InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Dunborough ( Chapter 75 )

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

It was beautiful.

Ashur had to admit, he wasn't entirely sure, what to expect, given that he hadn't actually been to Ireland before.  He supposed, if he'd stopped to consider it, he'd have just expected to find something much like London, maybe a little less crowded, but still, the general feeling would have been the same.

He was wrong.

Ireland felt like a completely different place, right down to the language.  It wasn't uncommon to hear people speak Gaelic or, failing that, English with such a heavy brogue that it sounded almost like another language entirely.

As it was, they had spent the bulk of the afternoon at a small café near the airport while Nora went on ahead to Dunborough.  They'd decided that it would be in their best interests to lay low, that Nora would come pick them up after dark, just in case anyone was watching the estate, which seemed a little farfetched to Jessa, but Ashur had ultimately agreed since the last thing that Ian MacDonnough might want was for Jessa to be able to access the estate. just in case there did happen to be a copy of her father's will.  If they were lucky, there would be one in the family vault, as Nora seemed to believe.  However, given that Jessa actually didn't know that Nora was her aunt, then she also held a level of skepticism about the chance that there was another copy of the will, not because she didn't believe Nora, but more because, just how would a servant know of such a thing, in any case . . .?

Just now, however, they were walking to a nearby shopping center where Nora was supposed to meet them, and Jessa was uncharacteristically quiet.  She had been for the most of the day since they'd landed.  A little distracted, a little pensive, and yet, when he'd asked her if she were all right, she'd smiled and said of course, she was . . .

But he didn't believe her.

'So, figure it out, Kyouhei.  She's obviously thinking hard about something.'

'I've asked her a number of times.  Maybe she just isn't ready to talk about . . . whatever it is . . .'

'And she's your mate.  Are you really going to give up that easily?'

'It's not about giving up.  Maybe she just needs a little time to sort things out in her head before she can actually give voice to them.  Ever think of that?'

'Okay, maybe, but you know, maybe you should at least reassure her that you're here with her; that she can tell us whatever she needs to say . . .'

Which was entirely sound advice, Ashur figured.  It really wasn't that hard to figure out, as far as he was concerned.  The last time she was here, she'd just lost her father, and she was then summarily escorted out of her home like she was little more than a trespasser in her own domain, and, while he could appreciate the circumstances that had brought her into his life on some level, he also wasn't foolish enough to try to convince himself that she wasn’t trying to deal with so many different emotions that it had to be exhausting, overwhelming, and even pretty much scary as hell . . .

Digging his hands deep into his pockets, Ashur stepped off the middle of the sidewalk, leaning against the railing that ran alongside Six Mile Water—Abhainn na bhFiodh, to the locals.  She stopped, turning her face upward to stare at him, those mysterious reddish-brown eyes, glowing softly in the waning daylight.  "Why are we stopping?" she finally asked when he said nothing.

He offered her an offhanded shrug.  "I know you've said that you're all right," he told her at length, gaze flicking over her head, taking in their surroundings.  "I just want to make sure you know you can tell me things, Jessa.  I want you to tell me things . . . I want you to know that I'll listen, even if I can't help you—even if I don't know how to help you."

She sighed softly, more of a lifting of her shoulders than a sound, but she stepped toward him, slipped her arms around his waist, leaning against him.  "That's just it," she admitted quietly—so quietly that he had to strain to hear her.  "I don't know what I feel . . . Like, I ought to be strong, right?  But . . ."

He let out a deep breath, slipped his arms around her, too, ignoring that small voice, deep down, that tended to remind him that it was highly improper, these public shows of affection, and yet, she needed it, and if she needed it, then propriety be damned . . . "You don't have to be anything," he told her gently.  "You have me, remember?"

He grimaced when he felt the heat of her tears, dampening his shirt—tears that he couldn't hear, but he felt them, all the same: felt them and smelled them, and that was more than enough—enough to make him grit his teeth, enough to pull her a little closer, resting his cheek on her hair.

"I . . . I should be happy because he's with Ma now . . . I should be, but I . . ."

"You miss him—them," Ashur concluded.  "It's all right to miss them, you know.  Besides, did you really ever have time to really grieve them?"

She heaved a tumultuous sigh.  "It's just . . . a little overwhelming," she mumbled.  "I walked down here with Da a few times . . . It feels like he's near . . ."

"Maybe he is," Ashur told her, then he sighed.  "Do you . . .?  If you'd rather, we can go get a hotel room for the night—give you some time to work things out in your head before you go back home . . ."

She sniffled and leaned away, but she managed a weak and watery little smile, tinged with sadness, but yet, a genuine smile, nonetheless.  "No, I . . . I want to go," she insisted.  "For every sad memory, I have happy ones, too . . . I . . . I'll show you around, if you'd like."

Smoothing her hair back out of her face, he smiled, too.  "I'd like that," he told her.  "You ready to go see if Nora's here yet?"

She thought about that for a moment, then she nodded, stepping back as her arms dropped to her sides once more.  Ashur straightened up and took her hand.


Wandering along the vast hills of Dunborough as the sun rose slowly over the horizon, Jessa rubbed her arms through the thick sweater—her own sweater—wondering if she ought to have grabbed a jacket before slipping out of the centuries-old castle.  Her soft black boots were dampened with dew, the crystalline droplets, shining in the soft and gentle daylight that spread over the land in shades of pink and gold and purples.  The land she knew so well, had traversed them all until she knew it like the back of her hand . . . The crisp fall air that hung on the breeze, lending a familiarity that she welcomed, despite the sense of ault lang syne that accompanied that feeling . . .

She'd left Ashur, sleeping soundly, loathe to wake him, given that he hadn't gotten any sleep on the plane, either, she hadn't had the heart to do it, and even then, maybe she really did need this precious time to straighten things out in her mind.

It was curious, wasn't it?  So many memories that just tumbled together with no real rhyme or reason . . . Nearly her entire life was here, and yet, if she were completely honest with herself, she'd have to admit that her future wasn't.  She could feel that in her very being.  She didn't want to live under the thumb of a tai-youkai who perverted the law to suit him—assuming that her father really had kept a copy of the will in question.  A tai-youkai who didn't care at all that she wasn't in love with the man he'd chosen for her to marry, especially given that she hadn't even met the tai-youkai, either, and then . . .

'Ma . . .'

Grimacing as she finally allowed her mind to drift to the questions she'd tried so hard to ignore, Jessa rubbed a little more furiously at her arms, scrunched up her shoulders in a vain effort to chase away the chill in the air . . .

'Did he . . .?  Did he have something to do with Ma's accident . . .?'

'Do you really want an answer to that, lass?'

She didn't know.  Whether she did or didn't, maybe she deserved to know, though . . . But would the tai-youkai really go to those lengths to secure her marriage to whomever he'd chosen? It was one thing to suggest it, but to . . . to have arranged the accident that had killed Orlaith . . .?

And what would truly be the point of finding out, anyway?  There wasn't a thing that could be done, not to Ian MacDonnough.  If he had in some way suggested it or arranged it, there really was nothing she could do to challenge him, either, and that would leave her, what?  A burning anger, frustration, that she could do absolutely nothing to assuage?  Was that something she really wanted to own . . .?

Strange, wasn't it?  In all her life, in all of her dreams of her own future, when she'd dared to consider it, she'd never thought about leaving Ireland, not really.  She'd always taken it for granted, that it would forever be her home, her place where she belonged.  That had all changed, hadn't it?  Because Ashur . . .

"Jessa!"

Stopping abruptly, she turned at the sound of that voice.  It was one she most definitely recognized, and she smiled as Ashur strode across the knoll, a thick quilt, draped over one arm, a thermos dangling from his hand and a small basket swaying slightly in his free hand, his low-hanging ponytail, whipping over his shoulder.  For once, he was wearing a jacket over the usual white dress shirt and black slacks.  The jacket was of Donegal tweed; she'd helped him pick it out yesterday while they were killing time before meeting Nora.  It wasn't a fussy jacket, though, more of a casual thing, and she had to admit, it looked very good on him . . .

"Nora told me that you were probably out for a morning walk," he explained as he stopped beside her.  "Packed up a breakfast basket if you're hungry."

"Well, I suppose it would be rather rude to ignore it, then," she allowed, taking the quilt and turning around again.

"Are we heading somewhere in particular?" he asked.

She shrugged.  "Not far," she said.  "I just . . . I just wanted to see it . . ."

"You . . . You don't mind that I came to find you?"

"No," she assured him.  "I thought . . ."

"You thought, what?" he prompted gently when she trailed off.

She paused in her gait but continued on, cresting another rolling hill, smiling slightly as her eyes lit on her destination: her father's glen.  "I thought, you know, that if I could talk to Da anywhere, it might be here," she admitted.

A look of understanding surfaced on Ashur's face, and he nodded slowly, his gaze taking in the ring of torches, spaced at intervals in a circle.  "Your father's torches . . ."

She nodded, pausing just for a moment before striding forward, shaking out the quilt to spread it in the middle of the circle.  "It feels calm, like Da," she ventured, bracing her hands against the small of her back as she slowly looked around at the dormant and weathered sticks.

He smiled at her, set the thermos and basket on the blanket before stepping over to kiss her forehead.  "It's beautiful here."

She sighed, but it was a contented sound, and for just a moment, she felt the same emotion she had when she was little more than a toddler, brought out here on her father's arm . . . Closing her eyes, she stretched out her youki, used it to touch each of the sticks, to feel them . . .

Ashur's soft chuckle told her before she opened her eyes that she'd done it, that she'd managed to light them all.  "If your father can see this, then he's proud," he said.

"You . . . You think so?"

He nodded, holding out a hand to her.  She took it, let him lead her onto the blanket, sat back while she dug into the basket.  "Oh, my God!  Black pudding!" she half-groaned.  "Real black pudding!"

Ashur frowned when she pulled one out of the basket and shoved it under his nose.  Jerking back, he raised an eyebrow though he very slowly took it from her.  "That looks like sausage, but it doesn't smell like it . . ."

Jessa rolled her eyes as she dug another one out of the basket and bit into it.  "It's blood, fat, and oatmeal . . ."

He narrowed his eyes, lowering the sausage before he bit into it.  "Why did you say 'blood' first?"

She shrugged.  "It's mostly blood."

He dropped it.  "You know, I think I'll pass on that," he said.

She laughed.  "Try it!"

He shook his head.  "Rather not, thanks."

She sighed but dug out a paler version of the so-called black pudding and offered it to him instead.

He stared at it for a long moment before very slowly taking it from her.  "All right, what's in this one?"

She rolled her eyes.  "Basically, the same but without the blood, you ninny."

That one, at least, he did bite into, and he seemed almost surprised as he slowly chewed.  "This one isn't bad," he allowed.

She popped the last of her patty into her mouth.  "The black pudding is better," she told him.

"I'll take your word for it, Jessa."

Digging a couple slices of soda bread out of the basket, she handed Ashur one along with a lovely, crusty sausage.  She didn't tend to eat them like that, but he probably would.  She opted to slather hers with some orange marmalade—Nora had already buttered them.  "What's that?" she asked, pointing at the thermos.

"Tea, she said," Ashur replied.  "Want some?"

Jessa nodded, setting aside the bread as she reached for the thermos instead.  She uncapped the top and filled that cup for Ashur before removing the cup nestled to the bottom for herself.  Nora also remembered just how Jessa liked that, too, knew exactly how much cream to add to the tea, knew she preferred to take it with just a little touch of honey, which was entirely comforting.

The early October breeze carried with it, the crispness of fall, the smell of the trees as they loosened their hold upon the lush greenery—slowly, almost selfishly at first—only to weaken that grasp as the colors shifted from green to brilliant golds, enchanting russets, glorious oranges, and as those hues took them, tendered them, mellowed them, the branches finally set them free, letting them float on the same winds.  It wasn't a process that was lost to Jessa.  No, in her own way, didn't she understand it all, maybe a little too well?

And yet, she knew, too . . . Stealing a glance at Ashur, who was sipping his tea and gazing over the glen with a hint of a smile on his face.  Biting her bottom lip as her heart curiously seemed to skip a beat, she let her gaze drop to the cup in her hands, a secretive, almost enigmatic little grin on her own features . . . That same feeling of letting go could lead to something much more brilliant, much more breathtaking, than anything else she'd ever dared to imagine . . .

'Your Da, God rest him, he would have liked Ashur, too.'

'You . . . You think so?'

'Oh, aye . . . You know, don't you, lamb?  Your da only ever wanted to see you smile, to know that you are loved, and Ashur?  That man . . . He loves you—really loves you, loves you more than he loves himself—loves you more than maybe anything else in the world . . .'

'Except Kells,' she amended firmly.  'He needs to love Kells more.  Kells is a child, and—'

'In an entirely different way than he loves Kells, surely, but don't ever doubt that he loves you at least as much, if it can truly be counted in that kind of way . . .'

Jessa would prefer not to compare it, and it wasn't because she was afraid that she ranked lower than Kells in Ashur's affections.  If anything, she didn't want to rank higher.  Kells was a child—her child—and she couldn't help the smile that spread over her face in a radiant sort of glow as she reminded herself yet again that the boy really was hers, that he called her, 'mommy' . . .

"What are you thinking about, Jessa?"

She blinked, shot him an almost startled kind of glance as she fussed with the hem of her sweater.  "I was just . . . just thinking about Kells," she ventured slowly.

He chuckled.  "You miss him already?"

"Of course, I do," she replied.  "Don't you?"

"I do," he allowed with a nod as he dug his phone out of his pocket and fiddled with it for a moment.  "Not as much as I would, though, all things considered . . ."

She burst out laughing as she took the phone and shook her head slowly at the image of Kells and Puff-Puff and the girls, all sitting on the sofa with varying degrees of guilty expressions on their faces along with a few mangled couch cushions around them, along with huge tufts of stuffing that basically looked as though they'd exploded all over the room . . .

Ashur snorted, taking the phone back and stuffing it into his pocket once more.  "It's not nearly that amusing," he told her.  "I just bought that couch . . ."

"I'm sure they were just playing, Ashur," she reminded him.

He rolled his eyes.  "Somehow, that just doesn't really help.  Must have gotten that destructive habit from you, because I assure you, it didn't come from me . . ."

"I'll have you know that I've never been destru—" Cutting herself off abruptly, she couldn’t help the slight blush that surfaced in her cheeks.  "Not . . . really . . . anyway . . ."

She didn't miss the way his eyebrows shot up in silent question, and she heaved a sigh.  "It doesna count when it was a trove of Raggedy Ann dolls that I destroyed," she muttered defensively.

"Did you?"

She nodded once, tilting the tea to her lips as she willed away those unpleasant memories.

Ashur chuckled.  "Good for you."

For some reason, his quiet praise suddenly made her giggle as the almost ridiculous image of herself as a young girl flickered to life in her mind, as she remembered how upset she was, how angry, how hurt . . . and how she'd taken her claws to those dolls, one by one . . .

Ashur . . . Somehow, he'd started to make her see herself in a different light, hadn't he?  All of those hurtful, awful things that she'd always thought, that she'd believed, but he . . . He loved those things about her, even if she had no real idea, why that would be so . . .