Chapter Text
An Immortal Promise
A Gothic Romance
Humans say life is too short. And death is often feared by many. But not for an immortal whose pain haunts him through eternity. That even dying itself would mean finally being free. Or would it?
Prologue
Relics
"The string may stretch and tangle…but it will never break," the young man muttered the words written in Chinese at the bottom of the painting he was hanging on the wall. "So silly, if you ask me," he turned to me nodding; his eyes smirking.
The portrait featured two hands—one of a man, and the other of a woman—against a dark, melancholic backdrop. A long red thread connecting their little fingers. "Well, it's called a myth for a reason," he added.
He climbed down his ladder, rested his hands on his waist as he looked up to consider it; his brows slightly knit, as though it was emanating an energy he didn't trust.
As he began to print out a price label for it, I began strolling around the shop, not particularly looking for anything; mindlessly looking at and touching things as if they interested me. There were articles from the last few centuries, particularly the last two world wars. There were a handful of old paintings and artworks, pieces of personal belongings of random people such as photographs, journals, and letters, among others. The place had varying vintage smells, to say the least.
Standing not far away from me was my assistant, who was now working with the store manager on my behalf to purchase antique furniture pieces.
Running my fingers through the piles of notes and photographs across one table, a particular image caught my attention—a photograph dated 1924 of school children in their uniform. It spawned this unusual curiosity in me. There came a pounding in my chest as it felt heavy. Anxious as if I was to uncover a secret kept from me for a long, long time.
I looked around, and conveniently, right next to me was an elderly man emptying a box of books and arranging them onto the shelves. I opened my mouth but stopped myself, unsure what question I really had in mind, and undecided if it really mattered.
The old man seemed to have noticed nonetheless. "Can I help you?" A strange, gentle smile surfaced upon his face the moment he saw me, as if recognizing a dear old friend. He straightened up and fixed his shirt. I looked at him and hesitated for a second. He stepped a bit closer to take a look at the photograph my fingers had landed on, and then gazed back at me with parted lips, awaiting my response. Perhaps my face was giving me away unknowingly.
As the right question started to clearly form in my mind, I turned my head back to the picture. I gasped and looked back at him, "Did you know when school uniforms first came into use?"
He looked greatly amused. "Oh, that?" he said, tilting his head at the photograph. "I believe school uniforms were first used in the 12th century." Then he glanced briefly between the photo and me, holding the hinge of his eyeglasses. A name tag pinned on his shirt read 'Store Owner'.
His answer convinced me it was a pointless inquiry, but I still felt unsettled. When it seemed like I didn't need anything else, he went back to what he was doing, his attention was still on me while I stood there, feigning interest in other stuff on display.
I began to slowly step away as though I was checking out some other things. "You know, it wasn't until the 19th century when they began using modern school uniforms in Japan, just like in that photograph," he said. I stopped my steps upon hearing that. The cold washed over me, and slowly, I turned around to look at him. When our gaze met, I could see his eyes smiling as if he knew something that I didn't, but I maintained my composure.
It raised more questions but gave my thoughts direction, although they still hadn't made sense. And I believed they never would. "Thank you for the information, I appreciate your help," was all my response.
I was about to turn away when he stood up and casually gestured for me to follow him as he would a friend, "Come on, let me show you something."
HE LED ME TO A SECTION where stacks of framed paintings and canvases were kept. Digging into the piles, he finally found it. I was still puzzled as to what he wanted of me but I didn't ask and instead helped him lift up and move a few paintings so he could pull out what he needed.
He cleared off an antique table to prop up the portrait on it. My heart skipped a beat, recognizing the little details showing through the layers of dust.
My breathing was shallow and fast as it dawned on me. He cleaned the glass with a damp cloth and the painting behind it showed through. A sharp pain pierced right through my chest, and all strength deserted my arms.
"A late 16th century Japanese painting," he said darkly, then looked at me. The world seemed to stop. His words fetched an influx of distant memories. I wanted to close my eyes to keep them from coming—or perhaps, surrender to the tormenting pain—but I didn't. I kept my eyes open and endured it.
It was a painting of a raven-haired young woman wearing a school uniform, sitting on stone stair steps, right next to her sat a long silver-haired man in an elaborately designed kimono. On his forehead a crescent moon marking, his ears were pointed. Both of them were posing for the painting against a scenery consisting of a long flight of stairs lined with fall-colored trees, leading to a shrine.
"Perhaps recorded history got it wrong, didn't it?" He pondered. He glanced at me over the rim of his glasses. "A Japanese girl in modern school uniform…in the Sengoku period," he added, backing away a little, as though to examine it better.
More than the pain, the stream of confusion started consuming me; notions that I couldn't clearly form in my head, imposing themselves aggressively, impatiently.
"This painting was sold in an auction we held before. Somehow it found its way back to this shop a month ago," the old man continued as if thinking out loud. "Now older than ever...the glass didn't prevent it from aging, did it?"
I was staring at the girl's face, I supposed, right now, quite ruefully; loathing how this faded painting seemed to be the closest I could ever have it all again within my reach. And it would never be close enough.
The antique wooden frame, the fading colors, the discreetly chipping oil paint—all accentuated how long ago it had all been, and the thought couldn't be more suffocating.
He held his breath momentarily, squinting a little like he was in deep thought. His face lit up as if remembering something pleasant. A sigh of relief escaped him. "Now I remember why you looked so familiar the first time I saw you here," he uttered, his eyes on the painting.
I looked at him intently, greatly feeling exposed and threatened even before I caught on what he meant. My fist tightened behind me unbeknownst to him.
The old man turned his eyes back to me, beaming. I discreetly avoided his stare. "I have only been here today," I said coldly, my guard was on.
There was a brief pause while he was probably studying my impression, "You've been here before. You missed that auction by a week…" he said quietly as if wondering if I really couldn't remember.
"You must have been mistaken," I looked at the watch on my wrist as if unbothered and had other things to do. Then I checked my shirt and sighed. "I've been living overseas for decades and haven't been back to Tokyo until just yesterday," I said, dusting off the dirt that clanged on my clothes, quite well-aware of his fixed stare on me.
"That auction was held 60 years ago..."
I lifted my head and held his gaze, absorbing what he just said. There was a modest smile on his wrinkled lips. And slowly, behind the fine lines and drooping eyelids, I began to remember those set of eyes—the young boy assisting in his father's shop whom I had idly helped read book titles out so he could arrange them in the right order on the shelves. His aged appearance mirrored how much time had passed since then.
"I had always thought I had seen you way before that day, I didn't know it was because you were the subject of a painting we just sold a week earlier." The look on his face wasn't malicious nor was he confused or afraid. Instead, it was of finally understanding, somehow, what had long mystified him.
I looked at him rigidly, never feeling more visible before someone else. But I redeemed myself and stood taller.
"You are mistaken."
It made him pause. He was shifting focus between my eyes, regarding my expression, if any.
He meant to say something but held back. Then he smiled thinly, nodding slightly, somehow telling me he respected it.
He lowered his gaze for a moment. Thinking.
He then looked back at the painting and breathed in deeply. "Well...this painting had been restored quite a few times in the last century. Perhaps it was dated erroneously," he exhaled, changing back the subject casually. "The girl couldn't have worn it in that era..."
Both of us pretended nothing was said. But I kept my vigilance.
He was no ordinary human.
JACK, MY ASSISTANT, WAS FILLING me in about the purchases we made and the progress of the house restoration we were doing as we drove away from the city, back to the suburb hotel I was temporarily staying at. He still wasn't aware about the interaction I had with the antique store's owner.
"Xavier-sama?" Jack peered at me, wondering why I was dead quiet.
When I realized he was looking, I offhandedly grabbed the back of his head and pinned his face hard against the steering wheel. The car swerved off lane; a few vehicles that almost hit us honked angrily as they passed. I finally let go, and a confused Jack stirred back in control, crying in pain, muttering to himself—wondering what he had done wrong this time.
I just kept my eyes on the road; a frown on my face. It was his idea to go to that particular antique store.
A long silence followed as we traveled the winding highway, "Cancel all my appointments tomorrow," I finally said. Jack was puzzled, but agreed with no question asked. I gazed at the quarter moon rising as the dark skies crept in.
I decided it was time to do what I had been meaning to in a long time.
I couldn't run away from it forever.
IT HAD BEEN 59 YEARS SINCE THE ATOMIC BOMBING OF JAPAN where more than half of Tokyo was destroyed. I wasn't there when it happened—I was in the United States, involved with a number of early researches about upper atmospheric sciences.
After World War II, I took part in the Cold War between the Soviet Union and the US, by working under the supervision of the Department of Defense when it established DARPA in its pursuit for research and rocketry. After more than half a decade, NASA was born, and I was one of the people working to get a man on the moon for the very first time.
During those years, I never thought I'd come back to Tokyo and still recognize anything, not after it got heavily damaged by the bombing. But I was wrong.
It was now the 21st century, and I learned some things from the past had stayed. Perhaps it wasn't I who wouldn't recognize Tokyo—it was Tokyo who wouldn't recognize me. Or would it?
Under my disguise—clean cut ebony hair, a dark suit and tie, with all physical features as human as possible, I had reduced myself to nothing more than a myth—a powerful Dog Demon, known and feared throughout Feudal Japan, a supernatural being...that didn't exist.
It wasn't to deceive the world, but to fool my own self.
But we couldn't escape ourselves for eternity.
I HAD NO IDEA THE PAINTING PERSISTED THROUGHOUT the centuries—the only thing that immortalized a moment in my past...besides one other thing.
Walking painstakingly, letting my senses guide me, I knew I was close to the place I went to Tokyo for this morning. The cool air was blowing gently, bringing a sweet sakura scent to my nose.
Finally, I stopped. Right in front of me were buildings. The forest was gone. Such a sinking feeling as the past seemed to have slipped even further away from reach. I took small, cautious steps forward. And in a moment, behind the concrete walls, my eyes found it—my lonely sakura tree.
My breathing was slow and heavy, my eyes never leaving the dry leaves as they fluttered gracefully to the ground. Then I paused, just in front of the tree, lifting my gaze so I could see the filtered rays of sunlight between its leaves. It indeed survived the test of time. But its old glory was gone. The sight of it made me feel small against the overflowing sorrow within me.
I sat down on the patch of grass surrounding the tree and closed my eyes; letting the wind blow gently against me, easing the heat of the sun, as I filled myself with memories of the distant past. Oh, how it still felt the same when I closed my eyes, as if the forest was never gone, as if it were only yesterday.
And as I let this place take me back to that time, I began to hear footsteps from the distance—the crunching of grass and earth. A sharp pain pierced through my chest. My eyes snapped open.
There were no footsteps.
Memories...they were nothing but memories.
I took a deep breath. Once more, I closed my eyes and let myself focus on the faint rustling of leaves. The footfalls started again. How nostalgic it felt to hear Kagome drawing closer. But I knew why the pain was just too much each time the noise played back in my ears. For no matter how close those footsteps might sound...she would never reach me.
I was left with nothing but the remnants of the past inside my head. My chest tightened as I tamed the pain. But I guess, I'm ready to be with her in those memories once more...our memories, my only connection to her.
It all began underneath this old sakura tree. It had been a beautiful day during the season of sakura blossoms. In fact, as I thought about it now, it was the most beautiful day in spring that I could remember throughout my over 700 years.
I leaned my head against the bark of my old tree, my eyes still closed as I let the memories come flooding back, as I let this tree travel with me...
...500 years back in time.