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In the witches’ smoking room, there were two such witches sitting across from each other.
One was blonde and noble, beautiful and divine. With blue eyes and an enchanting smile, Beatrice, the Golden Witch, silently took a sip of her tea. Her beautiful black dress merely served to enhance her charm.
One was clad in a dark cloak, with a concealing hood. Some braided, deep red hair slipped out from it. Beatrice, who was sitting across from her, was able to see that shadowed face. She didn’t comment on its state, which she supposed many others would have seen as ‘ugly’.
“How are you enjoying the tea? It seems that you’ve barely touched it,” the Golden Witch remarked.
The other witch grumbled something under her breath, before more loudly replying, “It’s fine.”
Beatrice sighed. “I’m aware that your… sponsor only dropped you off here because of some sort of conflict occurring near your Fragment, but I would still like to properly entertain my guest.”
At the word ‘entertain’, the witch seemed to become more invested. “Really? I’ve heard the rumors.”
Beatrice cackled. “I suppose you’ve heard all about the endless tales of my catbox.”
She smiled, remembering. Despite the sorrow that she had felt, and the pain she had suffered, those endless games had been quite fun. Mystery after mystery, logic battle after logic battle, her heart racing with both love and the excitement of the game, Battler’s eyes locked onto her and her alone. Regardless of the sin of its construction, her catbox was beautiful and marvelous indeed.
The other witch nodded. “Yes! It’s an endless and ever-repeating revenge, just like mine, yet allowing them the hope of believing that they can escape, isn’t it? I want to see it, if you’ll let me.”
“I’m afraid that I can’t.” She smiled, and held up her left hand. On it was a glittering silver ring. “After all, I am no longer the Territory Lord.” It was a beautiful, blinding, innocent smile. One that she was giving on purpose, almost obnoxious in its brilliance. She was allowed to be a little smug about it, wasn’t she?
Her guest growled. “That’s… so, what? You found ‘love’ and decided revenge was pointless?”
Beatrice chuckled. “What about you? How is your revenge going? Are you happy… with how things are right now?”
“That’s none of your business. But if you must know, it’s going well. How did you learn about… that… though…?”
The Endless Witch only smirked. “Oh, I guessed. It’s not as though Bernkastel was willing to tell me anything, after all.”
“What.”
“Will you take off that hood of yours, now, Morgana? I’m no stranger to such things. I am, after all, a witch as well.”
Morgana sighed. It was obvious that she was both bewildered and irritated by Beatrice’s behavior. However, she complied to the extreme, removing her cloak entirely. This revealed not only her scarred face but one skeletal arm. She was clearly a witch deeply scarred by her creation, who freely showed her pain, sorrow, and rage.
Morgana smiled; it was not a pretty thing. “Well, Beatrice? What do you think of my form?”
“Hm…” Unexpectedly, she leaned in closer, and brought her hand to Morgana’s face. She touched it gently. The texture of it should have been off-putting, but she truly didn’t mind it. “Is this truly the form you desire?”
She asked that question gently, and yet it made Morgana flinch and freeze up. As a witch who had done the opposite, who had made her form beautiful to cover up such pains and poured them all into her gameboards instead, she could understand why such a question had pierced Morgana’s heart.
“It is what I am,” Morgana spat. “A gilded witch like you, who’s given up revenge and chosen to forgive and lie around being f-”
The sound of a slap rang out. Beatrice’s eyes became cold. There were a few insults that she would not accept. Not even from someone as naive and foolish as the child before her. “Please choose your words more carefully.”
It had not been a very harsh slap. Even so, it had silenced Morgana. Beatrice continued. “If I told you how I have suffered, such a thing would be pointless. There is no need to justify my pain. As to why I have chosen forgiveness… why should I not?”
The scarred witch narrowed her eyes angrily. “How else can you heal the pain that’s in your heart? How else can you live? How else will those that have hurt you receive the justice of the agony that they deserve for their sins?”
To Morgana’s surprise, Beatrice merely cackled. She did so to the point that tears fell from her eyes, almost uncontrollably, as though the other witch had said something hilarious. And then, wiping the tears away with her slender fingers, she spoke. “Tell me. If you yourself have committed sins, does the weight of them not remain within you forever?”
“...” Morgana thought over the question carefully. Finally, she replied, “They do. Sins cannot be erased… which is why endless revenge is necessary…”
“Sins may not be erased. But rather than thinking of forgiveness as the erasure of sins, I believe it to be something else.”
Morgana blinked in surprise. “What would that be?”
Beatrice clasped her hands together; it was a natural, easy movement. She did not do so anymore, but long ago, she had been a more concretely devoted worshipper, rather than an abstractly devoted one.
“Forgiveness thoughtfully given will leave the cross of one’s sins on the shoulders of the one who committed it, rather than having you take on its burden.”
Morgana pondered that carefully as well. Her eyes lingered on Beatrice’s clasped hands. And then, she clasped her own, one flesh hand meeting one of bone. “But how can you be sure that they will do so? That they won’t sit in ignorance and ignore their sins? And… how can you live? Without that cross, how can you live…?”
Even though Morgana was asking this of Beatrice, it seemed less as though she was asking for Beatrice’s sake and more as though she was asking for her own. Beatrice took a deep breath. This girl was strangely similar to her. She supposed Bernkastel simply had good (terrible) taste.
“I bore it until they recognized their sins and resolved to carry them within their heart. And so long as they continue to do so, I will forgive them. That does not mean I must love them wholeheartedly. But it does mean that I am free of those shackles.”
Her left hand came to rest on top of Morgana’s still-clasped hands. They were both cold, as though the chill of death was upon the witch. “I can live precisely because I am no longer shackled. I am free to fly wherever I wish, without being tied down by regrets, sins, and hatred. Perhaps it is presumptuous… but I will hope that you can reach such a conclusion as well.”
Morgana looked into Beatrice’s eyes. Beatrice wasn’t sure of what Morgana was searching for, nor what she would find. In Morgana’s golden eyes she saw a desperation, emptiness, and loneliness that reminded her of herself.
“Then… what should I do? I want… everyone to suffer. For what they did. They’re all sinners. They deserve it. And, and… but what about…” She muttered, conflicted by something. Her bone hand creaked as she squeezed it tightly.
“I… hate them… I hate them, I HATE THEM, I HATE THEM, I HATE THEM…”
Morgana’s red truth wasn’t written in the ink of witches. Instead it was certainly a red born from blood. That red spilled from her eyes as tears, and from her mouth as words. Her golden eyes were murky with that emotion and the conflict within her heart that Beatrice was not truly privy to.
She moved her hand from Morgana’s, and brought it to the girl’s face once more. “It’s alright,” she whispered. “It’s alright to despise them. It’s alright to hate them. But… are you happy with that? Are you satisfied with that?”
It was what she kept asking. She understood Bernkastel’s taste. If Bernkastel was sponsoring a witch, then it would be to drag that witch deeper into despair. Bernkastel was a witch that liked bitter things, and adored the taste of flesh. She would stroke a cat gently for a moment, collar it, call it hers, and feed it poison. And then, as it would lay there suffering, she would violently tear out its guts with a chilling smile.
“You have someone that loves you, don’t you?” Morgana spat it out as though the words were a filthy confession. “I don’t have anyone! Love is just a lie, isn’t it? Men will say they love someone and break promises. Men will say they love someone and lie to them. Men will say they love someone and commit atrocities for them. How’s that love? How can you love anyone? What kind of witch are you Beatrice?” She screamed as she continued to question the other witch, her voice high and wavering, like glass that would shatter if poked. No, like glass that was shattering from Beatrice’s gentle questioning alone.
She didn’t pity her. Pity was something pointless and disgusting, a filthy emotion that Beato had never indulged in. “I am the Ushiromiya family alchemist, the Endless and Golden Witch, Beatrice. And I waited a thousand years for a promise that was never made. What about you, Morgana? Who did you love? And what promise was broken?”
Morgana closed her eyes. She remembered the past that fueled the rage in her heart. “Too many,” she muttered. “Too many,” she repeated. “What kind of promise was it?”
“He kept it, eventually,” Beatrice reminisced, sighing, her black lashes fluttering like the black feathers of a fallen angel. “You can’t replace those who failed you. But, even if you cannot repair those relationships, or do not wish to, there will be other people. Whether it be as a friend, a partner, a lover… there is more to ‘love’ than a man and a woman.”
Morgana thought quietly again for some time, her eyes remaining closed. At some point, she leaned into Beatrice’s hand, which was still gently touching her face. And then… she brought her own flesh hand to Beato’s. “With this face… no one will think I’m anything but a witch.”
“Does that matter? Battler calls me a saint. Even though I’ve committed many sins. That has nothing to do with this form. It has taken me quite some time to learn, but…” Tears gathered in Beatrice’s eyes. It was strange, to talk frankly yet vaguely like this. However, if she could keep one person from despair, and grant them the ability to grasp someone’s hand and rise from the abyss, then she did not mind it. “The people you should value most, and the ones that you should trust and love, are the ones who will accept your heart, regardless of your body.”
“I’m… A long time, I was called a saint, too,” she murmured. “But that was… because of how I was born. My blood was blessed. But because I sinned, I…” She dug her fingers into her face. Beatrice gently pried them away.
“You what? You have a beautiful face.” She said that with a smile, and let her hand fall away.
Morgana shook her head. “Then you must have a messed-up sense of aesthetics.”
“Hoh? You would dare to question the taste of the Golden Witch, Beatrice? Me, who has lived for a thousand years and seen countless grandiose sights?”
Morgana chuckled, and then a surprised expression came to her face. She smiled faintly. It was an innocent, pure smile that she had not been able to give anyone in a long, long time. “Well, maybe it’s just that thousand year old people have a tolerance for faces like mine. I… think I might know someone else who would tolerate it. Definitely not me, but my face at least…”
“Hah. I hope that your story comes to a fitting conclusion.”
The younger witch sighed. “I hope so too. I don’t know what kind of conclusion that may be, but… Thank you for your advice. I’ll definitely think on it, at least.”
“Are you going to forgive them?” Beatrice didn’t ask hoping for a positive or negative answer, but merely a more mature and thoughtful one than before.
She bit her lip. “No. I can’t do that. I can’t forget it, ever. But I can let them torture themselves over it instead of doing it personally, can’t I?”
There was a sound of disgust from somewhere in the darkness. Bernkastel stepped out of the shadows. Her casual smirk was clearly a mere coverup for a simmering rage. “I just had to leave my precious new toy with someone who would break it in the most boring way.”
Beatrice scoffed. “You could have left her with Lady Lambdadelta if you wanted something more entertaining.”
“Lambda was the one causing trouble in the first place,” Bernkastel tonelessly responded.
They were both aware that Bernkastel had practically no friends to speak of. Anyone else that she could have left Morgana with would have rather torn her pieces for fun and gobbled every last bit of her essence and soul before returning her to Bernkastel. Or, rather, they would do so and then return some fragment or trinket of her to the Witch of Miracles as a smug taunt.
Bernkastel looked over Morgana, who she had called her ‘toy.’ “You could have at least left her in the same condition.”
The Golden Witch rolled her eyes. “She’s a person, not a mint condition doll with the packaging still unopened. Live a little, Bernkastel. You should have expected this to happen. Remember what I did to Lady Lambdadelta’s last piece?”
Bernkastel grimaced. “She was perfectly happy to endlessly repeat that one year until you gave her some ‘advice.’ Ruined a perfectly good gameboard of tragedy and fate, if you ask me. Your taste is sickening.”
“Ahahaha, I could say the same of you,” Beatrice cackled, amused by Bernkastel’s petulance.
Bernkastel held back a sigh. She really did need to make other friends. Ones that didn’t ruin her pieces with good advice, kind words, and nice-smelling tea. Or cling to her all the time and cause trouble just to be able to play with her. One of these days. One of these days…
She looked at her piece, her toy, her latest pet, Morgana. “Well, then. Come on. Let’s go back.”
However, the witch first looked at Beatrice. “Will you come visit? Or… rather than that. Will we meet again, Beatrice?” She sounded a little nervous.
“Call me Beato, for one. I believe we’ve talked enough for that,” Beato corrected. “And as to whether or not we might meet again… the Sea of Fragments is small and yet infinite. So it is surely possible. If you believe that we shall, then I am certain that such a meeting will come to pass.”
The smile on Beatrice’s face was surely one fitting for the eternal lady, whose beauty had enraptured Dantes despite only briefly meeting. It was a genuine, gentle, and bright smile, with the slightest trace of sorrow that only seemed to make her visage even more beautiful.
Morgana smiled back. The smile on the girl’s face was just as beautiful as Beato’s. It was the pure, unrestrained smile of a beautiful young girl whose skin was far too pale to have seen much sun. One of her hands was taken by Bernkastel, who was about to lead her away. And the other was raised in a small wave, to give the other witch one last silent farewell.
The sight of that girl who could not truly forgive nor forget, but could let go, was pressed into Beato’s mind like a gentle, precious secret. Even in the world of witches, she could still prevent others from tumbling into the abyss that she had.
The sight of Morgana, whole, was a miracle that even Bernkastel had acknowledged and made true. A miracle born from the small magic of opening and sharing hearts.