New Beginnings
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InuYasha › Het - Male/Female › Sesshōmaru/Rin
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
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Category:
InuYasha › Het - Male/Female › Sesshōmaru/Rin
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
4,778
Reviews:
39
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own InuYasha, nor make money from this story.
Chapter 8
© Salome Wilde, 2008
New Beginnings
Author’s Note: I am indebted to influence from the AU writing of talonsage and jenerik_brand for my choices in depicting Miroku here. Though this is by no means the “Daddy” Miroku of their world, he is inspired by it.
Chapter 8
Had the monk been the type to take offense at a visitor choosing to remain in visual but not speaking distance, or had he not recognized instantly the sword fragments Jaken held out, or had he not known too well the anti-social temperament of Lord Sesshomaru, he would have smiled at the odd combination of circumstances that faced him. Because they had wakened him—or perhaps roused was the best word—it took a hefty swig or two of sake to fully collect his thoughts as he looked at the broken weapon parts on the mat between him and the little green yokai opposite. The creature was blinking up at him, waving off proffered libation, and repeating, “Well, Lord Monk, can you seal the accursed thing or can you not?”
Of course he could, he thought, reaching a rough-nailed finger into his robes to scratch his ample belly. Did anything feel so good as scratching where one itched? he mused, smiling, and Jaken clearly mistook the grin for an answer to his question.
“Lord Sesshomaru will do you the honor of entrusting you with the item, then, for safekeeping.” He reached into a pouch entwined into his belt and lay ample coinage on the mat beside the sword.
Miroku nodded and immediately began to calculate the value of the coins in sake and whores.
The yokai, an expression of concern on his face that the monk would have taken for disrespect if he cared what little toad demons thought of him, rose and bowed slightly, then turned and walked to his master. Sesshomaru, who still sat, impassively, said something quietly to his follower, and Jaken returned. “Lord Sesshomaru will remain while you prepare and apply the ofuda.”
“As you wish,” replied Miroku, offhandedly. “But first I have got to take a dump.” He finished the drops of alcohol in his cup, left sword and coins where they were, and strolled from his modest hut into the nearby woods. Facing a productive day’s work always gave him the runs.
Sesshomaru watched the monk waddle away with disdain. How unhealthy the mortal looked. Yet, he acknowledged, he seemed contented enough. And he knew the creature capable of the task he was setting. That bodily discipline was unnecessary for mental and spiritual power seemed entirely wrong to the slender, flat-muscled demon, but it seemed to have its occasional manifestation as truth. Jaken returned to tell him where the monk had gone, and Sesshomaru gave a barely perceptible nod and told his vassal to return to the hut and wait for him. They would not be leaving until the daiyokai could be certain—could actually feel—the power of the sword lessen.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, rhythmically. Behind his eyelids, he saw fleeting images of the terror he had wrought upon his mate, and he willed himself neither to wince nor to force the vision away. It was a truth he needed to face, now and for the rest of his existence. True, the sword had possessed him with a power for which he would not have given it credit when it was whole, let alone broken and incomplete. Yet it had accomplished its foul mission, and now he could sense Rin’s anguish even at this ample distance. The discomfort in being so far from her—a product of their bond as mates—was easy enough to control for Sesshomaru. The pain and anger that came to him from her in distant waves was far less so. She had right, to all she felt and more. He had failed her, grossly, and whatever retribution she chose was her due. He knew she would not die from the wounds, but he had killed her heart, and must find means of restoring it to her, no matter the cost.
As this thought came to him, so came another: did he mean what he was implying to himself? Would he yield his life for her? She had been with him such a very short time, been his mate only the blink of an eye in terms of his many years of existence. She was human, mortal, weak. Precious to him, without question. Inexplicably so in many ways, yes. But she was his and he had damaged her in body and soul, and there must be restitution.
The priestess Kikyo was tending to her body, with more skill than he had. This was the first necessary element. And he was far from her yet with his aura unshielded from her. This was also necessary, lest she suffer from withdrawal, even as she no doubt raged from his betrayal and his violence. Soon, when he was certain the magical weapon could not longer possess him (cursed though he was for having been weak and prideful enough to allow it access to his mind and body), he would go back to her and offer explanation, without excuse. He would not return overhastily, for the stronger she was in body, the better she would be able to confront him.
He exhaled audibly, eyes still shut. He was lying to himself now, and this would not do. He was going to return slowly because he could not bear to see her still so fragile, so wounded from his attack. Possessed or not, he should have been able to stop himself. He raged inwardly at the trapped soul in the sword that would use his powerful body to wrong his human mate. Cowardly and purposeful or insane and blind, the flashes of memory tore at him, until his claws drew blood in his curled palms. Everything else be damned: she was his mate and he would do what it took to return her strength and confidence to her.
New Beginnings
Author’s Note: I am indebted to influence from the AU writing of talonsage and jenerik_brand for my choices in depicting Miroku here. Though this is by no means the “Daddy” Miroku of their world, he is inspired by it.
Chapter 8
Had the monk been the type to take offense at a visitor choosing to remain in visual but not speaking distance, or had he not recognized instantly the sword fragments Jaken held out, or had he not known too well the anti-social temperament of Lord Sesshomaru, he would have smiled at the odd combination of circumstances that faced him. Because they had wakened him—or perhaps roused was the best word—it took a hefty swig or two of sake to fully collect his thoughts as he looked at the broken weapon parts on the mat between him and the little green yokai opposite. The creature was blinking up at him, waving off proffered libation, and repeating, “Well, Lord Monk, can you seal the accursed thing or can you not?”
Of course he could, he thought, reaching a rough-nailed finger into his robes to scratch his ample belly. Did anything feel so good as scratching where one itched? he mused, smiling, and Jaken clearly mistook the grin for an answer to his question.
“Lord Sesshomaru will do you the honor of entrusting you with the item, then, for safekeeping.” He reached into a pouch entwined into his belt and lay ample coinage on the mat beside the sword.
Miroku nodded and immediately began to calculate the value of the coins in sake and whores.
The yokai, an expression of concern on his face that the monk would have taken for disrespect if he cared what little toad demons thought of him, rose and bowed slightly, then turned and walked to his master. Sesshomaru, who still sat, impassively, said something quietly to his follower, and Jaken returned. “Lord Sesshomaru will remain while you prepare and apply the ofuda.”
“As you wish,” replied Miroku, offhandedly. “But first I have got to take a dump.” He finished the drops of alcohol in his cup, left sword and coins where they were, and strolled from his modest hut into the nearby woods. Facing a productive day’s work always gave him the runs.
Sesshomaru watched the monk waddle away with disdain. How unhealthy the mortal looked. Yet, he acknowledged, he seemed contented enough. And he knew the creature capable of the task he was setting. That bodily discipline was unnecessary for mental and spiritual power seemed entirely wrong to the slender, flat-muscled demon, but it seemed to have its occasional manifestation as truth. Jaken returned to tell him where the monk had gone, and Sesshomaru gave a barely perceptible nod and told his vassal to return to the hut and wait for him. They would not be leaving until the daiyokai could be certain—could actually feel—the power of the sword lessen.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, rhythmically. Behind his eyelids, he saw fleeting images of the terror he had wrought upon his mate, and he willed himself neither to wince nor to force the vision away. It was a truth he needed to face, now and for the rest of his existence. True, the sword had possessed him with a power for which he would not have given it credit when it was whole, let alone broken and incomplete. Yet it had accomplished its foul mission, and now he could sense Rin’s anguish even at this ample distance. The discomfort in being so far from her—a product of their bond as mates—was easy enough to control for Sesshomaru. The pain and anger that came to him from her in distant waves was far less so. She had right, to all she felt and more. He had failed her, grossly, and whatever retribution she chose was her due. He knew she would not die from the wounds, but he had killed her heart, and must find means of restoring it to her, no matter the cost.
As this thought came to him, so came another: did he mean what he was implying to himself? Would he yield his life for her? She had been with him such a very short time, been his mate only the blink of an eye in terms of his many years of existence. She was human, mortal, weak. Precious to him, without question. Inexplicably so in many ways, yes. But she was his and he had damaged her in body and soul, and there must be restitution.
The priestess Kikyo was tending to her body, with more skill than he had. This was the first necessary element. And he was far from her yet with his aura unshielded from her. This was also necessary, lest she suffer from withdrawal, even as she no doubt raged from his betrayal and his violence. Soon, when he was certain the magical weapon could not longer possess him (cursed though he was for having been weak and prideful enough to allow it access to his mind and body), he would go back to her and offer explanation, without excuse. He would not return overhastily, for the stronger she was in body, the better she would be able to confront him.
He exhaled audibly, eyes still shut. He was lying to himself now, and this would not do. He was going to return slowly because he could not bear to see her still so fragile, so wounded from his attack. Possessed or not, he should have been able to stop himself. He raged inwardly at the trapped soul in the sword that would use his powerful body to wrong his human mate. Cowardly and purposeful or insane and blind, the flashes of memory tore at him, until his claws drew blood in his curled palms. Everything else be damned: she was his mate and he would do what it took to return her strength and confidence to her.