::LIV::

Aomine trailed after Sakurai as the escorts guided them through the capital toward the library. One of numerous buildings orbiting the main keep like electrons around a nucleus. Tile-roofed curtain walls dissected Hirosawa into districts connected by doglegging and roundabout walks preserved from feudal times when confusion and geography played to wartime success.

After a fifteen minute trek, they entered the library.

Lavish oak furniture, polished marble tiles, and ornate runners filled the cathedral-size interior. Shelving stacked high, rolling ladders in place to ascend to heights of what Aomine estimated to be at least twenty feet to the topmost row. A crenellated ceiling captured the shimmer of firelight from wall-mounted torches. Tabled candelabra, wicks aflame with a cozy tepid glow, illuminated the deeper reaches where no windows permitted sunlight. Sleeping cast iron braziers plotted in naked corners and centered in aisle intersections awaited the rise of night. As they plunged farther in, Aomine appreciated the rustic ambience but couldn't detract from thinking the excessive firelight was an ironic hazard waiting to happen.

The escorts ushered them silently through several interconnected antechambers, each one a reflection of the last, decked with a variety of leisure amenities from floor mats and cushions to wall-mounted exam tables and stools. Book spines jutted from shelves in sparkling gold, ruby, emerald, and turquoise. Decorative vases sprouted rolls of parchment and honeycomb-shaped cubbies carried leather journals and plastic envelopes cradling fragile twine-bound pages absent of dust jackets.

They left the main building and entered a cloister. A lush willow tree dominated, rung by a circular walk and manicured hedges. Apparitions lingered among wooden benches but were too immersed in themselves to acknowledge their presence. Candlelight reached from openings on their left, as though inviting the curious to enter. They stopped at one of the yawns.

Aomine followed Sakurai and one of the escorts into a parlor-like space, unfurling fourteen feet square. Opposing arches offered only to proceed left or right.

The shadow stared at Aomine and motioned. He understood. Pick one.

Then the sentinel bowed back into the cloister, assuming guard with his partner.

"I'll be sitting out here," Sakurai said, ambling toward an arm chair.

One of three pieces of furniture in the room.

"You're just gonna wait?"

He didn't like the touch of helplessness but hoped the secretary would overlook it.

Sakurai parked himself. "I can only provide you your parents' messages. I can't tell you how to interpret the words or how you should feel about them. However, if you have questions, I will do my utmost to answer them."

He couldn't shake the uncertainty that filled him. An ill-preparedness he'd not felt in a long while.

His fingers stiffened against the envelope, carried at his side.

He strode through the left portal into another chamber no larger than the last. Daylight stained a low table. Gapped shears caressed by a gentle breeze draped a window stretching one wall. In anticipation of nightfall, a set of floor candle stands strobed. In the far corner was tucked a desk and stool.

No door existed to ensure privacy. Just curtains withdrawn into wall hooks. Not much of a defense against sound or the smell of musky incense permeating the air.

Better than nothing.

He untucked the drapes and settled on plump floor cushions. He brought the packet, backside up, onto the table. Again he studied the characters.

A final message from parent to child. Words hidden for a century.

He unwound the tie and pulled out four sheets. Pristine for their age. Minimal signs of fading. The foremost page was tattooed with recognizable kanji script laid in rows rather than columns. Smooth, wispy syllabary, sparse punctuation, and simplified strokes told him the language was Japanese. Written with a disciplined and steady hand.

His mother's hand.

He began reading.

. . .

1906, September 2

My darling Daiki,

How I wish the circumstances of your birth were so different than reality has permitted. How marvelous would it have been for you to enter a world free of hatred and injustice and intolerance? Reading this letter now, you must know all too well the unfortunate burdens of this life I've spoken of. I have always dreamed of a world where we Apparitions, blessed by Her to live 300 years, would be endowed with wisdom and compassion. To live alongside one another in a world grander than our own feeble existences.

From nothing we rise and to nothing we all someday return.

Breed, gender, ideology. These fictitious concepts do not change the inevitability of mortality. They do not govern the will of Her world. Even the holiest of hermits, the most astute of sages, are bewitched and enticed to erect invisible walls that only further divide us all. The Dark Ages have long since passed but demons of the day survive still in the hearts of once good Apparitions who believed as I do that unification, not segregation, is the gateway to a blissful life.

When your father holds you, so tenderly as though you would shatter, I see in you our gateway. Try as he may, in life or death, Shouichi cannot seal that portal. Because in time it will also become your gateway. Daichi does not share my belief but I know you will be reared by my brother. Killing us is but a trivial chore to him.

But you.

You are a reflection of myself. My body will not decorate his home or office that much I know.

You will live on. A trinket for him to gaze upon and remember. I have no doubt your abduction will develop nefarious ends to his means. As you are also the sole heir to your father's illustrious legacy. One my departed brother has for years sought to defame.

I know of the Aomines and their heinous barbarism.

Yet unlike Shouichi, I know every tree bears diseased branches.

Aomine is a powerful, imposing, and majestic name. From atop the blue peaks, your great radiance will shine. I've always believed your name to embody this.

Be strong, Daiki.

Shouichi will not strip you of this proud title but he will try his damnedest to smother your light.

I leave you with a prayer:

Look not to the stars for celestial guidance for you are helpless nor within your own heart for you are cynical. To judge the true worth of yourself you need only look into the eyes of those closest to you as their gaze will reflect your honest self.

Forever my darling son,

Nori

. . .

Aomine's thumb stroked the signature. A single kanji. Pressure expanded in his chest, ascending into his knotted throat. Tears pricked his eyes.

She knew. The tone of her words and unwavering stroke of her hand may not have betrayed her but she accepted that she was going to die.

Maybe a little too easily.

He recalled what Akashi had said before, in his office.

Seventy-two years old. By that age, he had tried and failed three times to foster a family and been divorced little over ten years. He couldn't imagine, at fifty-five when he and Momoi's firstborn entered the world, coping with the inevitability that he would never live to raise his child.

Imayoshi amounted her feelings for his father, their relationship, and her decision to abandon all who may endanger that, a careless and naïve mistake. As he'd read her words, he was struck by her austere practicality. Rather than fight a system she knew was rigged against her and dodge traps set by Imayoshi to snare her, accepting death was her victory.

Because, in the end, even one hundred years later, Imayoshi lost.

Aomine examined the next sheet. Coarse and jagged lines, like rudimentary waves, filled the page. He squinted. Through the jumble recognizable letters sprung from the cursive to suggest it wasn't just senseless scribble but nothing that he could decipher.

What the hell was this even supposed to be? Considering his father's upbringing in Pervobytnyy Les, it must be Cyrillic. He'd never seen the script in cursive before.

His father's penmanship was atrocious.

Guess that's one more thing he inherited.

Unfortunately Cyrillic was not among his language bank. There had to be a translation. If his mother believed Imayoshi would raise him in Jia, there must be.

He revealed the third page.

Kanji. Also written in rows.

A block of text at the top right corner grabbed his interest.

Transcribed for the unprecedented future.

He scanned a few passages and realized it was not his mother's hand. The spacing, strokes, and pressure reflected such neatness that he thought it the work of a machine. If but for a few transfer smudges. Remarkable. Could this be Sakurai's work? The little man could speak his language. Proximity to his mother and exposure to Japanese-speaking Apparitions under tenure as a sovereign's secretary would enhance comprehension.

He should extend his appreciation later.

Until then, he read on.

. . .

1906 September 2

To my son Daiki,

Just days ago you entered my life as such a small, fragile thing but I feel that you are my single greatest accomplishment. I would happily surrender the mantle of Kaizer if it meant I could openly and without molestation raise you together with your mother. The name Aomine is tainted with such ghastliness and carried by such despicable characters that choosing your name was a simple matter.

Daiki. Great light.

I wholeheartedly feel, while watching you sleep and knead your impossibly tiny fingers in hands unstained with blood or greed, that you will shine bright in the abysmal pit we Aomines have dug for ourselves.

Your mother adores you as if you were her sun. She is a spiritual, judicious, and ardent woman. Inspired as I am by change. There are many, as I'm certain you have by now experienced their kind, who are not as welcoming.

They are confused, thoughtless vessels fueled by hatred as machines are powered by coal and fire. Their flame, while it may be weak, never burns out. The wall of malevolent hellfire blinds them to the true path to peace and growth and all they hurt as they blaze their destructive paths.

It has only been two days since your birth and though it is a miraculous and joyous event, a shadow lurks along the fringe of our happiness. A darkness that has long followed your mother and I. Stalking. Lying in wait for the inevitable moment when exhaustion overtakes us.

And overtake us it will.

I do not know where you future will take you but I want to clarify one thing for you that I was unable to make clear to my aggressor before my death.

Imayoshi Shouichi is a sick man. Of mind and soul, not infirmity or persuasion. Whatever he may tell you as truth will most certainly be a lie, constructed from a foundation of outdated and stubborn principles and self-imposed paranoia. Not even the love he held for your mother, his sister, could lift the veil of intolerance from his eyes. He refuses to believe that I, an Aomine man of the Lightning, am capable of selfless genuine love for your mother. He believed her bewitched by me and his delusions have enflamed tensions between his nation and mine. As I write this I continue to peer into your nurse's arms at your peaceful unaware face to record these precious moments of your life before my world forever blackens.

Ryou is a remarkable and competent confidant, well loved by your mother and I. Though he cradles you as if you were his own I know he will be no match for Imayoshi when he comes.

No matter what the outcome may become or where you end up, whatever nationality marks you, whatever tongue you speak or customs you embrace, you will always be my son.

Which is why I must now apologize that my release procedures have been heeded. You can no longer be afforded the ignorance of the name Aomine or protection from the ghouls that lurk along the tortuous path that awaits you. I have done all I can to provide safeguards to ease the misery I am regrettably certain you will endure as was the expectation when my father passed this curse onto me. But I know, with inexplicable assuredness, that you will set us all free, Daiki.

I am so unbearably sorry for placing this inescapable burden on your shoulders…

. . .

Aomine squinted as the handwriting took on an abrupt change. Clear strokes became rushed and scribbled. He struggled to unravel the twisted characters.

Sun. Penetrating rays. Bothersome light. Brilliance. Guardian.

Who wrote this? Surely not his mother. Or Sakurai. He doubted his father was responsible.

Perhaps it was the aforementioned guardian?

His attention gravitated to an anomaly.

Two words penned in stiff katakana.

アルテミス。アポロ。

Artemis. Apollo.

Who were they? Real people? Or fictitious symbols meant to unify the hidden intent of the message?

He had no way of knowing. Cracking riddles and puzzles was more Tetsu's strong suit than his. Delving into obscure mysteries and plucking clues to arrive at a definitive conclusion. Seeing solutions so easily missed by others as if they shone like beacons through the cracks of disarray, silently proclaiming their presence.

If only he could help.

He spotted more to the original message below the strange insert.

Suppressing the melancholy brimming inside him, he read on.

. . .

Your radiance may be great but when swallowed in darkness you are but a distant flickering star in the imposing majesty of the moon. Heed this warning, son. My youthful arrogance and assuredness have failed me as Kaizer and you as well. For now you will be without me. An incompetent father.

For all my shortcomings in my seventy-nine years on this earth, you are the one thing I do not regret.

I love you.

More than you will never know.

Daichi

. . .

Tears streaked Aomine's face. His throat swelled painfully as he fought to restrain himself. His fingers were frozen around the sheets. As though sensing that applying the slightest pressure would fracture the words like broken glass.

Emotions spiraled wildly within him. For so long he had simulated this moment. When he would finally discover the truth of his roots. To learn who his parents were as more than figments. Confirming if they truly loved him. Wanted him. The pessimistic miasma that shrouded his thoughts was finally exorcised by a reality he could only ever fantasize about. Words finally given flesh and consciousness.

For years, he couldn't comprehend that he shared a commonality with either of his departed parents. He could not have been more wrong. Twenty-four years separated their experience of fatherhood, Aomine being fifty-five when his firstborn emerged. The excruciating sensation of inadequacy that pitted him as his offspring died.

His father felt it, too.

Except the roles were reversed. Anticipating his own death rather than receive word of his child's unprecedented demise.

He read the last few lines again.

I love you. More than you will never know.

The pages slipped to the table as he cupped his head. He sealed his eyes, tears tracking his cheeks.

He knew exactly what his father meant. Because when mourning the passing of each of his children, pressing a final parting kiss to their tiny, cool foreheads, he'd whispered the same thing.

I love you more than you will never know.

An eventuality Imayoshi secured by forcing him to undergo the exact tragedy with his children that he'd played upon his parents a century ago.

For a child to leave the world prematurely without ever knowing their parents' love was lamentable. Terminating parents from their infant's life, leaving the orphan to ponder the worth of their existence, was downright despicable.

And for one hundred years that belief, tucked deep in Aomine's subconscious, poked and prodded. Speaking just loud enough to be heard.

Now the voice was silent.

He was loved. And wanted.

To hell that the words took their time to reach him. Their meaning was just as poignant in ink as they would be in speech.

He took a moment to allow the confluence of chemicals assaulting his brain to flush away. No more stifling or overwriting, as Imayoshi programmed him to do when he was overwhelmed.

Pressure ebbed, loosening the taut muscles of his neck and tears dried.

He scrubbed his face and drew an invigorating breath deep into his chest.

A strange feeling settled. Was this what closure felt like?

Or was it something else?

His father's warning floated back to him and he searched for the passage. Again he read the words. Trying to decrypt something tangible among the mysticism. Russian would have most likely been his father's preferred tongue. If not English, as necessity among political figures holding high office demanded. Translating either into any of Jia's dialects could clutter apprehension with unintended double meanings or misinterpretations to match original syntax and diction as closely as possible. But beyond the scope of hiragana and a few kanji, he could gather nothing comprehensive.

Maybe Satsuki could help make sense of it.

Aomine swept the pages back into the envelope.

He kneaded his forehead.

The funeral pyres had yet to be lit. No bodies existed to be consumed by fire. The ash of their lives scattered to the winds. Flesh once embraced disintegrated. Memories, on the other hand, proved far more resilient. Satsuki had violated Ice funerary customs fifty years ago when she incinerated the remains of their children. Knowing utilization of fire in religious rituals or practices was strictly forbidden. Disposing of the deceased was a precise science. Decomposition was slowed over the course of a month or more. Cyclic salt dusting and alcohol rinses were applied to the corpse. Organs liquefied along with skin and muscles until only a skeleton remained. Bones were ground to powder, Remnants repeatedly filtered of impurities and confined to a vase, jar, or other container. Sacramental herbs and oils anointed the vessel. Survivors would erect an altar or other such reverent space to honor their loved ones.

Albeit reduced to the water of life, as mortuary practitioners humbly called it. Never truly erased.

To cast the dead to flame was the ultimate sacrilege.

But Aomine understood.

Satsuki wanted to let them go. To remove their imprint not just from the world but herself. She firmly believed their passing a consequence of some physiological defect. Looking upon their reliquaries would not bring her closure or peace. Only remorse and shame.

He stared at the single line tattooed on the back flap of the envelope.

Our son, Daiki.

And asked himself.

Was he ready to let them go?


FF (obviously) won't allow me to post links or upload a picture to display what the curious message is Aomine saw. It is available in the uploaded copy of this chapter on AO3, should you want to see it.