless-night, starved-looking creature.

The Bandersnatch snarls and roars eagerly, licking his face in anticipation.

Alice keeps her arm up, keeps them in check, and waits for the men across the field to make their decision.

Oshtyer retreats one step... and then another... and then he turns and takes two frantic running steps toward the wood before he realizes he has nowhere to go. While he and his cohorts had been focused on Alice’s speech and the sudden appearance of the White Queen’s allies, the former army of the Red Queen had moved in behind them, cutting off their retreat.

Oshtyer, Valereth, and Jaspien stare at the spear-wielding line of white-armored card soldiers, and relent:

Jaspien, resigned and defeated, steps forward first.  “I surrender,” he announces, his face blank.

Valereth joins him but cannot bring himself to say the words.

Oshtyer reluctantly complies as well.

And then Alice steps back and allows the White Queen, King Aven, and Lord Hornsaver to pronounce their verdicts:

Jaspien is confined to his castle and marshlands for the remainder of his life.

Valereth’s wealth and property are seized as compensation for his disloyalty to his king and his homeland. He is banished from Shuchland and all the realms of the Underland Allegiance.

Oshtyer’s meager land holdings are re-taken by Galandonland and he joins the former viscount in exile.

The men are forced to remove their weapons and their shoes and then they are marched from the battlefield.

It’s over...!

Alice smiles, takes a deep breath, and sighs. Now, all there is left to do is go home.

One Promise Kept: Book 2

A Alice in Wonderland Story
by Manniness

Part 13 of 17

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