You came, and I was mad for you

And you cooled my mind that burned with longing

- Sappho

He watches her, sitting in front of a rose vine boudoir, admiring her reflection in the looking glass. Though she is not vain, she is beautiful and he would be a fool not to admit such a simple truth even to himself.

From the hidden angle of his shadowed cove, he sees the delicate pearl-white of the inside of her wrist, the way she picks up the ivory hairbrush and strokes it through the midnight blue of her hair. He admires the swan-like delicacy of her neck, the beautiful way she seems to exist, half torn between Valhalla and the abyss.

Kaneki moves closer, wanting to take in the ripe fullness of her mouth, how it has been stained crimson from the berries she's consumed while sitting here, in her marble palace of light and eternity.

Would she look away? Would she embrace him fondly? He chuckles at his own absurdity. She will not see him if he does not wish it but he cannot help but think that a curse—he sees her, every moment of every day, perusing these gold-flecked halls, wandering the agora, cupping pink and white lily blossoms in fair, delicate hands.

She is sharp as a knife when she speaks and her words cut deeper than the sword of his warlord brother. Unlike him, this fragile human girl is tied to the moon: the waning, waxing, inconstant moon—and Kaneki has no right to dictate a future he cannot even touch.

We are above them, my son, the witch would often say, one hand wiping the worry from his brow, and he—young and foolish and so tremendously in love—fell to the curve of her lips.

And then, all of a sudden, immortality was upon him.

He shakes away these melancholy thoughts, knowing there are hours he cannot spare. He will not waste them drowning in black thoughts and hatred, particularly when he is here, with her.

She has left her cushioned seat for the sunlit terrace outside her window, moving nymph-like through ivory and gold. Silk and chiffon decorate her body, draping over lithe, porcelain limbs like water. She is human but there is something extraordinary about her, as if—many lifetimes ago—she were consort to some unearthly king. The way her brows furrow, the gentle curve of her cheek...how she is both patient and impulsive, with an open smile and a closed soul and when he sees this, Kaneki wishes to give her all he has.

He wants goddesses and fairies as her handmaidens while diamond dewdrops decorate prominent collarbones and ivory hands.

He wants something of this unearthly girl and her unearthly love.

Yet his desires, overwhelming as they are indecipherable, remain trapped in stasis as she continues to stand there, staring at the rose faded sky.

"And so it begins," he hears her murmur, sounding displeased and resigned and strangely determined. It confuses him, the way they write themselves out, etching poetry on her skin and for a creature such as he, who has lived lifetimes and centuries, it is an intoxicating contradiction.

Because truly, how does one feel so much when they understand so little? Human lives are fleeting—brief, fragmented moments colored by his sisters—the rising dawn, the golden sun, the blue of evening. Humans are not meant for complexity or change; their lives are stagnant and wholly unfulfilled, broken carvings writ by some ancient hand—

Kaneki bites his tongue, catching and suppressing these thoughts because, he tries to remember, they are not his. They are the witch's words and he was once hers to command.

"I'm lonely." His indigo girl says suddenly, catching Kaneki's attention once more. "I'm sad. I'm angry and confused and want to scream—" she tugs at the gold bracelet on her left wrist, "I want to scream but why should I? Who would hear me? Who would care to hear me?" She whispers, quiet and strong in the blooming dusk. "I have been born for this—and it is not such a difficult task. After all," she chuckles, "if not me then who? Ayato?"

She seems to laugh, as if entertained by that strange, absurd idea.

Ayato. Kaneki recognizes that name—it is her brother, the one who fought alongside Augustus and was given Egypt for his service. Ayato.

And suddenly, Kaneki does not like him but he cannot quite pinpoint why—all he knows is that the hour has ended and he can hear his sister calling him, demanding he return to his palace below.

Itori has always been a demanding one but now, even he cannot blame her.

The sky itself has become a vibrant, passionate violet and the indigo princess with her midnight hair has left the balcony to return inside inside, though her expression is no longer serene. She looks a solider, preparing for battle with her spine ramrod straight. Often Kaneki forgets that the softness of her body is illusory, that her veins have been filled with a passion that he has become addicted to and a vitality that he, as a god, cannot conjure.

Goodnight…

Touka. He mouthes these words, as if afraid to say them out loud, before tendrils of black vapor surround him and the elaborate Corinthian columns of her bedroom melt away. Smoke and darkness bid him in fond greeting while black granite sprawls out before him, as towers of obsidian rise and rivers of mist-water flow.

Charon bows.

"Your majesty."

And so it begins.

He smiles.

A/N: Yeeeah...I've never written for the TG fandom before but I was on a Greek mythology kick lmao (feedback would be appreciated—seriously, critiques welcome. I really, really hope I didn't write Kaneki or Touka too out of key.)