For years,
the stone had kept it.
Or dead,
nor alive.
The world had gone on without him.
Seasons had passed, kingdoms had changed, memories themselves had finally dissolved in time.
But one thing never disappeared.
Name.
Victoria.
Then one day -
the stone gave way.
First a crack.
Almost nothing.
Then a gasp.
A fragment of dust fell to the ground.
And Alaric inhaled.
The world came crashing back.
The air.
At night.
The weight of one's own body.
He didn't shout.
He remained motionless for a long moment, as if time had first to relearn how to circulate in his veins.
Then he stood up.
And he went home.
The house had hardly changed.
The walls still held the shadows of centuries past.
The dark velvet of the bed seemed to have been waiting forever.
In the silent room, only one thing caught his eye.
On a small table, protected by a glass cloche,
rested the rose.
The same.
Red.
Fragile yet intact, as if it had refused to die.
He approached slowly.
Her fingers grazed the glass.
He closed his eyes.
Everything he'd been through - the stone, the hunger, the night - had existed for a single reason.
Find her.
Then he felt something.
Movement in the air.
Almost imperceptible.
A presence.
He raised his head.
At the threshold of the room, a figure stood motionless.
At first, he thought it was an illusion.
To a memory locked away for too long.
But she moved on.
One step.
Then another.
The light revealed his face.
Victoria.
Victoria.
Or time,
nor death,
nor at night
had succeeded in erasing them.
She was always the same.
The same softness in his eyes.
The same fragile, ancient presence that had once crossed the London ballroom.
And yet...
something had changed.
Something deeper than night itself.
As she approached, a lock of her hair fell over her face.
Alaric gently raised his hand and pushed it back behind his ear.
That's when he saw her.
The brand.
A delicate arabesque tattoo surrounded his eyes, like a dark crown drawn by the night.
Fine, almost living lines, like ancient tears etched into her skin.
The eternal tears she had shed for him.
Alaric says nothing.
He didn't need it.
In the centuries-old silence, he finally understood that neither stone, nor death, nor night had been able to break the bond between them.
And in that deep silence,
they understood each other.
No promises were necessary.
They'd been through too many shadows for that.
They lay on the bed, side by side, like two people returning from a very long journey.
The rose was still resting under its glass cloche.
And for the first time in centuries,
the room was no longer silent.
Under the veiled moon,
their story had simply begun again.
But in the shadows, other forces were still watching.
And some stories never awaken without awakening the world with them...
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