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love of the centuries

a count imagine.

by: admin xuan

It never stopped ticking.

The golden pocket watch was first given to him by an old woman on the streets a few hundred years ago; he didn’t know who she was, but helped her to cross the street nevertheless, seeing her poor mobility at her age. Subsequently, he was given this pocket watch— it looked nothing expensive, and he could probably get it in one of the thrift shops nearby, but she insisted that it would help him find his soulmate.

Soulmate. It was a curious topic to him back then, when he was still a sprightly young boy with no qualms. Love was a taboo subject between the other little wimps he hung out with, but he did overhear the servants in the mansion talking about the subject of soulmates. Everyone had someone destined to love them, and there were various method of knowing. Some had flower buds on their wrists, and when in physical contact with their soulmate, it would bloom; others had coloured vision once they laid eyes upon them. And after that day, that mundane, lazy day, the young Count found himself with a pocket watch that would stop once he found his own soulmate.

And so he stared at it whenever he could, in the middle of crowds, in his garden, any spare time he had. Yes, he did frown upon the idea of lovey-dovey things, but part of his boyish self couldn’t stand the suspense and excitement. What if it stopped an hour before he noticed it? He didn’t want that. This thought, however, disappeared as soon as he was a young man. With a more mature mindset now, he believed that such an abstract and formless thing as love couldn’t be restrained by such boundaries. He had the right to love whoever he wanted to, and that he did; a sweet girl from a noble family, a cheerful baker, and even a shy maid he’d grown up with. The hands of the pocket watch never did stop moving, ticking away as the seconds flown by, but he could care less.

That is, until they all passed away one by one, over the hundreds of years. If one heartbreak wasn’t enough, three was definitely ample. Three times he had to watch as their health got the better of their young, blooming lives, like plucking away a single wild daffodil in the spring. Three times he had to grasp their cold, trembling hands and assure them that they were going to be fine, that they were going to live, only for their slender fingers to go limp. And three times he had fallen in love with a woman, all while the pocket watch continues to go on, ruthless in its calculation of time throughout the centuries. The Count himself hated his long lifespan for it. He didn’t choose to become a vampire, and if he ever had a choice, he would wish to live as a normal human. To love, grow, wither and die with someone, and spare him the pain that resonated through his veins as he watched them die.

He’s in the Louvre now, and a small part of him is stunned every time he travels through the great door, past two centuries into the twenty-first. Little rectangular slabs of metal and glass where everywhere on people’s hands (phones, as he learned from Sebastian) and the mix of ethnicity never fails to remind him violently that two hundred years are a big feat. He should probably stop being so amazed whenever he drops by this glass prism of a museum to check up on Vincent’s artwork. Nevertheless, he glides through the usual throng of people with ease and familiarity, heading towards a certain gallery when-

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

The owner of the voice looked normal. At least, he should’ve thought that she looked normal, but he didn’t. Something about her captivated him. Her voice, maybe? It was a sincere tone, easy on the ears, but somehow comforting for him. Her eyes were opened wide, a glint of sprightliness accompanied by a slight tingle of worry. Again, it’s all very normal, but he found himself unable to look away.

“It’s alright. The fault lies in me for being so unaware. Are you harmed?”

“Not one bit. How about you?”

“Fine as one can be. See you, then.”

He didn’t want to utter the last part of his sentence, but of course he did anyway; he had came with a purpose that he shall fulfill in due time. Besides, even if he wanted more small talk, she had already disappeared into the sea of people.

Why was he so taken with her?

The answer occurred to him- or in more accurate terms, crashed down like a ton of brick onto him when the small, minuscule pulsing of a certain pocket watch against his shirt was absent. He’s felt it for hundreds of years, that it feels as if a part of him disappeared along with it. The part that was filled with agony, suppression, and only pure control could stop him from crying out for someone to save him. The Count turns around, ready to rush over to her again—

And the heads of people greeted him. Their faces were of all walks of life, and yet, purpose was etched into the fine lines of their faces. Purpose. It was on hers too, he remembers, mixed in with a weird sort of unearthly beauty that made it seem like she was a fallen angel. Really, how could he just take her through those heavy doors to two centuries back, robbing her of her youth and happiness? She had a family, friends, and god knows that maybe she’s even found her significant other. That maybe, this time, it wasn’t him who did the leaving. It was her.

It was wrong for him to feel excitement at the sight of the ever-moving pocket watch. Rather than a gift, he elderly woman gave him a curse. It had to be written in the stars that out of everyone, his soulmate, the one who he could love and truly loved him in return— was someone from the modern times. The Count found the said object to be in his hands, running a finger along the smooth metal circumference of it. Unconsciously or not, he took great care of it, for not a single scratch was there.

He didn’t expect it to be so hard to pass through those doors again.

The sight that greeted him was always the same— from the outside, it’s a seemingly harmless storeroom with a few discarded decorative items and furnitures, but a few more steps in, and a blindingly bright light would engulf him back into the past. Stray beams of sunlight filtered in through the windows, showering their golden glow upon the embroidery of cushions, and the layer of dust that swirled in the air. It could be calming in here. It could be, except that there’s a dull ache in his chest, knowing that he’d never see her again.

Ah, well. It can’t be helped after all, can it?

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