The Witch of Distrust, Lapis (1)
Anton Quijano's life was grey.
Not the murky grey of a city choked in fog, but the ashen grey left when hearthwood has burned itself out. That was the colour of Anton's life—cinder and ash.
It had not always been so.
He had known an ordinary life once. A life full of beautiful colours. Days of honing himself, learning a knight's honour and pride, blade in hand, training without end. Days of living each one faithfully—those, too, had been his.
"Brother, swinging your sword again?"
"I'm not clever like you. If I don't keep swinging, how am I supposed to be of any use?"
"You never change. Honestly."
Banter with his younger brother. Asking after one another's health. Playing for a while with his nephews. Walking the estate grounds, mixing freely with knights and soldiers.
"Must a life be empty of laughter? Smile more, Anton."
"Like this?"
"No, no. Pull the corners of your mouth up farther—like this, bold and bright."
"That just makes me look like a jester. Shouldn't a knight have a little dignity, Uncle?"
"A handful of laughter is worth more than dignity any day."
Ordinary days spent sharing a cup of wine with an uncle whose name rang across the Continent. Days that had seemed as if they would go on forever—until they ended without warning.
"…"
The estate went up in flames.
"Ah—ahh…"
Everything melted, soft and formless. The people of the fief he was sworn to protect—soldiers, knights, friends, family—all of them burned. The fire that slowly swallowed the estate burned for days.
"Ah."
When the flames died, only ash remained. In the heart of the fief, grey cinders drifting on the wind, Anton laughed. A hollow laugh, a sneer, a scream. He sobbed until his throat tore, then sank to his knees.
Anton's life lost its colour and turned to ash.
The only ones to walk out of that hell were Anton and his uncle, Alonso Quijano. Alonso asked him a question.
"Anton. What will you do?"
"…"
"Anton."
"What is there to do? The answer is already decided, isn't it?"
"No. Nothing is decided. Everything depends on how you choose to see it. What answer have you come to?"
"I will kill the witches."
Anton took up his sword.
"I will kill every last witch. Just as they took everything from me, I will take everything from them."
"Is that so."
"And you, Uncle? What will you do?"
"I mean to bring them to La Mancha."
La Mancha. At that word, Anton's eyes narrowed. He stared at his uncle. In Alonso's hands was a jar filled with scooped-up ash—but what Anton looked at was not the jar. It was his uncle's eyes.
"Uncle. Are you serious? La Mancha—you can't mean La Mancha."
"Is there another La Mancha? I wouldn't know of one."
"Uncle, please!"
Anton ground his teeth and shouted.
"Please face reality! How long do you mean to cling to that old fairy tale even children laugh at? The estate has burned. If we, the knights of this land, do not take revenge, then who will answer their grudge?"
Come with me. Let us kill every witch. That is the only atonement left to us. So Anton pleaded—and Alonso only shook his head.
"I will walk my own road."
Alonso Quijano set out upon his private journey.
"Anton. You walk yours."
Leaving only those words, his uncle departed in one direction, and Anton went the other way. Forward, treading ash. He needed nothing for the road. A single sword was enough.
Anton set his life on fire.
The fire consumed that life and burned.
He killed anyone connected to the witches. Wherever a witch had been sighted, he went. He seized and slaughtered without discrimination; he tortured without discrimination.
He killed, and killed, and killed again.
Even as his body burned, even as pus ran and his flesh charred black, Anton swung his sword and killed witches. Living like that for decades, his realm rose of its own accord. By burning his life, Anton ascended to the realm of the transcendent.
In that ascent he discarded countless things.
How to smile. How to breathe at ease. The exclamation that rises at a grand vista. How to enjoy life. How to rest… Everything unnecessary to killing witches, Anton cast away of his own will, and fed them all as fuel to his fire.
Decades of that.
Crack.
The fire that had burned for decades went out without a sound.
"…"
He had killed and killed, yet witches still remained. He knew better than anyone how strong those who were left truly were. Witches who had lived since the age of myth. Even if he staked his life, the odds of victory were pitifully low.
There is no end. I will live like this and die like this.
With not even fuel left to burn, Anton could feel no attachment to what remained of his life. Only a merciless sense of duty endured. He wandered in search of a place to die.
"Hey, kid."
Then one day—
"So you're that witch hunter?"
Someone spoke to him.
"Look at the state of you. You could pass for a beggar. You've sure had a hard life. Doesn't living like that wear you out?"
A voice mixed with a little pity and a little laughter.
"Kid, I've lived that way myself. There's no answer in it, you know? It's not fun. You live like shit and you go out like shit."
"…"
"Look at this one. When a person talks to you, you could at least pretend to listen. What, am I not even a person to you? Funny little bastard. Hey. Hey."
Tap, tap. Weight patting his back.
Then—
Smack!
A hand cracked across the back of his head, and Anton turned.
"There. Now we can actually talk. Hello? Ah—I can tell from those eyes. Eyes that refuse to listen to a damn thing."
Pale violet. Hair like morning glories.
"You've burned and burned, and you still want to burn more? Fine, if that's how it is…"
A white, slender hand.
"I'll be your firewood. You already killed the Witch of Scorching Heat, right? So you need new fuel. Isn't that it?"
A little pain—and half a heart, torn free.
"Then take me for your firewood, the one who stole your heart. Once you've got something to burn, life gets a little more bearable, doesn't it?"
A woman with a mischievous smile.
For the first time in decades, Anton met another person's eyes and asked the woman standing before him who she was.
"Me?"
She answered with a smile so charming it almost hurt.
"Lapis."
She said.
"The Witch of Distrust."
2.
The Witch of Distrust, Lapis.
Anton Quijano began to hunt the witch who had stolen half his heart.
In truth, it could barely be called a hunt.
Lapis always remained in her sanctuary, and finding the place was no difficulty. More than that, she never barred him from entering. Come if you like—as much as you want—was the attitude she took.
Then was the sanctuary at least fortified like a fortress?
Not that, either. Far from a fortress, there was only a cottage on a hill. A peaceful place bathed in warm sunlight. Anton, who had come laden with every tool for fighting a witch, could only stand there, thrown off balance.
He stood before the cottage, hesitated, then knocked.
"…"
There stood Lapis—not in a robe, but in comfortable everyday clothes. She rubbed her eyes as if she had just woken, looked at Anton, then pressed her forehead and sighed.
"When you come calling on a lady, a message is the bare minimum. At least show up with a bouquet or something. And you mean to visit a lady's house looking like a beggar?"
Lapis's eyes went wide.
"Again."
She flicked her hand lightly and drove him out. Only a day later was Anton allowed back into the sanctuary.
"You bastard—don't you want your heart back? I'll just brew this and drink it, see if I don't."
Again. Again. Again.
After the same scene repeated enough times, Anton began to wonder what he was even doing—and then he started meeting Lapis's demands. He cut his hair. He trimmed the beard that had grown wild.
"…"
"What? Still not enough?"
"No. I'm surprised, actually. Even back then I thought if you cut your hair like this and cleaned up the beard you'd look decent… What the hell are you? You went around looking like that with a face like this?"
"It wasn't necessary for killing witches."
"Yeah, well. Fair enough."
"Is this good enough?"
"Where's the flower?"
"…"
Lapis flicked her hand.
"Again."
In the end, only after he had picked a single flower was Anton allowed inside the cottage. The place was packed with books of every kind.
"So. Are you going to give my heart back now?"
"Depends on how you behave."
"Listen. I'm a witch hunter. The man sitting in front of you has killed at least thirty of your kind—"
"What is this small-fry muttering about."
"What?"
"Hey. You know Merlin? Merlin?"
"The great mage of the Round Table?"
"That's right. I'm a witch who went one-on-one with that Merlin and lived. I didn't waste my years so I could get taken down by a little shit like you."
Lapis smiled sweetly and snapped her fingers.
"What. Want to try it?"
Nine circles. Nine stars.
The presence Lapis unleashed made Anton's senses scream. Of every witch he had ever met, she was the strongest. But that did not mean she was unbeatable.
Build a strategy, stake his life, abandon something more—and somehow…
There the thought stopped, and a question slipped into Anton's mind. What was he planning to throw away this time? Was there even anything left to discard? And if he killed the witch in front of him—what then? He had no answer.
"That blank look. Scared?"
"…You."
"Mm. What."
"You're not going to kill me? I slaughtered your kin. Tortured them. Aren't I your enemy?"
"Not even a little."
Lapis tilted her head.
"Sorry, but the number of humans my kin have killed is easily in the millions—tens of millions. They died because they had it coming. And I don't particularly like my kin anyway."
"Why not?"
"They live drunk on hatred, and that doesn't look fun to me. Hating, snapping, raging, despising, cursing—what's enjoyable about living like that?"
Lapis sipped her tea as she spoke.
"I tried living that way. It wasn't fun. Sitting in good sunlight with a cup of tea, looking at pretty flowers, reading an interesting novel—that's far more satisfying."
"…"
"I've killed humans too. Plenty of them who tried to take what was precious from me. So you and I aren't so different, are we? If I cursed you, I'd only be spitting in my own face."
Glug. She filled a cup and held it out to him.
"Drink."
"…"
"Don't if you don't want to. What, can't drink something a witch poured?"
In the end, Anton drank. He had lived hating witches, yet somehow he could not bring himself to be angry at the woman before him. If anything, he felt himself growing foolish.
He sipped—and his expression went stiff.
It wasn't poisoned. It simply tasted terrible. So foul that he spat it out.
"You call this tea?"
"Excuse me? You take it and then complain—"
"Give it here. That is not how you brew tea."
"What? Tea is tea."
"Taste this."
"Such a fuss. Fine—if it's the same, you'll see."
Lapis sipped. She said nothing. She looked from Anton to the cup in shock, then slowly nodded.
"It's different. I have to admit it."
"Of course."
"How did you make this? The method?"
How to brew tea. Ordinary conversation. Then chatter.
They talked the whole day away, and Anton left without even remembering his original purpose—to reclaim his heart. The sunset he saw as they parted was beautiful.
The fact that he could still look at something and feel it was beautiful—that surprised him.
That he could forget his purpose entirely and waste time on idle talk surprised him as well.
"…"
"You're here? Let's see—what flower did you bring today."
And so.
"Hey, witch."
"What flower today? Any other gifts?"
Using the search for his heart as an excuse—
"Hey."
"The flower?"
—Anton went to see Lapis every single day.
"Lapis."
"You again?"
From silence to witch, from witch to Lapis again.
The steps that had once wandered endlessly in search of witches now carried him to Lapis's cottage. The hands that had once gripped a sword and tortured witches now searched for flowers to give her.
"So, Lapis—about that novel you asked me about before. I found out what happens next…"
"Huh? Really? So what happened?"
Where once he had hunted information to kill witches, now he gathered things that would make Lapis happy.
"So…"
He told her. He chattered.
At first he had moved under the pretext of winning her favour so he could reclaim his heart—but at some point that became nothing more than a pretext.
Talking with Lapis was a joy.
He looked forward to seeing her smile.
How to breathe at ease. The sensibility to look at a landscape and call it beautiful. Feeling itself—he had thought he had discarded all of it, but it had only been buried under the ash.
"Lapis."
"Mm, Anton."
Clear the ash away, and colour was there. Colour returned to a life that had been grey. Pale violet. Looking at the morning glories blooming among the cinders, Anton smiled.
"Thank you."
He did not know exactly when it had happened.
Their first meeting? The moment she took his heart? The moment she offered him tea? The first time he saw her smile? Or all of it at once?
Anton fell in love.
To him, Lapis became everything.
A man who had lost his life to a witch felt life again—paradoxically, because of a witch.
For a single smile from Lapis, Anton threw himself into harsh lands to pick flowers. To draw a single gasp of admiration from her, he cleaned himself up. The beggar's look became something human; the rags became clothes fine enough for a ball without shame.
"The truth is…"
The closer Anton drew to Lapis, the more freely she began to speak to him.
"I told you that, but I don't actually like humans much. Why do you think I'm the Witch of Distrust? I've been burned by people more than once or twice."
Distrust.
"Honestly, I don't trust you either. As a rule, I can't trust anyone. That's my Mystery. I was born that way."
A witch betrayed by humans, by witches, by the world itself.
A witch who carried as many wounds as the price of trust had once cost her smiled bitterly and held his heart out to him.
"Let's stop here, us. I don't want to get hurt by you."
"…"
"Here. Only this far. Yeah—let's not cross the line. Life's gotten bearable for you now, hasn't it? I give you your heart back, you keep only the good memories, and we end it. Clean."
Half a heart.
Anton huffed a soft laugh and said,
"Then you keep it. My half."
"What?"
"If you think I'll betray you, just crush that heart. I'm not asking you to trust me. Doubt me. Keep doubting me all you like."
"…"
"I love you, Lapis."
A brief silence. Then a voice that sounded flustered.
"What a sudden confession. No atmosphere or anything."
"Atmosphere is something you make."
Anton went down on one knee.
He had prepared a ring, but there was a clearer token than any ring. He held his heart out to Lapis.
"…If you date me, you won't see anything good come of it, you know?"
"Don't worry. I like fiery women."
"This is love between a witch and a human. There isn't a taboo bigger than that. And you're a knight, aren't you?"
"Then I'll quit."
"After all that shouting about knighthood and honour and pride?"
"There's something more important than that right in front of me."
"I…"
"Lapis."
Anton laughed under his breath.
"Whatever you say, it won't matter. You're already everything to me. Whatever excuse you make, I'll only shake my head."
"If I date you, I'll have to leave you."
"Then I'll find you."
"It won't be easy. It'll take a very long time."
"Hmm. That might be hard, true. In that case—before you go, could you leave me a memory that won't fade no matter how long it takes? A memory that stays bright."
"You're such a fool. Really."
Lapis dragged a hand down her face.
Just a little—and for the first time—her face flushed as she took the hand Anton held out.
"You chose this."
"The best choice I ever made. No regrets."
"You and your mouth."
In the original history—
"Anton?"
—Anton would have spent that night with Lapis. And the next day, Lapis would have left him. That was what had happened in the past.
But in this moment, Anton made a different choice.
A brief kiss.
Then he stepped back from Lapis.
"We'll save the rest for later."
With a splendid smile, Anton held out a flower to her. A red rose he had been raising to give her when they met again.
"I'm still dreaming, you see."
3.
Anton opened his eyes in reality.
Looking back, he could see the path he had walked. Not a single step skipped—each footprint set down one after another. Looking ahead, only the stairs leading to the highest floor remained.
The trial was over.
The trial had demanded he choose—dream or reality—but Anton had given up neither. How could he have? For four hundred years he had endured by dreaming of Lapis. Abandon that dream? What kind of sense would that make?
This was the answer Anton Quijano had given.
He chose nothing, and still forced his way through the trial. Step by step he walked forward, falling into the dream and waking in reality again and again, until at last he reached the end.
Thud.
Strength left his legs and he nearly toppled forward—when someone caught his arm. Anton let his gaze drop. Beside him stood his guide.
"Have you woken from the dream?"
"No. I'm still dreaming."
Supported by Najin, Anton rose.
Up the stairs, to the final floor.
To his destination—where Lapis would be waiting.