The cell was dark except for the light filtering in through the small barred window set into the door. The cell had no other windows. Tweedle swung the candle around and illuminated one corner, with a thin straw mattress and pillow. The next corner had a small hole cut into the floor that unceremoniously acted as a toilet. He swung to the opposite corner; candlelight revealed the Mad Hatter sitting with his back against the wall.
The Hatter shielded his dark eyes from the candlelight. He looked more like a scarecrow than Tweedle had ever seen. His clothes were ragged and dirty, his face missing any trace of color; his hair, long and scraggly, hung about his skinny shoulders.
A spark of excitement shuddered through Tweedle. He’d always wanted to speak to the Mad Hatter and this was his chance. The Hatter was one of the most fascinating behavioural cases, second only to Tweedle’s own past.
“Hello, Hatter,” said Tweedle as he sat a few feet away and placed the candle between them.
The Hatter squinted in the dim light.
“Oh,” said the Hatter with disdain, “it’s you two.”
“No, just me,” said Tweedle.
“Delude yourself on your own time. If I have to tolerate your presence you can at least be honest with me. So who’s in there these days? Tweedle Dee or Tweedle Dum?”
“You know very well that neither of them ever existed,” said Tweedle unwaveringly.
“Such an unholy union your parents made, a witch and a Dwarf. Not surprising you ended up the way you did.”
“We’re not here to talk about me―”
“Us,” interrupted the Hatter.
“What?”
“Us. You’re not here to talk about us.”
“Me.”
“Us.”
“Why don’t you tell me about the Dwarf?” said Tweedle, trying to shift the gears of the conversation.
“I didn’t know your father, you fat idiot,” spat the Hatter and then burst into a fit of laughter, which ended abruptly. He leaned forward, looked from side to side to make sure there wasn’t anyone else in the cell, and then whispered. “It’s okay. I know your secret; it’s okay to tell me. You see, I’m sitting on quite the secret myself.”
The Hatter leaned back, folded his arms, and winked at Tweedle knowingly.
“Right,” said Tweedle. “How about we talk about Rumpelstiltskin?”
The Hatter shook his head. “Avoiding the subject isn’t going to make it any better, you know!”
“The Dwarf Rump―”
“Yes, yes. He escaped, I helped him, no big secrets here. Except the secret I’m not telling you. But the Dwarf has his own agenda, had it for a long time.”
“Why did you send him to see your son?”
“Ah, my boy. How is he?”
“He’s well.”
“Is he… here?”
“Why would he be here?” asked Tweedle calmly.
“I just thought he might be inspired by the Dwarf to come visit his dear old dad.”
“Your son was sent to Othaside as a safety precaution. He has a life there; I hardly see how a little Dwarf would convince him otherwise.”
The Hatter looked sad for a moment before his face cracked into a grin.
“Well, back to matters at hand. I’ll answer any questions you have, directly, mind you, as long as you tell me which of you I’m speaking to.”
A bead of sweat formed on Tweedle’s head. It couldn’t be. How would he know? Tweedle was fortunate that his long life cycle allowed him to outlive a great many people and the details of his past were, for the most part, buried within the Agency or the Archives and a few others who also lived long lives.
The Hatter leaned forward. “A madman can’t fool a madman and as you can see, I’m clearly very mad. I know your story, Tweedle Dee… and Tweedle Dum. But like I said, your secret’s safe with me, I just want to know which one of you I’m currently talking to. That’s all.”
Tweedle tried to collect himself. And failed miserably. “Ah… eh… uh.”
“That’s not really English, is it? Look, I know you convinced everyone that your two personalities have been amalgamated into one and therefore you are completely normal and able to function as a regular member of society. But I know better. I know why you can retain so much information. I know why you deal so well with madmen and the criminals of Thiside. It’s because you’re just as mad. You simply hide it better. You’re both traitors to yourselves. You’re both still in there, it’s plain and obvious to me. You’re a charade, a fake, a counterfeit. You are a grand theatre production with two main actors but only one voice. Now,” said the Hatter and unfolded his long spindly fingers in a questioning gesture, “tell me that I’m wrong.”
Tweedle was sweating profusely. He’d been so careful. After his therapy, he’d been able to convince everyone that he’d developed being normal into a fine art.
“You… y-you’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
“I’m not here to talk about us.” Tweedle clamped his hands over his mouth.
“Ahh, there you both are. You have to admit that taking a page out of my extensive book isn’t a bad idea. It is better to be exactly who you are rather than exactly what you think people want you to be.”
“B-but, you’re mad.”
The Hatter smiled broadly. “Then you, my friends, are in good company.”
Tweedle twitched slightly and burst into tears.
The Hatter stood up to his full height. With the candlelight throwing shadows against the wall and the thunder rolling outside the Tower, the Hatter looked truly ghastly, his hair hanging in thick greasy strands and his ragged clothes draped over his skeletal body.
In the Agent’s mind, Tweedle Dum bawled incessantly while Tweedle Dee simply whimpered. The ropes of sanity that the split personality of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum had perfected over time had been frayed in a matter of minutes. When he was a boy, Dum and Dee had been two personalities trapped in the young boy’s body, not opposing personalities but more like conjoined twins. They had bickered and fought and agreed and loved and laughed. However, such weirdness can be tolerated for only so long and his options came down to severe therapy or time in the Tower before his madness hurt someone. The choice was natural.
“Troll!” shouted the Hatter.
There was a snarfling sound and the locks on the door slid aside. The door creaked open a few inches and the Troll poked his ugly little head through.
“What ya want?” drooled the Troll.
“Our dear friend here seems to have lost his mind. I don’t suppose there’s a spare cell where he might rest? I’ll look for his mind while he’s sleeping,” explained the Hatter politely.
“What did ya do ta him?”
The Hatter adopted a look of pure surprise and innocence. “Me? We were just talking and he started… well, look at him.”
The Troll opened the door. Candlelight skittered across the wall, illuminating the cell to reveal the large, round figure sitting cross-legged in the middle of the cell sobbing. The Troll looked at the Hatter, who shrugged.
“I didn’t even get to tell him my secret,” said the Hatter and shook his head disappointedly.
The Troll waddled over to Tweedle and took him by the hand. “C’mon, ther ther, s’aright, ee as that effect on a lot o people.”
The Troll grabbed the candle, then pulled on Tweedle’s hand to lead him out of the cell. Tweedle hoisted himself to his feet, head hung low, and the pair exited the cell, leaving the Hatter to himself.
The door swung shut and the light ceased to occupy the room. The Hatter stood in the middle of his cell and grinned maniacally at no one in particular.