A/N: I can't be this unoriginal...
Well, my life is pissing me off, all I want to do is write, so writing I am doing. Inspired by the song Serenade by Versailles. Really beautiful and sad song that they dedicated to one of their deceased members, Jasmine You.
This man from my memories is walking down an illuminated white path in a pace I can't keep up with. He glides out of my reach when my fingers brush against him, and his eyes are hidden beneath his blond bangs when he turns back to look at me. I wonder if his presence is meant to keep me in my search for my memories, or if he's merely teasing me.
Am I not allowed to remember him?
Each night I close my eyes, but the night I wake up in is white, as if I'm in a world of light. I'm in a dress of white, the lace tumbling down my knees and arms. My hair and eyes are dark, and they make me feel ridiculous in this pale realm. I'm a spot, I'm so distinguishable.
Then I think to myself, perhaps this is how he can find me, this man. The hallways are white, the stairs are crystal. The chandeliers are lit with silver stars and the floor is polished white marble so flawless that my reflection is near perfect below me. There are no shadows being cast, but I don't feel alone.
I venture the world. I meet a woman whose face I can't make out give me a white ribbon to tie back my chocolate hair. A young man pins a pearly bloom to my chest. When I wake up, I never remember them. Maybe they're not connected to my memories like the blond man is.
Ah yes, him. I ask where I can find him. The hallways and stairs are all one-way – I either progress or go back to where I came from. But it is endless. I wonder how long I must keep running, how long I have to go blindly without knowing where he is. What if I was left chasing him forever? Could my heart stand that kind of longing and anticipation? Every time I turned to a new hallway, I thought I was closer to finding out a truth in an alabaster realm of illusion.
Then I hear music, the waves of a violin bow on its strings with a piano vocalizing behind it. I think to myself that wherever the man is, he will most definitely be amongst the music. I tell myself to follow it, but my feet need no prompting as they run down the marble floor, my footsteps echoing in the one-way castle.
Slow music, graceful notes twirling as beautifully as a ballerina. I will dance for the man. I will sing for him, sing how much he means to me, because of all things, I am certain that I care for him. I make it outside to white grass and white petals and leaves tumbling out of silver-barked trees. There aren't any musicians when I emerge, no audience, no singer even though I swear a voice is fading in and out with a melody rolling off their tongue.
"We both promised, didn't we?"
My cheeks are warm as soon as I see him standing before me, his back turned. The billowing coat covering him is white, silver trimming around his sleeves and hem of it. His hair is so pale compared to mine, and the smile on his lips is a piercing white flower. The hand that reached out to me was covered with a white glove.
The piano sounds from the raining petals become slower, anticipating our touch. My own lace-gloved hand slides along his warm palm. His smile widens in appreciation, and then I can't help it, I blurt out, "How are you making the music?"
He doesn't answer; he never does. I myself can't remember the sound of his words. I know most of his appearance, but I didn't recall our memories together or the sound of his voice. It must be music itself, I think. If I close my eyes, I can be almost certain the lyrics dancing around me come from his own mouth.
The wind picks up, and the cry of the violin crescendos. I'm pressed into his embrace, and his body is solid, and I smile brightly because I know this has to be real. My eyes close, and I can no longer tell if the spinning sensation I have comes from my mind or the twirl of our bodies together.
Of course, I ask like I always do, "Who are you?" I look up, into the light of his countenance, and if I think hard enough about it, I think I see the flash of green beneath his sunshine bangs. When I look back at that part, I always get a cold chill because I think he looks so much like Oz.
Our feet waltz together lightly, and I laugh a lot. The tears that come out of my eyes are cold and look like the same crystal that the endless stairs are made of. He is smiling, too, gently and consolingly, and I imagine soothing words coming out of his lips. He presses me closer, a hand on the back of my head, running down my hair as we circle in the white light, the piano and violin singing to us like a lullaby of yearning.
"Who are you?"
He smiles again, a bit more wider as I glance back up at him.
I always wake up right after, when I see a stuffed rabbit floating behind him. The tight strings binding me together pop and I'm left falling, falling, falling...
...into a world of black.
And still, my chest tight as I open my eyes, the only thing I can think is that I still don't know who that man is. In this world, the real world, my tears are sticky and taste of the bitter salt on the sea that my memories are drowning in.
Ending A/N: So I guess deep down, I'm still a Jack/Alice supporter? -facepalm-
Still pissed off, but at least I let out a bit of steam. I do hope you enjoyed, despite this being a creative vent. I've never written in Alice's point of view, but I have another Jack/Alice song fic idea. When will I type it? Who knows!
The image of the Alyss' makeshift form is just supposed to be a random allusion to my Lacie-Alyss batshit theory -dies-