Tatsuhime Shine, Inaba
Time still unknown
Pain retreated as consciousness returned. It didn’t vanish, not entirely, but what had been what felt like the time he’d thrown his back out to the point it took ten minutes to put on pants dulled itself to something more like his usual chronic aches; something that he hadn’t felt since dealing with the Works, but familiar enough to deal with. The sudden cold (and wet) nose against the side of his neck, on the other hand, was surprising enough to send Frid up bolting upright with a yell.
The answering yip of surprise as he did so nearly caused enough panic in Frid to drown out the sudden surge of pain from moving way too fast; the absolutely last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt some poor animal; much less a—
“Fox?” Frid asked, almost to himself, before automatically murmuring in a “baby talk” voice, “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you hurt . . .?”
Carefully, Frid looked over the animal, trying to remember not to hold eye contact, lest it think it was a challenge. He’d been thinking [“small dog” or “puppy” from the tenor of the noise, but it was a fox, and one far larger than the sound had implied; not so tall (about the height of his knee), but long—on hind legs, it would probably reach his chin. It had no visible injuries but was also obviously used to roughing it—there was a nasty scar running vertically down the middle of one eye, and hints of a few more on its sides from his current angle. At the same time, however, it also wore a bib . . .?
No, it was a red apron, worn as a bib—and a bib with ruffles and pink hearts on it, no less!
“. . . Somebody loves you, don’t they?” he murmured. “Or they did, at least.”
Frid could think of several reasons for a human to be stupid enough to try and put something like that on a wild animal—but a lot fewer for the animal to allow it; or keep it, for that matter. On the other hand, he remembered reading abour and seeing video of attempts to keep pet foxes; and of at least one “fox village”—a sort-of sanctuary in Japan where the animals were in no way domesticated, but at least somewhat used to humans . . .
Are you a feral former pet, maybe . . .?
A sudden wind caused him to blink, turn his head—and abruptly take in the dilapidated structures around them. The penny dropped, as they said in Britain; he’d barely interacted with the Social Link in the game, but the Fox of Tatsuhime Shrine had been a focus of one of the sweeter, funnier episodes in the Persona 4 anime. This was not a pet, turned feral or otherwise; or if it was, it had either been intended as a stand-in for, or since become, the guardian spirit of the now-abandoned shrine.
Slowly and carefully, he bowed from the waist as deeply as he could from a sitting position.
“You have my sincerest apologies for both the fright and the intrusion—neither were intended on my part,” he said to it.
The Fox regarded him wordlessly, head tilted slightly to one side.
Frid could, he supposed, invoke a Charm or two to see exactly what he was dealing with—but the Essence expenditure and/or the resulting anima flare that was liable to result could be taken as a hostile act. It would be a poor repayment to a spirit who, so far as he could tell, had been checking on him in concern. And while he was worlds away—both metaphorically and literally—from the Bone Shadow Tribe of werewolves, he agreed with their philosophy of “Pay Each Spirit In Kind.”
Well that, at least, should be simple enough . . .
Getting up took more effort than Frid would’ve liked. The enervation was more mental than physical, but he hadn’t felt this bad since he’d first stumbled through the Door to the Works . . . Or maybe since the Seldarine had decided to metaphysically flay him alive and graft an ersatz Spark of Exaltation onto what they’d uncovered before stitching a new covering over it—the two experiences weren’t entirely dissimilar. Still, he’d always been a stubborn sort, and Lunar Exalts were survivors; bulling through pain and/or (and, it was definitely “and”) exhaustion wasn’t anything new for him. In a moment (or maybe two . . . Or five), Frid was on his feet, and scanning the grounds.
The Tatsuhime Shrine was abandoned, he knew that; still used a bit, by the locals (he’d seen a “festival date” in videos of some of the romantic Social Link routes that took place there) but a video screen couldn’t really convey the depths of the neglect. The paint on the torii—the big red “gate” structures iconic to Japanese shrines—was faded and cracking, with paint peeling or totally gone in some spots. The whole place seemed to be covered in a layer of dust that caused old allergy memories to surge up despite not having them anymore . . . It wasn’t a complete loss, yet, but the level of sheer neglect was disheartening.
The offerings box and its associated “wishing tree” (where petitioners hung plaques of prayer) were relatively untouched, though. That even made sense, in a symbolic sort of way; that the last thing to crumble would be the hope of communion between the material and the spiritual.
Frid wasn’t religious, much less Shinto or Buddhist; but the Exalts of his caste were the sages, sorcerers, lorekeepers, philosophers and priests of Luna; bridging that gap was part of what they did. As such, he felt some obligation to at least try to help fix things, even beyond the spirit’s apparent kindness—and from his limited memories of the Social Link involved, the Fox was at least trying to earn money for the shrine . . .
Frid reached into a pants pocket and drew money from Elsewhere. Tori might’ve (literally) eaten up a lot of funds in their time together, but he’d managed to squirrel away more than she ever saw him pick up. And Tamamo’s little talisman was handy for making sure he had legal Japanese yen on hand, whatever the original denomination of the funds he collected. She’d laughed, of course, in that “amused noblewoman” way of hers—as much, he was sure, because of his insistence on being honest about things as for the absurdity of the request itself, given his usual modus operandi.
But the peace of mind that came with knowing that he and those he bought from wouldn’t be arrested for counterfeiting had been worth it, and it paid off in circumstances like this.
What greeted his eyes was a stack of—he rifled through them quickly—ten 10 000-yen bills. Less to work with than it sounded like, with Japanese pricing schemes, but he could live on the streets if he had to, better than most humans or animals could. The money was nice to have, but it wasn’t really a necessity, at the moment; that being the case, Frid quickly forked six of the ten bills into the offerings box.
“For the trouble,” he told the Fox, who immediately walked over to the box and began counting.
That actually didn’t surprise him—he’d seen Tamamo like that, after all—and he immediately dismissed the behavior to focus on the tricky part. Frid bowed his head, clapped his hands, and . . . It wasn’t quite prayer. It also wasn’t quite a prana transfer, as a magus would do it, either; but it had elements of both, combined with an instinct etched somewhere in the core of his ersatz Exaltation.
(A core, a distant corner of his mind noted, that seemed to be both smaller and yet producing more Essence, somehow—and how was that possible?!)
. . . Regardless, Frid thought he’d managed to offer up at least a portion of his Essence Pool; certainly, the wave of light-headedness that struck immediately afterwards implied it—as did the smoky haze of soft twilight, edged in silver light, that was surrounding him. The circle of burning cold on his forehead indicated that his Caste Mark was glowing brightly, and his tattoos were visible under its light.
Spent enough Essence to flare my anima banner, Frid noted uncomfortably, grateful that no one other than the Fox seemed to be in sight to notice. Still, he’d best hide until the effect faded—until he had a better idea of what was going on, unobtrusive was the way to go here . . .
Only after he’d had the thought did the Fox’s second startled yelp penetrate his thoughts. Alarmed, he looked up to find the guardian staring at him in a way no normal animal ever would.
“For the kindness,” Frid said, finding his words slower and thicker than he expected. He spent more Essence than he’d meant to, but not much, given that his anima banner was only “glowing,” and not a pillar of light visible for miles; how little had he had in the tank . . .?
“For the kindness,” he repeated, more carefully, “of being concerned for me, not simply about me.” He took a deep breath, feeling the worst of the symptoms pass. “That deserves rewarding, too—I don’t know if you can use that, but you’re more than welcome to it . . .
“And if it’s all right with you,” he continued, “I’m going to linger until this dissipates—no point in freaking out the mortals, eh?” He sighed, looking at the ground. “I shouldn’t be more than half an hour; again, I’m sorry for the troub—”
There was suddenly a face filling his vision, a cold, wet nose bumping his own as the weight and momentum of a leaping fox sent him staggering back against one of the shrine’s pillars.
The Fox barked, in a reproachful tone—but its tail was wagging excitedly.
[Thou art I . . . And I am thou . . .
Thou hast established a new bond . . .
It brings thee closer to the truth . . .
Thou shalt be blessed when creating Personas of the Hierophant Arcana . . .]
What. The. HELL . . .?
Again, Frid wasn’t a Persona-wielder, much less a Wild Card; he had absolutely no use for “blessings,” Social Links, and so forth! So, what in the bloody hell had THAT been about . . .?!
The fact that it was for the wrong Arcana was unnerving, too. . . But with a little thought, that was almost understandable. People weren’t just one thing, and rarely related to everybody the same way—children treated their parents different from the way other adults, or other children, would, for example. The Fox might correlate to the Hermit so far as Yu Narukami was concerned—a distant and mysterious sage of great wisdom—but for someone with a closer link to the supernatural, it was just another spirit, albeit an elder one to be respected.
But why did it happen in the FIRST PLACE?!
Something was pushing him to be involved, here—and it wasn’t brute-forcing him down the canon path—or he’d have woken up as Yu Narukami at the train station, or at least made the Hermit Arcana Social Link with the Fox . . .
Now frustrated (and more than a little unnerved) Frid sat down against the pillar and began mentally inventorying his resources; whatever was coming, he intended to be as ready as he could be to meet it—though he felt a nagging certainty that it wouldn’t be enough . . .
Just how, exactly, did I get myself into this mess . . .?
Avalon Castle, Phantasmagoria Island (Grail Works. Ltd. Headquarters)
Beyond the boundaries of time and space
Ilya stopped, suddenly, as a horrible possibility occurred to her. “Um—Onii-chan, I have a silly question . . .”
Shirou smiled. “I don’t think any question you could have is silly, Ilya—what is it?”
“Did you remember to ask them to tell Frid-san that he’d been volunteered for this . . .?”
“O—” Shirou stopped in mid-syllable, and then looked blank. “Um . . .”
Ilya sighed. “Darn it, Onii-chan . . .”
Writer’s Notes: I was all set to give a Persona 5 version a shot while I wait for RB to finish his stuff (so I can help add to/refine it), but it turns out there’s at least a little more in the tank for this one. And, of course, an omake to go with it . . .
Omake – The Other Joke (?) “La-” . . . OH, CRA—!
While he was well aware of them, Frid hadn’t given much thought to the oddities of his time in the “TV World.”
After all, the realm of Shadows and Personas was connected to the collective human unconscious—and while he very much was human, for all his abilities, he wasn’t exactly local. Why would he expect to cast a Shadow, in a world that wasn’t his . . .? As for his lack of a Persona—well, he had Charms and spells meant to bind demons, the dead, elementals, gods, and other such spiritual beings—it wasn’t exactly a loss, all things considered . . . But right here and now? At the end of the road, with all allies down and running on empty . . .? It would’ve been comforting. Having a Persona he’d built into an Ultimate form would’ve been a big confidence booster at this particular moment.
Strategies flashed through his head, desperate options that would result in anything, any way, to stop this—or him dying, really, though if he had to do the latter to achieve the former, there wasn’t much of a choice . . .
What Frid had heretofore failed to consider, however, was the fact that the games of Persona were interconnected; past elements and events carried on into future ones—sometimes simply for a laugh, sometimes as continual plot elements—but their individual presence did not invalidate the others.
. . . And that while the expression of it varied from game to game, the gaining of a Persona through trauma and resolve was a constant.
Ears attuned to literally ephemeral sound (meaning, sounds that did not physically exist) heard the shattering of glass—the breaking of barriers, in more than one sense. From behind Frid rose a silhouette, a form being cast upon the world; and with it, in deep, resonant tones, came the familiar words . . .
“I am thou, and thou art—”
“M̵̬͓̞͙̺̠̜͔̯̆̏͒̌̒͂̽̄͊̈́͑͝Į̷̝͙͇͔̲͉̝̘̲̟̺̓̉͒̔̌́N̴̛̅̾̚ ̡͈̲̟͙͍̮̣͙̯̤̭̮͉ͅE!̴̛̼̀̑̀͑̎̌͋̉̀͆́͌̕”
The word was shrieked, with a sound like a chill autumn wind scraping dried leaves across a gravestone, and yet the voice was even more resonant than before, like the tolling of a funeral bell. The half-formed being of the Persona split, impaled from within by a golden spire; it was joined by several more, which began drilling their way out of it, lightning crackling between the ends, as they flew apart to rearrange themselves to form a tight, seemingly impenetrable cage around the lingering, burning remnants of the Persona . . . And then that cage flew, shrinking as it went—
To fit comfortably, like a watchman’s lantern, into its creator’s waiting hand.
Against the almost-entirely shielded glow of what was, in many ways, his own soul, the icy mien of the blonde seemed to soften, for an instant; what might have been a smile crossed her face, but it could equally have as easily been a trick of that light. In less time than it took to blink, any imperfections in the imperious cast of her face were erased, leaving only the stern and uncompromising sovereign.
“My, my,” she said lightly, in a brittle tone that crackled like the ground threatening to give way under one’s feet. “I turn my back for a moment, and this happens . . . You’re nearly as bad as Ritsuka-san.”
She shook her head, sending those familiar blonde twin-tails flying in a gesture that would’ve been cute if the situation wasn’t so terrifying . . . After all, Ereshkigal sounded calm, but her eyes were gold, which was meant that she was both very serious, and extremely unhappy. But—and this was more important—it wasn’t Rin’s face she was wearing.
“Rise . . .?”
The voice was so weak that even Frid wasn’t sure who’d asked the question; and at that moment, he didn’t actually care. his entire focus was on the goddess clad in gold and silk, knowing that Ishtar in a host that wasn’t Rin—a host who, in fact, had no personality to speak of to filter the goddess through—had been a heartless bitch . . .
And that Ishtar, relatively speaking, was the nice one.
“I knew I should’ve kept you to myself . . .” she murmured. “But later—first, I want a word with you.”
Izanami-no-Okami started at being abruptly singled out.
I? You demand to—
“I can do that, too,” Ereshkigal said coldly, her voice suddenly possessing the same odd reverb effect. “But I find it a waste of effort. Instead, I’ll make this simple: you just attempted to take something of mine.”
And you are an intruder in My realm, seeking to make demands—what authority do you think you have here . . .?
Ereshkigal frowned, her eyes narrowing to slits. “I have a contract—and better still, a loophole.”
The giant eldritch abomination twitched, giving the impression of blinking despite being eyeless.
“Loophole . . .?”
Now the Sumerian Queen of Night bared her teeth, in an expression that no one could call a smile (and which looked disturbingly at home on Rise Kujikawa).
“Yes . . . The Skill, after all, is called ‘Protection of the Underworld’—not ‘Protection of Kur.’”
Dropping into a kneeling position, Frid offered up his weapon, placing it in Ereshkigal’s hand before it had even been fully extended—for the goddess’ part, she grasped it without looking, rightly assuming that it would be there when she wanted it.
“I,” she announced brightly, “will kill as many death goddesses as I have to in order to get the message across—HANDS OFF, HE’S MINE . . .!”
Additional Writer's Notes: Amusingly, I could see this working in Persona 5, as well; while Ann has the obviously physical resemblance, Haru strikes me as remarkably compatible with Ereshkigal, personality-wise . . .