InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Arrangements ( Chapter 39 )

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

Ash ur strode out of the bathroom and straight to the closet, unable to shake the thundering black clouds that had broken over him about the second he'd opened his eyes after the scant hour of sleep he'd finally managed to get after sending Jessa back to her room and spending the rest of the night, feeling guilty and unsettled after so much talk about his parents.

She'd opened up the floodgates on the tiny room in his head where he'd banished all those memories, hadn't she?  With her questions, even her outrage on his behalf . . . The few isolated instances that had managed to creep out of that room from time to time had been bad enough, and now?

He sighed, yanking on a pair of jeans—the first thing he'd laid hands on, and honestly, he didn't much care, anyway.

Those God forsaken memories had waylaid him, one right after another, though with no real reason or rhyme . . . Over and over again, just different moments, some of which he had no idea were trapped inside him.  Hours of instances that were better left forgotten, and the worst one of them all—the one he tried so hard to repress because, really, just what good could come of it?  The one insular memory that had the power to break him . . .

"What have you told them?"

Standing in the middle of the platform in the tiny cell below the house proper—a room that had been constructed, solely with him in mind, a place to punish him when his transgressions had warranted more than the normal punishments, crafted specifically to thwart his innate abilities to manipulate earth elements—Ashur stared straight ahead in stony silence, ignoring the pain, the burn, in his shoulders, in his back, from the hours of being confined, wrists bound by a thick iron chain over his head.  Threaded through the beams high above, affixed to a thick rope that extended down, only to be fastened tight around a lower iron bar, it held him fast, and he, fool that he was, had allowed Hidekea's trusted manservant, Tanaka to truss him up.  At the time, he'd thought that if he went along with it, that Hidekea would have his moment, but would ultimately let him go after he felt that Ashur was well and truly chastised . . .

He was wrong—horribly wrong.  As Hidekea paced the floor, Ashur didn't have to look at him to feel the rage, rife in his youki. It was thick, cloying, festering, and dark.  He’d lost count of the number of strikes he’d already taken from the flat side of his father’s sword, and the more Hidekea’s ire grew, the harder those strikes had become.  Struggling not to make a sound when they came, knowing that, if he gave in, if he let noise slip, would only enrage otou-san more, he closed his eyes, willed his mind away, desperately tried to attain the level of separation that would make the whole thing just a little more bearable.  The blade whistled through the silence, impacted against the side of his ribs, with a flash of debilitating pain, and he bit back the rise of bile that came with it, but the mental disengagement that he wished for . . . It did not come.

Yukina swept into the room, her layers of clothing, rustling against the metal floor.  She handed Hidekea something.  Ashur didn't see what it was, and a part of him didn't really care, either.

She glided across the floor, her feet making no sound—just the papery whisper of the ornate fabrics—arms folded together, hidden in the copious sleeves of the layers of her kimonos.  Drawing herself up proudly, she stood before him, her blue eyes, cold, flat, yet as she gazed upon him, he saw it: the bitterness, the scorn—the animosity and contempt that she held for him.  It wasn’t the first time she’d showed him, was it?  And something about that . . . Face snapping to the side when she slapped him as hard as she could, he slowly straightened his head, ignoring the blood that pooled in his mouth, closing his eyes just in time to avoid the mouthful of spit she heaved at him.  "You bastard child!" she hissed.  "How dare you betray your kin!"

"I betrayed you?" he said, his gaze narrowing, brows drawing together as he tried to understand, tried to comprehend, that this . . . This was his mother—a woman he'd known, almost revered, had so desperately wanted nothing more than a simple smile from her, his entire life . . .

"You are no son of mine, no child of my blood . . . You are nothing—nothing!  And you never, ever were!"  She lunged at him, her claws digging deep into the flesh of his chest.  The pain exploded in a white-hot burn, ricocheted to his brain as he bit it back, ignoring the sickening gush of blood that dripped from him, trailing down the hollows of his abdomen, soaking into the haori, the undershirt that hung from his waist . . .

"Yukina," Hidekea barked tersely.  "That is enough."

She didn't look like she agreed, glowering at Ashur for a painfully long minute before turning on her heel with a flourish, gliding out of the chamber as quietly as she had come, and the silence that fell was thick, rancid, interrupted only by the ragged sound of his own breathing, and the harder he fought to will away the pain, to ignore the harsh throbbing of his rent flesh, the more raggedy, the harsher it grew, punctuated only by the plop, plop of the blood mixed with his own saliva that dripped from his lip, from his wounds.

"Disappointing," Hidekea said, his footfalls scraping against the iron floor.  "My . . . son . . . taking the side of that haughty bastard, allying himself against his own family . . .?  No better than that fool of a brother of yours.  Do you do it on purpose, Kyouhei?  Was the draw so significant to follow in his footsteps that you would forsake your own kin?  Did he brainwash you into doing his bidding?"

"Ben?" Ashur blurted, unable to repress the incredulity in his tone.

The mere mention of that name, however, was enough to crack the legendary calm as Hidekea shot forward—two long strides to close the distance—grasping Ashur's low-hanging ponytail, viciously yanking, snapping Ashur's head back, only to glower into his eyes.  "Say that name in my presence, ever again, and I will gut you from neck to navel!  I will watch as your entrails drag the floor, as you stumble over them in your vain attempt to save yourself!  I will exult as I watch the breath leave your body, the light fade from your eyes, and you will grovel—you will curse the day you were born, as we do every single day," he snarled, his quiet tone, entirely at odds with the absolute loathing in his voice.  "And then, I will gather your remains and ship them off to your precious brother so that he can see what he caused—so that he can live with the guilt and the shame for the rest of his miserable life."  Then he let go, giving Ashur a hard shove, his head snapping forward before the restraints could catch with a harsh, metallic groan.

The first lash came a heartbeat later, drawing him up straight as he arched his back away from the burn, the fire, the mind-numbing agony.  Far worse pain than anything that he'd ever felt before, he could feel his flesh, tearing, ripping . . . By the third lash, he prayed for oblivion, except that, when it finally came to him, Hidekea's rage wasn't satiated, and he brought him around again by ordering Tanaka to rub salts into his back as his father used the blunt handle of the cat-o-nine-tails to beat his torso, his face . . . More lashes—too many to count—more salt, more beatings . . . And Ashur had no conception of time or space, lost the ability to speak, much less to think, and the only retreat he'd had against anything was to pull himself in, to will his mind away from the consuming pain, wishing that he'd die a thousand times—a million times—but death did not come . . .

Smashing his hands over his face, he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, forcing that memory back again, back into that tiny corner of his mind to lock it away before it managed to thoroughly destroy him.  It wasn't really surprising, when he thought back to those days . . . He'd been on precarious ground already, and then the altercation between Yukina and Hana . . . It was the final straw, wasn't it?  And, in the end, he'd retreated into his own head, just as he had during those hours, stuck in the basement, only this time, he wasn't able to break out himself—trapped in an endless loop, and whether his mind was trying to repair itself—that's what Charity had believed—or not, the only thing that had saved him was the insular sobbing of a piteous infant—Kells . . .

He didn't want those memories.  Jessa had been trying to reach him, hadn't she?  She’d wanted to help him, and how on earth could she know—could she ever understand—that the understanding she sought held the insular ability to destroy him, instead . . .? The last thing she’d wanted to do was to hurt him, and yet, the end result was so much worse . . .

Stomping out of the closet and through the bedroom into the hallway, Ashur willed those things away.  Funny and a little sad, how much easier it was to do that in the bright light of day . . .

Down the hall and down the stairs, he thumped into the bright kitchen, only to stop short at the sight of his brother and Charity, sitting that the table with the twins and a yapping Kells while Eddie hurried around, making breakfast, but it was what Ben wasn't wearing that drew a heavy sigh from Ashur as he slowly shook his head.

"Morning, Ash," Ben remarked without looking up from the newspaper, flipping his empty coffee mug to the side as Eddie hurried around the counter to fill a cup for Ashur and do a round of refills.

"Where are your pants, Ben?" Ashur demanded, ignoring Ben's pleasantries as he reached for the steaming coffee mug and slapped it back, ignoring the scorching burn.  Eddie arched an eyebrow at him but refilled his mug without a word before slipping the carafe onto the table and marching back over to work on the pancakes.

"I took a shower," Ben replied, as though it explained everything.

Ashur snorted.  "I have absolutely no desire to see your junk first thing in the morning," he pointed out.

"Daddy!  Do I gots junk, too?" Kells demanded, rising up on his chair, hands planted on the table as he hopped up and down.

Ashur heaved a sigh as he leveled a glower at his brother, catching Kells around the waist and sitting him back down again.

Charity cleared her throat meaningfully before Ashur could respond, telegraphing Ben a narrow-eyed look before glancing from Nadia to Emmeline and back to Ben once more.

Ben, true to form, chuckled.  "Oh, you've got junk, all right, Kells," Ben remarked.

Charity heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes, slowly shaking her head in defeat.  "You know, Ben, you should think about putting on some pants before Jessa—"

"Good morning, Ashur.  It's a fine day outside, and—uh . . ."

Ashur glanced up in time to see Jessa, with Devlin in tow, as the two of them stepped into the kitchen.  Devlin was the one who had spoken, and when he spotted Ben and his deplorable lack of clothing, he quickly stopped, reaching around Jessa, only to slap his hands over her eyes.

"What are you doing?" Jessa demanded, tugging on Devlin's hands, to no avail.

"Pardon me for saying so.  I mean, I realize that it's your house, Ash, but isn't that entirely inappropriate?" he asked, nodding at Ben.

Eddie snorted loudly.  "Been telling the old jackass that for years," she muttered.

Charity sighed and dropped her forehead into her hand.  Nadia and Emmeline just looked on, wide-eyed, while Kells giggled and stood up on his chair again.

"It's not like I'm nude," Ben pointed out dryly.

"Might as well be," Ashur grumbled, swatting Kells' backside to remind him that it needed to be flat on the chair.  The boy made a face, but dropped onto the chair once more.

"If you all didn't bring attention to it, no one would even notice," Ben maintained.

"That's one of the dumbest things you've ever said," Ashur growled.  "Did you bump your head this morning?"

Ben grinned at him.

"Do you always eat breakfast in a towel?" Jessa asked, finally managing to shake off Devlin's hands.

"He does," Ashur replied darkly. "He's kind of an ass that way.  Can't you at least buy a robe or something?"

Ben shrugged offhandedly.  "I have one."

"Did you bring it with you?"

"They're too hot," Ben replied.

Jessa shook her head and grabbed a blueberry muffin out of the basket on the counter.  "Come on, Dev," she said, turning on her heel to stride out of the kitchen once more.  "This is all just a little too weird for me . . . We're going riding."

"I wanna go ride!" Kells hollered.

"Then you'd better hurry and eat," Jessa called over her shoulder.

"Be careful," Ashur called after her.

She ignored him and kept moving.

Devlin stared at them for another minute before shaking his head and following Jessa out of the room.


Jessa leaned against the fence beside Carol as the two watched Laith and Devlin, who were instructing Kells, Nadia, and Emmeline in the basics of riding.  Kells was a little farther along since Jessa had already been working with him, but the girls were catching on quickly.  Unfortunately, though, they only had one pony, and the other horses were too large for the girls' first attempts at riding.  Laith, holding onto Nadia, was atop Buttercup, one of the horses that Ashur had purchased the same day he'd bought Humpty Dumpty, Kells' Shetland pony, while Devlin had Emmeline situated with him astride Fletch, and the men were allowing the girls to hold onto the reins.  Kells was showing off, cantering around them both, but he was careful not to venture too near the larger horses.

"Those girls are absolute dolls," Carol remarked as she watched the children.  "They almost make me want to have kids some day . . ."

"You don't want them?" Jessa asked.

Carol shrugged.  "I like kids, sure," she said, "but I tend to like them more when I can play with them awhile and send them back home."

"I did not know that," Jessa mused.  "You really don't want children . . .?"

"I'm not going to say I'll never have them because who know?  Maybe I'll change my mind, but honestly, I don't think I will."  She thought it over and made a face.  "I mean, I want to do things, you know?  Travel and see things . . . Go places . . . It's harder to do all that with kids, and then, when they finally grow up and move out on their own, you're in the middle of menopause, and going off to do your own thing may not sound like nearly as much fun as it did before . . . Does that sound selfish?"

Jessa shook her head.  "No.  I mean, people should have children because they want them, not because they think that they have to . . ."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

Carol nodded.  "I can see you with a houseful of kids, and then I can be the gorgeous and mysterious Auntie Carol who shows up with bags of goodies for them from my latest adventures . . ."

Jessa laughed.  "I don't know about a houseful," she remarked.  "What if your mate wants babies?"

Carol giggled.  "Mate?  You Irish are a funny people," she teased.  "But I would assume that my mate would be all right with it, too.  I mean, if he loves me and wants to be with me, then he'll understand.  It's not like it'd be a secret or anything.  If a guy thinks that having children is a deal-breaker, then I'd rather know that from the start so I don't waste his or my time."

Jessa nodded.  "Well, if you never have children, then I can understand.  They're a lot of work, and I'm just a nanny . . ."

"Is that . . . safe . . .?" Charity asked as she stepped up on Jessa's other side.

"Yes, of course . . . They won't let anything happen to the girls, and those horses are quite well trained, so it's very safe," Jessa assured her.

Charity waved a hand. "I wasn't as concerned about them," she admitted.  "I meant Kells . . ."

Jessa sighed since she could understand Charity's concern.  Kells tended to be just a little too hyper most of the time.  When it came to the pony, however, he was showing remarkable restraint since she'd explained to him that horses tended to do better with calm people, especially if the horse was given to being skittish.  Humpty Dumpty, however, was quite possibly the most laid-back animal she'd ever seen, and that was definitely a plus.

Carol laughed, chatting with Charity while Jessa was content to simply watch the children.  They seemed to be having the time of their lives, and that was well worth the effort.

Ben wandered over—fully dressed, thankfully—slipping an arm around his mate.  "The girls are going to pester them all day long," he predicted, a vague little smile quirking his lips.  Then he chuckled.  "Poor bastards."

"What are the odds that they're not going to start asking for ponies?" Charity remarked.

Ben sighed.  "Except we don't know the first thing about caring for horses," he told her.

"You can always find a reputable stable where you can house your horses or you could hire someone to take care of them," Jessa said.

Ben shot her a raised-eyebrow-ed look, but smiled.  "You're really not helping, you realize."

She shrugged.  "Shouldn't all little girls have their own ponies?"

"She has a point, Ben," Charity concluded.  "I'll bet my papa would have gotten me a pony if I'd wanted one . . ."

"That was entirely unfair," Ben pointed out, tightening his grip on Charity and leaning in to kiss her cheek.

She laughed and kissed him back.

Somehow, watching the two of them, so happy, so free . . .

Jessa frowned as she focused her attention on Kells once more.

Watching Ben and Charity: their closeness, their bond . . . It hurt . . .


Letting out a deep breath as she wandered around the room, Jessa couldn't stand the restlessness.

The house was quiet—so quiet.  Everyone had gone to bed a while ago.  Glancing at the clock on her nightstand, she grimaced.  Almost one in the morning . . .

She'd tried to sleep.  She'd made her excuses, not long after putting Kells to bed.  He was so exhausted from playing all day that he hadn't lasted more than a page into the book he chose, and she'd sat there with him, stroking his hair, breathing in the smell of him, and for those precious minutes, everything felt all right.  Kind of . . .

'Except you keep pretending, Jessa. More and more often of late, you do it—pretend that he's your child—so much so that it bothers you when he doesn't call you, 'Ma' . . .'

Frowning in the darkness, she shook her head, lifted her hand to touch the cool glass window pane.  'I don't . . . That's . . . That's stupid . . .'

'Except you do, just like when he fell off that pony today, and he cried, and you ran to him.  You scooped him up, you held him close, and a part of you loved how he hugged you, how he clung to you.'

Wincing at the deadly accuracy of her youkai-voice's words, she pressed her lips in a tight line, hating the part of her that knew the truth.  It was wrong, and it was horrible, and yes, if she were truly honest with herself, she would have to admit that a part of her did revel in those moments when that child needed comforting, and he had turned away from everyone else who had tried to take him away from her, Ashur included . . .

She'd held him close, and she'd dried his tears, and she'd told him that it was okay to fall.  She'd kissed his cheek, ruffled his hair, and she'd gotten him back into the saddle, too . . . And he'd smiled at her through the tears that still stood in his eyes, asked her to watch him while he cantered around the paddock . . . She'd restored his will to try again, and she'd loved that, too . . .

It was the highlight of her otherwise rather bleak day, actually.  Ashur had barely spoken more than a handful of words to her the entire day, had taken care not to be left anywhere alone with her.  Even during dinner, he'd pretty well ignored her, and if that wasn't telling enough, then there was still last night, when he'd sent her away, his message crystal clear; there were others in the house—others that he didn't want to know anything, but it was the question of why that bothered her most.

'Don't jump to conclusions . . . You know that he's just a very private man.  Maybe that's all there really is to it . . .'

She might well believe that if she didn't also remember his objections to her age, or lack thereof . . .

"You're . . . You're barely a woman, and I'm a grown man.  What happened that night . . . It shouldn't have, and you should realize that, too . . . I don't want to be your lifetime regret . . ."

Those words echoed in her brain, only now, she understood them just a little bit more.  It was his game, wasn't it?  His game, his rules, and she'd been naïve enough to fall for it . . .

The stagnant air of the bedroom choked her, stung her.  Fingers fumbling as she released the lock on the French doors, she threw them open, stumbled outside, lifted her gaze to the sky where the moon should have been.  It wasn't. The sky was as empty and void as she was.  The stars weren't shining as brightly, the air was silent and lonely.  Everything about it felt like nothing, and for a moment, Jessa wished that she could feel that way, too . . .

Closing her eyes, leaning on the railing, she breathed deep, willing the night air to offer her a semblance of calm, of solace, of the comfort she'd found in Ashur, only to have it ripped away from her.  That was the part that tore her open, left her bleeding, left her raw.  Somehow, she'd come to rely upon him, even after she'd sworn to herself that it would never happen—that she didn't need anyone—didn't want anyone . . .

A soft rustle, a quiet thud . . . For a moment, she thought maybe . . . But that couldn't be, could it?  Ashur . . . He wouldn't . . .

"Jessa . . ."

Eyes flashing open, she whipped to the side, and she started to step forward, starting to bring up her hands to touch him, but she stepped back instead, retreating as she forced her arms down, crossing them over her chest, turning her face away, because if she looked at him . . . If she looked at him . . .

"Come on," he said, taking the step toward her that she hadn't been able to take.

She shook her head, scrunched up her shoulders, as though the action would be enough to keep him at bay.

He sighed, reached out, pulled her into his arms without any real struggle.  Then he scooped her up, cradled her against his chest, vaulted the railing, landing on the grass below as he set off at a sprint.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, huddling a little closer against him despite her stubborn resolve not to slip her arms around his neck.

"I can't stand not being near you," he admitted, and when she peered up into his face, it was to find him staring down at her, his gaze lit with an inner fierceness, a quiet sense of defiance.

His answer confused her, even as she felt her heart lurch in her chest, slamming hard against her ribcage in a pattern of butterfly flutters in the dark as the thoughts that had plagued her mere minutes before completely faded from her mind . . .