InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ The Breaking Point ( Chapter 46 )

~~Chapter 46~~

~The Breaking Point~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Cain scowled at the sketchbook in his hand, gripping the sepia pencil so tightly that it snapped in half. “Damn it,” he growled, slowly shaking his head. “Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it!”

 

Heaving a frustrated sigh, he tossed the bits of pencil in the general direction of the trash can beside the work table and yanked the drawer open to grab another one.

 

Why couldn't he get this right?

 

“Hey, Dad, have you heard from the Australian tai-youkai yet?” Bas asked without preamble as he strode into the studio.

 

“No, Bas, I haven't,” he bit out tersely, flipping the page on the sketch pad as he glowered at the blank white expanse.

 

Bas frowned. “Maybe you should give him a call. Jilli's supposed to be back tomorrow, and she'll want to know if you found out anything—”

 

Whipping around to pin his son with a scowl, Cain dropped the pencil on the table with a clatter. “Damn it, Bas! You're going to be the tai-youkai sooner or later. Can't you figure out how to dial a fucking phone?”

 

Blinking in surprise at the unusual outburst from his father, Bas shifted his gaze from side to side as though he were looking for something. “Sorry,” he said slowly, cautiously. “When I told you about it, you said you would take care of it.”

 

Cain snorted indelicately, tossing the sketch pad onto the table and draping his hands on his hips as he pinned his son with a formidable scowl. “Yeah, well, it's about time you realized that I'm not going to be around forever. Things happen every day—things you don't expect, and what'll you do when you're the one that everyone comes crying to whenever they need their ass scratched?”

 

Narrowing his eyes on Cain, Bas shook his head. “I didn't realize I was crying, nor did I realize that I'd ever asked you to . . . scratch my ass,” he bit out.

 

“Can't you do anything for yourself?” Cain snarled.

 

Leaning back, crossing his arms over his chest, Bas nodded once, jaw ticking as he struggled to keep his composure in the face of his father's irrational anger. “Sure, I can.”

 

“Then why don't you do it instead of barging in here and asking me damn stupid questions?”

 

Eyes glowing with indignant irritation, Bas returned his father's glower. “I don't know. I didn't realize I was asking stupid questions. I didn't realize that you didn't give a great goddamn about your daughter.”

 

“Since when has it ever been all right for you to lecture me?” Cain demanded.

 

Bas turned his head, stared at the floor before slowly lifting his gaze once more. “I apologize,” he said in anything but an apologetic tone. Staring at Cain for another long moment, he finally pivoted on his heel and headed for the door. Stopping on the threshold, he turned back once more. “Tell me something, Dad.”

 

“What?” Cain growled, jerking the drawer open again and shoving things around in a vain attempt to find . . . something. He didn't even know what he was looking for . . .

 

Bas hesitated before answering, and when he finally did, his tone was clipped, terse. “Does this have something to do with Griffin Marin?”

 

Cain's chin snapped up as he slammed the drawer closed so hard that the table shook. “It's none of your business,” he snapped.

 

Bas stared at him and slowly nodded. “Yeah, sure. You know, maybe you should get this out of your system before you bite someone else's head off, like Mom's.”

 

That said, he stomped out of the studio, slamming the door in his wake.

 

Cain heaved a sigh and ran his hands over his face, shoving his bangs back as he squeezed his eyes closed. `Damn it . . .'

 

He'd thought he was all right this morning, hadn't he? When Gin had opened her eyes, he was still awake, unable to sleep but feeling somehow calmer. Maybe it had just been her proximity that had soothed him, comforted him, lent him the false sense of security in believing that everything was still alright, just as it had been the day before and the day before that . . .

 

Rubbing his forehead, he picked up the sketch book again, hooking the pencil with his index finger as he slumped back on the stool with a defeated sort of air. If he could just get this right, maybe . . .

 

The scratch of the pencil on the paper was the only sound in the stillness. The lines seemed to flow from his mind to his hand to create the image: a gentle flare here, the arc of a curve there . . . The image he could see in his mind as clear as the notion in a dream, and yet . . .

 

Yet he faltered and stopped, unable to piece together the lingering traces of a memory; unable to fix the details in his mind; unable to capture his thoughts on the paper.

 

`Damn it!'

 

Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he grimaced but refused to stop. He was almost there, wasn't he? Almost there . . .

 

But the lines wouldn't connect; the image he sought simply would not come.

 

“Damn it!” he snarled, whipping the tablet across the room. It smacked into the wall beside the door, and Gin yelped, hopping aside just in time to avoid the flying paper. “Sorry,” he grumbled, cheeks reddening as he avoided her curious gaze. “I . . . I didn't see you there . . .”

 

Kneeling down to retrieve the sketch book, she smoothed the bent pages and stood up, slowly making her way across the floor to stand beside him. “I'm all right,” she said quietly. “I thought maybe you could use some company.”

 

He didn't answer right away. Tossing the pencil onto the table, he stood up so quickly that the stool slid back. Gin caught it and steadied it while Cain stalked across the floor to the windows then over to the sofa situated not far from the worktable, feeling like a caged animal staring at the world outside of the cage—a world that he just couldn't reach. “I don't think I'm exactly what you'd consider good company,” he said stiffly.

 

“You're always the best company to me. Were you sketching?” she asked instead.

 

His chuckle was harsh, and he waved a hand in the direction of the sketch pad she held. “If you want to call it that.”

 

She nodded slowly, understanding his unspoken assertion that she should look at his failed attempts. Opening the book, she took her time leafing through the pages, gnawing on her lip when she finally lifted her gaze to meet his. “These are really good,” she ventured, her smile trembling though the warmth in her eyes was genuine.

 

He snorted indelicately and shook his head. “No, they're not,” he stated flatly. “They're shit—utter shit.”

 

“Cain . . .”

 

“You know what they say about me?” he asked suddenly, dropping onto the sofa and burying his face in his hands.

 

He felt her draw closer but didn't hear her; could feel the slight give as she sat down beside him. “What do they say?” she prompted.

 

Letting his hands fall away, he slumped back against the sofa, regarding his mate through veiled eyes, uttering an incredulous laugh that was full of self-disdain. “They say I can draw anything—anything at all. They say I can bring universes to life with the stroke of a brush . . . with clay and marble and stone . . . but I can't . . . I can't even sketch her.”

 

“Her?” Gin echoed with a shake of her head but must have realized who Cain was talking about, because she grimaced and bit her lip before quietly adding, “your . . . your mother.”

 

He grimaced and reached out, pulling Gin close against his chest, drawing the comfort from her that she so freely afforded him. “It's so . . . damn stupid,” he murmured, pressing his lips against her forehead as she smashed her face against his chest. “I can remember the . . . most idiotic things. I can remember this family of beavers . . . this one gnarled old tree that sort of . . . clung to the bank of the river like it was going to topple over and fall in, but it never did . . . Hell, I can remember chasing the cat up the tree—I got in trouble for that . . . but I can't . . . I can't remember her face . . . my own mother's face . . .”

 

She winced when he barked out a choked grunt of laughter; an incredulous sound that lacked any real humor. “But you were so young,” she reminded him.

 

“Yeah? Tell me, Gin. How would you feel if you couldn't remember your mother's face? For that matter, how would you feel if something happened to you, and your children couldn't even remember your face?”

 

“What do you remember?” she countered. “You have to remember something . . .”

 

Heaving a sigh, Cain closed his eyes. It was the same thing he'd thought about all night, and while he knew the answer to the question, he hated the thought of putting it into words. How could anyone understand what he couldn't explain; that his memories of his mother were based more in emotions and in sensation that in concrete pictures in his head? “I . . . I remember she always wore these . . . beautiful dresses. My father . . . he used to say that Mama was the only decoration that the house ever needed. They'd seem ridiculous by today's standards, I suppose. Long, flowing skirts with these full petticoats underneath, and . . . like . . . waterfalls of lace that tumbled from her sleeves, and . . . and the softest hands . . . always catching me when I tripped or . . . or ruffling my hair . . .” Trailing off, he drew a deep breath. He felt completely inept as he tried to put his thoughts into words, and Gin leaned away, stared into his face, her golden eyes bright with a shimmering sheen of unshed tears. “I remember she laughed a lot. All the time . . . even when she was trying to scold me . . . I remember the sound of her shoes on the hardwood floor—soft little clicks while her petticoats rustled . . . I remember these . . . pointless things, and I . . . I cannot remember her face.”

 

She reached up, gently pushed his bangs off his face, her fingertips lingering on his cheek. “I'd like that,” she said at last, her voice barely more than a whisper as a tremulous smile touched her lips.

 

“Like what?” he asked, shaking his head in confusion.

 

Her smile widened just a little, and she managed a weak laugh. “You asked me how I'd feel if my children couldn't remember my face, but if they could remember my laughter, and if they could remember how happy I was just to be their mom for any length of time . . . That'd be more than enough for me.”

 

Cain grimaced. “Baby girl . . .”

 

He pulled her close again, held her tight as the thickness of tears choked him, stung his eyes but stubbornly refused to fall. She sniffled and snuggled as close as she could as he marveled at the woman who never ceased to amaze him. “She loved you,” Gin said, her voice muffled by his body. “It was there in all your memories of her.”

 

“She did,” he agreed quietly. “She did.”

 

She held onto him for another minute then sat up, wiping her eyes with trembling fingers. Offering him a watery smile, she leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Do you want a piece of cake or something?”

 

He shook his head, catching an errant tear with the pad of his thumb. “No,” he said then sighed. “I should go find Bas and apologize.”

 

“Why?”

 

He couldn't manage to meet her gaze. “I yelled at him for . . . for no good reason.”

 

“I'm sure he's all right,” she assured him. “Anyway, I—what's this?” she asked, cutting herself off as she leaned over to snag the narrow wooden box off the table.

 

Cain grimaced and shook his head, gently pulling it from her grasp and turning it over in his hands. “It's . . . from my father,” he admitted at length. “Ben . . . gave it to me.”

 

“He made that?” she said, a hint of awe in her voice. “It must've taken a long time. The carving is beautiful.”

 

“N-no, not the box,” Cain reiterated. “It's what's inside the box . . .”

 

“Which is?”

 

He cleared his throat, still turning the box over and over again in a decidedly nervous sort of way. “It's a . . . a letter.”

 

“From your father?”

 

He nodded. “Y . . . yeah . . .”

 

He could feel her gaze on him, as though she were trying to decide whether or not to ask the question that was forming in her head. He knew what it was, but he just couldn't say it. “Have you read it?” she asked, her tone completely neutral.

 

Why did he feel completely stupid for hesitating? It was just a letter, wasn't it? A letter didn't have the ability to hurt him . . . “No,” he admitted in a whisper.

 

She shrugged simply and cast him a warm smile of encouragement, slipping her arm through his and giving his bicep a gentle squeeze. “You will when you're ready to, right? There's no rush, I'm sure.”

 

Gripping the box in both hands, he drew a deep breath and started to push against the sliding top. It was sheer force of will that kept his thumbs moving. Wincing as he pulled the cover out of the groove that held it in place, he dropped it on the table, frowning at the laminated parchment that was scrolled up and tied with a bit of teal ribbon. He could still see the traces of the sealing wax that had once held it closed. Some of the oil from the wax had seeped into the parchment. It was almost translucent . . .

 

His hands were trembling when he reached into the box to lift the scroll. His fingers stilled, hovering over the letter, and he jerked his hand back with a sharply indrawn breath.

 

“You don't have to read it now if you don't want to,” Gin said.

 

Cain sighed and shook his head. “It's not that I don't want to,” he allowed. “I just . . .” Trailing off, he hesitantly lifted his gaze to meet hers. She looked sad—infinitely sad, and maybe she felt as helpless as he did. “Will you read it?” he blurted suddenly, unsure where the thought had come from, but positive that it was the right choice.

 

Her eyes flared wide and she sat back, the tip of her tongue darting out to moisten her lips as she quickly shook her head. “Are you sure?” she asked.

 

“Yeah. Please.”

 

She considered it for a moment then nodded. “Do you . . . do you want me to read it to you?”

 

He started to nod then thought better of it and shook his head. He wasn't sure why he felt the overwhelming sense of foreboding, but he did. As though something in that letter had the ability to hurt him, he couldn't help but feel that if he read that letter . . .

 

She looked like she wanted to tell him something; to talk him into reading the letter or to talk him into allowing her to read the letter to him. Gritting his teeth together as he forced himself to take the scroll out of the box, he handed it to her without a word.

 

Taking an inordinate amount of time, she untied the ribbon and dropped it onto the table, casting him a nervous sort of glance as she slowly unrolled the preserved parchment. A bit of paper fell out of it, and Cain grabbed it between his index and middle fingers. “Oh, my God,” he murmured, staring at the scrap through narrowed eyes. He felt like his heart stopped for a moment only to slam back into action with a painful thump. Shaking his head, he tried to understand exactly what it meant. A fragment of memory surged through his head, and if he concentrated long enough, maybe it would make sense . . .

 

“What's that?” Gin asked, jarring him out of his reverie with her softly uttered question.

 

Shifting his eyes to meet hers, he couldn't seem to find the words to explain. She leaned in close to peer at the paper, and what she saw made her giggle: the family of otter sketched out in faded black lines. It . . . it had been his writing assignment, hadn't it? The one his mother had set down for him . . . one of the countless lessons that he'd done his best to ignore . . .

 

Blinking quickly at the hotness that poked the back of his painfully dry eyes, Cain half-laughed, half-groaned. “I was supposed to be practicing my letters,” he said in a voice that Gin had to strain to hear.

 

“Do you remember how to write the letter `O'?”

 

“`O' is for otter, Mama . . .”

 

His mother's laughter still echoed in his ears . . .

 

He hadn't practiced that letter. Thinking instead of the family of otters, he'd drawn them on the expensive paper that his father had bought for him to learn how to write his letters on . . .

 

Grimacing at the vividness of that singular memory, Cain shook his head and handed the scrap to Gin. “You're . . . sure?” she asked gingerly, holding the scroll open and peering over the top.

 

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Y . . . yeah.”

 

She was more than a little reluctant to do as he requested. Staring at him for several long moments, she looked like she wanted to say something, but in the end she must have reconsidered.

 

There wasn't a sound for what felt like an eternity. Gin didn't say anything as she read through the letter. Shifting his gaze out the window, he couldn't bring himself to look at her face, to ascertain her reactions from the expressions that filtered over her features. As much as he wanted to know what his father had written so long ago, he couldn't help the absolute reluctance that loomed over him, either.

 

Gin uttered a soft whine—more like a whimper, really, covering her mouth with her hand as she let the letter scroll closed over her fingers. Tears were pooling in her eyes—he could smell them—and when he finally dared to look at her, he couldn't stand to see the absolute pain delineated in every single thing about her. Quiet sobs shook her shoulders as she leaned against him, and he couldn't tell if she was trying to comfort him or trying to draw comfort from him. “H-hey,” he said quietly, catching her by the upper arms and pushing her away so that he could see her face. “Gin . . .”

 

She sniffled miserably, her ears flattened and jutting out to the sides. “Cain, don't . . . I d-don't think you w-want to know . . .” she choked out as tears ran down her cheeks.

 

Narrowing his gaze on her, he reached for the letter, pulling her close against his side. She wiped her eyes again but didn't try to protest as he unrolled the scroll and drew a deep breath before he started to read . . .

 

 

:::

 

 

`30. July 1751.'

 

`Benjiro,

 

`We have almost reached our destination. While I have not seen the sky or the ocean for myself in days, I feel it coming closer: the land of our rising sun. I wished to thank you, my friend. Your years of devotion weigh heavily on my heart these last days, for I never got the chance to thank you. There were so many times I should have said as much. Forgive my oversight, I beg you.

 

`As the interim tai-youkai in this time and in that place, I know that you will endure where I have failed, and I know that you shall prepare the way for Zelig. I have tried these last months, to instill the beliefs that he needs. More often of late, I feel like a hypocrite, telling him to look to himself for strength—to trust in his own heart and in his own intuition for the guidance that I, myself, seem to have lost. I've told him to keep his word when he makes it. I've advised him never to give his word lightly. I've taught him that fairness and compassion should stand firm against those things that would be simpler to achieve in less upstanding of ways. I have implored him not to trust too freely, but to give trust freely when it is earned. Yet I fear that in all my lessons, the one lesson I cannot impart him is the one that he truly needs to know: there is beauty in the misting skies of dawn, beauty in a child's smile. There is beauty to be found in the eyes of those who look to you for strength, and there is beauty in the quiet rise of the moon. I shall entrust you with this lesson, Benjiro, for I am now blinded to the vitality of color, and I cannot remember the swelling of hope that used to fill me when I observed the rising dawn. Precious little emotion is afforded me of late, and the emotion I do possess is devoted entirely to Zelig.

 

`You must help to guide him, Ben. I trust in your oath that you will never leave him. Those words—your vow—they ring in my mind, offering me a semblance of strength to see my last task through. You promised that you would aide him in whatever capacity he requires, and I trust you. Aye, I trust you.'

 

`Zelig still sees the world through the eyes of a child, yet I fear that his vision is tainted. Though his nightmares come less frequently now, he does not comprehend that which he has seen. If he has ever cried, I know it not. To have never mourned the loss of his mother . . . for my sake. I sought to tell him that it was not a sign of weakness. I wanted him to know that Daniella loved him; that I love him still. Looking into his serious eyes, I find that I cannot do it. He does not remember much of that night. He seems to have forgotten, and perchance that is for the best. What good could come of that, I ask you? Dwelling on things lost along the way . . . It is the path of the fool.

 

`If this is to be my final confession, then let it be known: I failed Daniella. I failed Zelig. I failed you, and I failed myself: the one vow I made that I could not keep: the oath I swore to protect her. In my miscalculation, I cost Zelig not only his mother but his unborn sibling, as well. They could have comforted one another, and Zelig wouldn't have been left alone in the end. I damn myself for that. I've damned myself for many things. There is only one thing that keeps me going. I must not fail Zelig in this. He will live, and he will overcome, and I swear on all that is holy that he will not repeat my mistakes. It is my singular resolve to see this through. I leave it to you; in your capable hands. You will not falter where I have failed, and Zelig will live to see a new day. To look upon the rising sun with a smile . . . to see his own children thrive and flourish . . . that is my unspoken vow: to ensure that he carries on.

 

`The daylight faded long ago. I sit in the darkness, afraid to sleep, afraid to dream. There is no comfort in anything; not for me. In rejoining Akinako, I shall be abandoning Zelig, and the irony of it all stands out in my mind. Perhaps this is the real punishment for having failed her. Perhaps this is the damnation that I truly deserve. I grow infinitely weary, and like a coward, I look to my son to lend me strength. When I open my eyes to face the new day, it is with the knowledge that my moments are limited. Still I selfishly drink in every detail I can: memories of Zelig in this time that I have stolen. Daniella might want to know, after all. I owe her that much. I owe her so much more.

 

`The cabin boy who brings our meals has told me that we shall be at our destination within the week. It seems so short, and yet it seems like ages, too. Thank you, my friend. I owe you so much. You have walked beside me so many times through the years. The only thing I can leave you is my most precious achievement. Guide him as his father would have had he not been such a foolish man. Walk beside him as you have walked beside me. Advise him when he asks your opinion; lead him when he falters. Of all the things that have brought me shame, Zelig, alone, has not.

 

`I close this now with one last plea. Do not let Zelig lose the qualities that make him shine. The way he sees the world is remarkable, and perhaps a dreamer can endure where the more pragmatic man has failed.

 

`Keijizen.'

 

:::

 

 

Clearing his throat raggedly as he let the letter roll closed once more, Cain pressed his thumb and index fingers over his burning eyelids. `God,' he thought as he struggled to comprehend all that he'd read. `God, God . . . God . . .'

 

His mother was . . .? Choking back the surge of sound that rose in his throat, he couldn't help the little groan that escaped. Even to his own ears, it was a pathetic sort of sound.

 

Gin was sobbing in earnest now, her face buried against his shoulder. “I'm so sorry,” she kept mumbling. “I'm so sorry . . .”

 

“She was . . . pregnant . . .” he murmured, his voice raw, roughened by emotion. “I never knew . . .”

 

Gin choked out another sob then leaned back, dragging her hands over her cheeks to wipe away her tears, drawing a tremulous breath—stunted and harsh. “But you know, he really l-loved you; your father,” she said, her words punctuated by hiccups.

 

Cain nodded, his vision wavering as a sheen of moisture slipped over his eyes. “I always thought . . . he never seemed . . . I always thought that he believed that drawing was a waste of my time . . .”

 

She managed a watery little smile, temerarious at best but heartfelt nonetheless. “All those things about you that I love . . . he loved them, too.”

 

Cain grimaced.

 

`Of all the things that have brought me shame, Zelig, alone, has not.'

 

Swallowing hard, he shook his head, his memories jumbled and yet there was a semblance of order to the chaos; order that had just begun to take shape . . . “I didn't want to cry,” he said, lifting his gaze to the ceiling, pressing his lips together in a thin line. “Once when I fell out of a tree, Papa said . . . four was too old to cry, so I . . . I didn't. I just pretended that . . . that I was all right, but . . .” Ducking his chin, he closed his eyes as the dulled memory grew brighter in his mind. “When he took me to Sesshoumaru, and I realized that he was . . . was leaving . . . that I'd never see him again . . . I begged him . . . not to go. I made him feel worse instead of better . . . my father . . .”

 

“You were scared,” she said gently, sniffling quietly, wiping her cheeks.

 

“. . . I was scared,” he agreed quietly. “As if I thought that he had a choice. As if I had the right . . .”

 

“You were still a child,” Gin reprimanded, her voice sharper than normal, almost stern. “Just a child, and you were in a new place, being left with strange people. Cain . . .”

 

He shook his head quickly, barked out a terse laugh. “Kagura came into my room that night. She said . . . she said that I'd be fine, that my mother and father had done well with me . . . but I could see it in her face, in her eyes. She . . . she was trying to tell me that it would be all right, you know? If I wanted to cry, and I just remember thinking . . .” He winced and squinted, leaning forward, tapping his fingertips together between his knees. “I didn't want to remember. It . . . it hurt, and . . . and I guess that little by little . . . day after day . . . I managed to do . . . forget . . .”

 

“No, you didn't . . . You loved them, and they loved you. That's all you needed to remember.”

 

He let out his breath in a long gust of air and flopped back, pulling Gin against his chest once more, idly smoothing her hair away from her face. “Do you think . . . do you think they knew it? That I . . . love them?” he asked.

 

“Don't you know it?” she countered.

 

“Know it?”

 

She nodded, slipping her arms around him, hugging him tight. “With Bellaniece and Sebastian and Evan and Jillian . . . don't you know that they love you, even if they don't say it?”

 

He considered that, his lips quirking just a little as the faces of his children flashed through his mind—images of infants with their eyes barely open; of toddlers taking first steps; of first days of school with brand new clothes and fear in their expressions that they tried so desperately to hide . . . He did know, didn't he? He knew without question that his children loved him. “Yeah,” he murmured, pressing his lips against Gin's forehead. “I guess I do . . .”

 

“Then don't you think that your mother and father knew it, too?”

 

“I . . .” he sighed, drawing Gin just a little closer. “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “I . . . I suppose they did . . .”

 

 

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A/N:

Keijizen's letter taken from Purity: Revolution.

== == == == == == == == == ==

Final Thought fromGin:

Oh, Cain …

==========

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~