Author note: Pay attention. There are TWO Peruns now! One in 1902 and one in 1937. Assume all action (movement) is done by the 1902 version, unless indicated. 

It was the strangest sensation.

Perun could physically feel the warmth of the sunbeams on his arms and legs, smell the perfume of beeswax and the faint mark of old wood smoke in the air of the flat, as if he were actually there.

At the same time, he wasn't locked into that perspective. He was an observer with his own opinions and point of view. He could think and feel independently of what was happening. And what was happening made little sense.

"They're killing me! Help! Someone!"

It was a fearful, pleading scream, but not the animalistic cry of a human in a life-threatening situation. Perun had heard that particularly melody enough to know the difference. The voice was loud and close, making him think the woman was perhaps in the same room and within sight, and not some distance away.

The Perun he was in didn't move, however, or even turn his head in the direction of the whimpering and keening. As if he were deaf, he stood impassively next to the mantelpiece and watched the sun pour into the room like a slow stream of thick honey.

It was frustrating being unable to move without the permission of the body he was in. He wanted to see who was screaming and attempted to move his head in her direction, but the Perun of 1902 refused to obey him, instead offering him full access to his emotional landscape. And that was more than enough. 

Pain and sadness were crushing him, making him feel as if his internal organs were being  ground into dust by slow-chewing gears. He was in agony, but refused to show it, choosing to stand as motionless as a statue.

Why does she do this? She knows how much it hurts. Why won't she let me help her? Why won't she tell me anything?

Perun, from his point of observation, was unsettled. He'd never felt emotions like the ones roiling through this past version of himself . . . although obviously he had, he was feeling them right then. A knife wound was nothing in comparison, and he involuntarily struggled to move as far away from the uncomfortable, all-consuming pain as he could manage.

Distantly, very distantly, he felt his right arm hit something soft, and he knew that his actual body that was lying in the coffin-like machine was most likely squirming and knocking into the sides. He tried to steel himself, to detach and observe like Dima had instructed him, but the feelings were almost too much for him. If he'd been in this much turmoil, no wonder he'd run away. 

And he didn't remember this house either. He had no idea where this place was nor wh --

The body he was in jerked its head towards the sound and went charging across the room, fists balled. 

Perun had time to see an elegant salon with a tiger-skin rug on the floor, low-slung divans, exotic flowers and feathers in vases before he was through a set of open double doors into another salon that was just as much a Bohemian version of the Orient as the one he'd been in. 

A young woman with long, dark brown hair lay writhing and sweating on a divan in the far corner under a large, crowded painting of actors performing on a stage. Her eyes were closed, one hand violently scouring at her face while the other clawed the air in a futile attempt to fight off enemies. 

Perun grabbed the swinging arm and sat down, forcing it down onto his lap where he held it tightly. With his free hand, he pulled the other hand away from her face where the rubbing was starting to leave long, bloody scratches on her smooth, dusky cheek.

"No! No!" she wailed, attempting to pull away from his grasp. She was strong, fear and whatever she'd taken was making her so, but not strong enough to wrestle herself free. "They're killing me!"

"Libuše! Calm down, calm down," he pleaded. What he'd intended as a firm order came out more like a panicked wail for help. "You're safe. I'm here, my darling. Perun's here. I won't let anybody hurt you. I'm protecting you. Can you hear me, Libuše? You're safe."

The woman didn't seem to hear him. She kicked out and knocked pillows off the divan that fell in an avalanche behind him, one rolling a few lengths across the floor before disappearing under a heavy velvet armchair.

From his point of observation, Perun attempted to get a better look at the moaning, sobbing woman whose face was turned away, half-buried in a cushion. Libuše, she was called. Just like the princess under the river.  But instead of being dead, this one had obviously taken some kind of drug and was fighting off demons only she could see, demons that existed only in the haze of the twilight she found herself in.

What on earth was he doing caring for an addict? Wasn't there a nursemaid? This Libuše certainly had him wrung inside-out, but that kind of care...far beyond his abilities.

Opium it wasn't. He'd thrown enough blank-eyed lotus-eaters out onto the cobblestones to know that wasn't what she'd taken. Was it something for illness or chronic pain?  Perun reviewed all the drugs he knew to be on the market, both legal and illegal, searching for a match.   

A doctor-prescribed type of morphine had once been popular, he recalled, until those who took it were slowly turned into gaunt, heavy-eyed shadows of their former selves, fixated on the next dose of their wonder drug. The most addictive ones of those type were illegal now, but they possibly hadn't been then. Just what was wrong with this. . .?

Libuše. 

A shred of memory purled in the front of Perun's mind. 

Libuše, who was dead and gone and nothing would ever bring her back. Isn't that what had come out of his own mouth, there, under the river? That isn't her. That's someone else. Libuše is dead.  

This is the real princess, so you can tell the two apart.

A bad premonition crept over Perun prompting him to retreat even further away from the pain his former-self was feeling. He avoided emotional entanglements for this very reason. It was so easy to get clawed under only to wind up in precarious, gut-wrenching situations you couldn't get out of.

For a split second, the image of the old woman steepling her fingers and gazing at him with that impenetrable, uninterpretable gaze ghosted though this thoughts. 

That hadn't been and never would be. And even though she'd predicted a horrific future for him, he knew somehow he would be safe in her arms, if she would only take him. 

Safe. Unlike here.

Perun observed himself doing a poor job of calming the wreck of a woman he was obviously in love with until she finally stopped fighting and fell into what looked like a dense, unnatural sleep. Her delicately-featured face was flushed and shone with a thin film of sweat when he let go of her arms, crossing them gently over her stomach. He covered her with a soft day blanket that had fallen to the floor before turning away to search the room, turning over cushions, pushing aside decorative ornaments, peering into vases and behind books.

When he didn't find what he was looking for in the salon, he stalked from room to room, searching further. From his focus and knowledge, it was clear this wasn't the first time he'd done this exact search. He knew all too well what he was looking for and where he mostly likely would find it.

The apartment wasn't big, but it was elegantly and expensively furnished. The paintings on the walls, landscapes and colourful scenes of women in fields of flowers, had the look of class and money to them. Perun didn't recognise anything, although something told him that he'd paid for most of it. Yes, that was right. This flat wasn't his, but at the same time it was. 

And if that were the case, there was only one way to explain the situation. That addict lying half-dead to the world in the salon was his mistress. 

Distantly, Perun could feel himself shaking his head. What had he got himself tangled up in?

He threw open the door to the bedroom and went directly to the high dresser, pulling out drawers and rifling through the delicate, feminine clothing inside. The rows of framed photographs on top of the piece of furniture wobbled dangerously. He didn't notice.

In the third drawer, insufficiently covered by a silk scarf, he found a small tin box with the word HEROIN and some German wording embossed into the top in fancy letters. 

He popped open the tin. Inside was a glass-tubed syringe. . . and an almost empty vial of powder. Perun's hands shook so badly with rage that he almost wasn't able to get the tin closed again.

Who keeps selling her this! Whoever it is, I'll find them. I'll find them, and...and.... No more. No more of this. She has GOT TO STOP. It's ruining her. Destroying her talent. Oh my darling. Why are you doing this to yourself? It'll kill you one day, and I'll die right along with you.

No, you won't, thought the observing Perun. Not by a long shot.

Perun left the bedroom and went to the front door, the tin still in his hand. There he drew on a day coat that was hanging on the coatrack and stepped in front of a large oval mirror in an ornate gold frame to adjust his cravat and shirt. His hair was longer, flowing over his collar in a dark cascade and combed straight back from his forehead. Neatly trimmed sideburns edged his cheeks almost down to his jawline. Other than those minor points of fashion, and the long out-of-date clothing, there was no difference between how he'd looked in 1902 to how he looked today. He was the broad-shouldered, muscular, square-jawed self he knew. Still a man not to be crossed. Still a man in full control.

Except he wasn't. He was in the scaly grip of out-of-control emotions, his mouth a grim line and his eyes burning.

He plucked a grey top hat off of the coatrack, placing it on his head and tilting it slightly to the side in a rakish angle. The observing Perun couldn't help but smile a little. Even when in a murderous rage he still had time to adjust his hat with style. That was another thing that hadn't changed.

Although. . .when had he ever been in a murderous rage? He never became this. . . involved. If people wanted to ruin themselves, drink themselves to death or gamble away their last shirt, what business was it of his? People were responsible for themselves, knowing their limits, and bearing the consequence when they overstepped them. That had always been his rule.

No, not always, it would appear. 

The tin box went into the pocket of the day coat, and Perun turned away from the mirror to go back into the salon. Libuše lay in almost the same position he'd left her in. One hand had curled against her hip, and her lips were now slightly parted.

He stood observing her from a few paces away. Huge, crashing waves of love and anger sweeping through him as his jaw worked in concentration. The observing Perun almost felt sea sick.

She was pretty. Very pretty in fact, but shockingly pale in the harsh, unrelenting daylight. The dark, tell-tale traces of drug use lurked unmistakably under her skin, waiting for the chance to blossom out and destroy all the beauty that was there. It was only a matter of time.

Both the Perun of 1902, and the Perun of 1937, knew that for a fact.

I love you and I despise you, my darling. Shall I strangle you to death right now? Make it quick for both of us? Or hold you tightly, love you and keep you safe from your demons forever?  Let you go or lock you away, those are my only choices. Look what you've done to me, my beautiful princess. Just look what you've done to me.

"And look what you've done to yourself," he said aloud, spitting out the words, before turning and fleeing, slamming the front door with a curse.