InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 7: Avouchment ❯ Bitterness ( Chapter 52 )

~~Chapter 52~~

~Bitterness~

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

He heard her follow him into the living room, and he sighed inwardly, feeling the same sort of resignation that came with the sense of inevitability that he'd felt when he'd opened the door only to find Cain Zelig standing there. He supposed he'd always known that it would come down to this, too, and that was . . . all right, wasn't it?

 

He knew it now. He'd somehow managed to delude himself into believing on some level that maybe—just maybe . . . But he'd known all along, hadn't he? And while he wasn't entirely certain what he'd do come morning when she knew it all and figured out what he'd known from the start—that he really was a monster; that the things he'd done were beyond the scope of forgiveness . . . Well, he'd figure out something when that time came, wouldn't he?

 

It was how he'd survived for all those years, wasn't it? Lingering on when everyone else was gone; when he knew that he should have been the one to die, and yet he had hoped, hadn't he? Somewhere deep down, he'd wanted to believe that Isabelle could change it—could change him.

 

Staring out the window at the late winter snow falling softly from the murky skies—the filmy sort of blackness that seemed to cling to everything it touched—he almost smiled in a sad sort of way. He'd wanted to be her hero, hadn't he? That was the real reason he'd rushed to her side. He'd wanted her to hug him and hold him and think that everything was all right when that never had been Griffin's gift. No, the only thing he'd ever done was hurt those that he professed to care about, only this time was so much worse, wasn't it? This time, it was Isabelle . . .

 

“I get the feeling that there's something you aren't telling me,” she said as she padded across the floor and slipped her arms around his waist. “You can tell me things, you know. I might not be able to fix anything for you, but I can listen.”

 

He drew a deep breath, wincing at the feel of her arms around him, cursing himself for the part of him that felt as though he'd die if she let go; if he had to watch her walk away . . . “You should be sleeping, shouldn't you?” he mumbled, wanting to distance himself from her but unable to accomplish the deed, himself.

 

“If you'll come back and lie down with me.”

 

“Stop it,” he growled, unable to repress the irrational surge of anger that rose inside him though he wasn't quite sure why it was so. It might have been the rage that he felt whenever he thought about those things that he couldn't change, no matter how much he wished it were otherwise. It might have been exacerbated by the unrelenting knowledge that no manner of explanation could possibly make the things he'd done seem all right. Even still, there was the underlying hope when he knew damn well that she could never, ever understand. How could she, raised as she'd been, the apple of her daddy's eye, coddled and cosseted and protected from the ugliness that Griffin had seen far too many times? That was how it was supposed to be—he didn't want it any other way—and yet that same upbringing was the reason that he knew that she would never be able to comprehend a thing. “This was a mistake,” he muttered, pushing her hands aside and stepping away from her. “I never . . . I shouldn't have brought you here.”

 

“Don't do it again, Griffin,” she reprimanded sharply. “Don't you dare . . . and don't you even think that you're getting rid of me this time, because you're not. I won't let you.”

 

Stomping over to toss more wood onto the already blazing fire, Griffin dug his claws into a healthy chunk, gritting his teeth against the impotent rage that surged in him in light of the realization that the damned woman never did know when to leave well enough alone. “Don't be stupid!” he growled. “You don't—”

 

“—Belong here; is that what you were going to say?” she cut in, her voice taking on that `don't-mess-with-me' tone that he'd only heard from her a couple of times. “Well, let me tell you something, Dr. Marin: if I don't belong here, then there's nowhere on this earth that I do belong, because you're my mate, and the last time I checked, mates belong together!”

 

Tossing the wood into the fire as he shot to his feet, he scowled at her for a long moment before turning on his heel and stomping toward the door.

 

She didn't wait for him to get there, though, dashing after him and grabbing his arm before he could make it out of the living room. “Don't you leave me, Griffin Marin,” she exclaimed, tugging him back. “I've let you close yourself off and keep things to yourself because I thought that you'd tell me eventually, but you won't, will you? Why?”

 

“Damn it, Isabelle, it isn't that simple!” he gnashed out, jerking his arm out of her grasp. “Nothing ever is! You want everything to be perfect, but it isn't! You want me to be perfect, and I'm not!”

 

“This has nothing to do with being perfect,” she said, shaking her head as her chin took on a stubborn set. “You want to be with me, and I—”

 

“You don't know what you're saying,” he bit out coldly, his eyes slipping away from hers, unable to stomach the hurt in her eyes that belied her righteous indignation.

 

“Oh, I think I do!”

 

“Yeah? And what is it that you know?”

 

“I know I love you, you stupid man!”

 

“You don't love me,” he shot back, his anger too thick to let the words penetrate his brain. “You think you do, maybe, but you don't! How could you possibly love a—?” Biting off his sentence, he turned away suddenly, dangerously close to losing the temerarious grip he had on his emotions.

 

“A what?” she demanded, her tone thin, pinched.

 

“Leave it alone,” he muttered, shaking his head, snatching the empty tea mug off his desk in a vain effort to distract himself.

 

“I won't.”

 

“Damn it . . .”

 

“Stop trying to protect me from whatever it is you're thinking! Tell me, Griffin!” she demanded.

 

“You won't understand,” he growled, shaking her hands off yet again as she reached out to stop him once more.

 

“What? That you think you're a monster when you're not?”

 

“Isabelle . . .” he began in a warning tone.

 

She wasn't finished. “That you believe that you're a horrible man when you're not?”

 

“Just—”

 

“That you couldn't save my grandmother so that makes you unworthy of redemption?”

 

“I'm a murderer!” he bellowed, hurling the cup across the room as his temper boiled over. The fragile piece exploded when it impacted with the wall sending shards and dust flying, raining down in a pitiful heap on the meticulously clean wood floor. Something about the sight of the bits left behind shocked him, drew him out of his rage as quickly as it had manifested itself, leaving him feeling curiously numb as he stared at the remnants littering the floor. “I'm . . . I'm a murderer,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

He couldn't look her in the eye. He tried, but he just couldn't. Realizing a moment too late that seeing the revulsion in her gaze would be enough to kill him, he opted to take the coward's way out—opted to scowl at the floor as he willed her to say something—anything—anything at all to end the endless torment of his own mind.

 

“You're about as much of a murderer as I am,” she replied in an equally soft voice. Somewhere along the way, her anger had abated, too, and she sounded infinitely weary, almost resigned. “Just because you couldn't save my grandmother doesn't mean that you're responsible for what happened to her.”

 

He shook his head, still unable to meet her gaze, horrified at the slow realization that what he'd see wasn't the disdain that he'd considered but was probably more akin to understanding, or worse: pity. “This isn't about your grandmother, Isabelle,” he heard himself saying in a quiet and almost bitter tone that sounded oddly unlike himself. “I killed them all . . . men, women, children . . . all of them, and . . .” Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard, letting his head fall back as he willed away the bile that rose to choke him. “. . . And I was glad . . . I was glad . . .”

 

He didn't hear her cross the floor to stand before him, didn't sense her proximity until he felt her hands on his cheeks, gently pulling his face down as he squeezed his eyes closed a little tighter. “Who?”

 

“They killed her . . . them . . . all of them—all of them, and they . . . they laughed like it was . . . some great feat, you know? Kumiko . . . she wanted Hahaue, and . . . she just . . . cried . . .”

 

Isabelle uttered a half-hearted sound, a sickened half-sob, half-moan, but she didn't let go, and Griffin couldn't shake the pain that roiled over him in wave after wave of vicious memory.

 

“They'd come to us and said that there was trouble in the village. We'd moved there. Chichiue had met these people—Miroku and Sango—and they had said that humans saw that we wanted to help . . . protect them . . . that we'd be all right, and Chichiue . . . he believed them. But when he got there, they said . . . they said they couldn't have a youkai so close to their . . . their children, let alone a family of youkai. Some monk from another village had put up purifying barriers. Chichiue couldn't reach Hahaue . . . couldn't stop them as they poked her and tormented her . . . They'd put Ofuda on us, and we couldn't move, but . . . but . . .”

 

“You couldn't save them . . . your family,” she concluded softly. She didn't want to hear the details, or maybe she didn't want him to have to put what he remembered into words, and he realized in a disjointed sort of way that as often as he'd relived it in his mind, he'd never, ever talked about it; not to anyone.

 

Sinking down on the sofa as though his legs simply wouldn't support him any longer, he buried his face in his hands, all too aware of the tremor in every part of his body that he just couldn't stop. “I was tied to a post, and they stabbed at me whenever I tried to close my eyes . . . their blades had been blessed, they said—sacred blades made expressly for . . . for killing youkai. They cut me over and over . . . and I watched as they killed my . . . they killed Hahaue. They cut off her hair—her beautiful hair . . . all golden, like . . . like . . . sunshine . . . and they gave it to the children to play with . . . and they . . . killed . . . her.” Swallowing hard, he shook his head, selfishly let himself draw comfort from the touch of Isabelle's hand on his arm, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he could discern the scent of her tears. “Chichiue . . . he flew into a rage trying to get to her—to my mother. They shot him twenty times or more . . . They laughed, you know? Laughed, and . . . and all the while, my sister cried . . .”

 

“Don't say any more,” Isabelle pleaded softly, her voice thick with emotion, with tears. “I'm so sorry . . . so sorry . . .”

 

He shook his head again, somehow needing to hear himself say the rest of it. Drawing a shaky breath, he let his hands drop away from his face, staring at the familiarity around him with eyes that saw nothing but a thick haze of smoke, a sky as red as blood, and flames that obscured a river of blood . . . “They . . . c-cut . . . Kumiko open . . . while she screamed . . . cut her from the neck down . . . laughing as they watched her struggle to breathe. One of them . . . wanted her heart, and I . . . I remember thinking that they should let her die. She kept . . . calling me—begging me—pleading for me to save her, and I . . . I couldn't reach her. My . . . my sister . . .”

 

“Kami . . .”

 

Swallowing the thickness that threatened to choke him, he cleared his throat, wanting to stop yet unable to do so, as though he had to get it out, and maybe he did . . . Maybe he did . . . “I don't remember how I got free. I was . . . bleeding and weakened, but I managed to yank off the Ofuda after I got my arms freed. I . . . pushed through the barrier . . . I don't remember at the time, but I think maybe the barrier sort of . . . cauterized my wounds . . . But I tried to get to her—to save her . . . I was too late . . . I must have lost my mind then. I can vaguely recall the bodies of the villagers, and I know I killed them all—every last one of them. Sometimes . . .” trailing off, he winced at the myriad of images from a thousand dreams ran through his head, dissipating before he could latch onto any of them as they spun together to culminate in a wail, a sob, a cry that was silenced so very long ago. “I . . . murdered them without a second thought . . . and then . . . I took Kumiko's body—my sister who died without honor—and I . . . I . . . ran . . .” Griffin sighed, unable to shake off the pure shame that rose in him—shame that even now, after so very many years, that he could still feel trace amounts of . . . grim satisfaction at his actions—and the complete mortification that he could possibly be as callous as that.

 

“Griffin . . .”

 

Shaking his head, he swallowed once, twice, still unable to reconcile himself to the burn of emotion that had been rendered dormant only to rear itself all over again. “I buried her under the sakura tree she loved. I thought it would make her happy if she could . . . could lie beneath it . . .”

 

Uttering a softly keening sound, she bit her lip, her youki stretching toward him, wrapping around him, stubbornly refusing to let go.

 

Strange how it offered him a sense of order, of reason, calming him when he felt as though he just couldn't do it anymore; as though his lifetime of running, of hiding, of struggling to deal with something that he'd never understood was too damn much. “I remember thinking that it looked strange . . . her bright yellow kimono stained with her blood . . . and I wanted to die. God, how I wanted to die . . . It was . . . my fault because I . . . because I couldn't save her . . . I couldn't save her . . .”

 

“And you think that makes you a monster?” Isabelle challenged softly, her tears falling like rain. “It doesn't . . . and it doesn't make you a murderer, either.”

 

He shook his head. “Doesn't it? It's a crime to kill humans, and I—”

 

“And you think that my Great Uncle Sesshoumaru never killed humans? Or my grandfather InuYasha, for that matter? Maybe it wasn't right, but maybe . . . maybe it wasn't entirely wrong, either.”

 

He didn't respond to that right away, lost in his thoughts, his fresh grief for a minute. It was still as vivid in his head as though it had just happened yesterday; still as painful as it had been centuries ago. When he spoke again, it was in a tone gruff that was tinged with emotion that he simply couldn't repress. “I . . . I wandered for years trying to make sense of it . . . I felt as though I was losing my mind sometimes because there wasn't anything I could think of to justify it, and the anger sort of . . . festered, I guess, so when I heard about this edict—hide what we are so that we could co-exist with humans? I thought it was a kind of betrayal, like my family's deaths meant less than nothing. I thought all humans were evil creatures.” With a sigh, he rubbed his forehead, tried to make sense of the emotions that just wouldn't let go of him. “I . . . I hated them, and when I heard about Terfoure's group of dissidents, I joined them. They said that they wanted to change things, but that they wanted to do it peaceably. What happened to your grandmother . . . It wasn't supposed to be like that.”

 

“And you still saved my grandfather,” she said softly, sadly.

 

Shaking his head ruefully, he cast her a hesitant glance, no more than a momentary flicker, unable to voice the thing that haunted him most even as he struggled to find the words to lay his emotions bare. “Everything I touch gets ruined. I'm alone now because I choose to be—because that's how it has to be . . . and you . . .” he squeezed his eyes closed for a long second, gathering what was left of his shattered pride to tell her what she ought to have realized long ago. “You should go before I ruin you, too.”

 

She exhaled softly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, heaving a tumultuous sigh as she gathered her thoughts, as Griffin waited for her to say something—to condemn him, to rail at him. “I'm not going anywhere, Griffin,” she finally said.

 

“Isabelle . . .”

 

She let out a deep breath and sniffled, but he could feel the edges of her youki stretching, reaching . . . embracing and soothing, and as much as he wished it were otherwise, he couldn't help but draw comfort from the brush of her aura on his. “Maybe you did those things, and maybe you shouldn't have, but I can't judge you, can I? When I think about my family—my parents, my sisters . . . if someone did those things to them, do you think that I wouldn't want vengeance, too? I don't know that I would do what you did, but I didn't see what you saw, and I wish I could change things for you, but I can't . . . I know you now, here, and I've seen you with the children in your classes . . . you love them, don't you? You'd protect them with your life, and that is the man I know . . . You're a good man, whether you want to believe it or not.”

 

He finally dared to look at her then, his gaze wary, guarded, full of doubt that he couldn't let go. Her eyes were still full of tears, and yes, there was a deep-seeded misery there, too, but he understood, didn't he? That emotion wasn't there because she despised him. It was there because she . . .

 

“I-Isabelle,” he murmured, struggling to comprehend the one possibility he hadn't even considered. He hadn't once thought that maybe she'd want to stay with him, and while he couldn't see why she'd want to do that, maybe he shouldn't question it, either . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

Gavin paced the floor, throwing his impatient glance balefully toward the window as the plane he was about to board taxied into position outside the plate glass windows. It was nearly four hours late, and given his already volatile frame of mind, he could feel the fragile control he held over his temper growing thinner and thinner with every passing second.

 

He wasn't the only one, no. Other people who were booked onto the flight were grumbling, too, though to be completely honest, Gavin didn't actually pay any attention to them. He didn't doubt that the inconvenience was bothersome to everyone, but he also had a feeling that no one else was making the flight for quite the same reason he was. At least he'd had the presence of mind to call ahead to change his connecting flight. If he had to sit in an airport on standby waiting for a seat to open up, he'd very likely come completely unglued . . .

 

The vibration of the cell phone in his breast pocket drew him out of his internal ranting, and he sighed as he pulled it free and scowled at the small monitor. “Hi, Jilli,” he said, willing himself to sound calm when he answered the call.

 

“Gavvie! I'm just calling to let you know I got here just fine.”

 

“Good,” he said, rubbing his forehead as he flopped into one of the impossibly uncomfortable chairs. “No swimsuits, right?”

 

She laughed. “It's a layout for Birch Heron's fall line—you know, evening gowns and all that.”

 

He made a face, knowing damn well that some of those evening gowns were ten times worse than any swimsuit could ever be. “Thought you were going to quit modeling,” he grumbled, jiggling his right leg impatiently as he scowled in the direction of the still-closed doors used for boarding the plane.

 

“This was already booked, remember? Besides . . . I'm saving up money so we can move back to the ranch sooner.”

 

“I can take care of the ranch, Jilli. I told you, just save your money. Put it in a trust for our pups or something . . .”

 

She giggled. The sound was completely reassuring and more than enough to wear the edges off his frayed nerves even as the not-so-subtle pang of guilt reared its ugly head. “Are you still at the airport?” she asked, likely hearing the PA system announcements in the background.

 

He sighed. “Yeah. Flight was delayed. I think they'll be boarding soon, though.”

 

“Mm,” she intoned in a commiserating tone. “You won't be gone long, will you? How long is your conference again?”

 

Wincing at the lie he'd used to keep Jillian from being worried or worse, he cleared his throat and took his time formulating his response. “I don't know,” he replied at length, hunching forward and rubbing his temple with his free hand. “Not too long,” he promised.

 

“Okay,” she said then heaved a sigh. “What are the odds that you'll be home when I get back?”

 

He grimaced since he knew that she was only going to be gone for a week, max. “I'll try,” he assured her, hoping that his answer would be enough to satisfy her.

 

“Well, should you meet some hot stockbroker-lady there, you'd better make sure you let her know that you're my Gavvie,” she teased.

 

He could feel his face flaming uncomfortably at the assertion in Jillian's voice. “Like that would happen,” he mumbled. “I've got to go. They're starting to board my plane now,” he lied.

 

“Okay, and you know, if anyone hits on you, you'd better tell them that you're taken—really taken,” she reminded him.

 

Grimacing as his entire face flooded with embarrassed color, Gavin cleared his throat and ducked his chin a little more. “Th-that won't happen,” he grumbled, unable to staunch the flow of blood below the surface of his skin.

 

“Oh, please, Gavvie! You think women don't notice when a sexier-than-hell man walks into a room? Do you suppose we're all dead?” she chided.

 

“Jill-i . . .”

 

She laughed softly, a sure indication of her teasing. “All the same, make sure they know,” she reiterated. “You know, I could fly out there to meet you if I finish up before you do,” she offered brightly.

 

“Uh, no,” he blurted then winced. “I mean, that'd just be a lot of trouble for you, wouldn't it? Just . . . just go on out to Maine and visit with your parents. I'll meet you there, okay?”

 

She didn't seem to notice his abruptness. “Yeah, all right. Besides, I haven't really gotten a chance to talk to Daddy since all that stuff happened. He seemed fine on the phone, but you know how that can be . . . Daddy's never wanted us to worry about things . . .”

 

“All the more reason to go out there, don't you think?”

 

“Have I told you lately how wonderfully thoughtful you are, Gavvie?” she quipped.

 

“Y-yeah,” he agreed as another stab of absolute guilt riddled through him. “I'll call you later, okay?”

 

“You'd better,” she said, a hint of sulking in her tone. “I love you.”

 

“I . . . I love you, too,” he murmured.

 

The line went dead, and he stared at his cell for a long moment before hitting the disconnect button and dropping it back into his pocket again. Heaving a sigh as he got to his feet, he shuffled over to the windows as he fought to suppress the quiet condemnations that kept running through his mind.

 

`It's because you lied to her,' his youkai voice piped up, tone thick with accusations. `You lied to your mate.'

 

`You know why,' he thought with a mental snort.

 

`Because you think she'd have insisted on coming with you.'

 

`I didn't think it; I knew it,' he retorted then sighed. He'd lied to her, plain and simply; told her that he was going to a conference in San Francisco because the last thing he wanted was for Jillian to know the truth. It wasn't that he was trying to keep anything from her; not really. No, he simply knew damn well that if he'd told her his true intention, she'd have insisted on coming with him, and while he wouldn't have minded that so much, he couldn't shake the feeling that something really wasn't right, and Jilli . . . maybe she didn't really need to know anything until Gavin had ascertained some things for himself, first. She was always impetuous to a fault. It was one of those things he adored about her, but it was also one of the reasons that he hadn't told her his true intentions.

 

It just seemed to him that Dr. Avis had genuinely enjoyed talking with Jillian about her biological parents—at least her mother, anyway. It didn't seem right for him to just start avoiding them in such a manner, damn it, and while Cain's hands might be tied—Gavin could understand that, he supposed, even if he didn't completely agree with Cain's assertions that there wasn't really anything he could do—Gavin's weren't, were they, and he wanted answers.

 

`You know why Cain can't do anything. He's tai-youkai, and he turned Avis over to the jurisdiction of the Australian tai-youkai. Call it politics, if you want, but you know as well as anyone that he's right when he says that he doesn't really have any grounds to go waltzing in and demanding answers when nothing appears to be wrong.'

 

Be that as it may, Gavin couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, the entire situation was being underplayed, too. Perhaps he was being hyper-sensitive. How could he not be when it involved his mate, after all? Still, his father had always told him to trust his instincts, and his instincts were being sorely tested at the moment. The bottom line was, he had to know, one way or another, exactly what was going on, and he wasn't about to give up without getting those answers. He had to know, both for Jillian as well as for his own peace of mind . . .

 

 

~xXxXxXxXxXx~

 

 

“Here.”

 

Blinking quickly, Griffin glanced over his shoulder as Isabelle held out a steaming mug of fragrant tea.

 

“Th-thanks,” he muttered, grudgingly accepting the drink as he settled back in the recliner, wishing for the millionth time that he could brush aside the unsettled feeling that just wouldn't go away. He'd laid it all out on the table for her, so to speak, and while she hadn't run away as he had figured that she would, she had been uncharacteristically quiet in the time since.

 

The gentle touch of her hands on his temples startled him, and he jerked away, sloshing the contents of his mug up over the edge though very little of it actually spilled. Scowling at her as his cheeks heated uncomfortably, he craned his neck to pin her with what he hoped was a formidable glower as he set the mug on the small table beside the recliner with a heavy thump. “What do you think you're doing, Jezebel?” he muttered though his tone lacked any real irritation.

 

She tugged on his shoulders. He resisted, ready to stand up if it would help him escape her attentions.

 

`Why?' his youkai asked suddenly. `Why do you want to?'

 

`Because,' he shot back automatically, `she doesn't—'

 

`But she does, you know? You told her. You told her everything, and she's still here, isn't she? She's still here . . .'

 

The truth in that surprised him. It took a moment for him to understand the implications of it all. He'd spent so long believing that he didn't deserve an ounce of compassion that it had become habit, hadn't it? Pushing away everyone he came in contact with—keeping them at arm's length or better . . . it had become second nature, hadn't it? And now . . .

 

Still, old habits die hard, he supposed, grunting as she kept coaxing him to sit back. He finally complied, albeit with marked ill-grace manifested in the form of a pronounced sigh of complete exasperation. True to form, she laughed softly as she massaged his temples in little circles with her fingertips. “Mama does this for Papa sometimes. She says it helps him to relax.”

 

He uttered a grudging `hrumph' but didn't wave her away. It did feel good, damned if it didn't—not that he'd admit any such thing to her, after all . . .

 

He was almost asleep, lulled by the gentle touch of her fingers when she sighed softly, her hands falling to his shoulders. “Scoot over, Dr. G,” she said, her voice low, as though she thought that if she spoke any louder, she'd startle him.

 

Forcing his eyes open, he scowled as she stepped around the chair and swatted his knee with the back of her hand. “There's not enough room,” he contended, feeling unaccountably irritated but unsure as to whether it stemmed from his near-drowse that she'd so callously interrupted or because he'd let himself nearly fall asleep, in the first place.

 

She rolled her eyes. “That's the biggest recliner I've ever seen. There's plenty of room, so scoot over.”

 

He snorted. Loudly. “Maybe for a normal ass. Yours is huge, remember?” he grumbled as he scooted over just a little.

 

She giggled quietly as she crawled into his lap, resting her head on his shoulder, rubbing his chest with her hand. “Get over it, Griffin. You're stuck with me, you know.”

 

He snorted once more, wrapping his arm around her, pressing his hand against the side of her head, his fingers sinking into the downy softness of her hair. She sighed and cuddled closer to him as he sought to keep her head from moving, sought to keep her from seeing the trace redness that crept up his cheeks at the perceived intimacy of the moment. No doubt about it, it was going to take some getting used to, wasn't it?

 

“Griffin?” she asked, fingering the ends of an unruly strand of hair that kept falling over Griffin's forehead.

 

“What?”

 

“How old were you? Back then . . .?”

 

He sighed, unsure if he really wanted to talk about it anymore but unable to shake the feeling that he really owed it to her—to Isabelle—to answer her questions. “I was . . . seventeen . . . It was my . . . my birthday . . .”

 

“Your . . . birthday . . .?”

 

He could feel the sting of his words rack through her as her body stiffened against his, her fingers closing around a fistful of his shirt. His own pain was oddly muted, and he couldn't quite help himself as he rather clumsily rubbed her back. “It . . . it was a long time ago,” he said, almost apologetically. “I . . . I don't even remember when that is anymore . . . I just remember that the cherry blossoms were thick in the trees . . .”

 

“Griffin . . .”

 

He shook his head and drew a deep breath, as though he was set to put up a good front, no matter what. “It's all right,” he muttered.

 

A little sound made him blink. Akin to a growl, more of a whine, she narrowed her eyes as she gazed at him, her brow furrowing almost stubbornly. “They were your family, and no one—no one—should have had to see what you saw,” she whispered, her voice fierce despite the softness.

 

“It's . . . all right,” he said, unsure why he was trying to reassure her.

 

She uttered a quiet sound that bespoke her belief that he was lying. He didn't argue with her. “That's why you work with children, isn't it? Because you feel bad for what you did . . .”

 

He frowned, unconsciously tightening his arms around her. “Maybe.”

 

Leaning away so that she could look up at his face, she smiled one of those trembling little smiles that was mere inches away from tears. “You know something?”

 

Why did that smile make him nervous? “Wha-a-at?” he drawled suspiciously.

 

“You're going to be a hell of a father.”

 

He snorted, and if he hadn't been holding her, he might have shot to his feet in surprise. “F-f-father?” he choked out.

 

“Yes.”

 

He snorted, casting her a nervous sort of glance. “Y-you're not . . . not . . . uh, you know . . . a-a-are you?”

 

To her credit, she didn't laugh at him, but it was a close thing. “Not that I know of. You want me to be?”

 

“One thing at a time, Jezebel,” he grumbled, unable to turn his crimson stained face away fast enough to avoid her growing amusement.

 

Her smile faded slowly, her eyes glowing with a sort of emotion that Griffin didn't try to comprehend. To be completely honest, he wasn't entirely certain what to think, not now. He hadn't realized before that things would be so different once he had allowed her to get past the invisible lines he'd drawn so long ago, but he should have known. No, not different, exactly, he had to allow. It was . . .

 

It was unsettling.

 

`And kind of . . . nice,' his youkai voice ventured in an entirely too-neutral tone.

 

He didn't remark on that, but he did shift enough to allow her a bit more room.

 

The smile faded just a little as she continued to stare at him. The warmth of the small lamp beside the chair seemed to lend her pale skin a hazy sort of glow, darkening her eyes to a warm sherry shade that reflected the seriousness that bordered on reverence that he didn't completely comprehend. The complete gravity in her expression made him uncomfortable; made him wonder exactly what she was thinking . . . and why she was staring at him in such a way . . .

 

Her hands were curiously steady as she slowly reached up to cradle his cheeks. The corners of her lips twitched precariously, as though she couldn't quite decide whether she wanted to smile or cry, yet there was something altogether tender in the gentleness of her touch as it fluttered over his face.

 

He jerked back when her fingertips brushed over the puckered flesh of his scars—an involuntary reflex as he tried to duck his chin, to turn his head enough so that she couldn't get a good look at the disfiguring marks. He caught her hands in one of his and leaned to the side, fumbling around for the chain pull on the lamp. “Too bright,” he muttered, wishing for the life of him that he would stop the infernal blushing that he couldn't seem to quell.

 

Isabelle wormed her hand away and put her hand on his to stop him. “Don't,” she said, her voice insistent despite the softness.

 

He wasn't ready to give up so easily, though, and he shooed her hand away before reaching for the cord once more. “There's a fire,” he grumbled in what he hoped was a reasonable tone.

 

“Griffin,” she chided, this time grasping his hand and tugging it back gently but firmly. “I realize you don't want to look at me, but I want to look at you, so you'll just have to deal with it.”

 

He could sense the teasing in her voice. She knew him a little too well, didn't she? Knew the real reason that he was trying to hide in the shadows, and she understood.

 

Clenching his teeth so tightly that he could feel his jaw ticking, he lowered his gaze, felt his hands break out in a cold sweat as he struggled to stay still while she took her time looking him over. Trying to ignore the tiny voice in the back of his mind that insisted that she was going to find him somehow lacking, he couldn't help the wince, the flinch, as her fingertips returned to trace the jagged lines of the scars once more.

 

He closed his eyes, unable to bear the thought of looking at her. Moments later, she shifted on his lap, and he felt the warmth of her body radiating through the thin fabric of her nightgown as she pressed her lips against the scars. One by one, she kissed them, trailing her lips over the roughened skin, touching each part of them, willing him to understand that they didn't matter to her, and . . . and seeking to show him her complete acceptance of everything he was.

 

An unfamiliar sting tingled in his nostrils as an unrelenting ache poked at the backs of his eyelids. Something about her simple gesture was enough to shatter the very last of his resolve, to crumble the last traces of resistance that he hadn't realized he'd still been clinging to. Blinking quickly, he forced himself to look at her, frowning in wonder and trace horror when he saw the silent tears coursing down her cheeks. Eyes closed, brow furrowed slightly, she kissed him slowly, methodically, and he wondered in an absent sort of way, how it could be; how she could be stronger in her own way than a thousand men, hell-bent on going to war . . .

 

“I-Isabelle . . .” he whispered, swallowing down the lump that thickened in his throat.

 

She turned her face slightly, her lips seeking out his in the softest of kisses, like a breath or a sigh. Opening her eyes, she sniffled as a trembling yet vivid smile broke over her features, and in that moment he knew that it wouldn't matter how long he lived or how many times he looked at her, this woman would forever be more precious to him than anything else could ever be.

 

She cuddled against him then, tucking her head under his chin, her eyes fluttering closed despite the stunted breaths that rattled through her.

 

Settling back, he closed his eyes again, hesitantly tightening his arms around her. He was completely exhausted, he realized, though not in an entirely bad sort of way. It felt as though the weight of years—of centuries—was suddenly gone from him, and in the first few moments of the foreign sense of peace came the realization that it was her gift that had afforded him this—a gift as intangible as the waning seasons but as enduring as the mountains and the hills and the seas . . .

 

The gentle lull of sleep was beckoning him when he heard her voice coming to him as though from a million miles away. He wasn't sure if he had really heard her or if he had simply willed it to be so, and he thought that maybe he smiled . . .

 

“I love you, Griffin Marin . . .”

 

That's what he thought she'd said . . .

 

 

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A/N:

 

Those of you who are members of my forum know this, but for those who don't, updates for awhile will be a bit sporadic. My brother was in a very severe accident last weekend (auto vs. pedestrian is just not a pretty thing), and things are pretty touch-and-go now. Family comes first, as I am sure that you all understand, and while his injuries aren't life-threatening, they are quite serious. I'll update when I can, but I make no apologies for the length of time that it might take to get the next few chapters out. Thanks for your understanding.

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Final Thought fromIsabelle:

Oh, Griffin …

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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~