A re-writing of one of my favourite scenes from the movie. Edited the ending for consistency after my second watching.
Warning: Contains MAJOR spoilers. You've been warned.
Plick, plick, plick. Water drips into some hidden pool, with drumbeat regularity, and clockwork monotony. A fitting hymn for the god of time.
He stands in the stone cave, shivering with trepidation, his mouth tight with determination. Before him rests the sacrificial altar, an altar to Musubi. On it rests two identical stone flasks, damp and mossy with age, but still sealed. Good chances that it's still drinkable, then.
It occurs to him, in that moment, what an absurd thought that is to be thinking, and he hesitates, just for a moment, grappling with his self-doubt. And then he brushes the thought aside, pushing it to the back of his mind, where it will no longer bother him. It's long past the time for distractions.
He approaches the altar, crossing his legs as he sits down. Near the end his knees buckle, and he falls the rest of the way. His body trembles, filled with a cold fatigue that seeps into his bones and saps him of his strength. It must be the day's exhaustion. How long has it been since he last ate? For that matter, how long has he been awake? It feels like he's travelled the world today, from station to station, from town to town, looking for the place he remembers from a dream. No wonder he's tired.
No, it's more than that. It's the sleepless nights, sketching, erasing, redrawing, reproducing with pencil and paper his memory of a faraway place. It's the long afternoons spent in the library, consulting tourist guides, checking reference books, looking, comparing, searching for a hint of the landscapes he recalls so vividly. It's the endless guessing, googling, looking for that exact combination of keywords that might finally yield what he's looking for. He's been pushing himself to the limit, these past few months. He's worn himself out many times over, mentally, physically and emotionally. And he's finally beginning to feel the backlash.
He thinks once more of the nameless girl in his head, whose face he cannot remember, whose voice he can no longer recognise, whose name has been swept away by the rivers of time. A girl whom the world no longer remembers, imaginary but for his memory of her, clutched tightly in his heart. A girl who's already an irreplaceable part of him, without whom he'll always be incomplete. He'll save her, no matter what.
He uncaps her flask, taking a sniff. The sweet smell of fermented rice wine fills his nostrils. Kuchikamizake. Holy wine, offered up to the gods.
He will save her.
Gingerly, he raises it to his lips, and takes a mouthful.
The rice wine is light, and yet heady. It goes down sweet, but leaves a bitter aftertaste. He tries not to think about how close this is to kissing her.
His drink finished, he replaces the stopper. There's no way to fix the seal, but hopefully the god of time doesn't mind.
He waits, kneeling, the flask clutched tightly in his lap, his head bowed. Praying. Hoping. Waiting for something, anything, to happen. The seconds tick by, marked by the soft plick of water in some hidden pool in the cave's recesses.
Plick.
Plick.
Plick.
Nothing happens.
Slowly, gradually, the unfairness of it all dawns upon him, and he blinks back tears. Is that it? Months of hard work, all for this, and then… nothing?
Disappointment wells up within him, thick and bitter, an immense crushing emptiness that excludes all else, a black hole in his heart that grows and grows until it consumes him. It had only been conjecture, but he had been so sure…
The storm that's been brewing within him for some time now finally comes to a head. He wants to cry out, to scream, to rail at the unfairness of it all. To shriek until he can shriek no more, to fling the flask away, to hurl it with all his might against the ground and viciously stamp on it until it shatters into a million tiny pieces and is no more. To do something, to do anything, to let all his fury and frustration out in a flashbang, in a final act of defiance against the warped logic of the vast apathetic universe.
Instead he sets down the flask, hands trembling, and slowly releases his white-knuckled grip on it, the first tears starting to blur his vision. So much for divine intervention.
As he moves to stand, dejected, angry, his foot slips on some hidden wetness in the underground cave – and he loses his balance. Of all the things. He falls backwards, already mentally berating himself, sure he's going to crack his head open on some sharp rock.
But as he falls, his vision turns upwards. In those few heartbeats, he catches sight of some hidden drawing, painted on the cave's ceiling. It's poorly drawn, worn in parts, completely gone in others – and yet somehow, he instantly knows what it is. It's a picture of a comet – two comets, the second born from the first, bright despite the darkness in the cave, glowing with an unnatural light.
Around him, beneath him, the ground falls away, so that he never hits the ground, but instead keeps falling through something, not quite air, not quite water, barely there at all. The cave is gone, as is the shrine, and the altar, and everything that was there just a moment ago, all of it gone as though it never existed. He falls through an ocean of ether, liquid light, brightness given form, extending in every direction, as far as the eye can see.
As he falls, the ether begins to coalesce, twisting, solidifying, forming long, snakelike threads that reach down through the liquid. Threads with no beginning, threads with no end. They surround him, following him as he falls, twisting, braiding, crossing, uncrossing, twining, untwining, caught in an intricate dance, weaving themselves into a web, intricacy without end, beauty without parallel.
Within the web, patterns frolick and caper, born from the shifting of the threads, dying in an instant, the threads dissembling, and reforming, and giving birth to a new pattern. Images shift and change, each a miniature universe, too many to keep track of, forming and reforming, all in the blink of an eye. The web is alive, dizzyingly alive, and its evolution transcends his comprehension.
Then the web twists, roils, and forms a picture. And all of a sudden, he sees.
Memories flash before his eyes, of times long past, of ages long gone. Memories, stretching back years, decades, centuries, millennia. Memories of rivers long since run dry, of beasts long gone, of days and ages that have faded from memory. Everything on the earth, everything that once moved, that once lived, that once grew - Musubi remembers it all. And it is the god's memories he sees. Memories of the land itself. Memories of Musubi – the memories of time.
Memories. Of a mountain, old as the land itself, resilient, unwavering. A mountain, born of the rumblings of the earth, commanding in its height, majestic in its splendour, unmarked by time. A mountain where the rivers ever flowed, where the valleys were ever green, where the waters ever sparkled. A mountain to herald the end of time itself; idyllic, unyielding, eternal.
Memories. Of comets, illuminating the night sky like miniature suns, each one blazing a trail of light, a fiery chariot tearing the heavens asunder in its brilliant wake. Of a meteor, born from a comet, splitting off and falling, a star falling to ground, an angel smiting the earth with all the fury of heaven.
Memories. Of an earth torn apart, smashed into pieces, an immovable object fighting an unstoppable force. Of a mighty battle, a spectacle to rival the end of ages, a war between the gods of heaven and earth, a supernova legendary as it is fleeting. Of wounds that heal, of scars that remain. Of a huge crater, carved into the mountain, a monument to its foe, a memorial to last till the end of time.
Memories. Of a fledgling town, built on that mountain, its people flitting about like so many summer insects, their lives bright and evanescent, brilliant blips in the land's memory. The town lives; it grows with the cycling of the seasons, grows with the passing of the years. It grows in harmony with the mountain, expanding, a living nest perched on the mountain's summit.
Memories. Of a people who worship the god of time, Musubi. Of a people who remember the old days, the days of yore, the ages of the first men, their histories transcribed in legends, captured in myth, passed down from generation to generation, encapsulated in the braiding of cords and the brewing of rice wine. From father to son, from mother to daughter; thus is their knowledge preserved in chains unbroken, to be kept safe until the wheel of time begins its cycle anew.
Memories. Of a modern people, who have forgotten their roots, who no longer remember the old ways, who no longer give up offerings at their shrines and holy places. A people who have lost the wisdom of the ancients, cast adrift with the tumultuous changing of eras. A people who have forgotten their ancient history. A people who have strayed from the path their ancestors once trod, and who no longer know the dangers ahead.
Memories. Of a future yet to pass, a future as certain as the breaking of dawn, as the falling of night. Of a time when the comets will fall again, crashing to earth, vessels of holy wrath, bringing divine retribution to those who have forgotten, those who should have remembered. Of certain disaster, and unavoidable catastrophe.
Memories. Of a young girl, the last descendant of the ancient shrine priestesses, who keeps the dying embers of tradition alive with her knowledge of the rituals and ancient ways. A girl whom the god of time has chosen, as a vessel, a saviour to deliver the mountain people from certain destruction, that they may once again find their roots, and return to the path they once followed.
Memories. Of a young boy, raised without knowledge of his roots, but born of a pure line, a boy who still carries in him the old blood, the blood of the ancient men, the men who worshipped Musubi. A boy gifted with divine foresight, who will foretell what happens. A boy whom the god of time has chosen as a messenger, who will bear the news of impending doom. A boy named Taki.
The threads of time split, and the web of vision unravels, and with that the dream ends, its shadow lingering bright in his mind as he is returned to the real world.
He wakes up, eyes wide, instantly awake, an incredible vision seared into his mind. A vision he could not forget, even if he tried, a vision too vast to comprehend, so great that it threatens to rob him of all reason and sanity. It's astounding, too vivid to be a dream, too incredible to be a hallucination. He doesn't doubt its truth in the slightest. And yet its implications are beyond his grasp.
Slowly, his breathing steadies, and he becomes aware of his surroundings.
He's lying on something soft.
A mattress.
He's lying on a mattress.
He's lying on a mattress, on a hard wooden floor, staring up at a familiar ceiling. And then it clicks.
He sits up with a jerk, heart racing, not daring to believe, not even daring to hope. Quickly he looks around, taking all it in with wide eyes, his heart in his mouth. He's in her room, sitting on her mattress. He looks down, at her body. The pajamas, the breasts, the hair – it's all there. He cups her breasts, and gives them a light squeeze. They're warm, and they're soft, and they're unmistakeably real. He's in her body. Which means…
There is no longer any doubt. He's in her body. She's alive.
In that moment, all the emotion he's been holding back, for fear of being mistaken – all of it crashes through the dam. He couldn't have held it back any longer, even if he had wanted to. Joy, relief, euphoria – a wave of emotion floods through him, raw and powerful like nothing he's felt before. Overcome, overwhelmed, he collapses into a bawling heap of incoherent mumbling, and snivelling, and crying. The hot tears fall like summer raindrops, rolling down her streaked face to stain her pink pajamas.
She's alive, impossibly, unbelievably, miraculously alive. Overcome by a sudden impulse, he hugs her body fiercely, clutching it tightly, somehow scared that this too, is a dream, and that it'll all fly away if he ever lets go.
He won't let her go. Never again. He repeats those two words to himself, over and over again, even as the tears continue to flow freely. He's found her, and he never wants to lose her again.
As he sits there, crying his heart out, sobbing uncontrollably, some part of him knows this isn't the end. It's only the beginning. He remembers every bit of what happened, of what's going to happen, if he doesn't do something by the end of the day. In the back of his mind, a plan's already beginning to form, ridiculous as it is daring, bold as it is radical. A plan to save Mitsuha, and the town along with everyone else.
He brushes the thought aside, pushing it to the back of his mind, where it won't bother him, at least for a while. There'll be time to figure everything out later.
Right now, she's alive, and in this moment, that's all that matters.