Chapter Text
Once upon a time, there lived a witch.
There was nothing particularly special about this witch. She did not grow up misunderstood, she did not secretly help people, and she most definitely did not have any friends. She was a witch, and that included its many, many connotations. She brewed potions, lived in a swamp, and inflicted curses upon innocent lives. Wicked, brutal, merciless— she was the quintessential qualification for all of these words and worse.
So. This ordinary and awful witch passed her days— of which she had many, thanks to her magic— taking out her awful nature on any innocent unfortunate enough to fall in her sights.
Of course, this meant there were many calls to kill this witch. Brave heroes, each armed with their swords, wits, and sense of justice, took up arms and plunged headfirst into the witch’s murky abode. All were dead set on the same goal: coming out alive with her head trapped in their grasp. This brazen action, repeated many times over the weeks, months, and years, marked all of them as fools, for none ever returned. Sliced, diced, liquefied, poisoned, seduced, buried, burned, vanished, crushed, beaten, broken— all, and more. Always more. As though she had an endless number of methods to slay each hero stupid enough to think they could slay her. As though each hero were their own unique story whose fates were penned by deaths as creative as they were cruel.
One day, another hero met the challenge. He took up arms and ventured into the swamp like so many before him, and like those many, fallen but not forgotten, he carried a sword, his wits, and sense of justice with him. The witch sensed him easily, and prepared her curse for him— one that would befit him most beautifully, so that when despair deigned to visit him, it would be because of her and no one else.
This hero, much like the others, was not special. He was not particularly strong or smart, nor did he harbor some sort of trick up his sleeve in order to defeat the witch. He was just an ordinary man with ordinary skills, so when it came down to it, he failed as well. Like his predecessors, he was cursed, and she was victorious.
However, he was not sliced, he was not diced, and he most certainly was not liquefied, poisoned, seduced, buried, burned, vanished, crushed, beaten, or broken. No, he was fine. Hale and hearty and whole. The halest and heartiest and wholest he had ever been, actually, for his curse was by far the cruelest and most creative yet.
“Eternal life?”
Kaneki didn’t quite believe what he could hear. He’d seen many a mutilated body on his journey to the witch’s hut— burned bodies, crumpled bodies, and bodies sliced to ribbons among them— so to hear her speak his curse felt… anticlimactic. Underwhelming, even. Like getting a crappy prize for outsmarting those rigged carnival games.
“More or less,” the witch said, her fingers tangling in her mossy hair like roots to, ironically, free a branch. “Forever is a long time, Ken Kaneki, but I can guarantee that you will live many, many years— assuming all goes well, of course. If it does, you will outlast every single insignificant being on this planet. You’ll probably even live to see the whole thing crumble to dust and blow away. Everyone and everything you know will be gone before your new ‘long.’ Congratulations.”
She was at what he assumed to be a dresser, explaining the supposed logistics without even looking at him. Her back was completely toward him. It was like he hadn’t come to kill her, and was instead here for a cordial visit.
“I-I… I don’t feel any different.”
“That’s the point.” She laughed, a stark difference from the obscene cackle he’d imagined. “You’ll never feel any different ever again. The curse has stopped you right where you are. You’ll never physically age again, not one single bit.”
Not one single bit.
That last part stuck out to him. He could grapple with the ramifications of living forever later— or however many years she’d given him— but right now? If he were to give a generous interpretation, he could very well also be indestructible. But that only made him more confused: why was that his curse? So many of his brethren had clearly met grisly ends; why was he set on a different path?
It didn’t matter. He was cursed, but alive. This was his chance. He could kill her, and she couldn’t kill him. It could finally end.
He tightened his grip on his sword and approached the witch. She didn’t make a move, not even when he stopped directly behind her.
She had a human face and a human shape, but he was sure that was where it ended. A long cloak concealed the rest of her figure, its dark maroon color reminiscent of dried blood (though he bet it was made of the stuff). What little he could see of her arms were not arms at all; they were an intricate weave of ever-changing branches that made a mockery of arms. Her hands were no different; roots mingled and tangled together in order to simulate the fine motor movement of fingers, and her palms were little more than glorified bark.
And her face. The ‘human’ face. It had skin like a human’s, a nose and mouth like a human’s, hair like a human’s, and eyes like a human’s. But he knew it couldn’t be human; the cracks on her cheeks like freckles gave her away. This was no human, no mortal; this was a creature, a demon of the hells, and she needed to be slain.
He raised his blade, that shining steel of justice, and—
“Ah, one more thing,” she said, holding up her hand to admire the littlest roots of her ‘fingernails.’ “Should you complete your quest, you will die.”
“… What?”
“Here—” she produced a knife from her cloak— “I’ll demonstrate.”
And with it, she placed its edge against her palm and cut.
“…!!!”
Kaneki found himself flinch, and in his hand, he felt skin unceremoniously split open. His sword clattered uselessly to the floor, and drops of blood went with it. At the same time, dark sap dripped from the witch’s wound that matched his own.
“Funny thing, curses of long life,” she said, chuckling. “To inflict it, one must find a suitable vessel to which the afflicted’s life must be attached to. Immortality, as far as we know, doesn’t exist, but you can get pretty damn close with a long-lived creature like, say, a tortoise, certain underwater species— or a tree.”
He glanced down at her hands, gnarled and rooted as they were. Literally. It dawned on him. “Y-You… and I…?”
“Oh, good, you’re smart. Much better than half the others already.” She smiled at him, both pretty and awful. “Well, now that I don’t have to explain the rest of it, have at it! Kill me, and your curse will be lifted. Go on. Give it your best shot.”
Kaneki didn’t move. He just stared at his sword, its handle stained with his own blood. With each passing second, the witch’s grin grew wider and wider.
And then—
“Ha.”
She laughed.
“Ha ha.”
She laughed.
“Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha!”
More. Longer. He still didn’t move, because if he did, if he moved, he would hurt her, and then he would be hurt, and then he would die. His fragile life would snap like string. It would be over, both for the world… and for him.
“Ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!!”
The sound rang about the room, rattling every cup, bottle, and shelf in the hut. An earthquake originating from her lungs— if she had any— was taking place, and she drew out every minute.
“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!”
If he moved to hurt her, he would be hurt, and then he would die. His fragile life would snap like string. It would be over, both for the world… and for him.
“Ha ha… Well, then.” The witch raised her hand as though to toast. “Here’s to a long and prosperous life together, partner.”
His life was now the witch’s, and her life was now his. If he died, so did she, and if she died, so would he.
Her first companion in life, and his last.
Days passed, slowly but steadily. They turned into weeks, and then years. Despite this, the hero did not find it in himself to slay the witch. He couldn’t even bare to stop her from going out, no doubt to curse more innocents and take more lives. He couldn’t even look at her. Whenever she would make to leave, he would curl up into a ball on the bed she made for him and turn away as she flew away.
Therein did the lie expose itself: this hero actually was special. There was something about him that was different from the others. Something about him that made his curse so fitting.
This hero… was a coward.