InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ The Price of the Dream ( Chapter 41 )

~~Chapter 41~~

~The Price of the Dream~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Griffin flinched and opened his eyes, grinding his teeth together as a consuming ache jarred him out of an otherwise peaceful slumber. Isabelle whimpered, snuggling in closer against him, and as coherence seeped over him, so did the regret.

 

`God . . . what did I . . .?'

 

His youkai sighed. `You don't remember?'

 

He grimaced, smashing a hand over his face, wishing that he really didn't remember. `Damn it . . .'

 

Unfortunately, he did, and a little too well at that . . .

 

The memories were real, raw: as fresh in his mind as the feel of Isabelle curled up against his side. `N . . . no . . .'

 

He had to get out of there; had to get away from her. Even now, all he wanted to do was to reach for her, to reassure himself that she was real, that she was right there beside him. She looked so . . . so happy, didn't she? She looked like there wasn't a thing in the world that she could be given that would make her happier than she was at that moment.

 

And that thought was enough to kill him inside.

 

`What have I . . . done . . .?'

 

Carefully shifting her so that he could get up without disturbing her sleep, Griffin sighed, resisted the urge to smooth her brow when she frowned, snuggling under the covers that he drew up over her. Even in sleep her youki called to him, and he sighed. He'd done enough, hadn't he? He was a fool—ten times a fool—especially when he knew damn well that the only one who would suffer in the end would be her . . .

 

But his body was nearly at its limit, and if he stayed where he was much longer, he'd spend the next week regretting it. He winced as he swung his legs off the bed and pushed himself to his feet. They nearly buckled under his weight—he had to catch himself on the stout end post of the bed to keep himself from falling flat on his face. It was sheer resolve alone that helped him to don his clothes. The exertion of the night before coupled with having slept in one position for too long was wreaking havoc on his body.

 

“Where you goin'?” Isabelle murmured as Griffin reached for the door handle. She didn't sound completely awake, and when he dared to glance back at her, he frowned at the glassy quality of her stare.

 

“I, uh . . . I was going for a walk. Just . . . go back to sleep.”

 

She yawned and snuggled down under the blankets. “You want me to go with you?” she mumbled.

 

“N-no,” he insisted, praying that she could see the blush that he could feel. “Just . . .” He sighed. “I'll be back.”

 

“Mm,” she agreed, closing her eyes once more. She was asleep again within moments, and Griffin paused in the doorway, soaking in the image of her, lying in that bed with her hair tousled and mussed . . . with a peaceful sort of half-smile on her face . . .

 

A cold, wet nose touched his hand, and Griffin blinked, shifting his gaze to stare at the dog who was sitting at his feet, wagging his tail quite happily. “Watch over her, Charlie,” Griffin said. “Stay here.”

 

The dog whined—he always seemed to know when Griffin was planning to go for a walk. Charlie bobbed his head in an effort to sway him then whined softly when Griffin shook his head `no'. Tail drooping, ears sticking out to the sides, Charlie padded over to the side of the bed and stretched out on the floor.

 

Satisfied that the dog would watch over Isabelle in his absence, Griffin forced himself out of the bedroom. He had to reach out to steady himself against the wall as he forced his feet to cooperate, but the ache in his body was nothing in comparison to the recrimination that riddled him.

 

By the time he'd managed to reach the foyer, he was sweating from the effort he'd expended, and it was sheer force of will that he was able to put his shoes on. Scowling as he jammed his arms into his coat and reached for his cane, he sighed and shook his head before making the trek toward the back door.

 

Twenty kinds the fool, that's what he was . . . Even if he could believe that a woman like Isabelle really belonged with a man like him, he'd just proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was too damn old to keep up with her.

 

Pulling the door closed behind him, he heaved a sigh and reached for the railing, leaning heavily on his cane. It grated on his nerves, his reliance on the damned thing at times like this, solidifying in his mind that he really wasn't as capable as other youkai—reminding him of things that he wished he didn't have to remember.

 

The sky had darkened. The moon had moved further away, blocked now and again by drifting clouds. The cold had seeped into the pre-dawn earth. Nothing stirred in the air; only the fabricated sounds of man-made technology that he'd never quite grown accustomed to despite having lived among the general populace for the last few decades. Picking his way through the yard and into the forest beyond, Griffin shook his head, grinding his teeth together against the sharp edges of pain that shot down his legs with every step.

 

What had he done . . .?

 

Wincing as the entirely too vivid memories washed over him in an unforgiving torrent, he couldn't repress the low growl that escaped. He hadn't meant to let her get so close, damn it . . .

 

He'd gone to her room to check on her—that's what he'd told himself at the time, anyway. He just wanted to look in on her; to make sure that she was sleeping soundly. He wasn't going to stay; of course he wasn't . . . He wasn't going to sit in there and . . .

 

Grimacing as a voice whispered in his head, he paused long enough to rub his face in a weary sort of way. `Liar,' the voice said over and over again. `Liar, liar, liar . . .'

 

It was impossible to ignore the truth; the knowledge that there had been absolutely no reluctance on her part. No, she'd welcomed his attentions, hadn't she? She'd . . . craved it as badly as he had, and yet he knew that as precious as that moment had been, there could never be a lifetime of it; not for a man like him. He'd done too much, seen too much, and while everyone around him that he'd ever cared about had fallen by the wayside, he, alone, had remained . . .

 

`Not true,' his youkai said in a strangely gentle tone. `Attean and Maria—”

 

`—Don't know a thing, do they?' he snapped back, baring his fangs in a flash of unaccountable anger. True enough, wasn't it? He'd never told them because . . . because the less they knew about him, the better off they'd be. Maybe he'd thought on some level that he was protecting them from getting too close; to falling prey to the curse that he just couldn't shake off, the stigma on his soul that manifested itself in much the same way as the scars that traversed his body.

 

He'd managed to protect Attean and Maria—he'd owed them that much after they'd saved him, but Isabelle . . .

 

And that was the crux of the problem, wasn't it? In the past three weeks, he'd come to understand a few things—things he didn't want to think about, and yet they were there, all the same. He'd let her come too close, lowering his defenses without even realizing, and that wasn't acceptable; not in the least. She was . . . too necessary to him; too integral, and . . . and the need to distance himself from her was more for her sake than it was for his. If she could be saved . . .

 

If she could be saved, then that was all he could really ask for, wasn't it?

 

He'd tried to reason it all out in his mind so many times, and he knew that the reason he'd let her stay—the real reason—had nothing at all to do with the research, no matter what he'd maintained at the time. Sure, he'd used it as a good rationale in order to assuage his conscience, and maybe it held water, but he also knew damn well that her family was quite capable of seeing to her safety, and probably much better adept to it than he'd ever be. Even then, the truth of it was that he'd only changed the ultimate target, hadn't he? If someone did come after the research, they'd end up coming after her, anyway. Having moved both her and the research . . . maybe that had been stupid—massively stupid.

 

`Or maybe you're simply trying to push her away and need a reason to let her go.'

 

He didn't respond to that. There was truth in that, wasn't there? Maybe somewhere deep down he needed this—convincing himself that she definitely would be safer if she were further away from him because . . . because he just wasn't strong enough to let her go otherwise . . .

 

Choking out a mournful little sound—not quite a growl, not quite a whine, Griffin gritted his teeth and forced his feet to keep moving, his slow gait tottering and uneven as he tightened his grip on the cane.

 

`What if . . . what if you're wrong?' his youkai voice spoke up suddenly. `What if it wouldn't really matter to her? She said . . . she said that she'd never leave you.'

 

Griffin winced, shaking his head. `She . . . she didn't say that . . .'

 

`She did; she did. You just weren't listening. She said it with her body, with everything she does . . . her youkai . . . it speaks to me . . .'

 

`That . . . that's not true,' he maintained. `She'll hate me eventually, and . . .'

 

`And you wouldn't be able to stand to see that; I know. If she ever looked at you with anything other than the emotion you see in her eyes now, right? But . . . but would she? Would she, really?'

 

`Of course she would!' he growled, stopping abruptly and leaning against a gnarled old tree. He was breathing heavily—he hadn't realized he was pushing himself so hard—he'd covered a lot more forest than usual in the time he'd been gone. `Who would want to be with a . . . a . . . a murderer?'

 

His youkai didn't respond to that. Not surprising, really. It was the truth, wasn't it? After all was said and done, that's what it amounted to, and Isabelle . . .

 

Wincing as the entirely too-vivid memory assailed him once more, as the scent of her—of them—mingled and rose to torment him, Griffin winced. Isabelle deserved better than a man like him could ever hope to give her.

 

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Mynra stifled a wide yawn with the back of her hand as she stumbled through the congested living room. Grimacing as she hit her shin against a stack of boxes haphazardly arranged beside a small chair, she paused to rub her leg before shoving the boxes back to clear a path to the kitchen.

 

`Damn that Ben, anyway,' she thought with an inward snort. `I should sharpen my claws on him the next time he dares show his pretty face around here . . .'

 

It was his fault, wasn't it? Damn him and his blackheart, he really just didn't care at all that he'd completely dumped on her . . .

 

“Good afternoon, Ms. Loy,” he'd said with that catty little grin of his—entirely sexy, but wholly catty, nonetheless. She'd always thought the panther-youkai was one of the finest men she'd ever clapped eyes on, after all . . .

 

She'd regarded him coolly over the brim of a mug of green tea. “Well, well, well . . . look what the cat dragged in,” she drawled.

 

He chuckled, flipping the end of the impossibly long black ponytail over his shoulder in a rather nonchalant sort of way. “Something like that,” he conceded, his smile widening by degrees.

 

“And to what do I owe the honor of your presence, oh mighty kitty lord?”

 

Shaking his head slowly, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “I wondered if you would be willing to do me a favor,” he said, foregoing the teasing commentary and cutting right to the chase.

 

“Hmm, what's in it for me?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow, letting her gaze travel down his tall, lanky frame and back up once more.

 

If he noticed, he didn't bother to comment though he hadn't been able to completely mask his discomfort behind a well-placed cough. “I've decided to move my office,” he replied, glancing at his watch and flicking his wrist to adjust the timepiece.

 

Myrna chuckled, waving a hand in a dismissive sort of way. “Oh, well, even if I could slip out of here which isn't likely, I'm not exactly what you'd call good at manual labor. Sorry about that.”

 

He chuckled again at her facetious tone of voice. “Can't say that I'd considered putting a woman like you to work in that capacity, Ms. Loy,” he admitted.

 

Turning around to pull a mug from the cupboard, she took her time preparing it for him. “A woman like me, huh?” She shot him a lazy little grin and shrugged. “And exactly what kind of woman am I?”

 

She was teasing, and he knew it. Slowly shaking his head, he held his hands up in a show of mock contrition. “Absolutely nothing bad, I assure you,” he rejoined smoothly.

 

“Hmm,” she drawled, resuming her casual stance once more. “Bad can be rather nice now and then, don't you think?”

 

He blinked slowly, his lips still quirked in the barest hint of a smile. “I'm sure it is,” he agreed. “But you know the saying: business before pleasure . . .”

 

“That's a damn shame, Ben,” she commented. Heaving a mock sigh, she nodded in agreement. “I have to admit you've got me rather intrigued, Benjamin. Let's hear your proposition.”

 

His smile broke wider, and he strode across the room, accepting the tea that she offered him. “You have quite a way with words, you know.”

 

“Do I?”

 

“Yes, you do.”

 

She couldn't help but smile at the hint of censure in his tone. The man was just too good, wasn't he? From what she'd gleaned about him long before she'd ever actually met him, he'd been that way his entire life. That he'd managed to live as long as he had without as much as a hint of anything that could be considered scandalous was amazing, and her smile widened as she wondered vaguely just how many women had tried over the years to bring the saint to his proverbial knees. “You know, if I wouldn't go straight to hell for it, I'd absolutely try to seduce you,” she mused.

 

He didn't blush exactly, but his cheeks did pink a trace amount. “You'd go to hell for that?”

 

“Isn't that what normally happens when a sinner dares to touch a saint?”

 

“Now you flatter me,” he remarked, sipping his tea. She had a feeling that he was hiding a smile behind that mug.

 

`More's the pity,' she thought with a dramatic sigh. `Damn, that man is nothing but walking, talking devastation . . .'

 

“Anyway, I wondered if I could impose upon you to go through some boxes of paperwork that's been gathering dust in the basement of my current office building. I meant to scan the documents into the computer database, but I never got around to it, you see . . .”

 

Wrinkling her nose, Myrna took her time washing out the mug and setting it on a folded towed beside the sink. “And here I was hoping that you'd have something much, much more . . . interesting in mind.”

 

He chuckled and stepped around her to rinse his mug in the sink. “A woman like you would break my heart in the end,” he quipped, matching his tone to hers.

 

She heaved a sigh and leaned against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest and narrowing her eyes on the youkai. Silver eyes so piercing that they felt as though they could see into a person's very soul rose to meet her gaze, and she cleared her throat softly, sheer bravado keeping her from looking away. “Damn it, Ben, why haven't you found a mate yet?” she murmured.

 

Ben shook his head, pinning her with a no-nonsense look designed to let her know that the topic she was delving into was not one he was willing to discuss with her. “I was hoping that you'd agree to help me with the files,” he prompted.

 

“Seriously, Ben, a man like you? Don't you have a myriad of women just dying to warm your bed?” she couldn't resist teasing.

 

“Hardly,” he replied with a derisive snort, “and I could have sworn that I told you that I didn't want to discuss that.”

 

Waving a hand airily, Myrna strolled out of the kitchen, her heels clicking softly on the floor. “If you want me to do your grunt work,” she called back over her shoulder, “then you can deal with a little teasing, Benjamin.”

 

“You're a dangerous woman, Ms. Loy,” he mused.

 

“Of course I am,” she quipped.

 

He smiled rather lazily. “I took the liberty of bringing a few boxes with me. There are more that I can bring in later, but . . . well, I figured that I'd give you a couple weeks to get through these before I do that.”

 

She quirked an eyebrow, unsure if she really wanted to hear the answer to the question she was about to pose. “How much work are we talking here?”

 

“Just a few documents,” he assured her, that catty grin of his widening just slightly, “nothing that a woman of your resourcefulness can't handle.” She didn't trust that smile, oh no . . .

 

Heaving a sigh as she poured a cup of strong coffee into a clean mug, Myrna glared dolefully at the small mountain of boxes stacked in what used to be her living room. “A few documents, my ass,” she muttered, shoving the carafe onto the warming pad and lifting the mug to her lips. “You owe me, Ben Philips. You owe me big time . . .”

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Griffin winced as he trudged up the steps, wondering why he was such a glutton for punishment when he knew damn well that he was going to be in an ungodly amount of pain when he finally sat down.

 

He'd walked for nearly three and a half hours—he could tell by the position of the sun in the sky. Unable to garner the courage to go back and face Isabelle, he'd almost walked himself into the ground instead.

 

How could something so entirely perfect be so very wrong? It bothered him, damn it, and why shouldn't it? For once in his life, he had given in; he'd let himself share in something that was so rare, so beautiful that he should, by rights, be one of the happiest men alive, and yet he couldn't. He couldn't stop thinking about Isabelle—about her laughter, about the way her eyes shone whenever she was content . . . She was a rare creature—the most wonderful person he'd ever known, and maybe she didn't belong with him, but would it be so terrible to let himself believe that she did, at least for awhile?

 

Maybe he could have if she didn't insist that she was his mate. Maybe if she'd never said those words he'd have been able to pretend that she really did belong with him, but . . .

 

But he couldn't pretend, could he? He'd forgotten how to do that a long, long time ago, if he'd ever known how to do it at all. Or maybe . . .

 

Maybe Isabelle was his last chance—his last chance to prove that he really could save someone who mattered to him, and it wouldn't make a difference, what came after, so long as he knew that she would be all right. If he could just save her . . .

 

Pushing open the door, Griffin let out a weary breath as he stepped into the warm house, unmindful for once of the snow caked to his boots and the mess they'd make on the floor. Gritting his teeth as he leaned against the wall and bent over to pull them off his feet, he winced as his back protested the strain brought on by the movement.

 

“Morning, Griffin,” Isabelle said, shuffling out of the kitchen with a lazy little smile and two mugs of tea. Wearing just that damned satin robe and nothing else, she padded over to him, carefully balancing the hot drinks as she leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “I was going to come looking for you if you weren't back soon. Here.”

 

Straightening up, he took both mugs from her hands and set them on the table, squaring his shoulders but refusing to look at her as he bit back the bile that rose in his throat at the very idea of what he was about to do—to say—to her. “Isabelle,” he began, praying that for once she'd keep her mouth closed and just hear him out. “Listen—”

 

“I drew a hot bath for you,” she said, missing the hint of foreboding in his tone. “I know, you're going to tell me that men don't take baths, but I figured that you'd be cold. A good, hot soak is a wonderful way to relax.”

 

“Listen to me,” he growled with a shake of his head. “Just be quiet and listen.”

 

Her ebullience didn't wane, but she did go silent as she reached around him for her tea mug.

 

He grimaced, gripping the edge of the table tightly, his claws digging into the hard wood, gathering what was left of his strength and still unable to look her in the eye. “I want you to pack your things and get out,” he said quietly.

 

Isabelle froze with her hand poised on the handle of the tea mug for a full minute before she slowly withdrew her arm and choked out a disbelieving laugh. “That's not funny, Griffin,” she reprimanded, her voice taking on a higher pitch—a sure sign of the upset she was struggling to hide.

 

“It wasn't meant to be. Last night . . . that . . . that shouldn't have happened,” he assured her, wishing that she'd let him do this the easy way just this once. “I'm serious.”

 

She stared at him for a few seconds. He could feel her gaze on him, but he refused to look to verify it. “No,” she said, flat out refusing to listen to him.

 

“I'm not joking, damn it,” he stated, irritation rising that she never would listen to him. “Just . . . just go, all right?”

 

“I won't,” she argued, shaking her head and stomping her foot. “Not unless you tell me why.”

 

Stifling a low growl, Griffin let go of the table and forced his rioting legs to move; to carry him out of the dining room and into the living room with Isabelle hot on his heels. “Nothing's changed, all right? Last night—”

 

She grabbed his arm to stop him. He jerked away and kept walking. “Don't you tell me that it meant nothing to you,” she said, casting him a furious glower. “You're not the kind of man who has sex for no reason at all so don't you dare stand there and lie to me and say that nothing's changed!”

 

“Just leave it alone, will you?” Griffin insisted, rounding on her long enough to pin her with an irritated scowl. The pain in his body was growing worse by the moment, and it was all he could do to stay on his feet. In the end, he supposed it might have helped him look angry instead of completely pathetic. In the end, he clenched his teeth and narrowed his glower before resuming his path to the desk chair. “Go home, Isabelle,” he gritted out, blinking quickly to stave back the hazy blackness that seeped into the edges of his vision.

 

She took a few moments to draw a deep breath. “What about the danger you thought I was in?” she challenged quietly. “I said you were crazy, and you said—”

 

“I know what I said,” he cut in coldly, reaching for the edge of the desk to steady himself as a cold bead of sweat ran down his cheek. “I was wrong, and even if I wasn't, you won't have the notes, so it's fine. If anyone comes after them, they won't go looking for you.”

 

“. . . I'm not leaving,” she stated with a resolve that broke no room for discussion.

 

“Yes, you are,” he contradicted, wiping his forehead on his shoulder. “This isn't open to discussion, damn it.”

 

“You love me,” she said, her voice falling to barely more than a whisper.

 

Closing his eyes against the pleading tone, Griffin swallowed hard and hoped that she couldn't see his face. “No, I don't,” he rasped out. The words sounded false to his own ears even as he realized that she spoke the truth. Even if he wanted to deny it, the pain in his chest that swelled and seethed was just too blatant to be ignored. “Please . . . go home.”

 

She didn't speak for a minute, and the silence thickened and grew—an angry thing; a hurtful thing. Griffin had to grit his teeth to keep himself together. When she did speak, her voice was soft, sad, and somehow full of a more cloying emotion: one that he couldn't quite define. “You look at me, Griffin Marin, and then you say that you don't love me.”

 

“Don't be—”

 

“If you can do it, I'll go.”

 

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done—possibly that he'd ever have to do. Turning his head slowly, meeting her eyes already awash with an unnatural brightness—a sheen of tears that she somehow held back—he swallowed hard, forced himself to gather what was left of his strength. Every bit of his being rebelled against the words that she wanted to hear; the ones that would set her free . . . He was a bastard, through and through, and . . . and she deserved so much more. Opening his mouth to words that just wouldn't come, Griffin closed his eyes for a long moment, willing the memories out of his mind—memories of her smiles and laughter, of her silly antics designed to amuse him or at the very least, to take his mind of more serious matters—the happiness in her expression when she made him cookies or gave him pecans—the sound of her, calling out his name as she clung to him . . .

 

In those moments, his resolve nearly faltered. In those precious seconds, he couldn't help the rise of panic that nearly choked him. All he wanted to do was to reach for her, to pull her to him and to beg her never to leave him. The sudden sound of a little girl's laughter and the flash of a bright yellow kimono stopped him, washed over him like a dousing of cold water, and his eyes snapped open as a distinct chill ran up and down his spine. “I don't . . . love . . . you,” he muttered, staring her dead in the eye and despising himself more with every passing second.

 

She flinched like he'd struck her, stepping back in retreat as if she believed that his words alone could hurt her. She shook her head once, twice, lifting a trembling hand to flutter over her lips as those damned tears welled in her eyes, and still he refused to look away. If he did, she'd know . . .

 

Choking back a sob, she blinked furiously to clear her vision, her cheeks pinking as she drew herself up proudly. “I see,” she said finally, blessedly . . . wretchedly. “Then I'll just get my things . . .”

 

`What are you doing, you idiot?' his youkai snarled as she turned on her heel and slipped out of the living room. `Go stop her!'

 

Shaking his head, Griffin didn't move, telling himself over and over again that things were better this way. Isabelle would be better off this way.

 

He could hear the sounds of opening and closing drawers, and he grimaced as Charlie ran down the hallway and back again, stopping long enough to cast Griffin the most confused expression he'd ever seen before on a dog.

 

Strangely, though, he felt completely numb; devoid of all emotion and drained to the point that it all seemed like a bizarre dream.

 

But he wasn't foolish enough to even attempt to convince himself that the empty feeling would last. Somehow he knew—just knew—that everything had been destined to end up this way . . .

 

 

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Final Thought fromIsabelle:

Stupid, stubborn man… !

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Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Avouchment): I do not claim any rights to InuYashaor 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~