White Roses, Black Doves

A hunger through time-25

The transition into sleep was no longer a rest; it was a homecoming.

As soon as Perceval closed his eyes, the modern, sterile world of the house dissolved. He was transported back into the vibrant, breathing past. He was Cornelius, and she was Alice , and the library was warm with the glow of a dying fire. The passion was so visceral it threatened to stop his heart—the slide of silk against skin, the frantic, melodic rhythm of their breathing, the intoxicating scent of her musk and the roses she always wore. He felt the specific, damp heat of her skin, the way she arched into his touch, and the sharp, divine agony of her lips trailing down the sensitive cord of his neck. It was not a dream; it was a memory playing in high definition, so potent he could feel the ghost of her fingernails digging into his shoulders. He could feel the slide of himself inside of her with a heat that one can not simply conjuring in one’s mind. This was all he ever wanted. To feel the passion that he shared with the woman he was dangerously devoted to. Her moaning mingling with his heavy breathes, he could not tell where one ended and the other began, he simply didn’t want to.

In the physical world, Perceval’s body was a feverish vessel. He thrashed in the sheets, his fingers clawing at the air, his lips parting in a silent, desperate call.

Beside him, the air in the bedroom began to shimmer, turning thick and heavy with the static of the afterlife. Alice had manifested. She stood over him, her translucent form glowing with a soft, mournful light. She watched him suffer, watched him relive the ecstasy that had been the prelude to their destruction, and her heart—or the echo of it—broke.

She reached out, her fingers pale and ethereal, and pressed them firmly against his chest. She centered her touch exactly where the ruby necklace lay hidden beneath his skin, the metal pulsing with the faint, rhythmic heat of the ancient binding spell.

The contact acted like a lightning strike. Perceval’s eyes snapped open.

He gasped, bolting upright in the dark. The bedroom was silent, save for the hum of the cooling house. He saw nothing—no shimmering ghost, no spectral presence—but the sensation of her hand remained, heavy and warm against his heart.

"Alice?" he whispered, his voice cracking.

He didn't move. He held his breath, terrified that the slightest motion would shatter the fragile connection. Slowly, he reached up, placing his own hand over his chest. He felt his own palm, but beneath it, he could feel her hand—the distinct, cold-yet-comforting pressure of her fingers interlocked with his, resting upon the ruby.

He couldn't see her, but he knew she was leaning over him. He felt the displacement of air, the faint, familiar scent of the past.

Then, she moved. He felt the ghost of a touch against his jaw, her unseen fingers tracing the line of his throat. And then, her lips met his. It was a kiss of profound, desperate longing, a cool, soft press that tasted of memories and eternity. He squeezed his eyes shut, leaning into the contact, weeping openly. It was the only thing that felt real.

The moment she pulled away, the pressure remained on his lips, a phantom bruise of love that lingered long after the presence began to fade. He slumped back into his pillows, his heart a frantic, uneven rhythm. The waking world was a barren wasteland of lies and monsters, but the sleep—the sleep was a sanctuary. He clutched his chest, willing the night to stretch on forever, terrified of the sunrise that would force him to be Perceval, when all he wanted was to drift back into the dark and remain, forever, Cornelius.