Work Text:
Time flits by, forever dies, and so does what it leaves behind.
The pathway to death has always remained the same, and mortals tread through that path time and time again, endlessly, untill their cycle of samsara finally ended, and the scales of their fates were balanced.
However, the immortals would but pay a visit to that path, never treading it. For they had not a need for it. They were exempt from Death, be it a fortune or a curse. No death would kiss them goodbyes, no tears would be cried for them. They were exempt from the cycle, exempt from rebirth, and exempt from salvation.
(Salvation...)
There was no salvation for an immortal. They were born to remember, and born to roam. Cursed to walk through the world and watch as time leaves them behind, holding the hands of its children as it guides them forward to something an immortal could only dream of.
"Ah."
It is snowing again, just like last time. A storm this time, enveloping everything in its blanket of cold, eerie silence.
Death and silence are a hard pill to swallow.
(It is cold. The air is heavy.)
"Pay it no heed."
Footsteps, not too loud; they shuffle through the snow. The earth has been put to sleep, a thick blanket of snow enveloping it in eerie, warming cold.
The footsteps have stopped by now, paces away from the entrance to the beds of the dead.
(Hands joined together.)
(Uttering prayers.)
Death hums an eerie tune sometimes. Graveyards are places where there lies a sense of... Melancholy. Sorrow. Grief, Regret, and Remembrance. There always has been something bittersweet about Death. About graveyards.
(Déjà Vu. You've been here before. In a different time.)
Perhaps he had indeed, been here before. Not the same graveyard, no. That was destroyed over a century ago. This was a familiar new place, perfect for a familiar dead soul. And like then, he would pay a visit every few years, pray, and leave.
He did so for every familiar face he could remember during his existence.
An urban legend grew rather popular, of the graveyard being 'haunted' by a familiar painted face, belonging to a slender, peculiar man who looked the same everytime he graced his presence. It was as if the harshness of Time did not phase him. He would join his hands together, utter a quiet prayer, and leave just as mysteriously as he would appear. His identity was unknown, but citizens in various cities would report the same, peculiar man hawking his wares, speaking of old tales of 'Mononoke' to young children who would sit by and listen, and then disappear, as if he never existed.
No matter what age it was, what year it would be, this man seemed unaffected by Time's gifts and woes, as if he were an apparition himself. A mere spirit, or a mere memory, a familiar stranger in the background.
Within every creature of this world lies a wretched blot of guilty pleasure. Like a leech, it occupies the back of your mind, and feeds on temptation and foolish thought.
This want, unlike Time, is not something an immortal is immune to. Living for too long does not favour a sane mind. A mind that is ill attaches to worldly pleasures, plaguing the psyche, hosting the parasites of Illusion.
To someone who has lived for too long, seeing familiar faces again "one last time" not due to love —for an immortal is exempt from love—, but as an anchor to rely on in an attempt to maintain what is left of one's relations with reality is all a disconnecting mind could ever ask for.
(You are lost in thought again.)
"Ah. It is time to bid goodbye."
Pursed lips utter not a single word. Perhaps a goodbye is too unfair. Only silence can fill that empty void of unfinished words.
But then, from the corner of his eye, a sight. A familiar stranger, again. Now, he stands still between the grave of Her past, and the "Her" that stands before him.
(She lives again.)
(She lives again.)
She looks at him with the same expression she wears everytime she meets him, in every life she has lived. Not even her face has changed. How peculiar, yet strangely wonderful.
"Excuse me... Have we seen each other before...?"
"Ah."
He shakes his head with a smile.
"You must be mistaken, I apologise."
A familiar pout. Quite amusing. Quite torturous. Truly, it is torturous to live long enough to see people from your memories time and time again, and all they know is that they've seen you before. But alas, they do not remember you.
"Are you visiting someone too?"
"Yes. An old friend."
"Oh, I see. My condolences."
Tsk. It is a pity indeed.
(And time and again, I see your face. It isn't quite you any longer, as time forbids a forever. Yet every life you live, you remain what I've remembered you to be.)
(She still is quite a talker. Such ambitiousness is almost enough to envy her. She still asks questions so many.)
(She has yet to attain her salvation. What a pity, yet what a relief, no?)
(Don't be silly.)
She speaks of her life, her aspirations. Nothing different from the many times he has listened. The graveyard is an old sight again. A new cycle has begun.
But time is not forever. One cannot stay attached for too long. She has someplace to be, and He has everything to seek.
"It was nice talking to you. I hope your grief for the ones you've lost lessens soon."
(Grief?)
She is gone, nothing unexpected. Such is the way of life. Perhaps he shall see her again, perhaps not. But the graveyards and the names behind them are engraved not only in stone, but in memory, and shall be remembered and visited so long as time permits.
Mortals live, and die. And then live again, only to die. The cycle of samsara continues, until their salvation pulls them into embrace. Then, they are gone eternally, and nothing remains but a memory. Perhaps, immortals aren't exempt from such a cycle afterall. Their "death" is but the death of the moment they live in. Their body perhaps, never shall die. But even the fleeting of Time can be deadly. Every loss, then, is Death's reminder that nothing lasts forever. Perhaps it really is grief.
Perhaps this is his Samsara.