InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ A Purity Short: The Fairy Tale ❯ Frustration ( Chapter 9 )

~~Chapter Nine~~

~Frustration~

 

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:Edinburgh, Scotland, UK:

:Sunday, December 11, 2061:

 

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“. . . What . . .?”

 

Meara flinched and bit her lip, rubbing her forearms as she told herself to stay calm. “I'm sorry, Morio,” she murmured, unable to look him in the eye.

 

Morio didn't respond right away, and she winced when the glass he'd been holding in his hand cracked and shattered.

 

“I tried to tell him that I'd made plans, but—”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course you did,” he bit out in a caustic tone, and he shook his hand, flicking water on her before stomping around the counter and turning on the faucet tap with a vicious twist of his wrist.

 

“I did,” she argued softly. She'd known he was going to be upset. She hadn't realized that he was going to be furious . . . maybe she should have . . . “Please . . . please don't be angry . . .”

 

Morio snorted and snatched a towel out of the drawer beside the sink, striding back around the counter and bending down to clean up his mess. “You know, Meara . . . don't, okay? Don't make me feel guilty right now. I'll let you do that later; just not right now.”

 

“I'm not . . . I wasn't . . .” she sighed and shook her head. “I'm sorry.”

 

“Don't say you're sorry,” he growled.

 

“I'm s—” She swallowed hard, biting off the word that had almost slipped from her lips yet again.

 

“I'm so sick of hearing you say you're sorry!” he snarled. “Damn it! Just stop!”

 

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

Morio slowly lifted his gaze to meet hers, his eyes burning with anger that he didn't try to hide from her as he pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the larger pieces of glass and stepping over to drop it in the trash can. “Just once,” he mumbled, his voice a low growl. “Just once I'd like for you to put me first. Just . . . one . . . time.”

 

“You are first,” she argued, hurrying over and slipping her arms around his waist.

 

Morio turned his face to the side when she tried to kiss his cheek and pulled her hands apart to step back. “Can you just . . . let me be angry? Just this time?”

 

She tried to staunch her tears; she really did. He deserved to be angry with her . . . he deserved . . . a lot . . . “Morio . . .”

 

He shook his head again and strode over to the door, yanking it open and storming out of the cottage without another word.

 

Meara watched him go, everything inside her telling her to run after him, and yet she couldn't. He'd come back. She knew he would. He was simply upset with her, and with good reason.

 

Stumbling over to the sofa, she sank down, burying her face in her cupped hands as the first sob racked through her body. She was trapped, wasn't she? Damned if she did; damned if she didn't . . . The precarious balance was tilting, and she had to do something before it was too late. Morio . . . she owed him that . . . but Aislynn . . . Didn't she owe her something, too? A childhood that was closer to what a real childhood should be than hers had ever been . . .

 

Or was that just an unattainable dream? Was she doing more harm than good to the girl she was trying so desperately to protect? Her nanny had told Meara that Aislynn spent the days between visits walking around with her little hand outstretched. On Mondays, she always had her five fingers stuck out; on Tuesdays, it was four. On Wednesdays, it was three, and so on, and then on Friday mornings, she'd get out of bed and run outside to stand in the empty driveway until Meara arrived early in the evening. For reasons that Meara didn't want to dwell on, the idea of her sister learning how to count, day by day . . . it was painful . . .

 

But Morio . . .

 

She'd thought in the beginning that it'd be all right; that he understood, and while she knew that he really wanted to, how could he when all he knew was the doting family that he bragged on; the loving parents who would drop everything and plan a trip halfway around the world to visit their child? He'd lived a life that she'd never been able to touch, and while it made him into a man who loved her without a doubt, could she really blame him for feeling that she was putting him off when he took a back seat to her family—to her father—time after time after time? True, he came first in her heart—always first. How could she prove that to him, though, when she jumped when the great Ian MacDonnough commanded every single time?

 

“Just this one last time, Morio . . . I promise . . .” she whispered, her voice muffled by her hands.

 

But he wasn't there to hear it.

 

 

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`You're a bastard, you know that?'

 

Morio jammed his hands deeper into his pockets and hunched his shoulders forward, glowering at the sidewalk passing under his feet. `Yeah . . . maybe . . .'

 

`Maybe? Try definitely . . . that was low, and you know it. It's not her fault.'

 

Sucking in a sharp breath only to let it go just as quickly, Morio wandered through the streets of Edinburgh without a real destination in mind. `I . . . know . . .'

 

`It's hard for her, and you're making it worse. What are a few months—a couple years—when you have the rest of your lives to look forward to?'

 

`I know,' he maintained, wrapping his hand around the thin gold band buried deep in his pocket—fingering the smooth diamond as a sense of utter hopelessness washed over him. `I thought . . . I thought this Christmas was going to be different; that's all . . . That's all . . .'

 

`So you have to spend another Christmas alone . . . you'll have hundreds of them with her later, right?'

 

`. . . Right.'

 

`And I hate to tell you, baka, but you knew it from the start, and you said that it'd be okay. You think you have the right to change the rules this late in the game?'

 

`. . . I don't want to change the rules,' he argued with a grimace as he veered to the right, rounding the corner of Cowgate onto South Bridge. `I just want to . . . bend them a little . . .'

 

“Oh, Morio! I was just about to close up for the night! Wondered if you'd be by for your daily flower, and here you are!” Nessa Dreyfuss called out as he started to pass by.

 

Morio blinked and slowly lifted his chin to meet the cheerful smile of the florist. “Oh . . . yeah . . . Meara's flower . . .”

 

“Ach, mon, that doesna look like a happy face,” she chided, clucking her tongue like a mother hen. “Having a spat, are you?”

 

He heaved a sigh and grimaced. “Not exactly . . .”

 

The clucking commenced once more. “Hmm . . . take her a flower, and she'll forgive you.”

 

Wrinkling his nose, he cast the woman a sidelong glance. “What makes you think I did something wrong?”

 

“You've got that guilty look about you, Morio Izayoi . . .” She reached back and grabbed a large pink chrysanthemum out of a vase just inside the door. “There now . . . on the house.”

 

“Thanks,” he replied, taking the bloom and offering Nessa a low bow. “Maybe you're right.”

 

“Of course I'm right! She's a lucky lass, you ken? If I were twenty years younger, I'd be chasing you, myself.”

 

“Would you?” he said as he finally managed a wry grin.

 

“That I would. Now get out of here, will you? I've a husband waiting and dinner to get on the table.”

 

Morio nodded and bowed again before wandering along the street once more. The flower was deep pink; as pink as Meara's lips . . . as pink as the pretty blushes that stained her cheeks whenever he caught her staring at him . . . He loved her more than he loved himself—more than he loved waking up in the morning; more than he loved the sunrise and the sunset . . . He'd agreed to her terms because the alternative had been something that he just didn't want to consider, and yet . . .

 

And yet here he was, wandering the streets of the timeless old city, staring at the sidewalk as though he were searching for truths written on the worn paths . . .

 

He'd left her crying. He knew he had. Maybe in that respect he was no better than her father. After all, he'd never been there for her; not as a child when she'd needed a daddy, and certainly not now. Morio had left her, too, and maybe his abandonment had been worse—so much worse—because he was the one who told her he loved her.

 

His thoughts turned toward the little girl—Aislynn. He'd only seen pictures of the child. With her serious expression, her wide gray eyes . . . she'd looked like a lost soul, and Morio grimaced. He'd asked Meara once if she had pictures of herself as a child. She'd hesitated before answering. “No,” she'd said. “No one thought to take pictures, I suppose . . .”

 

Meara was the one who bought Aislynn dolls and toys: those things Meara never had. Meara was the one who coaxed Aislynn out into the gardens to take pictures with her digital camera—hundreds of pictures of a little girl who was too shy to smile at the odd electronic device. Meara hugged her and cuddled her; gave her all the doting affection that a child needed to have. Meara helped her brush herself off when she stumbled and fell, and Morio . . .

 

Morio was bastard enough to be angry at her for caring about her baby sister when no one else did.

 

Stopping abruptly, he blinked and stared. It took a moment for him to realize that he'd come full-circle. Standing on the sidewalk before the path that led to the front door of the cottage, he clenched his teeth and heaved a sigh, lifting the flower to his nose for a mere second, breathing in its scent. Squaring his shoulders, he strode up to the small porch and reached for the door handle. It'd be no more than he deserved if she launched something directly at his head as he entered the cottage.

 

She was curled up on the sofa with her doll clutched against her chest, the smell of her tears thick in the air. She'd cried herself to sleep in his absence, and Morio's ears flattened as the excruciating sense of guilt nearly overwhelmed him.

 

Closing the door softly, he paused for a moment to gather his thoughts before pushing himself away from the wall and crossing the floor to kneel beside her, smoothing her hair out of her face with a trembling hand as he smothered a low whine.

 

She moaned quietly, her brows furrowing though she turned toward his hand without opening her eyes.

 

“Meara,” he murmured, stroking her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Meara . . .”

 

She opened her eyes slowly, and he grimaced when fresh tears washed into her gaze. Quickly sitting up, she grasped his hand and held it tight as the doll slipped from her, falling onto the floor with a dull thud. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “Please believe me . . .”

 

“Don't apologize,” he said, trying in vain to swallow the lump that blocked his throat and he blinked rapidly to dissipate the moisture that clouded his vision. “I . . . I was a bastard, and I'm sorry.”

 

His words only served to worsen her upset, and she quickly shook her head. “You're right . . . You're right . . . I'm a horrible, horrible person! I made a promise to you, and I broke it . . . and that makes me a liar, too . . .”

 

“You're not a liar,” he assured her, hooking his hand around the back of her neck and pulling her forward, resting his forehead against hers. “Can I ask you for something?”

 

“Anything,” she sniffled. “Anything, anything, anything . . .”

 

He sighed, kissing her temple before letting go, dangling his hands between his bent knees. “Do you have a picture of Aislynn?”

 

She looked confused, but nodded slowly, reaching over to nab her purse off the table beside the sofa. It didn't take her long to dig a photograph out of her wallet that she handed to him without a word.

 

The little round face stared back at him, her bright gray eyes too solemn, too serious. The smudge of a red Cupid's bow mouth . . . the palest cheeks . . . her nose was so little that it brought the term `button nose' to mind, and Morio smiled sadly. “Do you care if I keep this?” he asked.

 

“Okay,” Meara agreed slowly. “But why . . .?”

 

“Sometimes I just need to remember why we're doing this; that's all. Call it a reminder.”

 

“A reminder . . .?”

 

He heaved a sigh and lowered the picture, lifting his gaze to meet hers once more. “Sure . . . a reminder . . . She's cute . . . definitely worth it.”

 

“That's just it,” Meara said with a sigh. “As much as I love her, I love you, too, and . . . and sometimes I feel like . . .”

 

Morio straightened up enough to turn and sit on the sofa, drawing Meara into his lap and holding her close while she gathered her thoughts. “Like what?” he prompted when she didn't speak.

 

Cuddling closer to him, she sighed again, shaking her head just a little as she closed her eyes. “I can't help but feel like it's impossible . . . that I can't be with her and with you at the same time . . .”

 

“That's not true,” Morio insisted, unaware that he was holding her, rocking her, soothing her as though she were little more than a pup. “She'll always be welcome wherever we are. Don't you know that?”

 

“I know that,” she whispered. “My head tells me that you're right. My heart . . .” She drew a deep breath to bolster her rapidly fraying resolve. “I don't think I can do this anymore . . . and I don't want to ask you to, either.”

 

“Meara . . .”

 

She swallowed hard and shook her head, tears clinging to her eyelashes, sparkling like the sunlight on water, causing an ache so thick, so deep that Morio grimaced. “I . . . I have to tell him . . .”

 

Wild hope surged through him at the resolve in her tone, and yet he couldn't help feeling like he had done something worse than what her father had over the years. He sighed, pulling her close again. “You don't have to, Meara . . . It's all right. I told you I'd wait for you. I will, you know.”

 

She shook her head again, buried her face against his chest for a moment. “I feel like I'm being pulled apart,” she said, her voice throaty, raw. “When I'm with you, I feel like I should be with her, and when I'm with her, I just want to be with you . . . and . . . and . . .”

 

Kissing her forehead gently, Morio wiped the streaking tears from her cheeks. “Don't cry, okay? I'm sorry that I made you cry . . .”

 

She drew a ragged breath and sniffled. “I . . . I love you.”

 

He smiled wanly despite the gravity in his expression. “I love you more,” he told her.

 

“You shouldn't,” she maintained.

 

“But I do.”

 

She sighed.

 

“This is for you,” he said, handing her the flower.

 

She gazed at it for a minute, another tear spilling over, falling on the petals like the gentlest rain.

 

Morio grimaced. “All right; enough of that . . . since you're going back there for Christmas, I thought I'd give you your present early.”

 

“You never let me have my presents early,” she pointed out. He grinned when she fell for the diversionary tactic.

 

He shrugged. “If you don't want it now . . .” he drawled.

 

“I never said that!” she protested.

 

“Sounded like that's what you were saying . . .”

 

She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Give it to me.”

 

“Okay, okay,” he relented. “It's in my pocket.”

 

“Your pocket?” she echoed with a shake of her head.

 

“Yes, in my pocket. You have to find it.”

 

She stared at him for a moment before slipping off his lap, depositing the flower on the table beside the sofa and digging her hand into his right pocket. He chuckled when she brushed a ticklish spot, his body jerking slightly before he controlled the impulse. “What's the matter, Meara? Can't you find it?”

 

She narrowed her eyes stubbornly and dug a little deeper. He groaned when she brushed something that was definitely not her present. She blushed, realizing why he'd made that particular sound, but didn't give up. “You know . . . that's not really what I was talking about, but if you want to play with that instead, I don't think I'd mind . . .”

 

Her blush deepened, and she shook her head but smiled. “You're horrible, Morio Izayoi.”

 

Her claws raked lightly over the part of his hip that reacted the most violently to the tickle stimuli, and he rolled to the side to avoid the contact. “Okay! Wrong pocket!”

 

Meara pulled her hand out and bit her lip. He could tell from the look on her face that she wanted to tickle him more but feared the retaliation. Leaning over him, she reached into the left pocket and fished around for a few moments. “I can't find anything . . .”

 

Morio snorted. “You shouldn't be groping around down there and then tell a guy that you can't find anything . . . it's bad for the ego.”

 

She shot him a droll if not completely embarrassed glance before resuming her search.

 

He watched her face for any sign that she'd located the ring. It took a minute, but she stopped suddenly, her eyes rounding as her lips formed a silent `oh' as she hesitantly lifted her gaze to meet his. “Is this . . .?” she breathed.

 

Chuckling softly, he nodded as she slowly, hesitantly pulled her hand out of his pocket once more. She gasped as she stared at the ring, shaking her head as her eyes filled with tears again. “No!” he insisted, pulling her close again. “You're not supposed to cry!”

 

“I can't help it!” she wailed, her hands trembling as she held up the ring as though she were examining it—quite impossible since she had tears running down her cheeks again.

 

“Meara,” he complained, kissing her temple and wiping her face. “I don't like to make you cry, you know. Makes me feel like a bloody bastard . . .”

 

She shook her head, uttering a terse laugh despite the flow of tears. “Does this mean . . . you want to . . .?”

 

He rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Will you marry me, Meara MacDonnough? Not now, but when you're ready . . .? Make an honest man out of me?”

 

She choked out a gruff sound as she leaned away to stare at him before launching herself at his chest, her arms locking around his neck with a death-grip. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes, yes!”

 

He smiled to himself, stroked her hair, his happiness tempered by the moisture that saturated his shirt as she sobbed. “I told you I love you, right?”

 

She nodded but didn't let go.

 

“I don't remember a time when I didn't love you,” he mumbled. “I . . . I'm sorry I'm not as supportive as I should be.”

 

It seemed like a long time before she finally wound down to hiccups and sniffles. The little grin on her face was radiant and somehow poignant, nonetheless. Her eyes were reddened, her nose was pinked and shiny . . . Her lips still trembled from the emotion she'd spent, and yet . . . And yet he couldn't remember her ever looking quite as beautiful as she did in that moment. “You . . . you have to put it on my finger,” she said, clearing her throat and offering him a tumultuous smile.

 

Morio grinned and took the ring. “Balls, Meara . . . I made the damn diamond . . . I have to put it on your finger, too?”

 

“You made it?”

 

His grin widened. “Yep.”

 

“How?”

 

He shrugged, taking his time rolling the ring in his fingers as he rubbed her knuckles with his other hand. “The last time I went back to Japan . . .”

 

“Yeah?” she asked, letting her head fall back against his shoulder as she nestled into the crook of his arm beside him, her knees casually bent over his leg.

 

“Yep . . . I took a nice lump of coal and shoved it up Sesshoumaru's tight ass . . .”

 

She pulled her hand away from his and tugged his hair. “That's just wrong,” she pointed out despite the giggle that escaped her.

 

“Wasn't it?” he agreed, recapturing her hand and slipping the ring onto her finger before kissing her knuckles. “Truth is, I borrowed the old man's sword . . . it has the ability to send out diamond spears, and there are always smaller shards, too . . .”

 

“It can?”

 

Morio shrugged. “Sure . . . Tetsusaiga is a legendary blade, after all . . . you've heard of it, haven't you?”

 

She shook her head, holding her hand up and turning it from side to side as the diamond caught the light. “No.”

 

“Really? Kami . . . sounds like I'll have to educate you before you meet him, then.”

 

“But you said that his sword has a different name, didn't you? Ry—Ry-something . . .”

 

“What? No, the old man's sword is named Tetsusaiga,” he said slowly.

 

She shot him a perplexed look. “Your `old man' isn't your father . . .?”

 

It took him a second to figure out what she was asking, and when he did, he laughed. “No . . . the old man—the real old man—that's my grandfather, InuYasha. My father . . . he ain't nearly as old.”

 

“InuYasha . . .” she repeated slowly.

 

He nodded. “The hanyou of legend . . .”

 

“The angry hanyou?”

 

Morio chuckled. “That, too.”

 

“I'm sorry about Christmas,” she murmured.

 

Morio shrugged and wrapped his arms around her. “It's all right. My parents will still be here when you get home.”

 

She sighed but nodded. “You're a wonderful man . . . I don't think I tell you that often enough.”

 

“I'm not,” he assured her, shoving away the bleaker thoughts—the ones that he was loathe to admit that he had. With a gentle smile, he scooped her up and carried her toward the bedroom. “For you, though . . . I'll try to be.”

 

 

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A/N:

 

Monday's chapter a day early … I'll update when I can …

 

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Final Thought fromMeara:

He gave me a ring …!

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Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Fairy Tale): I do not claim any rights to InuYasha or the characters associated with the anime/manga. Those rights belong to Rumiko Takahashi, et al. I do offer my thanks to her for creating such vivid characters for me to terrorize.

 

~Sue~