The path which changes with the sun
Providence
In many ways, Japan and Ireland had similar cultural views that had developed from relative geographical isolation. Though the history of both island countries had vastly different points, there was one common relation that struck out to Diarmuid; how frighteningly similar the stories of the Youkai of Japanese legends compared to the stories of the Tuatha de Danann and the AosSí. The Beltaine was approaching, and with it the long apprehension of his time.
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Watanuki mused. “Perhaps they are one and the same, or perhaps they are dissimilar, but belonging to the same family nonetheless. The modern world does not remember them.”
Diarmuid nodded. “Perhaps it is just as well. The Tuatha de Danann were driven underground by the Milesians long before ere the era of Cúchulainn. Still, there are none who observe the old rites?”
“Japan has a set of very different rites,” Watanuki pointed out. “There are always believers, just as there is always magic, but magic, the wonder has faded somewhat. The fear of the old ones has been passed down in stories, but slowly these are forgotten. But they remain, you understand?”
“Perhaps,” Diarmuid stared out as the rosy finger of dawn traced the skies with a bare tint. “My... foster-father... I think I remember him.”
“Aengus Og, said to have been able to repair broken bodies,” Watanuki reflected, reaching a hand out for a nearby seagull. The fowl squawked as it slipped on empty air. “No good. I cannot feel it.”
Diarmuid closed his eyes, slowly breathing the salty air. “You might not wish to. It is... changed.” Sea air, tainted with the hint of industrialisation, huge metal behemoths that churned out goods that would have taken scores of men to provide, and with minimal variation of quality at that.
“Even though it might not be pure, it is free,” Watanuki chided, closing his eyes, the dream-form still present even though Diarmuid could feel it fade somewhat. “Do you miss it? Your old life?”
Diarmuid looked from Watanuki, towards the gleaming sun peeking over the horizon, and he appreciated that Japan was called the Land of the Rising Sun for the first time since his impromptu summoning. “I miss things that cannot be returned. Therefore I must enjoy what I have left, and this opportunity. I am alive, and for that I can think of no other pleasure.”
Once upon a time, I cursed those who would insult the pride of a knight. Now I understand what drove them; that powerful impulse of the spirit. I think... it is a poem, I think.
Although the purpose of the wish shop was to grant wishes, Diarmuid soon realised that it was not as simple as perhaps a djinn or genie might provide. For one thing, the wish shop was by nature between; straddling several dimensions and businesses and time periods and spectra of civilisations. One day a group of dark-suited businessmen might come, another day some unusual specimen of being Diarmuid was hard-pressed to identify, and once upon a time even the Washerwoman of the Ford had come for tea.
Still, the primary method that the shop functioned by was as an intermediary, most of the time. Whether as a suggestion of a course of action, or a few whispered words in the correct direction, or maybe even a magical item where needed, wishes were dispensed with the utmost care and professionalism. The shop itself took its business to the owners; Diarmuid effectively became the arms and legs where needed, and occasionally the muscle as well. The fact that his master was vastly different from the others Diarmuid had served had not been lost on the former Lancer. Yet, there was always one important thing; very few customers visited the shop a second time.
“Good evening~!”
Except for a few familiar faces, that Diarmuid could probably count on one hand. The infamous Doumeki Shizuka, the dream-buyer, the Zashiki Warashi – which he decided was a form of brownie – and in one case a Jorogumo that reminded him too much of the bean sidhe of his own homeland. And the fortune-teller, Kohane-sama, of course.
Then there was Diana Hunter, because there were no words to describe the woman, and the huge glossaries in the shop had similarly failed to provide anything to describe her.
“Diana-san,” Watanuki had greeted cheerfully. “How is your daughter?”
“Teething,” Diana dismissed. Diarmuid had been afraid that the cursed mark might make its appearance once more, but Diana had proven immune to that charm magic, at least. Not to mention a proficient mage of her own. “You called me. I came. Then?”
“Excellent,” Watanuki considered her. “I require you to run interference while Diarmuid delivers a... package. It is necessary.”
Diana's eyes narrowed. “What package?”
Watanuki's smile broadened.
“It would require me to pay a price to know, right?”
“Quite.”
“Okay, where, then?”
“That I may answer,” Watanuki took a long drag from his pipe. “New York City. Avengers. Simply put, I require you to take control of Mjollnir and wreck something for the few moments needed for Diarmuid to deliver something to Bleecker Street.”
“Remember when I first said no?” Diana's voice prattled through the piece Diarmuid had been given. “Next time, upgrade to stars, no. T-T-T-R!”
Apparently, her method of disrupting magical artefacts consisted of yelling letters of the alphabet at it. It was odd, but it worked. Diarmuid reflected that he would never understand magic, not for a very long time.
“C-F-A! L-L-T-B! C-R-B-B-L-L-P!”
Something crunched behind the speakers. It sounded painful.
Still rushing, Diarmuid scaled the nearest fire escape, shocking a few slovenly dressed hoodlums as he quickly ran up and made for Bleecker Street over, jumping to land and jump off a street-light in the next second to land on the doorstep of number sixteen. Hand poised, Diarmuid reached for the knocker-
-and the door opened. “You must be from the shop of wishes.” Polite interest, nothing more.
Diarmuid nodded. “Delivery for Doctor Stephen Strange.”
“The price,” the manservant nodded as he handed over a sleek box, which Diarmuid took as he handed over the brown-paper package. “And send our thanks to the shopkeeper for such prompt service.”
“No, it is fate,” Diarmuid bowed, and leapt up to the streetlights once more for the shop. “Master, I have delivered the package.”
Watanuki's breath sounded pleased. “Excellent work, Diarmuid. Diana, you may let go now.”
“Slave-driver Watanuki, next time you try taking control of a magical artefact of the Norse gods by notarikon!” Diana cursed. “U-T-S!”
An explosion sounded, something resembling blunt impact as lightning crackled overhead.
Diarmuid looked up, and then, very slowly, reached for his phone. “Are you sure that Diana-sama is alright?”