Don't Fade Away (Past Lovers)

Blood of the West 「西の血統」

Her mind kept going back to the kimono in her room, and thus, she picked at the provided dinner. The hostel's okaasan gave her a look that would have killed her if looks could indeed murder.

Okaasan hated when her tenants wasted or played with food, which explained why she was currently giving Farrah a murderous glare. It didn't help that the hostel currently only had five people, including Farrah, staying there, and one person doing something displeasing was much more noticible. Farrah didn't really talk to any of them. Two were half Japanese that didn't want to stay with their relatives and inconvenience them, while the other two were complete foreigners like Farrah.

She returned to eating reluctantly. Though the food was incredible and delicious even in its simplicity, she simply wasn't hungry, yet the okaasan hated even more when food she prepared was not eaten gratefully. Farrah tore into the bread, abandoning the salad and spaghetti. She'd had spaghetti too many times to count and was rather sick of it.

The bread in Japan, however, she would never get sick of. Each slice was thick, soft and delicious enough that she never even had to use butter on it. Farrah could have eaten an entire loaf by herself and not get sick of the stuff. Each bite was punctuated with a breathy groan and a touch of her fingertips to her mouth as she savoured the taste.

The boy-man-beside her at the table kept giving her odd looks. He was one of the half-Japanese boarders-named Shuusuke, if she remembered correctly. His hair was dyed chestnut, but his ears were left unpierced, and while his chestnut locks were shaggy, they weren't long. Japan was all about outward appearances and impressions, and she'd heard he planned on staying for a few years. If he wanted a job, he had to conform.

She counted herself lucky that she's saved just enough to keep her afloat for at least a few months-which was the length of her trip anyways. She didn't know what had possessed her to go to Japan, considering that she spoke no Japanese and knew nobody here, but she'd stumbled across a samurai movie and, out of curiosity, decided to visit their country of origin through an exchange taking place at her high school.

It began well, and was still going well, which was great and the opposite of what she expected. Even after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Japanese were very kind and helpful to foreigners. It surprised her because she had been expecting hostility or disdain, but they were open and helpful. Except for the hostel's okaasan. A woman of fifty-seven years, she had been the daughter of a woman who had barely survived the bombing of Hiroshima, only to get married, give birth and die slowly of radiation poisoning when the okaasan was only twelve.

Her father had taught her to hate the foreigners, but since the foreigners were most of her business now, she was polite but distant. Farrah had heard this tale from Shuusuke, when she'd asked him why the okaasan was always cool to her foreign renters and warm and helpful to her Japanese tenants. She didn't know how he knew, but Shuusuke was a traditional Japanese-truthful-and she decided to believe him.

It would explain a lot, anyways, so Farrah accepted it as the truth. When she'd finally finished her food, a few minutes after the two Japanese guests, she put down her chopsticks, pressed her palms together, first saying "gochisousama deshita" and bowed to the okaasan, intoning "arigatou gozaimashita." To which the woman responded with a little bow, before setting her eyes on the giggly couple. Farrah slipped back to her room, relieved that she was no longer under harsh scrutiny when she could barely use chopsticks.

She laid the kimono out on the floor-after making sure that the door was locked, and stroked her fingers over the object. Next to it, she laid the letter. Then she sat back on the tatami and propped her chin on her hands. She'd been given such beautiful things but when was she ever going to use them? She wasn't in Japan for much longer anyways, and wearing kimono anywhere else in the world would garner odd looks from passersby.

She opened the letter. She couldn't read a single character-basically all she understood was the characters that made up foreign words, and of that, karaoke was the only one she could read without a lot of thought, mostly because it was everywhere, and the English was usually underneath. All she knew was that it was beautiful. The characters flowed into one another, making a stream of complexity. It made English's alphabet seem childlike and rudimentary, and she stared numbly at the piece of old, old paper.

Finally, she just rolled it up and put it back in the box, folding the kimono as carefully as she could and replacing it as well. Despite it being early-only about 8, she brushed her teeth and went to bed. Though it stormed that night, with crackling lightning and everything, she slept peacefully in the futon on the tatami floor.

Azuma clicked his tongue as he observed the sleeping woman. The Eastern Spirit found the ideas of the North ridiculous, but who was he to change the past already decided? The Four Gods had agreed years ago as to the placement of a female, but why one so conspicuous? It was understandable that the Son of the Gods could only be given a different kind of woman than was available to him, but one who spoke the boxy language of the foreigners and not a word of the Heavenly Tongues?

Either way, the girl would end up where it was determined that she belonged. Seiryuu and Genbu, Byakko and Suzaku were in agreement. It was a chance for the other Sons to earn a woman, once with divine blood herself. Though the blood of the Western World Spirits was... impure, at best, the Eastern World could sire no daughters.

The spirit notice the box. Interest piqued, he opened it and chuckled at the sight of the conspicuous handiwork of the kimono and the writing on the letter. The descendant must have passed on the presents as the Bloodline was instructed. Lightning flashed overhead as he knelt by her bedside and placed a cold hand on her forehead. "Blood of the West, may you bear fruit" he whispered stroking her bangs. Who she bore for was of no consequence-the Eastern seed was powerful, spread across the island and the main continent, past Ming and Joseon and the countries beyond. It extended even to the Mongols, and nearly to Africa.

And he sent the girl off. She didnt even stir, slipping into the past like an eel in a child's hands. His job was done, and he was feeling slightly tired. Perhaps it would do good to return to his rightful time in case his present self felt the disruptions.

And certainly before the West sensed it's daughter's disappearance. As if it was an afterthought, he took the box with him when he disappeared. The girl would not be needing it, after all.