InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ A House Divided ❯ Mother, Mate and Child ( Chapter 3 )

A House Divided

Chapter 2: Mother, Mate and Child

Rin forced a laugh, sliding the hand on his shoulder to his bicep. "What do you mean `dying?' She's safe at home, where she belongs. With Kiyoshi in the North. Nothing would hurt her there. You must be mistaken."

His forehead continued to burn. The air in their chamber seemed suddenly stifling and thick. Simply breathing took a concerted effort on his part, making his head swim and his vision blur. The crescent moon on his forehead pulsed once . . . twice . . . and once more. Each pulse was weaker, fainter, less forceful than the one before it.

"Sesshomaru?"

Forcing his knees not to buckle, he rose to his feet and slowly, purposefully made his way to the balcony window several feet to the right of their shared bed. Though he was certain it was not his mate's intention, she was smothering him, sucking up his much-needed air. He felt anxious, apprehensive, a tight knot fixing itself in the center of his chest. His head ached, and his stomach roiled. In an attempt to abate the growing unpleasant sensations, he unfastened one of the windows, pushing it open, allowing a chill, mid-winter breeze to blow through their bedchamber.

It was pitch black outside, dots of white perforating the otherwise dark landscape. As the wind whipped through his hair, he drew in a much-needed breath and pushed it out. The knot in his chest, however, did not loosen; it felt as if it had wrapped itself around his entire being, sliding down his vertical axis, coming to rest in what Rin called the tantien-the body's center of life energy. It was not his stomach that was rebelling, resisting the relentless tightening growing throughout his body; it was his soul. The longer he stood, the tighter it became, the constriction building to an almost unbearable level.

He had felt this way before-the night his great father passed, and the title of InuTaisho settled heavily upon his shoulders.

This . . . knot began within him, but its end laid within his daughter. This link, this bond, this invisible thread that tied the two of them together, began when he'd marked her with his symbol of office, tattooing the symbol upon her brow, marking her as his heir apparent when she was but seven years of age. The girl had born the pain of the mystical incision remarkably well, and when the ritual was completed, he knew he had chosen well. It did not matter she was not male; she was his, his firstborn pup. She bore none of his markings, nor did she inherit his ears. In fact, despite the strength of her youki, her appearance-save her eyes-was unremarkably human . . . the small frame, the rounded ears, the blunt teeth . . . why, even her nails had only the barest hint of his own poisonous claws. If not for her distinctly demonic aura, he could've sworn she was just as human as her mother. That and the color of her eyes, of course . . . No human had ever had eyes that color . . . nor youkai, for that matter.

They possessed the same base color as his-somewhere between gold and amber, or perhaps topaz would be the best indicator of her eye color. But they were brighter, deeper than the tawny tones of his own irises . . . and they changed colors. Not simply running the gamut between gold, amber and bronze as his did. They could range from a cold, ice blue to a brilliant display of reds and oranges that only the fiercest of fire demons could possess. Sorano was not an Elemental, though she possessed many of their characteristics, but her sister Kohana was . . .

"Sesshomaru!"

He turned slightly away from the window, directing his attention towards his mate. Decades had passed since the birth of their eldest, but aside from the length of her hair and subtle, yet noticeable changes in her demeanor, Rin remained unchanged. Forever 17, forever young . . . forever his.

"You're scaring me." She edged her way to the side of the bed, but did not set her feet on the floor. Her brow creased, her mouth frowned, her eyes taking on an altogether somber expression not befitting one of her current condition. "Say something."

"I am not mistaken," he finally said.

She said nothing, but there was no mistaking her mood. There was no denying the sudden chill that shot through his veins, the grey cloud that seemed to settle over his thoughts. They had faced a similar situation in the past, and though apologies had been made and accepted, neither was fully able to forget the events as they'd unfolded . . . A little, limp body laying in the center of cream-colored, satin sheets, soft swirls of silver curls crowning her tiny head. The absence of breath, the lack of a pulse, her frail flesh slowly slipping from a pale pink to ashen white and finally a dull grey. The wails of a mother, his mate laying prostrate at his feet, tears free-flowing from bloodshot eyes as she begged him, pleaded with him, bargained with him to do the one thing that they'd both agreed that he would not.

The howling, the hysteria, the frantic cries that quickly turned to curses, condemnation and unfounded, yet furious accusations. Her aural assault won out, and, against his better judgment and his expressed intent, he let the healing blade fly, and then he left . . . for three months.

Never in his entire existence had he ever broken his word to any living creature. He promised himself, and he promised the pup, he would not allow her to continue to suffer . . .

"You're thinking about it, again."

The calm of his mate's voice shook him from his reverie, breaking the quiet that settled within their chamber.

"Is it not enough that she's alive and well?"

Well? He silently pondered. Could Kohana truly be considered "well?"

He turned from her, re-fastening the latch on the window, his tantien just as tight, his forehead just as sore. The bond between them was stretched so tight he was certain it would soon break, and when it did . . .

It did not matter!

Choices were made. Words were exchanged. An understanding was reached. A promise was a promise. A vow was a vow. A deal was a deal. But . . .

He clenched his claws at his sides, mightily fighting the urge to take everything in their chamber and tear it apart. This was not how things were supposed to be!

He drew in a silent breath and pushed it out, forcing his fingers to relax, his boiling blood to settle, and his thoughts to stay focused on the moment at hand. He took a few more steadying breaths, and while the tightness remained, the grey cloud seemed to lift, somewhat, the light of reason clearing away the shadows of doubt.

They were all so young . . . all of them, himself included, and the young were known for their indiscretions. Until Kiyoshi, he was the youngest lord in youkai history. He was barely into his second century when Bokuseno formally informed him of his father's demise and his new position. It was also on that day that he received Tenseiga-the blade that proved to be both a blessing and a curse. But without it . . .

He felt a small smile creep along the corners of his mouth. He temporarily turned his attention to the dark panes of glass before him, watching his mate's reflection on the still, black surface as she fought the urge to fidget. Since his announcement of Sorano's impending death, her breathing had become shallow and rapid, a tin sheen of sweat had formed on her brow, and he could hear her heart pounding quite loudly in the inner recesses of his ears. She was doing her best to keep her composure and not break yet another vow to him. On the day he last used Tenseiga, she swore to him that she would never ask him to use it again. She would leave all matters of life and death in his hands, and if her own powers were too meager to sustain the life of one she deemed worthy, she would simply have to accept it.

But this was not some random, rogue ronin she found laying wounded on the roadside, or some nameless ningen female unduly affected by the ravages of war, this was her daughter, her firstborn, the source of both unmitigated joy and unspeakable pain. With her hair loosely bound high on her head, part of it having broken loose from its restraint jutting off in an odd angle, she looked not one of her nearly 39 years and every bit the muddy urchin who'd found him lying wounded in the forest all those years ago. Her eyes were wide, expectant, alert, her facial features speaking of a forced calm, a repressed panic . . . a mother's concern.

And he was no less concerned.

"I will go to her."

She let loose one, long, ragged sigh, tilting her head up to the ceiling. Her chest heaved, her shoulders shook, but no tears fell. However . . . that didn't mean she would not cry the moment he left to find their daughter.

He turned to face her. "I will go to her, but that does not mean she will return with me."

Relief quickly turned to dread.

"I may not reach her in time, or if she is still conscious, she may refuse my assistance."

Rin bowed her head, her shoulders slumping forward as she gave a slight nod of understanding.

"Do not slouch."

She raised her head, squaring her shoulders, a small smile playing across her lips, doubtless in recognition of his teasing tone.

"I cannot force my aid where it is not wanted . . . However, since she is the Lady of the North and within my territories, I am obligated to see that she is well-cared for and made comfortable no matter how . . . short her stay in our lands may be."

"Sess--"

He raised a hand to silence her. "See that my armor is prepared."

She quickly closed her lips and gave a curt nod. As she slid from their bed, he walked to his wardrobe. He was silent as he dressed himself, and she said not a word as she pulled the suit of metal and bone from the armoire and helped him slip it on.

This was nothing new. It had become a custom of theirs every time he had to leave the castle on business-unexpected or otherwise-when she could not accompany him. The bonding rite had its benefits, but it also had its drawbacks.

He brought his hand up to cup the left side of her face just as she finished tightening the last of his fastenings. She looked up at him as he bent his head slightly forward, so she could bid him her usual farewell.

She clasped the back of his head with her right hand, pulling him closer as she pressed her lips to his forehead, placing a soft kiss over the crescent moon she found there.

The burning and pulsing temporarily abated, the bond to his mate proving to be stronger than the connection to his daughter. The tension and tightness flowed from his form, dissipating into the air around them. Time was of the essence, but for the moment, for a few precious seconds, just for the two of them, time stood still.

There was no pain or indecision. There was no guilt or regret. There was no honor to be lost or found. There was simply the comfort of his mate's embrace, the soft sound of their co-mingled breathing, and the gentle caress of her fingers against his scalp.

Rin had died that day nearly 22 years ago. As he assumed, because of their connection and his life's blood flowing quite forcefully through his own veins, the imps from the Underworld did not appear. Instead, a heavy blanket of cold seemed to settle over him, chilling him to the bone, freezing his blood as his own heart rate slowed, his breathing becoming rapid and shallow. A field of gray clouded his vision, partially obscuring events as they took place in Akako's healing quarters.

His mate's hand, which had squeezed his so fiercely mere minutes before was now cold, limp and damp within the confines of his claws. His ears were still ringing, but her screams, curses and crying had died down, diminishing to low whimpers and whines then ceasing altogether. Her hair was wet with sweat, the stringy lengths clinging to the skin of her face in wispy tendrils, the black tresses providing a stark contrast against her, now, overly pale flesh. Her lips were cracked and dry, and her eyes, though wide, were glassy, dull and sightless.

As he watched her blink once . . . twice . . . for the third and final time, he could feel himself being drawn into the watery depths of her earth-colored eyes-muddy, murky, dismal and dark.

Is this what death feels like? He silently pondered as he slipped deeper into her still depths. It was cold, damp, suffocating, but strangely . . . comforting. He could not move, yet he was being moved. Downward . . . delightfully downward.

Tired. He felt so tired . . . so heavy and worn. His senses dulled, and he felt himself drifting downward . . . His upper eyelids met his lower lids. His chin dropped to his chest. Muffled sounds made their way to his ears, but he paid them no mind. Something was pulling him, calling him, and he felt compelled to answer.

The muffled sounds soon slipped away, replaced by the peaceful pounding of his own heart. It was so soothing, so calming, so assuring to know that he was alive and his mate would survive because of it.

Yes, as long as one of them lived, both their safety was secured. He felt a small, smug smile tug at the corners of his mouth, then he felt himself falling forward, drifting downwards. The descent was slow and controlled, advancing onward into a seemingly endless space. There was no up or down, no left or right, no rushing forward, nor turning back. There was only the only the rhythmic beating of his own heart, the soft sounds of his own breath, the gentle . . . pull that began just beneath his navel and radiated outward, onward . . . downward.

Slow and slower. Dull and duller. Heavy and heavier. His eyes closed. His arms hung down at his sides. His feet . . . were no longer there. Somehow at some time, he'd apparently summoned his cloud of youki, and it seemed to be taking him wherever he needed to go.

He idly thought on the strangeness of the situation. He seemed to recall being in the middle of something rather important, but that idea soon slipped away as the sound of his heartbeat was reduced to a soft thumping sound he could more readily feel than hear. He felt the sudden spray of moisture as it breezed across his face, and slowly--slower than they'd ever moved in life--his eyes drifted open.

Tenseiga pulsed in warning.

This was wrong . . . very wrong. He knew this place-the mist-covered landscape, the blue, sunless sky, the massive skeletal remains below . . .

This was the Other World. That was the tomb of his great father. But that couldn't be. . .

He was alive, not dead. He was in the castle, not in the sunless lands. He was sitting by his mate, not floating in the sky. And his mate was . . . his mate was?

Did he have a mate?

What was this . . . fog that seeed to have settled in his brain?

Tenseiga pulsed yet again, more loudly and forcefully than before.

Above him, a slim silhouette caught his attention. High above the clouds, nearly out of his superior sight, was a lone, lean figure running along quite easily on what appeared to be a rope of some type . . . No, not a rope-wider than a rope, broader, more substantial . . . a footbridge, perhaps.

Yes, a footbridge. It began somewhere far behind him and extended way beyond his sight. Despite the seemingly flimsy nature of the structure, the figure above him seemed to have little difficulty traversing its length and was moving along at a steady but rapid pace.

Again, Tenseiga pulsed at his hip. What was it that it wanted to tell him? What was it about that figure? And what was it about this footbridge that seemed so familiar?

He watched with mild interest as the figure came to a gap in the planks beneath his feet... No, not his feet, her feet. The figure's back was towards him, his features too obscured by the distance to make a completely accurate identification, but certain things were clear-the flare of her hips, the curve of her behind, the shapely contours of her calves and thighs. These features were distinctly female . . . and oddly familiar.

What was it? What was it about that bridge? What was it about that female? What-

As the female briefly took to the air, leaping over the gap in her path, landing gracefully on the other side then continuing on her way, he experienced a sudden burst of exhilaration followed by an overwhelming sense of dread, an anxiety he could not name, a sense of loss he could not explain . . .

That female . . .

Again, she approached a gap in the bridge's design, and again she took to the air.

Anger. An inexplicable rush of anger.

What did she think she was doing! Where did she think she was going!

She was . . .

An odd twinge over the right side of his chest, an urgent pull just beneath his navel.

Her feet, again, made contact with the planks of wood, and she continued on her way.

He followed.

He did not know why, but he had to. The twinge grew to a sting, The sting began to itch. The itch began to burn, and the burn began to ache, to pulse, to throb. The pull in his lower region was so strong, so insistent, so . . . irresistible. As a lodestone directed travelers on the sea, this pull directed him. It was sharp, keen, acute and undeniable.

He did not know her, but, somehow, he knew she was responsible for his discomfort. He increased his speed, trailing behind her, following her unfaltering footsteps from beneath the clouds.

As he rose above the cloud-line, breaking through the shroud of mist, fully catching sight of the female's retreating form, he again felt his ire rise. This was wrong. He did not know why; it simply was.

He did not follow anyone. He did not need anyone. This female was nothing, no one, nobody-

Tenseiga pulsed, so did the . . . wound on his chest.

This female was nothing--a mere mortal on her last legs of life.

Again, his father's sword pulsed.

Yes. That is what the bridge was. He recalled reading about that, now. When humans died messengers from the Other World appeared. They ripped the soul from the human's body and tossed them here . . . to the "in-between" place. While on the bridge, the human still lived. The gaps in the bridge represented the separation between this world and the next. The jump necessary to cross these breaches represented death, and the time she spent in the air stood for the state between life and death.

If you led a "good" life, the journey was easy, the transition quick and painless. But if the life you led was less than righteous, you fumbled and faltered, fearing the inevitable to the world down below. The good went on to pass into the next life, and the wicked fell into hell and forgetfulness. The wicked would linger here till they had learned their lesson or till their surviving kin had cleansed their souls. The cleansing took seven years; learning the lesson on your own could take centuries . . .

The female, again, took to the air, successfully surpassing yet another gap, then safely landing on the next part of the bridge.

Sesshomaru growled. The pain in his chest intensified; the strength of the pull magnified.

Desperate to discover the source of his discomfort, he tore his haori open, exposing an odd mark over his right pec . . . an outline of a red rose, surrounded by the solid blue half circle of the crescent moon.

He focused in on the female. As her hair bounced behind her, blown back by the breeze she created cutting across the footbridge, he saw it. There on her neck. Just above her collarbone and slightly below her left ear . . . his mark, his symbol of office . . . and that would mean that she was his, as well.

A field of red bled into his vision.

How dare she run from him? How dare she flee from him? How dare she turn her back to him as he blindly rushed after her!

Seemingly heedless of his presence behind her, she leapt over yet another gap in the bridge. The mark on his chest pulsed painfully, and he covered it with his left hand, seeking to shield it from further assault.

And then he knew.

Rin. Rin was dying. She was bleeding to death on the floor of Akako's quarters, and, being bonded, his soul fled after hers.

But . . . he was not dead, and he wouldn't let her die, either.

His left hand fell to the side as his right reached for the hilt of Tenseiga. It was pointless to call out to the wayward spirit. He knew her, but there was no guarantee she would know him. The farther she traveled along the bridge, the wider the gap between one plank and the next, the longer she stayed up in the air, the further they drifted from the land of the living and into the realm of the dead.

The red fled from his vision, a smug smile curling the corners of his lips. He did not know how long they had been gone, but he had no doubt their pups were waiting for them.

He drew his father's sword, the youkai blade pulsed and with one fluid swing, he sliced through the supports of the bridge and watched as his mate finally faltered, then fell.

He caught her in an instant, her body a tangle of arms, legs and hair. She looked up at him, somewhat startled, an earthly light dancing in the back of her eyes.

"No," he said simply, and they both woke up.

8 8 8

He finally broke free from their embrace, pushing her slightly away as he took a measured step backwards, the tips of her fingers threading through his hair then dropping to her sides.

She lowered her head, temporarily hiding her eyes beneath her bangs, then, just as quickly, snapped herself to attention.

He inclined his head slightly forward and bid her her usual farewell. "I will return."

She put on a bright smile, unshed tears shining brightly in her dark eyes, and bowed in reply. "I will be waiting."

He then left her and let his bond with their daughter lead his way.

The night air was cold, and the wind whipped against him, pelting him with ice, blinding him with snow, but he would not cease, he would not slow, he would not stop until she had been found, and there was finally peace between them. With all they had gone through simply to have her, with everything they had done just to keep her healthy, with everything they had sacrificed solely for the sake of her happiness . . . they would not lose her now.

8 8 8

Sorano slowly began to recover. The cold had helped clot her blood, and the snow did much to numb her pain. She turned her head slightly to the left to see her mate laying facing down in a pile of crystalline red. She opened her mouth to speak and to let a few flakes of snow wet her parched throat.

"He . . . comes for us, Kiyoshi." A few more flakes fell and she swallowed the frozen water readily. She then drew in a few deep breaths and pushed them out, her eyes drifting partially closed.

Her vision grew dim as her thoughts became bleak. Though I have said I hated him, and I have cursed every one of our kin, he comes for me . . . How I hate this life . . .

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Author's Note: This chapter took so long because I'm loving life, and this chapter was all about death. And if you're confused, don't worry. If you have questions, continue to keep them in mind. Things will slowly become clearer as the story progresses.

Thanks for reading and reviewing, and I hope I didn't disappoint,

theMaven :)