Description: As the world breathes its very last, a man who has sat on the line between this world and the next finally receives some instruction on why that came to pass.
Japan is a volcanic nation, a fact that its citizens have suddenly had occasion to consider. Fujiyama erupted, blanketing the country in grey ash, making even the brightest and sunniest day a grim haze. The Land of the Rising Sun has become swiftly the Land of the Grey Pallor. Comparatively speaking, this is less of a problem than the growing vortex over the Grand Ise Shrine, or how other nations have suffered. But as what feels like the very end of the world itself draws nigh, the eternal cloak of grey feels like it is robbing the people of Japan of the most important commodity they could possess right now: hope.
Yet from where Frei sits, the world seems perfect. Below him for what feels like forever spreads the green, brown, and blue of Kagoshima Prefecture, visible from the top of a mountain. Forests, mountains, and lakes side by side with cities and towns, the signs of human civilization scattered and infrequent, the small details safely far away, so that the world feels inhabited, but by something imperceptible and distant. Above, the high-altitude sky is an intense azure, filled with puffy clouds like dream shapes floating in a heavenly ocean. The sun's warmth is welcome without being overbearing.
If it were in any way real, that would be a lot more comforting.
The red-haired sage sits on the ground at the top of Takachiho-no-mine, the volcano where it's said the Amaterasu-omikami sent her son Ninigi into the world, carrying the three sacred treasures, and near to Ama-no-Iwato, the cave where Amaterasu hid, taking light from the sky until the other gods convinced her to come out. Presumably the floating bridge which leads to the land of the gods, Takamagahara, can be found here, because of its strong connection to the story of Amaterasu.
He'd never been here, in life, nor had Frei any strong desire to visit this place. In death, however... nothing is so certain. Or more accurately, not everything is in his control. Most of his time spent in this strange in-between world has been in his rather personal purgatory, sitting on the shores of Lake Biwa alone. He didn't tell her as much, but the sudden appearance of Empress Honoka as she passed through on to her rest was a welcome diversion. The sage has mostly had time to think, but doesn't have a commensurately high level of conclusions about his state. All he has determined are the rules of the space, and even then imperfectly. Human will shapes it, molds it, but does not control it. The concept of time as mortals understand it isn't relevant. But the 'real world'... it's never entirely far away. It's not a reflection of the real world. More like...
A memory of it.
And then there's his appearances in the waking world. Infrequent, outside his control, they are moments when the ghostly sage merely... appears for whatever reason. To speak with a pre-Ezo Honoka. To meet with a resolute, if weary, Howard Rust. To encourage Alma and Tran to surrender the Sphere of Memory to Seishirou Ryouhara, the man who had killed him. To say goodbye to the friends that, for many years, had been his second family.
Now, here.
When he speaks aloud it is to seemingly no one but himself, this memory of a mythological place being empty of all life but Frei. But speak he does, nonetheless. "It seems like it's almost time."
Yes.
There is no sound, no hearing. It isn't even telepathy, as mortals might understand it. It is more that the word forms itself in his consciousness directly, as if Frei's subjective experience were a book that some distant, unseen hand slowly put ink to.
"Are you ever going to tell me why you did this? What you want from me?"
You are the messenger.
The redhead's sigh is almost exasperated at that. His reaction suggests that this is a back and forth that he's had before with this mysterious presence, and that each time the answer is both identical and equally unsatisfying. His face falls, but doesn't turn away from the view in front of him. Green eyes focus on it, hoping that maybe somewhere in that calm expanse is the answer he wants.
"Do you know what's going to happen?"
Yes.
Another sigh. "Do you plan on telling me?"
This world breathes its last. That has already been decided. There is nothing that can stop that now.
For a moment, there's another sigh, but rather atypically for Frei, he looks up to the sky, towards gods he's not sure he actually believes in, and shouts in genuine anger. "Then what am I HERE for? Was this just... was it so I could say goodbye? Was it to... to make a point? To move people where you want them? Did you need me for that?! You owe me this! Tell me why!"
Because you could hear us. A messenger who cannot hear the message is of little use.
He's about to ask what the message is, anger driving him forward, and in an instant it all becomes clear to him. 'The land remembers.' And now that he knows what Saiki and his followers want -- and what Seishirou Ryouhara wanted -- it all starts to fall into place. How this space is nothing but memories, but memories unstuck from time. That Ryouhara talked of not allowing tyrants to erase the shadow conflict. Of Honoka's departure to the next life being focused on her memory of an ideal childhood that might not have existed.
Now, you see.
"...yeah. I do. But I still don't..."
The Song will lead them here. But it can only bring them so far. They must cross Ama-no-Ukihashi into Takamagahara. Or Bifrost into Asgard. Or the Pearly Gates into Heaven. Perhaps it will simply be a door to an empty room. But once they have heard the Song, they must cross the threshhold. They must be guided.
A pregnant pause.
You are the messenger.
"I... see." That means he cannot go to the aid of the people he loves most in their most desperate hour. He has to stay here. He has to wait for those who are about to come, to explain to them where to go next. Because that's where he's been the past however long. He knows how to navigate here. He has to tell them.
He is the messenger.
"What... happens after?" Frei asks at last, curious, but in his heart of hearts, afraid to know.
Souls are not meant to return from this place. Few will remember. Those who do, it will be... imperfect. But the important thing is, we will remember _you_.
And with that, the presence fades, leaving the sage alone again at the roof of the world, at the foot of the bridge to heaven, waiting to deliver a message of final hope.
Log created on 23:05:25 10/19/2014 by Frei, and last modified on 23:10:50 10/19/2014.