Chapter Text
Alice is on her back in the meadow when the noise begins; a lazy mumbling, like she’s four years old again, falling asleep to her mother’s gentle crooning. Only, she’s alone. The meadow’s empty, save for the jackdaws and the dragonflies. The mumbling continues—
Something like;
— in the ballroom, on the floor, in that dress, no, no, I shouldn’t have been there—
Something like;
—should have done something, I should have, I should have—
Something like;
—what if—oh merlin—what if she runs, what if she, what if, what if, what if—
Huh.
Alice raises her palms to her ears and tentatively presses down, muffling the whistle of the breeze through the long grass, the caw of the birds, and the buzz of the insects. She closes her eyes. She holds her breath in the pit of her lungs. She lets the world narrow to the garden of her own mind.
Then, clear as day:
I’d quite like to get out of here, now.
The voice blossoms, rich and precise, the kind that could both weave stories and deliver callous insults. It’s close . To Alice, it’s as if the speaker’s lips are mere inches from her ear, speaking low and clear.
She pushes herself upright, fists curling in the grass below her, nails catching in the dirt, and frantically shakes her head, as if the voice inside might simply fall out like a loose screw. The sound persists. It keeps persisting. It doesn’t bloody stop. Blinking her eyes open to daylight, Alice’s breath catches in her throat as she shoves to her feet, stumbling into a run as she careens through the grass. Over the hill, and the house rises up out of the woods in greeting, beckoning Alice in as she hurtles down the busy garden path and through the front door.
“Mum!” she bellows. “Mum!”
And the voice goes:
—damned things, sisters, if I could cut them loose—but I’d never, I’d bleed too much—
And Alice collapses to her knees on the coarse rug in her living room, at her mother’s feet, and snatches the parchment and quill from her hands. She grapples those hands desperately into her own, grips them tight and fierce and declares:
“Mum, I think I’ve been cursed—there’s a voice in my head and it won’t bloody shut up and it keeps talking about sisters and running away and something about… something about a ballroom? And I tried covering my ears, mind you, and the voice only got louder!”
When Alice’s hysterics come to a grinding halt, her mother’s round face is sporting a beaming smile.
“Oh, Al,” she says, and tugs Alice into the soft circle of her arms. “Goodness. This is just wonderful news. You haven’t been cursed, sweetheart.”
“Thank Godric,” Alice gasps. “What’s wrong with me then?”
The pair of them shake together with the vibrations of her mother’s laughter.
“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong!”
Pulling away, her mother takes Alice’s face in two hands, cradling her cheeks. She looks ever so pleased. There isn’t a hint of worry in her expression. Alice’s hysterical panic sinks back down and curiosity rises to take its place.
“You have what’s called a soul bond. It means that every part of you—your magic, your essence, your you— is tied to someone else. And it has been, since— well. Since whoever of you existed first.”
* * *
By the time night has fallen, the mumbling in Alice’s head has grown to a steady, grinding noise. It’s become a fistful of sharp nails scratching themselves raw against the inside of her skull. It wants to be heard, but Alice can’t bear to hear it. She blinks into the thick darkness, boring holes into the high ceiling above her.
“It’s a rare condition,” her mother had explained, after she’d smoothed Alice’s panic back down with a practised hand. “You’ll likely be learning about it this year— you’re at the age when soul bonds begin to present in those who have them. It’s nothing to be scared of, Al.”
Nothing to be scared of, yet here she is; her blankets pulled tight up to her chin, her fists clenched tight as anything around the fabric, her body trembling with the noise of it all, of another person existing inside this body with her.
Nothing to be scared of? Great bollocks to that! She’s never known fear like this. Never felt so scared in her life—the emotion is almost foreign to her. It sits, strange and uncomfortable, in her gut. And, Merlin, the questions!
To start; Who did she share this bond with? Where were they? What was their name? Were they a wizard? Why were they thinking those things?
But also; what colour were their eyes? Their hair? How did they dress and what did their voice sound like? Did they have a sweet tooth and what was their taste in music? Were they sporty? Bookish? Loud? Tall? Pragmatic? Intelligent?
Perhaps most pressingly: could they hear Alice, too?
Alice’s mother had said that soul bonds present at different times for the two that share it, meaning that Alice’s bond partner may have been hearing Alice’s thoughts for years now, or perhaps has yet to hear them at all. She’d explained that the bond is almost always interpreted in a romantic sense—that they occur when two people’s souls are drawn so strongly to each other that they begin to twine together. Alice agrees. There is something inherently romantic about that. Something overwhelmingly terrifying about it, too.
She pushes the thoughts firmly from her mind.
Then,
—where’s she going now? Where’s she going? She can’t be safe— she must know that — stupid! What does she think she’s doing? How could she—
Nails grinding against her skull. Alice doesn’t believe the voice will stop in sleep, either. Perhaps their dreams will tangle together. Ha! Wouldn’t that be funny? Alice’s dreams never make much sense anyway, her mind is hardly an easy place to navigate in sleep.
Regardless, she’s hardly going to be sleeping right now. The racket in her head is too much. She opens her mind to it, slowly, gradually. Stops trying so hard to block it out. The voice floods in like the surge of the tide and Alice’s own mind is pummelled backward from the force of it all, of all the nonsensical thoughts. They’re strewn like weeds through her own mind.
And, merlin, it’s a lot.
She tries to imagine the thoughts growing roots, tries to picture them sprouting blossoms in the heart of spring. She pictures it; the meadow, her thoughts, the sharp yellow daffodils and the mellow greens. Then, the foreign thoughts; fresh sprouts, piercing through the damp soil, amongst Alice’s own. The colours come through gradually. They grow together.
Oh.
The feeling overwhelms Alice, the emotion sweeping up through her chest. Because it’s— it’s beautiful , like this. It’s peaceful. She’s back in the meadow, and the voice is no longer a scratching, clawing prisoner, it’s the whistle of birdsong and the hum of the crickets. It’s the wind through her hair and the dirt beneath her fingers. It’s the open sky above her and the stirring meadow below. The noise isn’t just tolerable now; it’s a want, it’s a need, it’s indispensable.
Alice slips into sleep’s grip to the soft lull of the meadow and the whisper of another girl’s voice against her ear.