InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Cataclysm ❯ Thunder ( Prologue )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

The tall, imposing figure stood at the bank of windows that looked over the meticulously kept garden behind the Inutaisho mansion, frowning at the steely-gray sky.  Drawing a deep breath, Sesshoumaru narrowed his amber gaze, tilted his head to the side: long, silvery hair, falling silently with the motion, as he watched, as he waited—simply waited.

He’d felt it for days, hadn’t he?  That uncanny sense of foreboding, the unbidden knowledge that something was lurking, just out of sight: a blackened cloud, a smothered gasp, a whisper in the murky dark . . . It was a feeling that wasn’t foreign to him.  That same sense had come to him so many times over the long years of his life, and he had well learned to trust it, no, to rely upon it, despite the overwhelming sense of foreboding, of impending chaos.  The feeling wasn’t one that he relished, and yet, he did not try to distance himself from it, either, as a lesser being might, and why should he?  He, who feared nothing and no one . . . He, who could bend the very whims of nature to his will.  Why, then, would he humble himself to hearken to the whispers?  ‘Humble?’  Surely not, but it was not a simple warning that he heard.  It was the omen, the dusk promise, the ofttimes morbid resolve.  No, he thought almost absently.  It was more than that.  He acknowledged it, trusted it because . . .

‘It has never been wrong before.’

The mansion on the outskirts of Tokyo that he called home was silent, peaceful, and the stillness was only interrupted by the methodical ticking of the clock on the mantle on the other side of the room.  Somewhere outside, off in the distance, the unmistakable rumble of thunder came, though it was far weaker than human ears could have discerned, but to him, it was distinct, the trembling earth that he could sense from the soles of his feet, radiating upward, through his body.  It was portentous and sinister, and . . .

And he felt it, too—bone-deep—the knelling of the bell—as the deepening twilight crept, ever-closer.

“Look at that, Koujizen . . . Papa’s hiding here, in his office, like usual . . .”

Slowly turning away from the window as a slight smile quirked the corners of his lips, as those darker-than-golden eyes warmed by degrees, Sesshoumaru watched as his wife—his mate—Kagura swept into the room, cuddling their eight-month-old son in her arms.  She moved with the grace of the morning sun, of the Evening Star, doubtless aided by her affinity with the winds that blew, capricious and wanton—a wind that forever changed while never, ever losing its elegance, the efficacious balance.  Shining ebony hair, caught up, caught back, in a sensible bun, high on her head and embellished with a small, snowy white feather, her magenta eyes, taking on that light, that sparkle, that delineated her amusement, she winked at him—little more than a flutter of her sooty lashes—as she came to him.

“It’s hardly hiding if you knew exactly where I was,” he pointed out in an understated, yet amused, tone as he took the silvery-haired child from her, savoring the sweet smell of him as he brought him close.  “This Sesshoumaru needs not hide.”

She chuckled, a soft, breathy sound, crossing her arms over her chest, over the white silk blouse she wore.  “Yes, well, this one refused to take a nap with his sister,” she informed him, reaching out with an elegant hand, patting her son’s back gently.  “I expect Chiasa will be awake shortly, though.”

It wasn’t surprising, that.  For reasons that no one quite understood, Koujizen tended to prefer that his father put him down for his naps than his mother.  All of their other children, including Koujizen’s twin sister, Chiasa preferred their mother, hands down, their oldest daughter, Rin notwithstanding.  Rin was adopted, though, and she was already a young girl, not a babe, when she’d come into his care so long ago, and at that time, Kagura and he . . . Well, that was a long story, and it was neither here nor there.

Sesshoumaru couldn’t say he didn’t like the situation with Koujizen, however, even if he didn’t actually say as much out loud.

Kagura’s smile dimmed slightly as she resumed her crossed-armed stance and lazily regarded him.  “Tell me, my heart, what’s troubling you?” she finally asked when he retained his own counsel.

The significance of her endearment for him—one she only used when the two of them were alone—did not go unnoticed, even if he did not remark upon it.  He didn’t need to do so.  He—they—had learned, long ago, that the past was oftentimes best left behind.  Sesshoumaru met her gaze and held it for a long, long second.  “I know not,” he confessed.  “I can feel it, but it has yet to come clear to me.”

She digested that for a thoughtful moment, and slowly, she nodded.  She, more than anyone, understood what he meant.  She, too, held moments such at this, though hers, admittedly, tended to lean more toward their family, both intimate as well as extended, than the broader scope of his own.  Whether that feeling came to her or to him, it mattered little, if at all.  There were far too many times when she’d stood here with him, waiting, waiting.

In his arms, Koujizen heaved a soft little sigh and snuggled a little closer against Sesshoumaru’s shoulder, letting his head fall heavily against him.  A moment later, the sound of his deep, even breathing, resounded in Sesshoumaru’s ears, and he knew that the boy slept.

Kagura noticed it, too, and she smiled gently, tenderly.  “He’ll wake up if I take him . . . Do you want to lay him down?”

Sesshoumaru dismissed that with a flick of a hand.  “Leave him,” he replied, turning back toward the windows once more, dismissing the idea of relinquishing the hold on his son just that simply.  “Wait with me, Kagura,” he said instead.  “I feel . . . this shall come clear to me soon enough . . .”


Letting out a deep breath as he carefully negotiated the late-model black sedan through the gates of the estate known as The Southern Star—the family compound, just outside Johannesburg, South Africa, Amon Kouri, second and youngest son of Sabra Kouri, the African tai-youkai, ran his fingers through the top of his deep brown, nearly black, hair before propping his elbow on the window frame and leaning his temple on his fingertips.

It had been almost two months since he’d last driven through these gates, albeit, heading in the other direction.  Now, he was simply weary—bone weary—even if he did still carry the lingering sense of accomplishment for having finally, blessedly, carried out the task that had been entrusted to him.  Sabra had asked him to oversee the peace negotiations between two factions of youkai on the Algerian side of the Libyan border, and, though both sides did desire an end to the centuries-old hostilities, neither was willing to admit to being wrong, and, so saying, neither was willing to give an inch in the negotiations of their tribal perimeters.  The entire process should have been simpler than it was, but instead, it had taken nearly seven weeks of tense and borderline hostile back-and-forth before they were finally able to come to any kind of agreement, though how long it would last was anyone’s guess.  All it would take was one misstep, one careless moment, and the fragile peace could easily come tumbling down.

Even so, Amon should be proud of the successful completion, should most certainly hold himself in high regard for what could honestly be considered a massive accomplishment.  After all, when he’d volunteered to approach both sides of the whole thing almost five years ago, to ascertain whether or not there was a desire for peace within the ranks, his father had been dubious, at best, and he’d cautioned Amon not to be discouraged, should his efforts prove to be futile.

Sabra Kouri had looked upon him, the light of understated approval in his nearly black eyes, arms crossed over his thick chest as he leaned back on his heels and slowly, slowly gave one curt nod, when Amon had informed him that the negotiations were to come to a positive resolution.  He spoke only two words in that deep, rich timbre, but those two words meant everything to Amon.

“Well done.”

So, he’d returned to Algeria, had carefully, cautiously, overseen the negotiations and, ultimately, the signing of the treaty, and he’d shaken hands with the tribal leaders, heard their assurances that they would do everything within their powers to uphold the newly-created peace, and Amon had been free to go, free to return home.  Yet despite these things that should, by rights, lend him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d achieved something that bordered upon incredible, why was it that he simply couldn’t quite shake the feeling of absolute foreboding—a feeling that had gradually crept up over him like a drip, a trickle, of water that had somehow swelled into a full-blown flood—that had only grown worse, stronger, sharper, the closer he got to home . . .?

The already darkened night sky was mere shades above true black as the rumbles of thunder rolled over onto each other, despite the fact that the rain had yet to fall, bringing with it, the cloying, almost stifling, humidity that had, almost perversely, only gotten progressively worse as the hours had ticked away, even after the sun had set.  The night had brought no relief from it and had brought an unpleasant chill instead.  It had been exactly like this for the last two nights that he’d been driving home, but he had wanted to get back so badly that he had foregone, stopping to get a hotel room somewhere.  

Again, he sighed.  All in all, what he really wanted was a hot meal, a hot bath, and a nice, comfortable bed in that order, but thoughts of those things faded fast as he scowled at the darkened mansion.  It was late—nearly midnight—but not nearly late enough for everyone to be retired for the night, either.  In fact, it wasn’t a rare occurrence for the family to sit down for their evening meal around this time, for that matter.

Even the lights that ran in intervals along the length of the driveway on both sides couldn’t cut through the pervasive dim, and the mansion—the one, crafted of stark-white marble that always seemed to glow, even in the darkest night—seemed somehow diminished, dulled, like neglected silver, tarnished and faded.  It was as though the night held an actual corporeal presence, bearing down upon the earth with a smothering hand, a sense of something just a little beyond dread.

Somehow, creeping along that stretch of pavement—the last, lonely length that extended as long—longer?—than the roads that he’d traversed in the last few days, though he was hard-pressed to understand, just why it felt so.  The lamps that normally burned so brightly on the porch that ran the width of the house and spanned two floors up, supported by statuesque white marble pillars, were somehow dimmed, subdued, which was entirely contrary to how it ought to have been.  After all, the darker the night, the brighter the lights, right?  At least, that was how it should have been.

Should have been?

By the time he pulled to a stop, killed the car engine with a terse jab at the automatic ignition button, a knot had formed in the depths of his belly, somewhere deep down.  It was ugly, and it was vast, horrifying in both scope and magnitude and yet, possessed of a cloying sense of abject blindness, as though something, maybe everything, was entirely amiss.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out to grasp the handle on the door, but something stopped him, and he pulled his hand back just a little as a distinct shiver ran straight up his spine, settling in his brain.  Shifting his darkened gaze over his surroundings outside the car where he still sat, he wished in vain for something—anything—a break in the darkness, a flash of misplaced light.

‘It’s . . . too quiet.’

Grinding his teeth together at the warning words of his youkai-voice, Amon narrowed his eyes, as though he believed that it might well aid him in his futile attempt to spot something beyond the illusory safety of the automobile.  It didn’t.

The emotions that assailed him were childish, weren’t they?  Allowing his imagination run away with his logical ability to reason . . .?  He thought that he had let go of those sorts of lapses long ago, and maybe he had, but now, tonight . . .?  And it was as much bravado as it was irritation that guided him as he uttered a terse grunt, brushed aside the unsettling feelings, grasping the door handle, and giving it a curt yank.  The unpleasant and jarring moisture that lingered in the air slammed down on him instantly, but he ignored that, stepping out of the vehicle without taking his eyes off the looming edifice of the mansion that he called home.

The rumble of faraway thunder sounded in his ears like the knelling of a death toll as he closed the car door and headed for the short path that led to the expansive porch.  High overhead, one of the weakened lights flickered, but it stubbornly hung on, seemed to right itself, trying so hard to push back the darkness that fought to bleed into the dismal bright.

A strange and disconcerting sense of something that Amon couldn’t quite reconcile lingered at the edges of his awareness, but he didn’t stop to consider it.  Whatever it was felt wholly out of place, even as some small part of him insisted, almost naively, that it’d all fall away, just as soon as he stepped inside, like some almost-forgotten belief, however ridiculous, that hadn’t occurred to him in years.

Still, that thick and heavy pall seemed to congeal around him—at first, like the resistance of water—the drag and pull that encompassed the idea of swimming—growing denser, more viscous with every step, every stride, bearing down on his chest, slowing his gait, even if he didn’t really notice it on a conscious level.  His legs felt heavy, leaden, as he raised one, then the other, to move up the four steps and onto the great marble porch.

‘It’s . . . void . . .’

He flinched inwardly at the unbidden thought.  Whether it had come from his youkai-voice or from something far more primitive, he didn’t know, but his feet were so encumbered that the steps that traversed the ten feet to the front door seemed to take an eternity, and with every one, that abhorrent desire to turn, to get away, warred silently with the sense that something, everything, was coming undone.

As he reached for the door handle, scowl deepening, he felt as though he had to brace himself, despite the fleeting sense that he was being entirely too melodramatic, too.  It felt like . . .

It felt like . . .

Deliberately slamming a door on those thoughts, on those weird and misplaced feelings, angry on some level that he’d somehow, let himself get caught up in this ridiculous notion that he’d allowed far too much credence, Amon uttered a very terse snort, as though the sound could dispel the sense of underlying dread—for an insular moment, it almost did—he grabbed the door handle, and he jerked it hard.