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The Kingdom of Arendelle
Now
Once, there was a boy who had yearned since childhood to be a hero. To bring help to those who needed it, and justice to those who deserved it.
But despite his noble goals, his ability to reach them was stunted as a child; and as he grew older, he became disillusioned by his failure to achieve his former ideals. He continued on a path of self-destruction (one he’d already been set upon, some might say, by his childhood dream) until its eventual fruition seemed all but certain — at least, if the frostbite and hypothermia didn’t kill him first.
. . . Emiya Shirou? He wished.
“It figures,” he muttered, more in an effort to keep himself awake and thinking than anything else (though he’d made a habit of complaining, too). “I give up literally epic powers and levels of skill — including immunity to cold and truly prodigious wilderness survival skills — in order to save a world, and where do I end up next? Somewhere I could really use — you guessed it — an immunity to cold and truly prodigious wilderness survival skills, naturally!”
He glared at the sky. “You know, I was kind of hoping that having the universe out to get me would stop once I was actually out of my universe! I should’ve known better!” He fumed a moment, and then sighed. “Ilya, I could really use a Door . . .”
As had happened every other time he’d invoked her, there was no response — and frankly, that was terrifying. The Grail spirit was supposed to be able to track any of the Works’ agents, no matter where they were. The fact that she didn’t seem able to hear him, or at least, wasn’t able to respond, implied that she was being blocked by a power equal to or greater than the Grail — the last time something like this had happened, the Moon Cell had been involved . . .
Worse, Ilya was responsible for maintaining the paradigm shields that prevented Works agents from being altered to fit the realities they were sent to. If that shield wasn’t functioning, then chances were good he’d already been changed — but to what degree? And would he even realise that there was a difference in how he was now from what he’d been before?
And that didn’t even get into the fact that he was lost in a wintery forest landscape. Frankly, his only hope at the moment was that someone saw the plumes of steam from his breath and came to rescue him, because at the moment, he was just past ankle-deep in snow, and dressed for summer. It was obvious that he wasn’t a half-drow any more: his skin was too pale (though it was gradually turning an alarmingly cyanotic shade of blue).
That said, however, there was a certain level of muscle on him now that hadn’t been there before, so he wasn’t a beanpole again, either (and why had that changed? What else about him had?) If he had been, he’d have frozen to death already — as it was, that possibility still wasn’t too far off.
And if he was badly off in terms of being able to endure this weather, then the kid he’d found in the woods was even worse. Sure, her body could fit more or less against his torso, held in place by both his arms and shirt, so she wasn’t getting the bulk of the wind and leeching off his own body heat, to boot, but she was so tiny — and naked. The cold had to be getting to her worse than it was him.
. . . And he was trying really, really hard not to react to the most intimate physical contact he’d ever had.
He was not a pedophile, damn it, he just had a terrible weakness for cute things. Over the years, it had made him a walking doormat for dogs, cats, puppies, kittens, stuffed animals, dolls — and little girls with big, sad eyes. Sure, this one’s eyes were closed, but the alternative was letting her freeze to death!
“Not that it won’t happen anyways, if I don’t find some shelter soon . . .” he muttered. “A cabin with a fireplace and some stored wood, for preference, but I’ll settle for a cave, at this point —”
He was rambling, in part to keep himself focussed and awake. Canadian he might be, but being used to cold didn’t mean he had to like it, and when you weren’t dressed to deal with it, hypothermia was a genuine danger . . . All of which made him wonder what the hell a little girl was doing out here, with no clothes?
And no tracks, either, he recalled suddenly. He was no woodsman (anymore, at least), but he could spot footprints in snow as fresh and unmarred as they’d been lying in — and the only ones around her had been his, as he’d approached. Which implied that, like him, she’d appeared out of thin air . . . But from where, and why?
White hair, dark skin — if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was a drow, but that would be even more absurd — what would a lone, naked drow child be doing on the surface . . .?
Nevertheless, he felt compelled to check, and shifted his grip to brush her hair aside. To his surprise, the girl’s ear was pointed, but not elongated in the manner of a full-blooded elf’s.
“All right, so you’re a half-drow, maybe,” he conceded. “It would almost explain it, I suppose — but if you were cast out from your community, why do this to you now, and not when you were an infant . . .?”
His modified grip on the girl began to weaken, causing her weight to sag in his arms, so he readjusted his hold. Somewhat mortifyingly, that meant inadvertently squeezing her buttocks as he hauled her upwards, to resettle her head against his shoulder properly.
As he frequently had since finding the girl, he silently prayed that she wouldn’t regain consciousness until long after this situation was resolved.
. . . So, naturally, she chose that particular moment to wake up.
She found herself in someone’s arms, being held against their chest; specifically, it was a male someone, from the pectoral definition and general scent. Those warm hands were still there, though on her back rather than clasped in her own, holding and supporting her as she was carried — somewhere.
To be honest, it felt . . . Well, it felt nice. She had plenty of memories of being carried around when she was small, but that was when the fake was in control. This was the first time that she could recall since she was an infant, before the seal had ever been placed, that someone had honestly held her.
Almost unthinkingly, she burrowed closer against the other body, relishing the feel of its warmth against her bare skin . . .
Wait — bare skin?
Her eyes shot open as she abruptly registered that the fact she was naked, and cuddling against a man whom her even a token glance confirmed was not her father or brother — and that being the case, there was only one possible response.
“AAAAAHHH!” she screamed. “LET GO OF ME, YOU PERVERT!”
She was abruptly released and falling before the last word was fully out of her mouth, and landed hard on all fours, butt-first, in snow-covered ground that rose up past the level of her wrists and ankles.
“ACK — COLD!” she exclaimed.
“No kidding,” said a sardonic voice, in thickly-accented Japanese. “That’s why I was trying to keep you warm.”
She looked up, and beheld a Westerner who looked to be about Shirou-niichan’s age, with thick brown hair and blue eyes. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt that hung loose on his frame, and was of the “button-down” variety; or at least, it was supposed to be. At the moment, they hung open, and she realised that he’d been holding her against his own bare chest, which was currently exposed — and so was she!
“Don’t look!” she cried, bringing up her arms to cover herself and trying to scrunch into a ball before demanding, “Where are my clothes?!”
“When I found you, you didn’t have any,” the boy said, his eyes focussed above her head. “And I’m not dressed for this, either — I was trying to get to some kind of shelter before we both froze to death.” He paused. “And why do you speak Japanese?”
Blinking in surprise, she countered, “Why wouldn’t I speak Japanese?”
“Because,” he answered, “I’d have expected you to speak the language of the People.”
She blinked. That last phrase hadn’t been in any language she knew of, but she’d understood it all the same. What the heck . . .?
The wind chose that particular moment to start blowing, causing her already-freezing body to stiffen in pain as it stripped away the little warmth her body was generating.
The boy sighed. “Look, you’re in no state to walk, and neither of us can take it out here much longer. If you don’t mind, I’ll just continue carrying you until we can find a village, or a cave, or somewhere out of the cold. At least with you awake, you can hold on to me yourself.”
As much as she didn’t like the idea, she was unable to refute his logic, particularly in the face of another wind-gust that set her teeth chattering. Still, she blushed, mortified, at the sudden realisation that she’d have to cling to him like a baby or a monkey — huddling skin-to-skin . . .
Ahem. It was sheer mortification, and that was all it was.
Red-faced, she grumbled, “All right — but watch where you put those hands!”
“Don’t worry — I don’t have a lolicon complex,” he said as he scooped her up again, wincing as her snow-numbed hands and feet found purchase on his bare back.
She scowled into his shoulder, not liking the implied insult even as she noticed a particular irritation in his tone at the statement. It sounded like it was an old, sore subject — and that gave her an idea for some payback for this humiliation . . .
“Oh, really?” she said, in an arch but innocent tone. “You’re sure about that?”
To punctuate her question, she wriggled a bit, like she’d always wanted to do with Shirou — and drawing a yelp from her would-be rescuer.
“Cut that out!” he cried. He pulled her back to stare. “I thought you were worried about being molested!”
In a prim tone that Sella would’ve been proud of, she quoted something she’d heard almost every adult female she knew say at one time.
“It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.” She flashed him a feline grin before adding, “Besides, if you really don’t have a lolicon complex, then I don’t have anything to worry about, right?”
He made an exhalation that was halfway between a sigh of frustration and an angry growl. “You little imp — I should’ve left you to freeze . . .”
She buried her face against his chest, both to smother the chuckles that threatened to escape, and to make sure that he couldn’t see any hint of calculation in her expression.
Having the programmed training of a magus, plus ten years of experience in observing people (and nothing else, part of her added sourly), let her know to do things like that occasionally, so she could test his reactions. So far, they matched his surface appearance: that of a young man with little experience with the opposite gender, making him remarkably easy to tease. And that he hadn’t dropped her in a snowdrift in response to her teasing, in addition to sheltering her as he was, implied that he was kind.
Now for the second test . . .
She widened her eyes deliberately, doing her best to make them glisten (not a skill she’d had a chance to practice, so it was largely ineffective, but she tried), and thrust her bottom lip out slightly.
“I’m sorry,” she said, willing herself to blush even as she copied the tone the fake used to wheedle things out of Onii-chan. “I was only trying to distract us from how cold it is.”
His expression softened, and she lowered her face again to conceal a smirk of triumph. There might be no physical resemblance beyond age and gender, but this guy was exactly like Shirou in the way that counted most: she could twist him around her little finger, if she needed to. That realisation caused her to let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, but it was understandable. After all, she was in a strange place, with a strange man, and no clothes, in the dead of winter . . .
And worst of all, there was something wrong with her magic circuits.
She wasn’t in a position to conduct a proper self-examination right now, but she’d attempted to open them up, in case she needed to defend herself against him (and frankly, to warm herself a bit), and they hadn’t responded the way she expected. It wasn’t that her prana flow was blocked, exactly, but it seemed to have been rearranged, somehow. And worse, there was a lot less of it than there should have been; less than even the fake used when wielding that Mystic Code. Was the mana in this place that thin, that this was all her circuits could generate?
“Oh!” she said abruptly, as a sudden realisation struck her. “We haven’t introduced ourselves, have we?” She cleared her throat. “My name is Ilyasviel von Einzbern — and you are?”
She felt his muscles tense as the first two syllables of her name left her mouth —tense in recognition, and alarm. And she suspected that, on hearing her full name, the only reason he hadn’t come to a complete stop was because if he did, in this cold, he’d never bring himself to move again.
He knows my name — why would he know my name?
Knowing her family name was one thing — all her information on the Einzberns indicated that they were an accomplished lineage among magi. But he’d recognised her name, her given name — and there was no reason in the world for anyone she’d never met before to know it . . .
No reason that she knew or could think of, except the Grail War.
Now she went tense, though she did her best to conceal any physical reactions from him and kept her turmoil internal — and turmoil it was. If this youth was one of the magi meant to serve as a Master in the Grail War she’d been supposed to take part in, then she was in about as much trouble as the Saber Class Card had put her in. More, really; after all, she had neither Class Cards nor Ruby this time, and with her magic circuits messed up —
“Well, up until recently, I was called ‘Kurai,’” the young man admitted, “but I don’t suppose that makes sense anymore, since I don’t look as Asian as I did, so I’m not sure what you should call me. In any case, it’s nice to meet you, Miss von Einzbern — but so I don’t end up getting you confused with the other Ilyasviel I know, I think I’ll just call you ‘Kuro.’”
“. . . WHAT?”
The source of the familiarity that had nagged at him since seeing the girl’s face (particularly once she was awake) was cleared up the moment she said her name. She did resemble Ilya, in the sense of being a living photographic negative of her. At least, in terms of her colouring, she was — why the girl had elven blood, to say nothing of drow blood, was another mystery altogether. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Ilya was popularly referred to as a “snow fairy?”
Regardless, he knew who he was holding now: Kuro, from that “Prisma Ilya” series — the one that did to “Fate/stay Night,” using Ilya, what “Magical Girl Pretty Sammy” had done to “Tenchi Muyo,” using Sasami. Except that Ilya had actually managed a TV series out of the deal, rather than a one-shot special . . .
Tangent, his mind warned him, and he refocused on the topic at hand.
As he understood it, Kuro was the dark clone of the magical girl version of Ilyasviel von Einzbern, wielding powers akin to the Emiya Shirou version of Archer. As a result, this had led to the character being named “Dark Ilya,” “Archer-ko,” and various similar things.
From what he’d heard, her back-story was that she resented Ilya for having had a normal existence or something like that, and wanted to kill her, or replace her, or — he wasn’t sure, honestly. He wasn’t aware of an official, translated release of the source material (at least, not as of 2013), and he generally didn’t go in for fansubs. One, because it was illegal; and two, because the errors that were often made could be migraine-inducing.
Regardless, it was clear he wasn’t dealing with an entirely canon version of Kuro here — if he was, the girl would’ve Traced herself some damned clothes by now, even if it had to be Archer’s mantle and armour. She wouldn’t be trembling against his chest, and pressing a little harder against him every time the wind rose . . .
Tangent — and it’s really not one that you want to follow . . .
Whatever her origin, personality, or flaws, as of right now, she was a helpless little girl and he’d deal with her Ilya issues if and when they became relevant. Honestly, it was becoming more and more likely that they’d end up as frozen corpses first —
A step brought him suddenly out of the forest, surprisingly, and onto a wide, driven path. Walking through the woods at the angle they had been, the gap had been concealed by the screen of trees, but now . . . This was a road, which meant that civilisation lay in one direction or another, and he quickly glanced to either side, hoping to spot a sign that would tell him which way it was.
And in the distance, he spotted a log cabin (or maybe it was a hut) with a sign out front, and firelight burning cheerily through the windows. It looked like some kind of store, but at the moment, all that mattered was that it was shelter.
“Hang on tight, kiddo — I see a building up ahead, and they’ve got a fire going. With any luck, we’ll be thawing in minutes.”
Her answering chuckle surprised him, almost as much as the fact that she responded with, “Whatever you say, Minion.”
That caught him up short. “What?”
“If I’m ‘Kuro,’ then you’re ‘Minion,’” the girl explained, looking at him an expression that was too earnest and innocent to be entirely genuine. “Because I’m dark, and you’re my servant.”
“I beg your pardon?” he demanded sharply.
Her eyes widened, glistening with unshed tears, and she asked in a very small voice. “. . . Aren’t you?”
It’s a trick, warned the voice in the back of his head. It’s a trap — you know it is. Remember the “Please, just for baby sister” stuff we went through as a teenager? It’s the same thing here, and this is Evil Ilya doing it. Don’t fall for it —
She sniffled, and he sighed. “All right, I’m your servant.” He’d argue over his exact name when his brain cells weren’t half-frozen, and he therefore had a chance to actually win.
. . . Damn it.
That voice in the back of his head seemed to sulk, as much as half-invented personality fragments could. Then, after a beat, it piped up with an entirely new grievance.
Does that sign actually read “Wandering Oaken’s Trading Post and Sauna?” Seriously — are you kidding me?
Avalon Castle,
Phantasmagoria Island
“Is there anything at all, Ilya?” Shirou asked anxiously.
The Grail spirit (who was currently far more physical within the spiritual plane of their base, though not so much as she’d like to be) hummed in response. Her eyes were unfocussed; or rather, they were focussed on a distant horizon that eyes not attuned to the Second Magic were unable to perceive. Eventually, however, she shook her head, sending cascading waves down the veil-like length of her platinum blonde hair.
“Rin says there are just traces, Onii-chan,” she said softly, “and nothing strong enough to constitute an actual trail. There’s just too much magic echoing around that spot to pick up anything clearly — and if even Ruby says that, then . . .”
It was an open question as to whether she was praising the Kaleidostick’s capabilities, disparaging Rin’s, or merely commenting on the Mystic Code’s ego. Ilya preferred to think of it as doing all three at once, not that she had any plans to say so out loud.
“They do say,” Ilya offered quietly, “that it seems to involve the same magic that brought him to us in the first place.”
Shirou blinked. “I thought we got rid of that curse?”
“We modified it,” she clarified. “Completed it, in a sense, but it was still a part of him, or he would’ve been just a measly, non-magical human — and it still had some teeth.” She thought of how close she’d come to ending up like the original Grail, and shivered at the recollection.
“Can you search for it, specifically?” Shirou questioned. “If it’s still a part of him, then it ought to be traceable, at least.”
“I can,” she allowed, “but searching for a specific magic signature through the Kaleidoscope narrows the search down the same way that ignoring all the quartz fragments narrows down a search for a specific grain of sand. It’s still a lot to go through.”
“Just try, Ilya-chan,” he pleaded. “Please.”
Her cheeks coloured — which was annoying, because it was entirely indicative of her emotional state. She didn’t really have blood any longer, so any change in her complexion was only there because she instinctively thought it should be, and because the proper trigger had been set off.
“Of course,” she assured him with a bright smile. “Anything you want, Onii-chan.” She subtly emphasised the “you,” and then paused, before tilting her head inquisitively and asking, “Why are you taking this so personally? I didn’t think you knew him that well.”
“I don’t,” Shirou admitted. “But he’s only in this mess because we helped him, and he wanted to pay us back. And if he’s gotten hurt, or worse . . . It’ll mean we failed, Ilya.”
And that would break something in him, she finished silently. Thus far, the Works hadn’t undertaken many missions, but the salvation of the one who became the druid they called “Kurai” had been a success, until now.
“It’s not completely hopeless, Onii-chan,” she assured him. “Between that magic trace, and that girl we saw him with, the search filter has a fair bit to work with — it’ll just take time.”
“Right, the girl,” Shirou said with a sigh, fixating on the other problem. “There’s still no clue as to who she is? Or where she came from?”
Ilya shook her head. “No. But she does seem familiar — I would swear that I’ve seen her before . . .”
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Originally Posted by Kieran
