Chapter Text
The creaking sound of wobbling wood beneath his feet, and the crashing and thundering of the waves underneath it; they filled the silence as he wavered over a decision.
Ahead... or behind?
It was a choice made in a mere meter, should he walk it. Ahead, a promise of uncertainty. Behind, of refuge.
And suspended between them: the feeling of indecisiveness, of hesitation.
Each day he walked that thin line, taking one faltering step after another... just to stop at its trembling edge.
Not here. Not there. Just, in between.
And at any moment, the shuddering wood could lurch under his feet, and he would fall, and the decision would be made for him. He wouldn't even need to jump; just let it happen.
It would be out of his hands, and he wouldn't have to stand here, watching his balance, hovering between yes and no, and it would be easy. Because it wasn't immoral to fall; only jump. It wasn't immoral to catch himself; only let go.
So why did he continue to waver here, not stepping forward, nor backward?
He still wasn't sure.
Maybe... he was waiting for something.
For something to tell him which was right and which was wrong. For something to take him by the shoulders and drag him back aboard, shaking the thought from him of ever standing over open water again.
Or maybe, he was waiting for something to take him by the shoulders—hands splayed wide across his back—and shove, so one foot met air, then the other, and with a splash it wouldn't matter anymore that safety was behind or that there was refuge waiting for him at all. Only the water, its embrace, and the cold and dark of its depths.
But he couldn't know, not really. Not until he made the last step—ahead or behind—could he ever really know.
And so, he waited. Because waiting was terrible, but choosing was worse.
Wood creaked. Water thundered.
And there he stood.
Waiting.
"Hey."
The word was soft, almost quiet.
Not far away, the waves were loud as they broke against the wood of the pier. It wouldn't be unreasonable to think that a lone word could get lost in the rush of sound.
His back to the city, Zoro remained slumped, limbs akimbo.
The bench they were sharing had apparently been the last one this side of the Polestar Islands to not already have someone's rear plastered to it. He'd been all for pitching camp on the side of the road and eating lunch that way, but she hadn't, and so up and down the boardwalk they'd scoured the city for a seat before finding this one.
Except, when they'd found it, looming over its wrought-iron back had been a pair of seagull sentries, and it was only because Zoro had personally waved them away—along with their loud, squawking complaints—that the two of them were here, seated on metal and wood instead of dirt and cobblestone.
After all that, thanks were surely in order.
Instead, a finger—rudely—poked at his shoulder.
Jab, jab, it went, as though to knock on a door and politely request the occupant's attention.
As if.
He awarded points for, at the very least, being courteous enough to avoid stabbing at his forearm.
Over the sound of the waves, her next words were louder, chiding. "Don't fall asleep."
And just like that, any points he'd given he retracted in an instant. Forget thanks, he'd be fine with amicable silence; except even that was too much, apparently.
After being tugged around and made to peer into this shop and that store, surely he could be allowed a few, quiet minutes to vegetate, maybe set down roots, possibly even soak up some of the sun while it lasted—which wouldn't be long at this rate.
The sky was bright only in small patches. The clouds had developed a sort of stitched and cobbled look as they crept out in all directions, and as a result, they smothered what little sun was left in their reach.
The wind was likewise far reaching. It carried the chill and the spray of the ocean ahead all the way to their spot on the boardwalk. They didn't even have the benefit of Loguetown's towering buildings to break the wind where they sat, but by the same virtue, they had quite the view.
Or at least, Zoro imagined so. His eyelids were quite heavy at the moment.
Jab. Jab, jab.
The thing was, he wasn't sleeping. He was sitting. Resting his eyes, resting his legs.
They were stretched out in front of him, still unwinding from their long walk, and his arms were likewise draped unceremoniously across the bench's back. It wasn't overly comfortable, but he made do.
The bench's wrought iron might have been more welcome in fairer weather, but as it was now, the intricate curves of its carved designs were like a ice-cold fire poker against his skin. With each whistle of wind, he felt much how he imagined an exposed nerve would: torn and burnt by the very air, even through his layers.
But he sat slumped regardless, eyes sealed, somehow exhausted despite having accomplished virtually nothing all day. The furthest thing from a live wire.
The worst part was how as each sweeping of wind passed over him, he was left chilled, scalded, and then uncomfortably warm until the feeling of freezing could set back in. He hadn't known it was possible to shiver and sweat at the same time.
Cold. Hot. One, and then the other. Both, and Zoro felt like a stripped wire, cut and exposed to the elements.
His solution? Bear with it.
Just like a certain other distraction.
Jab, jab.
She was being awfully persistent. He couldn't think of a reason why. He was quite intent on taking a nap, and she seemed quite intent that he didn't. It was a battle of attrition, almost.
For Zoro, victory would look like an undisturbed nap.
For Tashigi... what would victory look like for her?
Stubbornly—curiously—he remained motionless.
Unfortunately, for all his intentions to set down roots, his skin wasn't bark.
Tashigi's finger unknowingly found a bruise, and when he twitched, it seemed to greatly relish stabbing at the same spot, each time feeling harder than the last.
Jab. Jab, jab. Jab.
Finally, he grunted, giving up the game. Victory Tashigi.
Mercifully, the poking immediately relented. More annoyingly, however, the cold back of her hand was soon pressed against his forehead, under his cap's brim.
"Quit it." Zoro didn't appreciate the nosiness. He chased her hand away much the same way he had the birds just earlier.
"You're not getting sick again, are you?" she asked, and just how many times could she ask that question before she got sick herself? Her voice was colored with concern when she continued, "Should I walk you back to base?"
"Sick"… did he really look it?
Zoro didn't feel sick; just tired. He didn't even have a legitimate reason to be; he'd walked a bit, climbed up, climbed down, babysat a lost kid, and walked some more. That shouldn't be enough to tire him out. He hadn't even swung a sword all day.
But Tashigi was sincere, he could tell. She didn't make those sorts of offers out of pity. She was genuinely concerned for his health, even when she needn't be.
That's just the sort of person she was.
But, for all he'd grown to know her over the weeks, searching gazes and helping hands weren't yet familiar to him like blind eyes and cold shoulders were. What he might have preferred between the former and the latter, he knew she would never give. Even so, he couldn't say the thought to ask for such treatment had never crossed his mind.
After all, there was a comfort in the familiar, and his current circumstances were anything but.
"I'm fine," he answered, because any other response would mean more trouble than he had it in him to suffer at the moment.
He cracked his eyes open—which required unexpected effort—and leaned forward out of his slouch to prove his words.
Tashigi looked at him askance. Her hand was already half raised to check his temperature a second time, but at his pointed glower, she lowered it to rummage in the bags she'd re-appropriated from him the moment they'd sat down. At least her attention was finally on the food and off of him.
Actually, he'd half forgotten that was even why they'd come out to sit: to have lunch. The drag of sleep had crept up on him the moment his behind had touched the bench, and he was only half yet out of its mire.
It was a sticky sort of sleepiness, the kind that clung to his lungs and eyelids like warm sap, muddling his thoughts and pulling him in all while refusing to let go, even once he'd woken up and gotten moving.
It was different from the short, refreshing naps he'd enjoyed before. Those, at least, were optional.
With a pleased hum and an unreasonable amount of chipperness, Tashigi pulled out a baked sea bream cake for herself. With her other hand, she passed him the dish of rice balls.
"Better eat them before the seaweed gets soggy," she advised, then single-mindedly dug into her own snack with clear relish.
The dish was in her hand, and then it was in his, and as the quiet sound of enthusiastic chewing arose from Tashigi's side of the bench, a thought belatedly occurred to Zoro.
He would have to eat in front of someone.
Since landing in Loguetown, the only other person present during his mealtimes had been the doc, and only because it was non-negotiable. He'd legislated Zoro's medication and intake, and he'd enforced it, too, in the stern and uncompromising way only an old, crotchety geezer could.
It'd been bound to happen eventually. It was only because of the doc that it hadn't happened sooner, but he couldn't rely on those protections anymore. It was just something he would have to relearn. Restraint.
Now was as good a time as any.
Following her lead, Zoro forced his gaze down to his own meal. Slowly, he peeled back the wax paper from the dish.
The smell hit him like a sea train, arresting his attention immediately. Keeping his eyes open was abruptly effortless, and he became aware of his salivary glands activating with a tingling sensation.
He swallowed roughly, suddenly starving.
"Salted, pickled plum, and bonito flakes," Tashigi listed unprompted, mumbling around her food. "Two of each."
Zoro grunted his appreciation, then picked up one at random. They were all flavors he liked, and there was no point in wasting time deliberating in what order to have them—they'd all be eaten regardless.
In his hand, the rice ball kept its shape, rounded on the bottom and tapering towards the top. It was warm, and the dried seaweed wrapped around its base was still crisp.
He lifted it to his lips.
His fingers trembled.
It was cold, sure, and the lasting wind certainly didn't help there, but he knew that wasn't the reason for it. He also knew from experience that attempting to suppress shaking would only make it worse. Better to just focus on the food in front of him.
Zoro bit into the rice, and suddenly the shaking was forgotten. All that mattered was the food in his hands.
The rice was well salted, and as he delved into its center, there was no filling. A plain onigiri with salt: an old favorite.
It was also something he ate often. A good breakfast on a budget, or any mealtime, for that matter. They were filling, easy to prepare, and tasted delicious—if you used the right ingredients, that is. (But, of course, there were always exceptions.)
The first rice ball disappeared in another click of snapping teeth, and he picked up a second from the dish, almost too hungry to chew the first before swallowing.
This one appeared to have been mixed with bonito flakes and—he carved out half—soy sauce and sesame seeds. Altogether, the salty and nutty flavors mixed so well with the hints of sweetness that he didn't even mind it.
It was mouthwateringly delicious, actually.
Zoro sought out what looked to be the remaining okaka onigiri. He plucked it from the dish even as he wolfed down the other half of the first. It was gone just as quickly, and he chased at the rich flavor left smeared on his fingers and thumb.
He grabbed two rice balls next, biting into the tops of each, one after the other.
They both had pickled plum fillings. The salty and sour taste of the umeboshi was intensely satisfying, especially combined with the salt-and-sweet flavor of the still crunchy nori wrapped around the onigiri's base.
It was a familiar taste.
He'd had rice balls almost exactly like these as a kid.
In the summer months, his island's largest town would throw on huge, lively festivals. It'd made the trek down from the mountain well worth the time and effort, even if it meant walking the whole way there and back wearing sandals and jinbei.
Sensei wouldn't let his students attend in anything less than their best attire, and so for the entire night, he was stuck dressed in the borrowed set of jacket and shorts, which were uncharacteristically rough and scratchy.
Meanwhile, Kuina had worn a blue yukata patterned with white flowers, with a wide, red sash wrapped around her middle and tied in a ribbon at her back. He remembered the image of it distinctly in his mind, despite more than a decade having gone by.
She'd looked perfectly comfortable in the attire. Next to her, Zoro had looked like a stiff scarecrow allergic to its own straw, itching at the fabric of his jinbei as he was, and Kuina had told him as much in her own way.
It'd sparked a fight, as their banter usually did, and they'd eagerly raced off to settle the score by competing at every prize booth in town. Goldfish catching, string pulling, cork-gun shooting. With each game, they'd laughed and teased each other's failings, and celebrated each other's successes.
After, umeboshi onigiri were what they ate once the heat of the summer night had them splayed out in the cool grass, too tired to do more than make passes at each other's food and watch the fireworks bloom brightly in the sky overhead like burning flowers.
It was funny how the smallest of things could dig up memories long thought to be buried.
Those nights were some of the best of his life.
He wondered if she had felt the same.
In a blink, Zoro's hands were empty, and his stomach felt no different. Chasing away the bright lights dancing behind his eyes, he took up another rice ball—this one merely salted—and tucked it away in a comparatively leisurely three bites.
There was a bag of food next to him, and so he was digging into it before it even occurred to him what he was doing.
"Oh. Sorry."
He put down the taiyaki he'd almost inadvertently eaten and pushed the bag back towards Tashigi's side of the bench. He turned to the sea to hide the shame he could feel rising in his face.
"No, no, it's fine! I don't mind at all." She pulled the baked sea bream cake back out and held it out to him. "If you wanted one, I've still got another."
"I don't—"
The aroma carried to him on the wind. Warm, sweet. He found himself reaching for it even as he declined the offer.
Restraint.
"Thank you," he withdrew his hand, "but I don't need it." He'd already eaten his own share. He shouldn't still be starving. Why was he still starving?
"You sure? If you're hungry..." Tashigi met his eyes, her own dark but warm. Kind, understanding.
This close to the rush and roar of the sea, to the scent of sugar and rice, Zoro was reminded keenly of that night on the ship.
That night when the sound of waves battering against the hull had seemed so loud and real, it'd overtaken even his waking dreams.
Shrieking wind. Bellowing waves.
The storm's swells colliding with his rolling fever, and at their center, Tashigi, anchoring him with a hand, their traded words drowned out under the clamor.
He didn't remember much. He'd had to fight just to stay awake. But one impression still pierced clear through the fog.
The sweet smell of sugar. Hands cradling shaped rice. And an old, familiar face half-obscured by round lenses.
"I'm not one for sweets." His smile was wry with grim humor. "Remember?"
After a long, long moment, she gave a half smile. "Yes. I remember."
And he could see that she did.
Zoro leaned back, turned away. At his front, the ocean beckoned.
The water—what he could see of it—was almost black. Murky. The waves churned, spitting out foam, and the way it clung to the wavetops made the steely gray water look to be inset with silver seams. Like a rolling hill of dark fabric—folded, wrinkled, and embroidered.
Against the backdrop of the fading sky, punctuated by the rare surge of bright light, the ocean appeared darker than it should, almost as if it was a great, big vat of ink, rather than water.
There was potential there.
A dormant well of what if and could be, asserting itself as a quiet, growled threat with every flash and rumble. As though if he were to blink, in the span of a moment, one would reach up and the other reach down, and they would join in the space between restless clouds and choppy waters.
It was something different than just the sky and sea separated—joined—by a long, flat horizon. It was something more.
The sight held his gaze.
And there, at the corner of his eye, was Tashigi.
For all the effort it'd taken to get here—the trek, the turnabouts, the cursing—it really was quite the view.
"Hey," she said again.
This time, he listened.
When he spared her a look, Tashigi's expression was a thoughtful one, as though after she'd finished her meal, she'd taken to chewing on a question. Mulling over how to phrase it in words.
That's why Zoro wasn't entirely surprised when she finally asked, "What's the plan, Chief?"
The formal address did throw him a bit, though. It still sounded strange to his ears. But he supposed it made sense. They'd finished their lunch, so they were technically back on the clock. Work time meant work mind meant work titles.
Except, he wasn't quite ready to leave. It'd taken some getting used to, but he'd successfully grown accustomed to the bench, relaxing back into its hold and no longer shivering. It was almost pleasant.
Out here at the edge of the city, it was peaceful. No clamor, no crowds. Just the murmur and sigh of the ocean waves, the quiet chime of his earrings tussled by the wind.
The unobtrusive backdrop of sound made it easier to think passively, to allow thoughts to come and leave like the slow tide.
Like Tashigi, he'd spent the past few minutes mulling over something himself. A decision, one he'd been ruminating over for days, weeks now.
It didn't surprise him that she'd been thinking about the very same thing.
His answer—
"I haven't decided."
He'd been given two choices, and now that he was no longer stuck on the base, he'd be expected to pick one or the other. If only it were so simple.
Stay or leave?
To stay…
It would mean formally accepting his title. Joining on as an official Marine. He'd stay here, on the Polestar Islands, and work under Master Chief Tashigi and her superior, Captain Smoker.
It wouldn't be too different from what he had now, but it'd be more real. More permanent. A binding oath to defend, protect, and serve.
Under the Marines, he could make an honest living and keep his name clean. He wouldn't have to worry about if he had enough to eat or drink. He would always know where he'd be sleeping each night, and he wouldn't have to keep one eye open for the flash of a blade or the glint of a gun, because he'd have comrades—people to look out for, and who would look out for him.
He'd have support, a steady paycheck, and most importantly, people he actually didn't mind having around, even if they did sometimes turn traitor and tattle on him to the doc.
But, to leave…
It would mean freedom.
He wouldn't be tied down to one island or ocean. If he felt the need to move on, to chase after a lead, then he could. And while sailing wasn't a strong suit of his, he'd managed up to now. For every snag or stumble, he'd figure something out. Take it one step at a time.
Zoro's goal was to find a man.
He couldn't do that by standing still. Even if it means that when he moves forward, he leaves some things behind.
Stay? Or leave?
Tashigi watched him patiently.
He knew she wouldn't be content if he let the decision be made for him.
He had to choose.
"My dream—" he began solemnly, but in his thoughts, my took the shape of our. "In order to achieve it, I need to be free. I haven't figured out yet, if I can be both: free and a Marine."
Tashigi's face fell forward, as if a heavy weight had been placed on her shoulders. Her expression was obscured behind a curtain of long, dark hair.
She was silent.
Her glasses were perched on her crown, so he knew Tashigi wasn't looking at anything in particular even as she turned away, facing the ocean.
He looked anyway.
Unsurprisingly, there were only burgeoning clouds and a murky, restless sea. The waves climbed each other's backs like rolling hills, their tops still white and frothing with foam.
The sight of it, paired with his swirling thoughts, reminded him of something.
Something the old, swordsmith geezer used to say to himself when they'd shared the shore together, once sundown would inevitably creep up on them after a long afternoon spent recounting stories of sailing and adventure. It was an old poem. A poem about—
"Okay."
Shaken from his thoughts, Zoro twisted in Tashigi's direction, but she leapt out of her seat before he could, spinning to stand and face him, her back to that opaque, unruly sea.
For once, he had to look up to meet her eyes.
Impossibly, she was smiling.
"Whatever you decide, I know you'll find a way to achieve your dream."
He must have blinked.
In the span of a moment, the light shifted, and he was back in Shimotsuki, under a dark sky littered with stars, looking up at a proffered hand.
It bridged the space between them, open and waiting. A question all its own. And what she said—
"So you'd better bring back that hawk's legendary sword as a souvenir when you do, alright?"
Not Shimotsuki. Loguetown.
And not Kuina. Tashigi.
It was all so similar. Her words, her expression. An offer and oath, tied up bound and sturdy, ready and waiting to lift him up and out. Maybe that's all what it was.
Maybe that's what he'd been waiting for.
And with that, it didn't matter, the where or the when—whatever waited for him at his front or watched the retreat of his back. After all, wherever his feet might take him, he wouldn't be leaving everything behind.
"Yeah." Zoro smiled, grasping Tashigi's hand with his. "It's a promise."
Tashigi ducked into the Arms Shop, escaping the light drizzle.
It'd only just begun to shower, which gave her hope that in the time since she'd seen him off, Zoro might have already made it to the ship. It wasn't too far from where they'd sat for lunch on the pier, just a little ways down the boardwalk to the north.
With the sudden turn the weather was taking, hunkering down in his old bunk was a good alternative to getting caught in the rain. He'd looked a bit drained, even after having eaten, so she'd been worried that if he instead tried to make the trek back up to the base and ended up getting drenched, he could catch a cold. That was the last thing he needed, after all of this.
With that in mind, rather than drag him all over town on another errand, Tashigi had pointed him to the Marine docks, watched him walk away with a leisurely backwards wave, and only then did she leave, her steps in comparison much quicker.
It hadn't been long at all, but she was already looking forward to having Shigure back at her side.
When she entered the shop, Ipponmatsu was waiting at the counter, her sword placed on the surface in front of him, back in its scabbard. He looked a tad flummoxed when he spotted her.
"I hope I haven't kept you waiting!" Tashigi called out, wiping her feet dry on the mat before hurrying up to the shopkeeper.
She paid special attention to keep her clothing from snagging the weapon handles jutting out of nearby barrels, and to carefully step over the spots where the wooden slats of the floor weren't quite flush. It wouldn't do to have another accident, especially when Zoro wasn't there to prevent her from knocking anything over. He was handy for that.
"No, no, you're fine," was Ipponmatsu's subdued response.
He waved her up to the counter, then waited for her to pass over the other half of the fee before placing Shigure in her hands. As she tucked it into her sword belt, she noticed that he was glancing behind her, seemingly looking for something.
"Is your friend not with you?" he asked.
Ah. Not something—someone.
"No," Tashigi said, shaking her head. "The Chief's retired to one of our ship bunks for the afternoon. Did you need to speak with him?"
Ipponmatsu sighed in defeat. "The missus packed him a little 'get well' meal," he said, reaching under the counter to produce a bento before placing it down.
The parcel was square—two flat containers stacked one atop the other—and wrapped with a light-green fabric patterned with little, white birds, knotted at the top for easy carrying. It was plain to see from the way the cloth was smoothly folded that the bento had been prepared with care.
So cute, was Tashigi's first thought.
I want one too, was her second.
"She was hoping I could hand it off to him when you two came back, so he'd have something nice and healthy to eat for later." He shot her a hopeful look. "Would you do me a favor and make sure it gets to him?"
"Yes, I'd be happy to!"
As Tashigi accepted the bento with one hand under its base and the other grasping the knotted fabric, she couldn't help her smile.
It was only Zoro's first real day out in the city, and he was already making friends with the locals! He was a natural-born Marine, she was sure of it. If only he could recognize that in himself, too.
"Please give my thanks to your wife for doing something so generous!" She bowed. "I really appreciate the thought and effort that went into it."
"I will, and thank you for agreeing to help get it to him." Ipponmatsu paused. With a wink and a wry smile, he added, "Although, she'll definitely want to hear straight from the horse's mouth if her cooking was enjoyed or not."
"I'll be sure to tell the horse that," she said, eliciting barking laughter from the shopkeeper. "And of course, I'll make sure Chief Zoro returns the bento himself along with his compliments to the chef."
"Couldn't ask for any better!"
All smiles, Ipponmatsu's mood seemed quite improved from just minutes before. That is, until he blinked harshly as though realizing something, and his smile quickly fell.
"Say..." Ipponmatsu began, leaning in, "That young man, is his name really 'Zoro'?"
Oh.
Oh, dear.
Perhaps she should have kept her mouth shut. But, as they say, once the bag is opened, you can't shove the cat back in.
So, rather than lie pointlessly, she told the truth.
"Yes... that's his name."
Suddenly weary, Tashigi watched Ipponmatsu scratch at his chin, humming idly. She waited for the follow-up question she knew was coming.
"Zoro, huh... Name's just like that famous Pirate Hunter fellow. I wonder what that guy's up to these days?"
That— wasn't the question she was expecting. In the slightest.
She coughed. "You've heard of him?"
"'Course, 'course! Who in the East Blue hasn't! The man's just about a living legend, and not just for his renowned skill with a sword or three. There seems to be more to him than just that."
There was. Much more. Tashigi knew that better than anyone.
She'd thought Ipponmatsu understood that, too. After all, he'd met the man himself, even if he—apparently—didn't realize it.
But as he continued, each word sunk in her stomach further and further like dropped, weighted stones, and she couldn't help but think... maybe she'd been mistaken.
"Pirates trade stories about him, you know. Cautionary tales. Warnings about a man with hooded eyes and a haramaki around his stomach, one sword too many hanging from his waist. What they say—the few who have seen him in action and lived to tell the tale—is that more than just the greatest swordsman and fiercest bounty hunter this sea has seen..."
He leaned in further, his expression terribly serious. "...He's a demon in the shape of a man."
"You're wrong!"
She couldn't listen to it anymore. She wouldn't.
With trembling hands, Tashigi held the bento to her chest. Her furious grip pulled at the fabric, and the wings of the delicate, little birds seemed to flap and struggle uselessly over the field of green.
It was such a bright, beautiful color. A thank you and a get well wrapped up so neatly in a single, small package.
Something so thoughtful, and he'd wanted to give it to the very man he thought was no more than a demon.
"You're wrong..." She let go of the knot, the birds fleeing from her hand, and reached up to quickly wipe under and behind her glasses. She didn't stop until both her eyes were dry. "The stories are wrong. He's a good man."
"You..." Ipponmatsu looked stunned by her outburst. "You say that as if you know him?"
"I do." Slowly, surely, the stones lifted. "And no man has a heart as kind or as selfless as his. I know, because I've seen it with my own eyes."
Shells Town.
She still saw it sometimes, that horrid image etched onto the back of her eyelids. Before that moment, standing at the top of the stairs where light dipped inch by inch into impenetrable blackness, she'd been so blind. Blind to what the word cruel truly meant.
When they had arrived, the base's courtyard had been empty.
There was a crude post, with ropes dangling over and around its arms, loose and untied. But no prisoner.
The Marine captain had been more than willing to fill them in. Justice served, he'd said. Laughed and boasted. Where not even the light can reach.
He'd been half-right.
It wasn't justice served until Morgan saw himself deposed and arrested on the spot at Captain Smoker's request.
A bounty hunter and a Marine.
Which was the demon?
Was it the man who—by no rule but his own—gave up his pride, strength, and freedom for the sake of an innocent?
Or was it the man who put him there, for no other reason than because he could. Because his word was law, and the law his cudgel to brandish and menace those he had once sworn to protect.
Which was the demon, and which the man?
Tashigi knew.
Why, she thought, why couldn't others see it too?