Red

Red Fragment

I stifle in this fragment of existence, behind oppression greater than the arrow that once bound us. The rigors of battle and the protection of others have changed the hanyou. He grows while I fester. The love he feels but pretends to deny has strengthened him, too. I scarcely know myself now, behind his golden eyes. I must not let myself fade or [merge] under his control. That way lies death.

Bad enough that one day each cycle of the moon I suffer the pain [of] being pushed deeper into the hell of near-oblivion. At those times, the golden one knows true fear and I must know it with him. I withstand it, but can demand nothing in return. If the mortal may have its day, why not the youkai? I cannot ask the hanyou; he cannot hear me.

In recent days, he has been provoked to release me a time or two, and the release is so exquisite I cannot hold back a single moment, a single action. My fangs grow and drip, my claws stretch and flex, and my blood-red eyes want nothing more than to see red everywhere, to summon the blood of any and every living being. Even my own blood, wrought from combat, arouses me. The smell as well as the sight is life-giving, is freedom. The golden one understands that though he wishes not to…I feel his understanding. It frightens him. My world terrifies him. We both know he could live it, if he were brave enough. He could give over to me rather than forcing me away. We could take them all down. Arrogant Sesshoumaru. Grotesque Naraku. Every greater and lesser youkai in existence, if we wished. Ours for the bleeding. We are so much greater than the sum of our parts, and it would take so very little to show the world.

But he refuses. He treats me like a scorned lover, an abandoned child. Why, hanyou? You are neither weak nor squeamish. Is it perhaps because there is another blood I crave—that you crave as well? Bitch blood. Yes, her blood, that female blood that calls to us: human, hanyou, and youkai. Its presence summons me so close to the surface I can almost feel her when you touch her, when she takes your hand, when she rides on your back, legs wrapped around you—around us. Is that what you truly fear? Letting me touch her, taste her? A taste would never be enough, and more than a taste could be your undoing, your surrender. I would claim her as you will not, and you might not be strong enough to stop me. Worse still, you might not want to.