Chapter Text
This story begins where it ends: in between time and space.
Chibiterasu, Dawn of the Little Sun, asks infinity: “What am I the god of?” Surely he is the god of friendship, of bonds forged, of destinies claimed, of new beginnings--
“You are the God of Paradox,” eternity answers. “The ending and the beginning. The last of the old gods who is the first of the new gods.”
“Oh,” he says, and that moment stretches into the dark horizon.
--
The last Celestial Envoy takes a bow and exits stage left, and immediately returns from stage right.
--
Ninety-nine years and several hours after Nagi and Shiranui sealed Orochi, Waka wakes up to a ghost in his house and a headache usually reserved for hangovers.
On the one hand, Ishaku hadn’t been able to meet him for their annual “meet up after everyone’s passed out from the Kamiki Festival and drink at Shiranui’s statue until the sun rises” arrangement. That meant Waka decidedly had to drink for two last night. On the other hand, he had both arrived and left a few hours early, trying to make his meeting with Himiko this morning a little less miserable.
He squints through the darkness at the spirit hovering listlessly in the corner of his room. In his limited experience with spirits walking the mortal coil, they typically appear with washed-out colors and some level of transparency based on how long they’ve been dead. This one is the oldest he’s ever seen--in that regard. Physically, she looks quite young, but she’s just barely corporeal. Her pale eyes stare past him, unfocused. Her face… isn’t quite shaped like a human native to Nippon, but her hair isn’t blonde like a Moon Tribesman: it falls in a shock-white curtain down her back.
Curious. This is either a very talented demon capable of getting past the eight layers of wards over his home, or the spirit of someone who left the Moon ages before even he did.
Staring is rude, but it’s a crime of which they’re both guilty, so Waka clears his throat. “... Can I help you?” he asks, as politely as he can for this time of morning.
Her gaze sharpens and lands on his face. It would be mildly unsettling if her entire appearance hadn’t already thoroughly unsettled him. “You are the seer?” She asks in turn, voice crackling like a fire.
He considers the question. “Prophet is the term I prefer, but I don’t suppose you’re here to split hairs.”
“I am not,” she answers evenly. “I take it that means you are the seer who crashed the Ark.”
Waka bristles. “How would you--”
“I am not mistaken. Good.” The spirit reached up with a hand to brush some of the hair hanging over her face to the side, revealing a mark Waka had only seen on one other person: a sun adorned with flames. “I apologize for my bluntness. I have little time, and I am… out of practice with speaking to the living. My name is Sayuri. I have served the Okami since before you were born. Let their mark serve as my proof.”
This does little to ease Waka’s apprehension, and he’s only ever heard wrinkled courtiers (incorrectly) assume they did anything before he was born, but he allows her to continue.
“The gods’ gift of a long afterlife in their service was not infinite. I will fade soon, and no longer be able to fulfill my duty. Demons will descend over Ryoshima Coast in droves when Orochi returns.”
Waka raises an eyebrow. “Demons have been all over Nippon since long before the Ark crashed. Orochi’s return will embolden them, but they haven’t exactly been scarce.”
“Small demons have not been scarce, no. But there is an ever-moving, ever-shifting isle south of Ryoshima. My god bid me to maintain a barrier around the island so the Demon Lord and its kin residing within could not harm this Coast. When I fade, the barrier will soon follow.” Sayuri’s expression turns from grave to pitying. “You are in service to Queen Himiko, charged with protecting these lands. This will be your problem.”
“You’ve come to warn me, then. Polite of you.” He’s already thinking through what a Tsukiyomi-damned Demon Lord is going to mean for his chances of surviving to see Shiranui reincarnate in a year. The headache doesn’t help. He settles for a biting comment along the lines of “well, congratulations on your retirement, and thank you for the warning of impending doom--I usually rely on either migraine-inducing visions or Himiko’s crystal ball for those,” but she doesn’t let him get that far.
“Not only a warning. A request, and a boon.” Her image flickers. “I will reincarnate after my spirit has had time to rest. Once my new body has come of age, it will arrive on Ryoshima’s shores… some hours from now, I believe. It will have no memories of my life and little of my power, but its presence will be enough to reinforce the barrier. Ensure the child survives, and its power should grow with time. Perhaps not a match for the Demon Lord before the Okami return to the earth… but potentially a valuable ally when they do.”
He doesn’t miss the way she refers to the reincarnation as both a child and a tool. He swallows down the urge to ask if she really means vessel. An old, old vision returns to him, unbidden: he thinks of the scrawled notes on the endless pile of scrapped blueprints stuffed into one of the drawers beneath his workbench.
“And if your reincarnation falls?” He asks instead.
“Then--not that it will affect your lifetime-- the future it hails from falls with it.” Sayuri flickers again, vanishing completely for a few moments before reappearing as no more than an impression against the wall. “I am sorry that I cannot stay to offer further guidance, and that it falls to you to help finish what I started. You may choose to ignore my request and resolve the issue yourself; I’m sure your blade thirsts for the blood of a Demon Lord not unlike those that infiltrated your Ark.”
Waka resists the urge to take one of the dozens of Prayer Slips Rao keeps encouraging him to take home “to exorcise the stick up your ass,” and seeing if it does anything to make Sayuri leave the mortal coil faster. She’s probably hanging on by a frayed thread, waiting for him to confirm that her request hasn’t fallen on deaf ears. He would use his last dying breath to be passive-aggressive too, now that he thinks about it.
“... I’ll take care of it.” He says, finally. “Be at peace, Sayuri.”
For the first time since appearing in his home, the apparition smiles. “Thank you, Ushiwaka. Say hello to Okami Amaterasu for me when she wakes up, won’t you? She and Shiranui were the warmest of my masters, even among the Okami.”
“Oh, another favor?” Waka pretends to consider it. “I may not remember. A year is a long time to wait.
Not quite as long as a century, but I may forget in the midst of watching over your reincarnation and preparing to mitigate the damages from Orochi’s return. But if I happen to recall, I’ll pass it along.”
“Did you kiss Amaterasu with that mouth?” Sayuri asks, even as she fades. “Impertinent seer. I see why she adored you so. May the two of you return safely to the Celestial Plain."
She vanishes from sight, even as her words linger. He waits a few moments to ensure the spirit has vacated the premises before heaving a sigh.
“Of course. Of course she saw. Servant of the--merdé,” he grumbles, sweeping out of the room to escape the chill she brought. He will deal with these revelations after resolving this hangover. Hopefully, Sayuri’s reincarnation will be polite enough to wait the estimated few hours to appear.
Based on the ten or so minutes he knew Sayuri, he doubts it.
--
Her name is Eliza Grace, and she’s so damn tired of the cold.
It was cold at 5 AM when she reported to campus to board the bus, feeling as though she had never really left after the football game last night. It was cold on the bus the entire morning’s drive upstate. It was cold when she trundled across half a rich kids’ school campus, helping Maggie push her (cold metal) vibraphone up and down sloping hills to the stadium. It was cold when they ran their show for the prelims. It was cold when they hauled their shit back to the truck from the stadium. It was cold while they sat in the (cold metal) bleachers, half-watching the other bands perform and half-relying on quickly-cooling concession stand fare to warm their bellies. It was cold when they waited for the prelims results.
(“On one hand,” Shelby, the color guard captain had said, magnanimously handing her a paper carton of cheesy fries--a boon in exchange for having helped fuckshisface the keyboard player with moving his big-ass table from the stadium to the truck, a swap Eliza had agreed to with visibly gritted teeth.
“Careful, that’s actually still hot,” Shelby said offhandedly.
“Oh, thank god,” Eliza said, reveling in how some of the numbness in her fingers faded as she held the carton.
“On one hand, obviously we want to make it to finals tonight. Just by virtue of making it to finals, we say we placed at state competition, which feels good and usually gets Mr. G in a good enough mood to not give us busy work for class block between now and concert season.”
“Uh-huh,” Eliza responded around a mouthful of potatoes and cheese. She remained blissfully unaware that it was the last time she would enjoy either for a long time.
“On the other hand, we’ll have to perform when it’s even colder, then stand at attention on the field for an hour when they call results, and then get home around midnight if we’re lucky.” Shelby swiped a fry and popped it in her mouth. “Captain tax.”
“Taxation is theft,” Maggie said cheerfully as she wove past them, heading for the concession booth now that the line had finally thinned out.
“Anyway, just keep it in perspective. The high-performing freshmen usually get upset if we don’t make finals in their first year.” Shelby waves a hand.
Eliza squints at her. “I’m not a freshman, Shel.”
“Yeah, but you joined up during sophomore year, so you’ve got the experience level of a freshie.” Shel gives her a disgustingly sweet smile as she grabs another fry. “You drop your rifle less than some juniors I know, so just take the compliment and the fries, hon.”)
It was cold when the eight bands proceeding to finals were announced. It was, yes, colder after the sun had set and they wheeled the instruments and props back to the stadium. It was cold when they performed for, confirmed, the last time they would ever run this show. It was cold when they ambled back across campus to load everything back onto the truck. It was cold when they sat back on the bleachers.
It was, as Shelby had promised, cold when they marched onto the field with the last scraps of professionalism they could muster, and stood still for forty-five minutes, waiting for the results. It was cold when they shuffled out of the stadium and back to their buses, the drum major clasping their third-place trophy with gloved hands and a beam too bright for the day they’ve all had.
It was cold when they filed back onto the buses and settled in for the ride home. It was cold when the drumline congregated at the back of her bus started blasting fucking Blurred Lines, of all things, on a wireless speaker someone had smuggled on. It was cold when Maggie shuffled up to her seat and offered her Snuggie in exchange for sanctuary.
It was slightly warmer after Eliza agreed, pulling her rifle off the seat and settling it in between the wall and her knees.
It was just warm enough that she managed to drift off, hoping she would stay asleep until they made it home.
--
Waka is no stranger to obtuse prophecies, but he thinks he prefers being the one to create them rather than the one to interpret them.
He mulls Sayuri’s words over as he prepares the hangover remedy Ishaku taught him ages ago. Supposedly, in a few hours, a child (indeterminate age--”coming of age” could mean anything from a literal child large enough to carry a toy sword to a young adult) would “arrive on Ryoshima’s shores.” The coastline spanned several miles; she could have at least narrowed down between North and South Ryoshima Coast for him. Though, he supposed she wouldn’t have much control over specifics. Her certainty that her mere reincarnated presence would maintain the barrier she had apparently been reinforcing around Oni Island was both miraculous and suspicious. One would assume that at minimum, some form of ritual would be required.
His kettle screeches for his attention, and he plucks it from over the fire to prepare the worst cup of tea anyone has ever committed to a written recipe. Normally, he’d do what anyone else in the city did and boil plums, but he needed this headache gone to deal with this… situation. So, to his chagrin, he rummages through his drawers for the bottle of the Oina folk’s special remedy: a sickening tincture Ishaku somehow swears by.
The Oina discovered herbs and mushrooms in Wep’Keer that could cure a hangover and decided, “Ah, yes, good. These taste like an intimate love affair with the cruelest Ent in the forest. Grind them up and mash the remains with whatever oil secretes the most slime when they interact, and the result will be so potent, your relief will be instant. Nothing tastes as foul as the winds of Kamui are cold, you malnourished pansy.”
Hm. On second thought, that last bit might have been one of the old chieftains who promised to tan more than his hide if he was seen on Kamui soil ever again.
The luminescent green mixture oozes sadly as he gives the bottle a swirl. Waka sighs, deep and traumatized, and sets it aside so he can put out the flame. (Hungover or not, he hasn’t burned a house down in a hundred-twenty years, and he is not breaking that streak today.) Before the tea can cool further, he uncorks the bottle, scoops out a dollop, and stirs it in. He allows his mind to wander again as he waits for the mixture to settle.
Sayuri’s idea of mortal childhood was likely further skewed than his own, given her supposed long afterlife. Would her reincarnation be mortal? Human, Lunar? He’d heard of humans reincarnating as animals, though nothing about Lunar folk being able to do so.
… So, he was looking out for a person, or creature, of indeterminate age, to appear in an indeterminate manner, in an indeterminate location.
Magnifique.
The more the abomination cools, the worse it will taste, so Waka takes the cup and downs the piping-hot, tainted tea before he can change his mind. He still winces at the flavor, resisting his body’s overwhelming urge to reject the tincture. He can only lean back against the counter, willing the pounding in his head to go down to perhaps a moderate knocking.
Too much to do. Too many possibilities.
Too many ways this can go wrong.
Sugawara always did call him an overthinker. Waka preferred his contingency plans to have contingency plans. His carelessness led to the Ark incident; he would atone for his sins with constant vigilance. And how can one not overthink when constantly plagued by visions of the future?
…Speaking of.
Rather than diminishing, his headache flares and his vision whites out. Flashes of futures unfold in his mind’s eye, nearly moving too quickly to take in. He staggers, his grip on the counter his only anchor as eventualities crash over him like a wave.
As quickly as they had begun, the images leave him: leave him with a strong sense of vertigo, anyway. What he’s seen is burned across his memory like the tea burned his tongue.
Overthink this, putain, his curse seems to tell him smugly.
Waka leans over to the wastebin his sober self had oh-so-helpfully moved before he set off for Kamiki yesterday, and vomits.
--
Her name is Eliza Grace, and shit just got weird.
That’s an understatement. She isn’t accustomed to having dreams--not terribly lucid ones, anyway. Once in a blue moon she’ll remember snatches of nonsense: cobwebs of a stress dream already fading back into her psyche.
She knows she’s dreaming now, because, once again: shit just got weird.
She’s standing over an endless, yawning black void, and underneath a sprawling sea of stars like she’s never seen before. This is unmarred by light pollution. Purples and blues and oranges weave an intricate blanket behind billions of distant lights, each shining like a beacon.
She’s so enraptured by the sight that she almost misses the small boy standing right in front of her. He can’t be more than ten years old, with his shining amber eyes and chubby cheeks. His hair and robe (kimono? she thinks vaguely) are white as snow, the former about 75% tousled and short--the other 25% falling in a loose braid at the side of his face-- and the latter adorned with red tips and accents. Most striking, however, are the bestial ears and matching white tail he sports.
He brightens at her presence, as though it’s the first time he’s seen another person in years. His smile is a radiant spectacle of fangs and dimples, and on anyone else it would look threatening but on him it looks… boyish and pleasant.
For just an instant, she understands his elation at her presence. It’s like stars aligning, like clouds parting and feeling the first rays of sunshine after a thunderstorm.
It’s like seeing an old friend.
But they’ve… never met, have they?
“There you are,” he says, reaching out to take her hand. Something sparks when they touch: a warm current runs through her veins like a liquified sunbeam. “C’mon, let’s go.”
He tugs her forward, and there must not have been solid ground behind him, because they both plunge into the abyss below.