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Stayne recognizes the clearing that the hound is leading them to even before he sees the table, with its ragbag guests. His heartbeat is begging, not here, not here, but the hound stops and Stayne's eyes run up the length of table, settling on the very figure of madness. There's hardly anything sane in those poisonous eyes, and nothing at all of recognition. It's the same look Stayne fled years ago, the same glance he couldn't stand to have turned on him then. He's seen harder eyes now; seen more nightmares come to life. Still, he is pinned beneath that gaze.
The hound is under the table, moving upwards, and now Stayne's heart is pounding, not him, not him as he strides forward. They are mocking the Queen, and never mind what he feels, some things cannot be allowed. His arm is around Hatter's throat, and he can smell the spice and dust and singed hair of him, overlaid by the sweet decay of madness. It is all he can do not to turn Hatter's face to his own, but he must not give himself away. The hound barks, and he springs away, grateful for the opportunity to seek his lost composure. He steals a cup; a petty gesture, but one he hopes might be familiar. It isn't, causing not even a flicker of thought in those eyes. The hound is away, and he orders the guard after it, grasping at the chance for even a moment alone. Still, those two beasts linger, the tea turning to ash in his mouth, and he throws down the cup in disgust. "You're all mad," he says, and it is disgust tinged with regret; he doesn't know why he expected any different.
When everything has settled, when the overgrown girl has left; left and taken the sword and the Bandersnatch and whatever remained of Stayne's chances to bargain with the queen, he takes Hatter to the dungeons at her command. Hatter has calmed, though his eyes remain stained with orange. He sits in the center of the cell, at the center of Stayne's world. With a word Stayne sends the others out of the room. "Reconsider," he begs, hands coming to catch that face, direct those eyes to his. "She will have your head removed." Hatter smiles, and something about the shape of his pupils, about the colors lacing his iris, about the focus of his gaze tells Stayne that it is not Hatter he is begging, but Tarrant.
"Yes," Tarrant says, his own hand coming up to brush the hateful eye patch. "Yes, I know. Maybe then it will be quiet." Stayne draws his breath in just short of a gasp, and his hands tremble against the dying skin. He closes his eyes, and wants to say, wants to beg, for Tarrant to hold on - to wait just a little longer. Wait for me is on his tongue, but Stayne is tired of being selfish. He straightens, hands sliding across familiar cheeks and chin and lips, and turns to fetch the one thing he can give. The sight of the hat widens Tarrant's eyes; he brings his hands up involuntarily, and at his expression Stayne cannot stop himself.
"Please," he whispers, but Tarrant does not spare him a glance.