It was beyond the misty Scottish moors that an ancient gray castle loomed, weathered by age and haunted by time. Tangles of moss and ivy crept up the stone walls to the tower windows, out from which looked the loveliest lass in the land. Holly, she was called, and the magnificence of her silhouette froze the Earth with its beauty. Her lips shone like rosebuds against porcelain cheeks, and golden tresses cascaded down her back, radiating a golden halo of light. This fragile angel was the object of desire for many suitors, though none competed for her affections so brazenly as Jasper and Percy. Both men would traverse the highlands for their Holly, who expressed equal affection towards the two. In truth, however, she knew with whom her love lay. But, too meek to declare this fair lad her favorite lad, she surrendered fortune to fate.

It was at the cusp of winter that Holly took to her chamber, wracked by the pangs of consumption. She writhed miserably until her bones rattled and her rosebud lips spilled pools of blood. The pallor of illness tinged her sunken cheeks. Morbid shadows masked her sunken eyes, which fluttered desperately to extract the last drops of vitality from her hollowed frame. It was not long before Holly choked her last cry, wheezed her last breath, whispered her last prayer.

They dismantled the corpse from her bed and placed her to rest in a casket, tall, wide, and wooden. Grief-stricken, no doubt, were Percy and Jasper when they received news of their beloved. Especially starved by the pangs of loss was Percy, who stole up the tangles of ivy to the chamber, where he slipped through the window and into the coffin with his beloved. He extended an arm to open the lid, ever so slightly, pausing with each effort to prevent a creak, until creak and he violently swung the lid open at once to a most chilling sight; Holly, an effigy of loveliness, cemented into the panels of a box. If he could not have her in life, he would possess her in death. He sunk in beside her, and slightly, slowly, ever so slightly… thud- the lid shut.

The next eve a cloaked man loaded the casket onto a pushcart, and wheeled it down the winding corridors of the dank castle, until with the dimness of his senses, Percy perceived a plummet into some eternal labyrinth, and the pound of a hammer sealed his fate. As twilight faded into midnight, so did Percy fade into the frigid bliss of the macabre.

Two moons passed until Percy could once again perceive his condition. A vile stench hung thick within the confines of the box, and his skin crawled with the sliminess of maggots. Emerging from his stiffened stupor, he uncurled his fingers and extended an arm beside him to caress the corpse of his beloved. It reached into the vast emptiness, seeking a delicate, waxy arm, but met with nothing but the black emptiness of a coffin.

He pounded, no – pounded, vigorously at the lid – unearthing himself into the splendor of an emerald glen.

For two moons more, staggered lone amongst the hills, only to sink beneath the briar each eve in anguish. As the nights melted into days, serenity settled upon the glen that drove Percy to delight, rather than despair. Meandering through the dew-stained grass to the song of the larks, he came upon a path of bluebells, so fragrant and lovely, blanketing the moors until the sun kissed the horizon. It was on the periphery of this Eden that he spotted that ancient gray castle. Seized by familiarity, he loosened a bundle of bluebells from the Earth, and started forward.
Climbing up the tangle of vines and moss, Percy stole through the window and into her chamber, expected to be greeted by the chill of abandonment. He was instead, greeted by the foulness of rotting flesh. Craning his neck towards the source, he recoiled at the figure of Holly, outstretched beneath the counterpane. Her slim ivory neck, just as fragile as before, and long golden locks, wavy and flowing, bore all the loveliness of life. He placed the bundle of bluebells beside her milky face until the lass and the flowers looked almost too tempting to behold. Charmed by this youthful glow, Percy leaned forward to touch her rosebud lips to his. Though her eyes were closed, the tingling warmth of her breath pulsated through his body. If he could not have her in death, he would possess her…Desire shook his body, and oh so delicately, peeling back the sheets, he fancied he would climb in with her, lay beside her, just rest a fortnight, two moons, an eternity…he peeled back the sheets, and
thrash
flew up her hand, in one swift motion – the blade struck his heart, spilling pools of blood onto the loveliness of the counterpane. Percy staggered backwards into the hands of a cloaked man. This man, this wretched form – grinned at Holly, who shot him, her fair lad, her favorite lad - a sparkling glare.