InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Pinkie Swear ❯ Winter Heart ( Chapter 8 )

Disclaimer: The characters of InuYasha are not mine, they are property of Rumiko Takahashi, Shogakukan, Yomiuri TV, Sunrise, and Viz. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. No copyright infringement is intended. This was written with the sole intent of the reader's satisfaction and the author's own personal satisfaction.

 

=#= Winter Heart =#=

 

The enemies gather, as the Lord of the Western Lands is brought low.

 

No mighty blow has felled him; no blade has kissed his blood, no arrow has pierced his armor, no fist has darkened his perfect skin.

 

Two tiny hands hold what is left of his heart.

 

Two still, eerily quiet, unmoving hands that belong to a pale, silent, breathless corpse. Wisps of pretty, silky soft fly away hair catch and cradle the weight of tears like priceless jewels. Expensive fabric shreds under the slash of impotent claws as an unearthly, keening howl of anguish spills from an inhuman throat.

 

There is an answer from the thronging hoard as they mock what they cannot understand. The harsh clang of blade against shield and the sharp clamor of raised, angry voices drown out the hushed whimpers of his sobs.

 

There is blood on his hands. Her blood.

 

Among the stench of the gathered, her scent is the only one that matters. Softly, gently, like the drifting petals of a white magnolia tree, small and exquisite snowflakes begin to fall. The crisp, clean shock of frost purifies the air until a delicate, ephemeral shroud of white obscures her face.

 

He stands and the crowd falls back a step with wary distrust. He lifts the small, still form into his arms without so much as the slightest touch on his sword hilts. Stiff and awkward, stilted and with exaggerated care, he puts one foot in front of the other until he stands abreast of the boldest of his foes.

 

“Vermin lover!” a tall ogre chortles as he spits at the Lord's feet.

 

He silences it with a look. For a long moment the ogre locks eyes with him, then suddenly, inexplicably, falls over dead. The rest of the brood mutely yields ground as he carries his beloved away.

 

Deep into the wildest, coldest mountains of the North he bears her until he comes to the doorstep of his father's oldest friend. His orders to his vassal are peculiar; but elemental does as his master wishes. Whispering sweet chants into the child's ear, he enfolds her within his frozen embrace, sealing her away from rot or decay.

 

Rosy cheeked, peaceful faced, the girl slumbers behind a wall of untouchable ice. For the very, very few unfortunates who dare to venture as far as to look upon her, they see a small maiden in repose, her hands cupping something dark and precious against her breast.

 

His heart.

 

Where once the Lord of the West lived under the veil of his father's legacy, there is no talk of his sire left on the lips of his dead enemies. There is no mocking, foolhardy youths left to challenge his birthright; only a peaceful field of many graves.

 

Cold, ethereal, as unshakeable as eternal winter, the Lord of the Western Lands waits, secure in his power, for the elusive, ephemeral thaw of Spring.