Chapter Text
“Hey Shiro,” Kazuha pouted. “Why didn’t he eat them?”
Sprawled across his sunflower bed, he held the white cat above him, against the blazing sun.
“Because I’m a witch?” he pondered. He hated how obvious the answer was.“Of course he wouldn’t eat it. Of course.”
He tried not to let it sting.
He had gone to a flock of wild chickens and collected those eggs with his own bare hands. He had whisked the flour seven times. He had chilled the batter, patiently waiting for two hours, not indulging himself in a single bite because humans were allergic to raw flour and egg, and the cookies were for Scaramouche.
Why had he tried so hard now that he thought about it? Scaramouche didn't even eat them.
You’re the wicked witch, the winds whispered. An echo of his own subconscious. You were born to be wicked.
Shiro meowed: “You should hex him.”
Kazuha looked up at his Familiar.
Hex Scaramouche? Yea. Yea, he should! He had angered a witch. Whatever divine punishment fell on him at this point surely was a consequence of his own making.
Leant up against his curled-in knee, he stared into the distance, where he knew now– past the trees and trees and trees was a house straight out of a horror movie– a house where Scaramouche lived.
He could feel his presence past the distance between then through the winds. He was hanging laundry out an open window, pegging clothing onto nylon lines.
What was he thinking about? The winds couldn’t tell him that. What did Scaramouche think about?
And as he pondered whether to hex him into a frog, or a beast, or to die from a spindle wheel – Kazuha was struck with the odd realization that he did not want to hex him at all.
...Maybe he just wasn’t angry enough.
–
In old Christian belief– and by old, he means old to humans as it was only a mere four centuries ago– Christians believed witches to be agents of the devil.
Their familiars, then– the cats and toads and hounds they kept around– were said to be Satan’s messengers. Their communication channel to hell if you will.
A load of nonsense.
Shiro did not come from Hell. Shiro came from Tomo.
Shiro was never meant to be a Familiar. He was an ordinary white cat, like you’d find on the street anywhere else.
Really. There was no reason Kazuha should’ve gifted him divine knowledge and immortality. Also no reason to keep him as a familiar for thirty-three more years.
–🕦
He was only a newborn when he met him.
“He’s got no parents,” Tomo had said, “Just like you.”
Shiro was tiny as an adult, and even tinier when just a kitten. Light enough that Tomo would keep him in his breast pocket, joking about how he was “a mini Kazuha.”
He’d tag along on their adventures– no corner of the world too fearsome for him. They both flinched at thunder, enjoyed long trips at sea, and relentlessly made a fool of Tomo.
Kazuha didn’t like cats.
He didn’t dislike them; he liked all faucets of nature. But he felt for cats the same way he did for toads and crickets.
But Tomo adored cats.
And Kazuha adored Tomo.
“Can we keep him!?”
His travelling partner had stars in his eyes and a cat in his hands. It looked sick. Frail. Ready to drop dead any moment.
“How would we keep him? In what house? ” Kazuha spluttered, “No, in the first place– why are you asking me!?”
Ignoring him entirely, Tomo only leant closer. “Pleeease?” he whined, “I’ll even let you name him.”
Kazuha winced.
No. The obvious, logical answer was no. Between the two of them some nights, they barely made enough to buy bread. They spent long stretches of life on foot, in deadly conditions– a cat would only slow them down.
But Tomo was giving him that look. The look of really, truly wanting something.
Kazuha was a weak witch.
“Okay,” he sighed, reaching forward to brush his fingertips against the cat’s dirty white fur.
It only had three months left to live.
He spared a glance at his sparkly-eyed, puppy-like partner. The boy born from rash decision and blind optimism, whom smelled like electricity. The boy who dared to dream so big that sometimes he had to look away – lest be blinded by fiery ambition.
Compared to all that, a year was nothing.
“We have a contract,” he whispered, and felt the sunlight concentrate in his palms. A year of his life for a year of this cat’s. Call it a donation.
Lifespan-prediction did not account for death via unnatural circumstance. If you had a day left to live, that would mean no matter what, you would die the next day.
If you had a year to live, but a car came crashing into you the next day, you could still die.
Tomo had eighty years left.
Kazuha never tampered with his lifespan. He wanted him to reach Heaven, after all.
Tomo was meant to live until one hundred and twelve.
He was meant to outlive Shiro.
They were meant to have more time.
–
“Nyaaaw,” Shiro whined.
“What’s wrong?”
Shiro kept clawing at the bedroom curtain, and when Kazuha pulled then open, he hit at the window, scratching the glass.
A monster, the winds told him, A monster! A monster!!
Shiro was looking into the woods.
He was looking toward Scaramouche’s house.
“Good kitty,” he cooed, scratching at Shiro’s chin, “Thank you for the warning. I’ll fortify the protective seal around our house.” Kazuha began packing his things for the venture.
Shiro meowed: "Where are you going?"
And Kazuha yelled as he waltzed out the door, “To Scaramouche’s!”
The sky was grey and Shiro hated drizzle. He followed Kazuha regardless.
It was a muddy trek but they made it to Scaramouche’s house, and in the dreary twilight – it truly looked like a haunted mansion.
There were even crows sat atop it, cawing, and it seemed like the storm worsened the closer he came to Scaramouche’s doorsteps.
“A contract,” Kazuha whispered, “Protect this home.”
He pressed his middle and index finger to the ground, forming a dome of impenetrable but thin sunlight around the house.
It was a very unsunny day, and he was already expending enough energy with one barrier, and even Shiro asked him: "Why are you protecting this human?"
“No reason.”
There was no reason.
Witches were like that. Acting based on fickle feeling.
But you aren’t like that, the winds knew him oh so well.
Perhaps there was a tiny, miniscule, unworthy reason: Scaramouche smelled like electricity.
“Oi, what are you doing to my house!?”
Kazuha turned. There behind him was Scaramouche, emerging from the woods, basket in hand.
“Scaramouche,” he breathed, urgently, “ Please get inside. Right now. ”
Kazuha could feel it now, the tense drear of the woods and the unknown being that laid within it. Shiro was alert, and Shiro was never wrong.
“The hell? Why should I?”
“Please.” Kazuha took a step forward.
Scaramouche took a step back. He was walking right into monster’s nest; he was going to die; Kazuha has had enough of watching people die before his eyes.
And that’s when he saw it.
Golden eyes the size of dinner plates opened from behind Scaramouche.
–🕦
The first trick they taught Shiro was ‘paw.’
Kazuha was pretty sure cats weren’t meant to be trained , but Tomo gave him that star-in-eyes irresistible look and what was Kazuha meant to do? Stop him?
They spent hours holding their hands out and commanding ‘Paw! No, Shiro, paw!’ whilst baiting him with wet fish.
It was one hard-fought week before they finally succeeded.
“Shiro,” Kazuha called softly. It was usually Tomo trying, but Kazuha gave it his best attempt occasionally. In between waiting for an egg to fry, sometimes Shiro would nuzzle up against his ankle (Tomo says it’s because he’s warm, but he’s pretty sure witches don’t have circulation??) and he’d come down to his knees and coo, “Paw.”
Shiro turned to look at him. His cerulean eyes plus that intense deer-in-headlights stare made Kazuha wonder if he could see right through him. If he knew what he really was.
Shiro looked down upon his outstretched hand, then up to his face, then back down.
And then Shiro shook his hand.
Kazuha’s brows blew sky high, mouth fell wide open, nearly screeched. He was bubbling excitement as he screamed “Tomo! Tomo come here! I don’t care what you’re doing come here!!”
And then Tomo had walked in, been so extremely proud, then so extremely jealous, and then had tried for himself and failed miserably and Kazuha had doubled over, keeling with laughter, and they’d accidentally burnt the egg.
That day was a good day.
And on a not so good day, when Kazuha’s vision was blurred with tears, and he’d been clutching at a gravestone screaming his lungs out like the world had ended, the cat appeared.
He still smelled like Tomo’s hands.
“Shiro,” Kazuha breathed out. And the winds between them hummed the same harmony, of sensitive hearing and boat rides and Tomo. “Shiro, let’s form a contract.”
He rubbed his eyes raw of tears, sucked the shaky breath into his lungs, and laid out a single trembling hand.
It was desperate. But Kazuha was okay with being desperate because if he couldn’t keep Tomo, at the very least, he could keep him.
“From this moment forth, you are my Familiar. You will live a long time yet. When I call, you will come. When I speak, you will listen. And in this way will you be gifted immortality.” And then, without the enchantment, “Paw.”
And Shiro shook his hand.
–
“WATCH OUT!”
Kazuha sprinted toward him, and in that very moment, the creature let loose an earth-shaking, gut-wrenching screech.
A griffin, he realized. What the hell is a griffin doing here?
The flap of its wings as it took to the sky was enough to carry Shiro off his feet, and Kazuha had to dig his heels in for balance. It bore its sharp talons, each one the length of an arm– the legs of a lion and the mounted head of an eagle.
Kazuha was a weak witch.
Witches spoke of griffins like easy prey, time-killers, mere target practice. But Kazuha knew then, staring up in its fearsome shadow that he couldn’t defeat it.
So he did the only thing he could.
In a sheer moment of panic, he summoned a shield. A wall in front of the griffin. Because if he couldn’t kill this thing then at the very least, he wouldn’t let it kill them.
Pop quiz!
Kazuha’s maintaining two protective barriers right now– both the size of buildings. His newly-summoned shield is also relatively big.
So class, what happens when a weak man is barely juggling two balls.. and you toss him a third?
Answer: It all comes tumbling down.
“Shit..!” The shield shatters, into a million sun-gold sparkling pieces and then dissipates like steam. All it took was a little struggle.
The griffin hisses, unruly and ear-piercing, its wings raised in the air. And then it plummets. It’s heading straight for him and Scaramouche, and Kazuha knows he should fight, run, summon a spear, anything!
But a small part of the wind beckons him:
What even would be point?
And it’s the truth. It’s the hopeless truth. His shoulders sag, and he exhales, and as the bird comes hurling his way with knives for claws ready to tear his torso open– he accepts that.
Kazuha is a weak witch. There is nothing he can d–
All of a sudden, there is force in his side that sends him flying. The next few seconds play out at a third of their conventional speed. He turns; he sees a shapeshifted, larger version of Shiro; he realizes he is being pushed out of the way and in the same moment realizes Shiro is being pushed into the griffin’s merciless bulldoze.
–🕕
They lost Shiro once.
Kazuha woke up one morning and Tomo asked, "Where's Shiro?" and they'd peered beneath every table, opened every cabinet, and eventually found an open window with paw prints trailing outside.
Kazuha, in all honesty, didn't care.
But Tomo looked upset.
He only got more and more sad as the days drew on. They asked the neighbours. They searched around the city. They put up posters. Two weeks passed with nothing.
It's just a cat, Kazuha wanted to say, It's just a cat. Why do you care?
But a strong feeling overcame him that whatever he said now, Tomo would remember. If he spoke wrongly, perhaps he would slip between his fingers. So instead Kazuha reached out and cupped his face in one palm, completely unsure how to move, unfamiliar with skinship-- but he looked through Tomo's eyes, at his broken spirit and spoke,
"It's okay."
He doesn't know why he said that. He had no proof for sure that it would be okay.
Perhaps it was just a hopeful lie.
But Tomo had clung to the words like a lifeline, and held Kazuha through the night, and when they opened the front door the next morning–
"Mraaw."
Tucked between fangs, a fat black finch bleeds onto their doorstep. Shiro looks filthy, a little tired, and absolutely pleased with himself.
He killed a bird for them.
Tomo had taken him into his hands immediately, cried "Shiro! Shiro, where have you been!?" But Shiro kept looking at Kazuha. Even as Tomo threw him over one shoulder, nuzzling him with sweet affection, Shiro's bird-full mouth pierced Kazuha.
He killed a bird for me, he realized.
Because Kazuha wanted to devour the bird. Wanted to grab it in his fist, bite into it like an apple and swallow down like a snake. Tomo didn't. Tomo found it gruesome and gross but Shiro knew Kazuha didn't.
Shiro knew Kazuha was a witch.
And he'd brought him a present anyway.
They bathed Shiro in a warm bucket of water and lots of soap, scrubbed him thoroughly and flung water at each other throughout. The thought of telling anyone what he was had never occured to Kazuha. Too dangerous, too out of ordinary.
But as he dipped his palms into the bubble bath, and held a life between his hands, he realized that he was glad Shiro returned. For more than just Tomo's sake.
–
His mouth was open, and his vision blurry, and there was a terrible sound in the air– wait. That was his voice.
Oh, Kazuha was screaming.
Every muscle in his body trembled as he limped toward the pool of blood, and the tiny, tiny cat in the centre of it.
Shiro had always been small. And his fur had always stained easily.
Kazuha screamed.
He screamed high and with his whole chest. Screamed past his throat’s pained protest. Screamed louder and louder and collapsed next to the pool of blood.
Even the griffin flinched.
Does it realize the weight of its actions, now? Does it see that it’s killed a witch’s familiar? Kazuha eyes shone with sunlit fury. Does it have any idea the wrath soon bestowed upon it?
It must’ve. Because the moment Kazuha glanced up to face it, it was taking it off with a purely horrified squawk. He sighed, returning his attention to Shiro.
He wasn’t moving.
He was dead. Kazuha knew the moment it happened, because they were intrinsically bound, heartbeat and blood and sunlight– and Kazuha could feel a part of him die inside.
He placed a gentle hand on Shiro’s body. It wasn’t Shiro anymore. Just a lifeless husk where his loyal companion used to sit.
Kazuha doubled over, chest shaking with sobs.
“What is this?” he laughed, and laughing physically hurt . “Cats are meant to hunt birds, you know? And witches are meant to hunt griffins.” He punched at the ground. “Not the other way around!”
He could feel his breathing go awry, and he remembered the token of advice left by Tomo when things spiraled out of control.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Softly, Kazuha gathered what little strength he had and imbued his words with enchantment.
“ Rest, ” he commanded. “ Let us meet in Hell. ”
Shiro diffused like dust.
Familiars did not go to Heaven. Of course they didn’t. They were the servants of evil’s servants. It hurt knowing Shiro would not be going to a better place. It hurt more knowing it was Kazuha’s fault.
And damn it all, what had he even done it for? Just yesterday, everything had been fine. They could’ve stayed in bed watching raindrops against the window. Shiro could’ve lived another hundred years. Shiro– the first creature to have ever seen Kazuha past his facade, looked the ugliest parts of him straight in the eye and not even flinched.
He would never bring another bird to his doorstep ever again. And it was Kazuha’s fault.
A dying voice pulled him out of his mourning. Raspy, and nearly imperceptible. “P..please…”
Ah, right. Scaramouche.