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Title: Forever Walking

Author: thebizarrehairtrio

Summary: Immortality wasn't what he expected. The aging and de-aging randomly wasn't either, but he managed. It was how the world bloomed into being, descended from those wretched Noah, that surprised him. Humans really were foolish creatures. (An insight on who Past!Allen may have been.) (Some canon divergence.)

Rating: T

Category: Dark/Adventure

Pairings: None

Warnings: Scheming!Past!Allen, Feigning-Ignorance!Current!Allen, Immortal!Allen, Semi-AU.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, D. Gray-Man belongs to Hoshino Katsura. (But I am working on it.)

His mother had called him by the Hebrew name of Raz, which meant "secret." He was the eighteenth and last child of his father, whose name was Ofek. His mother was Ofek's third of six wives, called Nahal. He had fourteen older brothers and three older sisters. All his siblings, including himself, gained the power of the Crystal.

Their tribe was a close knit family. Everyone was related to one another. Everyone knew one another.

There were one hundred and ten children in all. One hundred and ten Crystals. All between the ages of ten and twenty three. He was the last of which to be accepted by the Crystal.

The Noah Clan had been a rival tribe with whom their tribe had fought with and triumphed over. The leaders never told them what their short war was about, and none of them had thought to ask.

They had attacked first, thirteen with grey skin and golden eyes. Their tribe had backed them up, not seeing how much of a monster each of the Noah were.

They had no choice. The human members of each tribe were killed, unable to defend themselves. So it left the holders of the Crystal and the Noah.

Neither could win. They were stuck in a deadlock. Three days. Three Days of Darkness. The world was destroyed in the span of three days.

The Earl and his Family retreated first, not unharmed but not defeatedeither. The wielders stayed, to mourn the passing of their tribe.

But the mourning was short lived.

He warned them. He warned them of the power of the Crystal. Such power could not be without price. He revealed his suspicions to Lev, the strongest and their leader. But he, like all the others, were consumed by their arrogance. And so the Crystal devoured their souls, trapping them forever within the Crystal. His own attempted to devour him as well, but he resisted, caging it. He alone survived.

But the Crystal would not let him go. He would walk forever until it could finally devour him. If that took thousands of years, so be it. The Crystal hated him, the Heart hated him, they all hated him. Because he could have helped them, yet he did not.

He was a selfish human.

There were dangers. Human memory would not forget. He could not keep going out with the same name and the same face. The dots would connect, and he would be hunted.

He liked the names Asher and Idan. He donned those names, constructed their identities. Asher, a boy blooming into manhood, had pitch black hair and a brown wool loosely wrapped head scarf, who preferred silence and had a naïve smile. Idan, a middle aged man, had light brown hair streaked with grey and a tattered dark brown cloak, who loved to converse with people and had a wise look to his features. He only used an identity a second time when he was certain that everyone who had known them were dead.

Then the world grew, expanding over continents. In England, he was an adolescent named Elias with his normal shade of auburn hair and a mischievous demeanor. In France, he became a young woman called Aalis with pretty golden strands. In Spain, he donned the costume of Ximeno, a brash and arrogant brunette noble. In Italy, he acted as Zuan, a poor bronze haired peasant with a love for music.

Magic was a pastime, something he learned when everything else became boring. It helped immensely, though, with his numerous characters to play as. They evolved with the times, with new masks joining his arsenal.

The Bookman Clan, however, were the most troublesome people of all. They never forgot. They recorded everything they saw. So he avoided them, covered his tracks. Made sure they never uncovered his involvement with any of those wars and rebellions. It was a risky game, and it excited him. It alleviated his boredom, if only for a few.

He couldn't wait until the time came for when he should reveal himself.

He found a girl called Katerina Eve Campbell with dark hair and dark eyes. She lived in a mansion in the middle of a wheat field with a few servants and a dying grandmother.

His name was Andrew, no surname, about the same age as her. Bright caramel hair and friendly but wary.

Katerina and him became friends, but this wasn't just some leisurely pastime. This girl would become instrumental in this war, indirectly of course.

She was special. Specifically, she would be special. To Adam. To the Millennium Earl.

He watched as she and Adam became friends, then fell in love. These emotions would no doubt rip the Earl apart. However, even he did not know what would happen. He certainly did not expect the literal split of the Earl into twin infants. It was almost funny.

He cemented a position within the Campbell mansion for himself inthe future, as a servant, promising Katerina to "send a relative of his who would happily serve the boys when they grew up." Hopefully, he would be able to begin his attendance to the "twins" when they began their adolescent years.

The gears were turning, for him and for the war.

He wondered what would happen once the twins realized their origins. It, he mused, would probably prompt a series of desperate and horrendous events resulting in death for either one or maybe both.

His name was Alojzy Jedynak. He had long platinum blonde hair in a low ponytail tied back with a blood red ribbon. He was twenty six years old, nosy, friendly, and had a soft spot for children. He had lived in a small Polish town until it burned to the ground in a freak accident when he was twelve. He and his mother were the only survivors. His mother was always ill after that, and died when he was fifteen. His current occupation was a wandering, helpful magician.

Elaborate, sad back stories were always his favorite.

He wandered through a small town in Poland called Jeleniewo, feeling a bit tired. Hopefully there were openings at the inn, if there even was an inn in this tiny village.

"Watch it, brat!"

He whirled around, just in time for a small body to crash right into his legs, bowling him over onto the ground. He landed on his backside, the weight that fell on top of him quickly getting up.

"I didn't mean it, sir!"

He glanced up, spotting a boy with wavy scarlet hair looking utterly frightened, although his body had taken a protective stance, as if bracing himself.

He smiled kindly, slipping into the role of 'Alojzy' with ease. "You don't need to worry, Chłopcze. No harm done."

The boy peeked up at him through his bangs with suspicious amber eyes, and opened his mouth as if to speak, before he was interrupted by an enraged call.

"Diabełek!" The child paled, and tried to run, but a hairy arm snatched him up before he could. "Your worthless father won't pay his debts, so it's your turn!" A man with a dirty beard who strongly smelled of alcohol threw the boy over his shoulder, turning as if to leave, but a gloved hand stopped him.

Alojzy smiled at him, yet it had a slight warning edge to it. "Where are you taking Chłopcze, sir?"

"To pay off his useless father's debts," the man, who he identified as the barman, grunted. "It doesn't concern you."

"And how do you plan on having him pay those debts off?" he asked.

"With manual labor, obviously."

"What's the boy's father like?"

"A worthless drunk who spends too much money."

He frowned, then held a hand out. "Could I see the child for a second?"

The man narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously. "What for?"

"Just need to confirm something," he replied smoothly, leaving no room for argument. The barman nodded grudgingly, letting the boy down but staying near so as to catch him if he tried to run off.

Alojzy smiled patiently at the boy, who wasn't meeting his gaze at all. "Now, I need to check your skin, alright? Will you help me with that?" The boy stared at him through red strands, nodding slowly. "Thank you." He knelt down, then unbuttoned the lower buttons of his shirt, feeling the boy's wary eyes on him. He tugged up his shirt, eyes widening then narrowing at the discolored patches of skin all over the boy's torso.

"Did you also know that the man was abusing his child?" he hissed at the barman, who just shrugged, making his anger flare up.

"That man is a mean drunk. It's common."

"Well, I won't stand for it. I'm taking the child with me."

"Wait, you can't do that—"

"How much?"

"What?"

"How much does he owe?"

"Two hundred fifty Guineas."

"I'll pay off his debt in exchange for the boy." Alojzy pulled out the correct amount of notes and tossed them to the barman, who caught them. He then looked the boy in the eye, seeing a bewildered gaze staring back.

"Why are you doing this?" the boy whispered.

"Because, Chłopcze, you don't deserve to live like this." He placed a hand on the boy's chest, murmuring a healing spell under his breath, watching the bruises fade away.

The boy kept staring, wide eyed. "How'd you do that?"

He smirked. "It's magic." Then, an idea sprouted in his head. "I could teach you."

"Yes, please!" He broke out into a wide, hopeful smile. "I'd love to learn!"

"Alright, then." He held out his hand. "I am Alojzy Jedynak. What is your name?"

The boy took his hand and shook it gently, still smiling. "Cross Marian."

Cross Marian was a curious child. He was nine years old, an only child, and his father was his only living relative. His eyesight was terrible, something he had not thought much of until Alojzy found that he could not read properly. Once he had stopped being fearful, he grew more confident and became almost sassy. It was a nice change.

More importantly, he had talent. Talent to use magic, and he was quite smart. He would make a perfect tool, although he needed to teach him some key points before he learned anything.

"Your survival is your first priority," Alojzy said, staring down at Cross. "You must use whatever means necessary to live, even if it means sacrificing other people's lives. Only help if you can. Be patient, be confident in your abilities, but do not become arrogant. The moment you allow yourself to be prideful, you are already dead."

The red headed youth stared up at him, apprehensive yet still curious. "What do you mean arrogant? Why am I dead if I become like that?"

He is silent for a moment, then replies seriously, "I have watched humans who believed themselves to be superior; each and every one of them have gone up in flames for their conceit."

"Master..."

"Yes?"

"Why do you speak as if you are not human?"

"Sorry, Chłopcze, but that's a secret. Maybe I'll tell you when you're older."

He taught the boy as much as he could, leaving him to decide what to absorb and what to cast away. His biggest mistake (or greatest accomplishment?), however, came in the form of a seemingly innocent book left out in the open instead of locked away.

The title was: Necromancy, The Art of Reviving the Dead.

He had known very well that Cross had loved his mother dearly, even after her death when he was six. He supposed that he should be thankful, that the Noah Memory of the Earl had not visited him, asking that dreaded question with that horrible smile.

Then again, maybe this was worse. He had no idea that he missed her this much.

Cross was eleven, he should have known better. There was no reviving the dead, yet he attempted it.

They visited his old town, where they found the boy's father dead, drowned in the lake after a particularly long night at the bar. No tears were shed. Cross spent most of the first two days at his mother's grave. He thought nothing of it.

The tortured screams, however, were hard to ignore. He knew it was Cross, the boy had snuck out believing him to be asleep, but he never really did have to sleep. He ran to the graveyard, a sickening sight meeting him.

Cross was screaming, on the ground, clutching at the right side of his face, where black tendrils were sprouting out of his eye and digging into his face like veins protruding out of the skin. His mother's coffin was dug up, the skeleton arranged in the middle of an elaborate circle enscribed with magic phrases.

Evidently, the boy didn't understand the requirements for "resurrection."

"Sh, sh, Chłopcze, remove your hands."

He screamed again, stubborn with his palms obscuring the horrific blackness eating away at his face.

"I can't heal you if you don't move them. Do you wish for death? I can assure you, it's not very pleasant."

Screams reduced into high pitched whimpers and whines, the single amber eye pleading to make it stop, make it stop—

He dropped his hands, and Alojzy's own occupied the space they left, murmuring spells under his breath to stop the black wisps from spreading. It halted, staying curled around his eye, the skin blackened, appearing charred and coal like.

"Can you open your eye?"

A shake of the head, accompanied by a soft whine.

"What were you doing?" He did not sound accusing, simply curious. He could not blame the boy, after all.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it, I'm sorry, I just wanted to—"

"It's alright. It's not your fault."

"Are you going to abandon me?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because it was an honest mistake. Besides, I shouldn't have left that book out. I should have taught you exactly what to avoid, what was forbidden."

"Master shouldn't blame himself."

"I know."

"... Why didn't it work, though?"

"Because she already decomposed."

"Then—"

"And you cannot revive the dead fully, not at your current level. Necromancy is a dangerous, difficult art, and only centuries of practice will give you the power to revive a person properly."

"Then what would have happened if she hadn't decomposed?"

"She would become a soulless puppet, only able to answer your commands. She would not be able to speak, to do anything independently. She would have no memories at all."

"... I'm glad she decomposed."

"Not as glad as I am, though. Forbidden magic always has consequences, and none are pleasant."

"Master?"

"Yes?"

"Can you revive the dead?"

"That's a story for another time, Chłopcze. Now let's find you something to cover up your face, okay?"