Chapter 22: The Girl in the Pit
The air in the Matou mansion basement was thick, humid, with a sweetish, nauseating stench that clung to the throat like a putrid caress. There was no light beyond a faint greenish glow emanating from the walls themselves, a bioluminescent radiance that revealed the horror with the delicacy of a surgeon opening a wound.
The floor wasn't floor. It was a sea of writhing bodies, a living, undulating mass of worms crawling over one another in a perpetual banquet of flesh and despair. And in the center of that sea, emerging like a corpse from a shipwreck, was Sakura Matou.
Or what remained of her.
Her hair, once a silky, dark purple, now hung like dead seaweed, plastered to a face of broken porcelain. Her eyes, open, saw nothing. They were two violet abysses where light was lost without reflection. Her naked body, covered in a thin layer of slime and small bite marks, trembled with involuntary spasms each time a new wave of worms penetrated her flesh to deposit their load of hatred and mutation.
She didn't scream. She had forgotten how, years ago.
Pain.
The word no longer meant anything. Pain was the air she breathed. Pain was the beat of her heart, the only witness that she was still alive. A heart that beat with a single purpose: to keep beating, because stopping would be worse. Because if it stopped, her consciousness would be trapped forever in that hell, aware but inert, an eternal witness to her own decomposition.
'Sometimes, I want to die.'
The thought came every night, like a faithful lover. The image of a knife, of poison, of anything that would stop the beating. But even that desire was a luxury. Because if she died, he would find a way to bring her back. Or worse, he would keep her like this, conscious in an inert body, forever. For. Ever.
'But I can't. I can't die. Because if I die, he wins.'
It was an absurd thought, a tiny rebellion in an ocean of submission. The only possible victory was to keep existing, even if that existence was hell. To deny Zouken the satisfaction of seeing her completely broken. Even though every day, every hour, every second, she felt another piece of herself detach and fall into the abyss.
'Why me?'
The question, as old as her damnation, emerged from the depths. It wasn't a lament. It was a scratch on the wall of her mental cell, over and over, until her nails bled.
'Why me and not her?'
Rin.
Her sister's name appeared in her mind like a flame on a moonless night. And as always, the flame brought with it two opposing, irreconcilable feelings that tore her apart inside more than any worm.
The first was hatred. A hatred so pure, so crystalline, that it hurt more than the worms. Rin had kept everything. Their father's love. Their mother's pride. The Tohsaka name, the inheritance, the freedom. Rin had grown up in a clean house, with magecraft lessons and cups of hot tea. Rin had never known this basement. She had never felt what it was like to be an object, a tool, an empty vessel to be filled with the rot of a dead lineage.
'Why you and not me? What did I do to deserve this? What did she do to deserve that?'
The injustice was an acid that corroded her soul. Sometimes, in her darkest moments, she imagined Rin in her place. She saw her writhing among the worms, heard her screams, enjoyed her suffering with a cruel smile. And in those moments, she hated herself more than anything.
Because immediately after came the second feeling: love. A deep, irrational love that denied everything before it. Rin was her sister. The only person in the world who, perhaps, in some corner of her childhood memory, had truly loved her. Rin smiled at her when they were little. Rin shared her toys. Rin defended her from cruel children.
'No. No. It's not Nee-san's fault. She had no choice. She doesn't know. She can't know.'
The thought repeated like a mantra, drowning out the hatred, burying it at the bottom of the well. But the hatred always resurfaced. Like the worms. Like everything in this place.
'I'm sorry, Nee-san. I'm sorry. I don't want to hate you. I don't want to. But sometimes... sometimes I can't help it.'
A solitary tear, the first in a long time, traced a path down her dirty cheek before being absorbed by the mass of worms surrounding her.
It was then that the basement door opened with the screech of rusted metal.
The light of a candle, trembling and orange, pierced the greenish gloom, casting twisted shadows on the walls. A figure emerged from the stairs, advancing with a slow, measured step, leaning on a cane that struck the stone with a dry, regular sound.
Tock. Tock. Tock.
Sakura's heart lurched. Not from hope. From pure, primal terror. The terror of prey when it scents the predator.
Zouken Matou.
The old man— if he could be called that— stopped at the edge of the pit, observing the sea of worms with the gaze of a farmer contemplating his harvest. His hunched body, his parchment-like skin, his yellow, watery eyes... everything about him reeked of decrepitude. But Sakura knew the truth. Beneath that rotten shell lurked a will of iron, an ancient evil that had survived centuries. Zouken wasn't a man. He was an idea. The idea that suffering could be eternal.
— My dear Sakura,— He said, and his voice was like the rustle of moth wings, dry and velvety.— I see the little ones are keeping you company. How touching.
Sakura didn't respond. She couldn't. Her vocal cords, like the rest of her body, belonged to him. Only her eyes, those violet abysses, moved slightly to focus on him. There was no hatred in them. Hatred had become too heavy to hold onto long ago. There was only... waiting. The wait for the next order.
Zouken smiled, a grimace showing black gums and a few yellowed teeth.
— I've had an interesting day, my dear. I discovered something... curious.
He leaned over the edge of the pit, like a grandfather telling a secret to his favorite granddaughter.
— Do you remember the Magus Killer? Kiritsugu Emiya. The man who burned the Grail in the last war.— His voice turned playful, malicious.— Well, it turns out our dear assassin isn't as dead as everyone thought. He's been living here, in Fuyuki, all this time. Raising a son right under our very noses.
Sakura didn't react. Kiritsugu Emiya. The name meant nothing to her. But something in Zouken's words, in his tone, made her think this was important.
— The funniest part,— Zouken continued, chuckling.— Is that, of all the magus families with influence in this city, the only one who probably didn't find out about this was that Tohsaka brat. Your little sister, so proud, so sure of herself... and so incredibly ignorant.
Rin.
The name acted like an electric shock. Sakura felt a spasm run through her body, a minimal, almost imperceptible shudder. But Zouken noticed it. Zouken noticed everything. His smile widened.
— Ah, see? You still have some feeling left for her. How touching. Don't worry, my dear. I don't plan to harm your sister. At least, not yet.
He stepped back from the edge and began to pace slowly around the pit, his cane marking the rhythm.
— But what really intrigues me, what sparked my interest, was a magical wave I detected a week ago. Something... unusual. Something that didn't fit with anything known.— He stopped, his yellow eyes fixed on Sakura.— And do you know where it came from? From the Emiya residence.
Sakura blinked. A magical wave. From that boy's house.
— It turns out,— Zouken continued, savoring each word.— that the Magus Killer's son is not a simple mundane child. He has potential. A lot of potential. Circuits of a quality and quantity that would put more than one established lineage to shame.— His voice dropped to a whisper.— And I want to know more.
The ancient creature stopped in front of Sakura, looking down at her with those dead-fish eyes.
— You know that boy, don't you? That Shirou Emiya. He goes to your academy.
It wasn't a question. It was an order in disguise. Sakura felt the pressure of his will, like an invisible hand squeezing her throat. The words came out of her mouth without her being able to control them, mechanical, empty.
— He's a senpai... I've seen him... a few times. I don't know much about him.
Zouken clicked his tongue, disappointed.
— That's not enough, my dear. I need more. His personality. His character. If anything has happened to him recently. Think. Use that little head I worked so hard to fill with my little ones.
The pressure increased. Sakura felt her mind, numbed by years of torture, forced to awaken, to search for memories, to process information. It was like moving an atrophied muscle. It hurt. But obeying hurt less than disobeying.
— He's...— She began, her voice hoarse from disuse.— I've heard others talk about him. They say he's... kind. That he helps everyone. That he always smiles. As if he didn't have... problems.
A pause. A memory emerged from the fog.
— But... this week... something happened to him.
Zouken leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with greed.
— Yes? Tell me.
— He was absent... the first few days. And when he came back...— Sakura swallowed, the effort of speaking almost unbearable.— He had his arm... in a cast. Up to the elbow. It didn't seem like... a normal fracture.
Silence. Zouken straightened up, his expression thoughtful. His long, bony fingers drummed on the head of his cane.
— In a cast...— He murmured.— Interesting. Very interesting.
He moved away from the edge of the pit, sinking into his reflections. Sakura watched his hunched figure move in the gloom, a nightmarish silhouette. She knew he was plotting something. She knew that information, however trivial it seemed, was being processed by that ancient, twisted mind.
'I'm sorry,' Sakura thought, directing the thought toward an absent recipient. 'I'm sorry, Shirou Emiya. Whoever you are. I'm sorry.'
Zouken stopped. A slow, horrible smile spread across his face.
— An anomalous magical wave. A broken arm under mysterious circumstances. A father who is frequently absent.— He turned to Sakura, and in his yellow eyes danced a light of sadistic amusement.— I believe, my dear Sakura, that the time has come for you to fulfill one of the functions for which I prepared you.
Sakura's heart, that organ beating by inertia, lurched.
— According to my sources,— Zouken continued, approaching slowly.— The Magus Killer has embarked on a journey. His son is alone in that big house, with a useless arm and, probably, profound boredom.— He stopped in front of her, leaning down until his face was just inches from hers. The smell of rot was overwhelming.— A young man in his situation... surely he would appreciate the company of an adorable girl like you, don't you think?
Sakura felt the world stop.
— You will get close to him,— Zouken ordered, and his voice was no longer a whisper, but a sentence.— You will earn his trust. You will find out what happened to that arm. You will discover the nature of that magical wave. And, above all...— His smile widened to the grotesque.— You will become his eyes. His ears. His shadow. And when I decide it, you will be his downfall.
There was no choice. There never had been. Sakura nodded, a minimal movement, barely an inclination of her head.
— Good girl,— Zouken said, straightening up and turning his back on her.— Rest, my dear. Your new mission begins tomorrow.
He walked away towards the stairs, his cane marking the rhythm.
Tock. Tock. Tock.
The door closed. The greenish darkness returned to total. The worms resumed their macabre dance upon her skin.
Sakura Matou, the girl who had forgotten how to smile, the girl who had buried her soul in a pit of worms, felt something she hadn't felt in years.
Fear.
Not for herself. For him. For that kind boy with the almost perpetual smile. Because he didn't know what was coming for him. He didn't know that a shadow in the shape of a girl with purple hair and empty eyes was about to cross his path.
'I'm sorry,' She thought again, and this time the words had a much clearer recipient.
'I'm sorry, Shirou Emiya. I didn't want to. But I've never been able to choose.'
A tear, the second in a long time, fell onto the sea of worms.
And in the silence of the basement, only the hunger of the creatures answered her weeping.