Spirits in the Material World

Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha & Co…. But rest assured, if I did, some damn body would be getting’ laid.

A/N: This story is going to possess sort of a rambling, anti-climatic sort of feel. I plan on it having 10-12 short chapters, possibly more, and it is focused mainly in Yash’s POV. The plot will be revealed in the next chappie, solidly enough so that the character’s footings are much more apparent. It is just an idea that I am developing to practice writing before I launch into some of my better ideas. If you don’t deal well with angst, sexual situations, or character death….you might want to skip this one. ou wou want to review, I would love to have you do so- as long as you are constructive about it. I really don’t care what you say as long as you explain WHY you feel the way you do about. You think it blows chunks? I respect everyone’s opinion. Just let me know why you thought so. But if you are going for the flamethrower, then don’t bother.

P.s: I think there is a peice of IY Fan Fiction titled the same as this one. I yanked this title from the song by the Police, although it was actually inspired by a song called 'Ghost' by the Tony Rich Project.

Spirits in the Material World


Chapter 1

I once heard an old man say, long ago, that a thing of beauty was a joy forever.

At the time, those words meant nothing to me. I was young and arrogant; vision clouded by my own pain…my own delusions. At that time, a thing of beauty was nothing more than a slap in the face. A tormentor that snatched away elusively from my outstretched hand, only serving to feed the bitterness that grew within me as I reached out with hope only to be denied. The words that now serve as an epiphany…they were bullshit the first time I heard them.

It only seems fitting that they were spoken on her behalf, and that I sneered when she blushed humbly at the old man’s poetic tribute. I can still recall her hurt look as she found herself pinned beneath my cold appraisal. But even then, I knew I loved her. That I would never be able to stop myself. That eventually my desire, my lust, my love, my absolute NEED of her would overpower my rigid self-denial. And I was right. During our travels, she continued to chip away at my every defense, reawakening all of the dark urges and passions that I had tried so hard to eradicate. Even then I knew she loved me; we were destined, and there was no chance that I could deny her. I couldn’t even hope to make myself want to try.

And the first time I took her, I knew at last the powerful ecstasy of reaching out and finally grasping. I came upon her and she yielded to me so completely and so beautifully that had I not marked her I would have mistaken the experience for one of my fantasies of us. It was that way every time…never a false step, never a moment’s hesitation, never a challenge to my dominance. Just the blissful, satiating joining of two beings with souls that were completely in step with one another. But I still didn’t understand, not really. I was mated to her, but my breast still rankled with all of its old grief and my pains and fears still stayed locked within my own heart. Those words about the joy beauty brought meant something to me now, but only to me. She was protected and provided for, but she was loved from a distance. Words of devotion that should have fallen on her like warm rain were spoken only in my mind, and my love was expressed infrequently through gestures so careful they seem almost ambiguous now in my long memory. I was the worst kind of fool. I was unwise, dashing forward in a wild fit of folly.

But then, at that time, I was also alive.

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I watch her now, and I can’t help but think of the first time I saw her… Her scent rushing toward me, the pulse of her great power shaking me from my fitful slumber and casting me into a rage. I gone into that sleep feeling angry and betrayed, and I awoke the same way. But the moment I looked at her, really, and saw her, it had stayed my turbulent spirit. Her aura calms me as nothing else.

She runs up the shrine steps as surely as any wild creature. Her small and proud form bears an easy sort of grace that can’t be taught; it is the sort of grace that a being possesses because they were born with it. Cresting the top of the stairwell that towers above the city, she turns to look out over the bustling landscape of the urban jungle that has replaced the ancient forest where we met. Everything here is familiar to me, yet nothing is the same.

Waist-length raven tresses are caught by the wind, glinting blue where the sun strikes them. Thick, dark brows arch over the storm gray eyes that once held such mischief and laughter. She is running them over her surroundings at this moment, her stance as fierce as a warrior. She has the look of a person who is listening intently, senses trained on the shifting afternoon air, trying to find…something. She has questions by the hundreds.

(I have answers that she can’t hear.)

Finally, she stands so still that she seems lifeless. This is one of the many changes, one of the things that were different this time. One of the things that I wasn’t expecting. I can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes me. As if any of this was expected.

“I can feel you.”

Her eyes narrow as the wind tears the whisper from the full, rosebud mouth to scatter it into nothingness.

I watch her all the time now, sleeping and waking. She is older than when we last met, and more beautiful than I ever imagined. I trail behind her in the Tokyo streets, boutiques, restaurants, and school hallways. I watch as the eyes of a million people fall on her, gazes she never detects. She gives no thought to her presence in the world. She does not tread slowly or carefully. She has few friends, and dozens of pastimes that can be enjoyed without company. I can hear the whispers of her peers, wondering over the beautiful genius, the suffering artist who seems so ethereal, so out of place in the real world.

I hear everything.

Every place she belongs to, the rumors and speculations abound. They wonder if she is mad, muttering always to herself, and gazing off into nothing while trying to remember some forgotten piece of information. The way she wanders through life as if she were asleep raises a lot of eyebrows. My beautiful one, once so vividly alive, is now so removed from time and space. The irony does not escape me…we are separated by the forces of life and death, and yet we are still together. Bound together for all of eternity, walking side by side in solitude.

She turns to the path that leads away from the temple, to the door of the shrine house. The old man, her ji-chan, has paused from his perpetual sweeping to watch her move across the courtyard from the shadows. She pays it no mind…no more than she pays anything else. Beneath his breath, I hear the old man sadly murmur something about his grandchild’s haunted eyes.

Haunted.

Old men say the damnedest things.

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*I was half asleep when I wrote it, so please forgive any gram./spelling errors. As for the storycraft, I never claimed to be great, but if you critique well, maybe I'll get better. -smile- Anyway thanks for reading!*