Chapter Text
How many years, exactly, passed? How many opportunities to kill the witch, exactly, had the ‘hero,’ foregone? Missed?
Scorned?
Without her head severed from her neck and in his grasp, he wasn’t allowed to return home, but if he did that, his own life would be forfeit as well. He couldn’t do it.
So he sat in her home, curled up in a corner she allowed him to have to himself. As long as he stayed out of her way, she hardly bothered him except to chat about her latest victim. Then, she would be gone, like wind passing through a window.
Because their bodies were linked, he would sometimes feel what she felt. Cuts— or worse— would suddenly appear on his body, then disappear as she healed. Water he didn’t drink would fill his veins at random intervals, and his empty stomach would find itself satisfied at least three times a day— no more, and no less.
He knew it was the witch, prolonging his agony, making him live. Because just as he would live, so would she. For a long, long time until he did something about it. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
He was a coward.
“There was rain today,” the witch said one day. “Lovely, depressing thing. It was raining the day we met, wasn’t it?”
Silence.
“Hmph. Today’s victims were a mother and son. Keyword ‘were,’ of course. They were playing in the park by themselves— oh right, you haven’t been out for a while. There’s these things called ‘parks’ now. Designated areas for children to play or people to take walks. Green, more often than not— cool, right?— but filled to the brim with public attractions that sully it. Disgusting.
“Anyways, not my point. So this mother and son were alone in the park. It was cloudy, but it was the mother’s day off, and the son hadn’t gotten to play with her in a while. Poor thing, right? There’s no father, so he only has her. Imagine what it must feel like, having nothing and no one to call your own at so young an age. The world looks so cold, and dark, and empty.”
He turned ever so slightly, because it did. It did. The world, when you were young but alone, was a drab thing.
“Anyways, they’re still alive, but I decided curses of separation and ignorance were in order. You remember those.”
He did. The mother would be ignored forever, and the son would never make another friend again.
“If you just killed me when you had the chance, they could’ve been happy forever.” The witch sighed. “I never thought I’d meet someone worse than me. Consider me impressed, Ken Kaneki.”
Yes, he was awful, wasn’t he? Truly, truly awful, letting all these innocent people suffer and die and worse.
“Before you, I didn’t actually keep track of how many people I cursed, but now that you’re here— now that there’s someone who can stop me— I got curious. How many people would it take before he started valuing their lives over his own? How long will it be until I meet my end on the edge of his blade, even as it dulls with each passing day? Would the end even come?”
He shuddered in the cold winds of her words, in the reality of the situation.
“We’ve reached the hundred thousand mark, Ken Kaneki. You and me. You give me permission, and I take it. A lovely modus operandi for folks like us, don’t you think?”
“I’m not like you,” he said, and he always did eventually.
“Then kill me,” she replied, and always immediately after. “Kill me, and I’ll believe you.”
“…”
His sword lay exactly where he’d dropped it all that time ago. Its sheen had died over the years, and the plants that grew out of the ground had since crept upon it, but he could easily pick it up and attack her if he wanted to. He bet that he might even grievously wound her with it.
“… Why?”
Yet he didn’t. Instead, he spoke.
“Why what? A word is not a question.”
“Why can’t you just stop? Why do you have to curse people?”
The question had weighed on him since he got here, and was the only thing he was bold enough to make known. He couldn’t kill her— he couldn’t kill himself— but he could ask for a reason. Something, anything that might soothe all the wounds wrought on himself and others.
“… Would you be ‘happier’ if I had a ‘good’ reason?” She laughed. “If my motives were considered agreeable to you, would suddenly be okay with all of this? You might be a coward, but don’t tell me you’re a sadist, because that’s not why I’ve kept you around.
“No, a motive for my madness wouldn’t change a thing. I attack innocent people, I curse heroes, and I make the world a much worse place than it was before. A ‘good’ reason. Will that suddenly justify every single terrible thing I’ve ever done?
“Now forget me for a moment— would that justify every terrible thing anyone has ever done? If you really, really, truly think so, then I cursed a dog, not a human being. Ask anyone on this sad, overgrown rock the same question and they’ll tell you whatever suits their fancy. They’ll tell you their version of ‘justice’ and nothing more. Which is to say: there’s no such thing as a ‘good’ reason, because there’s no such thing as ‘good,’ nor is there such a thing as ‘evil.’ There are only actions. Whatever ‘good’ or ‘evil’ must be divined by you, and you alone.
“In other words: be your own person. Stop clinging to what others say and carve your own path, with your own two hands, pathetic as they might be. Many people say I’m a witch, but do you count yourself among those people?”
He stared at her face of roots molded to resemble a human’s, at her body of branches tangling together to mock his species, at her foliage of green hair that scattered leafy petals with each step she took.
“No,” he whispered, expression descending into a glaring shadow. “You’re worse.”
She smiled, pretty and awful. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
More time passed. Civilizations rose and fell, the world changed even more, and the witch remained at large. A hundred thousand victims doubled, then doubled again, and still, the hero did not slay her. Still, he stayed his hand.
Perhaps he thought someone would put her out of her misery before him. Perhaps he thought that he could still be forgiven whenever he did work up the courage to pick up his sword, if he did at all. Perhaps there was another, deeper reason he stayed still all this time.
But it did not matter, because the outcome was the same. He did not stop the witch, and the witch did not want to stop. Calling him a ‘hero’ at this point was nothing more than a cruel lie to his face.
And it spat on everyone he’d let die.
“You know,” the witch said, “all these centuries together, and you haven’t asked me a single thing about myself. I’m not sure whether to feel honored or scorned.”
“…”
“Don’t tell me you’re not curious. I feel we’re so distant with one another, and that’s worked thus far, but you have to admit, it’s getting a little stale.”
“Then kill me,” he muttered.
“Don’t steal my lines.” She sighed. “Rearrange them, black them out, throw them away, but don’t ever steal them. Stealing is for the stupid, and you’re anything but.”
Despite her graceful stride, she harshly tossed the plate of food at him. At some point, he’d stopped feeling satisfaction from her presumed meals, so instead, she presented him with meals at set intervals and expected him to do the work himself. They weren’t good meals— a combination of raw goods she’d foraged nearby sat in front of him now— but they did the trick when he felt shameful enough to partake. He didn’t know what she did with whatever she took away.
“Anyways, I’ve been working on something very special to spice things up around here. Consider it as thanks for your cooperation!”
The corners of her mouth stretched to either end of her face, and he hated every moment she spent smiling instead of speaking.
“Oh, don’t you worry; I don’t curse people twice.” A giggle, squeaky but elegant. “Magic doesn’t like to play nice with itself.”
He glanced up, about to eat. “Then what are you—”
“I’m shocked you didn’t figure it out earlier, but haven’t things felt strange lately? Stomach not feeling full? Thirst not being quenched? Things of that nature.”
“…?”
“So you have noticed.” A spark entered her gaze. “Well, that’s because I’ve freed you. Congratulations—”
He was on her in seconds. He wrenched his blade, dull from the years, from the overgrowth on the floor and tackled her to the floor, its rusted metal pressed against her neck.
“Was it the mushrooms? Did I mix them up with the poisonous ones?”
“Shut up,” he said. “It’s over.”
She did the worst thing, and smiled. “Then why isn’t it?”
“…”
“Come on, do it. Finish this. I don’t lie to you; you really could kill me if you wanted.”
He watched her throat bob and press against the edge of the blade. She was lying. She had to be lying. This sensation in his own neck had to be her feeling the steel of his sword. This was just another instance of her goading him into killing her, wasn’t it? Just another facet of her curse taking place?
“You’re still scared, aren’t you? Of the consequences of trying. If the curse isn’t broken, you’ll be my final victim, and if it is, and you kill me, then you will be lost and without purpose in a world that you’ll never belong in. You lose, or you lose.
“But you could still try. You could finally be an actual hero, like you’ve always wanted. Heroes are praised. Heroes are loved. Heroes are needed. There might still be someone out there who knows about me, if I haven’t killed them already.”
There was silence in the air. Kaneki knew she was right. His blade trembled against her skin, threatened to break it and draw blood. The moment it did, however, he would cross the line and bear the consequences of choice.
“But will you? Try.”
“…”
“Aw, you’re shaking.”
Her fingers, being made of sharp roots, left thin scratches as she caressed his cheek.
“It’s my life, Ken Kaneki. Remember who I am. Remember what I’ve done. The mothers, the fathers, the sons and daughters, the animals, the trees, the deserts, the kings, the queens, the civilians, the children, the smart, the stupid, the greedy, the selfless, the enlightened, the damned, the broken, the burned, the hurt, the suffering, the friends, the families, the dogs, the cats, the predators, the prey, the living.
“Remember the living, Ken Kaneki.
“Remember what I’ve done to them.
“So come on.”
He gripped his weapon tightly.
“Take my life.”
It still shook.
“It’s been yours.”
“…!”
A moment passed.
Then another.
Then another.
…
He raised his sword.
Once upon a time, there was a coward.