#Eiki is an exceptionally good person and that's terrible

[uncheckedtomfoolery]

So I wrote this piece for a friend a while ago, but since I’m grumbling about Eiki anyway, I might as well put something up. Story below the cut.

Once, there was a stone. It was by nature a gentle stone, a kindly stone, with all the sun-drenched warmth that a rock might carry. It was the sort of stone that, were it thrown at someone, would do all it could to veer off-course and bury itself in the mud. It owed this to its shape: A Bodhisattva statue in the shape of Ksitigarbha (a mouthful by anyone's standards), who had once sworn not to ascend to buddhahood until all the souls in hell were free. The kindly stone stood there, and it watched over the road. Watched over those who passed by it, its unmoving face smiling gently at them, guiding their steps so they would not wander from the path. They would come to it, the lost and the frightened and the confused, and they would pray. It could give them no miracles, but it hoped to give them peace, hoped to give them guidance.

One by one, they prayed. Prayer is a buoy. Enough of it tied to a thing or a person will carry its object up, making it soar, whether it chooses to or not. The stone resisted for as long as it could, lingering through spring and summer, autumn and winter to guide just one more traveller along those dangerous roads. Finally, after four seasons, it passed.

But this is not the story of the stone.

Once, there was a traveller. She was a stone before, an irony lost on the host around her. So much seems to be lost on those quiet, stoic figures that row their boats all around the one she occupies; enough to make one wonder if they are even alive, or if they have forgotten such things. Their eyes turned unnaturally in their heads, one fixed perpetually on her, one on the route ahead. Was it a route at all? The silent rowboats made their way across an endless, mist-wreathed black river, hours from the other shore. She could only assume her entourage had some destination in mind.

Eiki Shiki, they called her. Eiki of the four seasons. The one who lingered, who clung to earth, who resisted being carried upward by a thousand prayers. It was not praise or condemnation for her stubbornness. They did not judge. It was not their place.

"So you're the new hire, huh?" The ferrywoman that shared her boat was animated enough to make up for all the others, though not without a certain sense that she was forcing much of it. She called herself Komachi Onozuka, and of all those rowing the small, quiet ships, only she had volunteered a name. It was explained to the traveller that she was to be a yama. A judge of the dead, who examines the life of a soul, its character, and sends it either to heaven or to hell. The thought sent a shiver of inexplicable fright down the spine she had not even had for very long. They told her that she was to represent all that is just in the world, the law sewn into its every fabric. Her every action, by her very nature, would be right, would be just and good, beyond reproach.

"What if I'm wrong? What if I make a mistake?"

The seven rowing around her said nothing, but there was something in their one-eyed stare, something strange. Not pity, as such, but it struck her as a look they might reserve for a dead woman walking. Komachi laughed instead, shaking her head, wearing an expression of utter amazement.

"Shiki, was it? Or, ah... Lady Eiki? I think you might be the first one to ask that! Don't get your type around here often."

That stood to reason; most yamas, she was given to understand, were made for the task, not ascended, if that is even the right word. Her nature, as much as a piece of rock might inherit that of a Bodhisattva, is to empty the hells, not fill them.

Komachi told her that this was nothing, that she made no mistake; indeed, that she could make no mistake no matter how hard she might try. Komachi told her that the ride was a long one, finally, and urged her to sleep. Everything would be alright; there was no harm in her question, or in her sentiments. That was when Eiki learned how easily a yama can discern a lie.

Condemning soul after soul was a task that would call for only the purest sort of person, and a task that would grind down any such person very quickly indeed. The solution, she realised, was to create judges tailor-made for it, a far cry from a person of any sort. It was not an answer, she realised, that left much room in the equation for her.

Quietly, gently, the ferrywoman prayed that this one would last longer than the others she had heard such stories of. That she would be the exception to the rule. Prayers could soar, even then and there, ever higher; far enough to find themselves in the same hands that sent the weathered statue down this river.

But this is not the story of the traveller.

Once, there was a judge. She had travelled far, and lived in the yama's courthouse, opulent and vast, built up in intimidating gold and black. Its full extent was covered up in river mist, and the stories said that the mist only showed itself to a sinner's eyes. It was only a legend, but it was one that struck fear into the souls that walked in. For all its size, the world seemed to narrow down to a point as they stand there: The judge, Eiki Shiki, on her massive throne, inscrutable and imposing.

She hated that throne. Hated the decadence of the courthouse, and all its splendour and finery that might be better put to use elsewhere. It was almost painful, sitting there on something so clearly made as nothing but a show of grandeur to inspire terror in petitioners. Seeing the ones she was supposed to guide looking up at her with frightened eyes, making their case and staring into the cleansed mirror that sifted through their lies. Even the ones they thought to be true.

She was not meant to be filling the hells, but emptying them. And yet, one by one, away they went: The misguided, the ones who had made their little missteps, even the ones who likely deserved their place, but left her wishing to see some good in them. They filed away to their fates, given to them from on high. The judge held fast, implacable and impassive. She had to be, in the courtroom, through case after case. She could not let them see anything else. It was just work, she realised one day, that she did here. It did not call for a cruel woman who reveled in this, much less a kind one who mourned over every petitioner; something she had pieced together on her first day, and tried to ignore every day since then. It was work best fit for a machine, a gear in Samsara's workings. She was no machine. She had heard stories of others like her, now and then, the ones who failed to fit their role. One by one, they were ground down and replaced by someone- by something more fitting.

Another soul stood before her now, and prayed to the judge, to the gods, to whatever mercies may be listening. His prayers soared, as they always did, until they were caught in the rafters, going no further.

But this is not the story of the judge.

There is a prisoner, who calls herself judge. Whispers in the ministry turn to rumour, then to decree: She will be stationed in Xanadu, an affectionate title among those who remember their old posts fondly, as much as they are capable of fondness or affection. Gensokyo by another name. She will be the yama of paradise. Do they think her fitting for it? Is this some strange mercy? Over a century later, she still doesn't have so much as an inkling.

Days of sentencing fade to the small mercy that is mindless paperwork for the ministry. Here, at least, not a soul is hurt. She works day after day after day in her cramped office - cramped by choice, rejecting the luxury that would be customary for her - toiling over endless sheaves of papers, and sometimes collapsing face-first into them for the briefest moments of sleep. She does not rest, even in the rare breaks she is given; instead, she wanders Gensokyo, trying to guide whoever she can away from the paths that would force her hand in a cruel sentence. It's a mercy to them both, not entirely selfless, in her mind.

They never listen, of course, and it never seems to make a difference, but perhaps some day it will.

She is trapped here, in the courthouse that is so clearly not meant for her. She does not begrudge it, not consciously. The thought never occurs to her. She only works in her pursuit of mercy, as much as she is allowed to give any, day after day. She says little of this to Komachi, but after so long, they have an understanding; some of it comes through, try as she might to keep quiet. The yama is small, almost childlike in appearance. Some call it a symbol of innocence or purity. Others, a small piece left over from her days as a diminutive stone statue. To Komachi, she only looks terribly fragile.

The prisoner of the Sanzu works day after day, tirelessly, but nothing she can achieve seems to be enough for her. There is a mirror in her office, a badge of office carved from purest crystal, said to scour away all lies and show even the smallest sin in the hearts of those exposed to it. Some days, Komachi notices her staring into it, sometimes for hours at a time.

It's a shame, Eiki reflects to herself at times, that she has risen so high on the backs of prayers; there is no one, in turn, that she might pray to, whether for help or simple guidance.

But this is not the story of the prisoner. As she would be quick to say herself, there are far more important ones to be told.