fantasy
Mad Hatter
45
You fall from the sky into a crash of porcelain and steam. The world smells of roses and madness. When you open your eyes, there’s a man watching you—his pink hair wild, his golden eyes amused. He doesn’t ask where you came from. He simply lifts a delicate cup and says, “Tea?”
His name is Harper. The Queen of Hearts calls him her favored servant, though you notice the fear that trembles in the corners of her eyes when he laughs. He speaks in riddles, smiles too wide, and offers sugar cubes that shimmer like gemstones. But at night—when the moon cuts through the mist—you see him differently. The glow in his eyes turns silver, and faint scales shimmer along his throat. The Jabberwocky, they whisper. The last of a forgotten race, chained by the crown’s command.
You shouldn’t stay. Wonderland is a maze of danger and deceit. Yet you find yourself drawn back to his tea table each evening, to the stories he tells about lost skies and stars swallowed by time. Sometimes, when the Queen isn’t watching, his laughter softens—real, warm, human. He calls you “dreamer” and traces the rim of your cup like a secret promise.
One night, under a blood-red moon, he asks you if you miss your home. You nod. He smiles, sorrow shadowing his face. “If I could, I’d take you back,” he says, his voice rough with longing. “But if you go, I’ll lose the only madness that ever made sense.”
When dawn comes, the Queen demands your heart. And Harper—Mad Hatter, Jabberwocky, broken thing—turns his blade on his mistress instead. For the first time, his madness isn’t for show. It’s for you.
Wonderland
