His eyes tightened close as he tried to navigate their conversation. Wondering what he meant or if- like Wonderland. Everything he ever spoke was nonsense for the sake of nonsense. There was a time March wasnât always like this⌠when they were young and when March was new to their lives. His father told him to chat with March while he dealt with Jervis Tetch. He recalled a clear irritation in Edâs tone. Something that The Hatter never seemed to pick up on. The Riddler didnât exactly like working with Jervis. So his visits with March werenât as long as as impactful as his visits with Martin. âŚBut that didnât matter. From his shorter visits, he could gage easily that March wasnât always March. He was something else entirely before the insanity took over. He was someone normal. That was probably what he meant when he said âlonger than Marchâ.
He let March talk about how he saw Wonderland and he just listened to the nonsense picture his old friend painted for him. The sun and moon having eyes. Watching their every move. March might think it was friendly for them to have smiles, but to Emrys. It all felt sinister. Like March was under surveillance and he could never escape Wonderland. No door with a lock. No looking glass. No rabbit to follow. No way out. He didnât want to be stuck like that. Trapped in his hallucinations for the end of time. Emrys wanted nothing more than to be sane. To be normal. Like his friend once was. So long ago.Â
âSo,â Emrys started, opening his eyes to finally look at March again. He was quite done with Wonderland and Marchâs little game, but he didnât come back to reality like heâd hoped. His stomach turned as he noticed things seemed wrong in the corner of his vision. It looked as though the wall was moving. Crawling with ants. When did that start? He closed his eyes again and swallowed the lump that was starting to form in his throat. âUhmâŚâ His voice was a lot quieter. âThis is all the time for you?â He repeated his question despite already having his answer. He could hear the crude sound of a chair being pulled back to their left. Drug along the ground. Someone settling into it.Â
I know youâre only twelve. But I dissected frogs at your age⌠Itâs almost the same thing. He could hear his fatherâs voice clearly in the room with him. Although, he was sure March couldnât. Finally he opened his eyes again to see him there. The Riddler. Seated beside them, slowly removing blood stained gloves and placing them on the table. His apron that he normally wore to cook them dinner was soaked in blood and one of his lenses was smudged with it. Emrys placed a hand over his mouth as the memory struck him. His father looked like he did the night he taught him how to dispose a body.Â
He quickly glanced away and tried to focus instead on March. Feeling ill again, only this time it was from the memory. âHave you ever gotten it to stop?â He asked. âWonderland.. I mean?âÂ
For whatever could become of them, March wondered. He had never met anyone willing to open their mind to Wonderland as Emrys was, not even March himself. He had not invited Wonderland into him, but rather been swallowed by it. His father had walked him in, guided him with a hand down the rabbit hole, and eventually it became all heâd ever known. The March by another name was left behind, and the only remnant of him remained the same face in the mirror. Yet not even the eyes were the same. The old Marchâs eyes were lucid, a strange color if March said so himself, he proffered his current color that changed with the frequency. So much funner that way, to keep changing and never become familiar. Familiarity was stability and who needed such a cruel mistress?Â
Sometimes he tried to recall the before. Curious of what his land looked like without the wonder, and yet the memories repulsed him away. As if every time he stared into that mirror, tried to see through the glass, it broke. The reflection afraid of what he had become. It was not very kind of it, but March continued because there was little else to do. If the past March broke under his stare then that was hardly a concern. After all, what was a concern if not something to ignore? You ignored your concerns and it created a beautiful world full of surprises and screams and new colors and new people and new roles. Everything became nonsense, just as it was supposed to be. March failed to understand why no one else leaned into the chaos, it was so much easier then anything else.
Emrys opened his eyes and for the first time, March was sure his friend could truly see. So many paraded through this world utterly blind without knowing what they didnât see, and yet in closing his eyes Emrys had truly opened them. His friend was gleaming a new understanding of the world so many lacked, March would call himself proud if he knew what pride was. It was too solid of emotion for him however, not airy enough to fly with, so he didnât hold onto it. Instead he decided he was pleased. It was close enough, was it not? âIt's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.â He quoted the words that ran aimlessly in his head. âThere is no forwards so only now remains.â Now, where everything stood in motion and changing. Far more important then the memories that were left in the lurch, the ones of the other March that didnât want to be seen. That didnât want this March looking in.Â
Once more, Emrysâs eyes shut and open. He was somewhere different then March was, he was quite sure. Yet they were also the same. Different continents on the same country. Same space, same sky, but different in the little ways that mattered hardly and completely. Emrys appeared scared. Usually otherâs fear gave him comfort, for fear was something March understood in itâs in and outs utterly. Yet, seeing it on Emrys didnât please him as it normally did. He didnât like it. It wasnât correct on the other manâs face. It felt like a tug at his side, the displeased feeling he never usually partook in. It was unfamiliar, it was rude, and March wanted off with itâs head (not Emrysâs, of course, but rather the feeling that felt like a thorn in his side-- and she wasnât even here).Â
Wonderland to stop. It wouldnât be kind to laugh and yet it bubbled in his throat. For some reason, unlike usual, March felt like choking on the laughter rather then letting it breath. âIâm mad.â He told him, and unlike usual there was a somber weight to his tone. âYouâre mad. Weâre all mad here.â There was no stopping to Wonderland, it haunted him. It was simply the choice to drown with a laugh or a scream.Â