InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Zero ❯ Prologue: The End ( Prologue )

The rumble of miscreant laughter filled the air.  “Ah, Sesshoumaru . . . How good of you to join us . . .”

“Naraku . . .”

‘Is this vile thing his true form?’

Amber gaze flicking over the misshapen hanyou—a conglomeration of distorted tentacles, of grotesque and sickening grayish-green vines, all connected to the bloated and distended body that vaguely resembled a spider—Sesshoumaru’s eyes alone bespoke his absolute loathing as he slowly drew his sword, Tokijin.

“Sesshoumaru!  You bastard!  Just what the hell are you doing here?”

Casting his half-brother, the hanyou InuYasha, a momentary glare, Sesshoumaru drew the sword back, ready to strike.  “Stand down, InuYasha.  This is not your battle.”

“The fuck it ain’t!” InuYasha snarled.  “Why don’t you just go hide and watch while I kill Naraku?”

“You had your chances before,” Sesshoumaru pointed out coldly.  “If you get in the way, I’ll kill you, too.”

“Why, you—"

Naraku’s diabolical laughter rumbled in the air once more, cutting off InuYasha’s commentary.  “Allow me to extend the proper greeting for one such as you, Sesshoumaru—by absorbing you, too!”

Hopping back as those vines streaked across the barren ground, Sesshoumaru flicked the glowing green whip from his fingertips, burning the tentacles well before they could reach him, and with each strike, the severed limbs unleashed streams of miasma—jyaki—thick and putrid and foul . . . ‘Miserable vermin . . . Detestable abomination . . . Absorb This Sesshoumaru?  I think not . . .’

Lips curling back as he slashed Tokijin with a flash of light on the blade, the flicker of a bare hint of emotion, entirely out of place on Sesshoumaru’s grim countenance, the inu-youkai grunted slightly as the razor-sharp edge sliced through the tangle of living vines that tried to intercept him . . .

Those damned runners, shooting out of Naraku’s body, flying through the air just above the ground, the snaking tendrils, moving much too fast to avoid, and the best he could do was to slam Tokijin into the ground, the residual flash of blue energy and flashes of lightning—Souryuha—that reverberated outward from the blade, burning those runners before they could break through the makeshift barrier around him . . . The disgusting hanyou had managed to strengthen himself beyond what should have been possible—something that vastly annoyed Sesshoumaru . . .

Undaunted, Naraku shot out his plant-like tentacles, straight at Sesshoumaru once more, but Sesshoumaru was busy, flashing the energy whip from his fingertips, cutting down countless Saimyoushou in the process.  That fool houshi—one of InuYasha’s friends—was preparing to open the kazaana in his hand, despite the taijiya’s pleas for him not to do any such thing.  Sesshoumaru wasn’t doing it for him—kami, no—but he didn’t see the runners coming this time . . .

Kagura had been near enough to see it, though.  Without a second thought, she had stepped into the path of the lightning-fast runners. Five had impaled her at once, as Sesshoumaru whipped around, just in time to see those vines, slamming straight through the wind-youkai’s body, lifting her into the air, her head falling back as the softest gasp slipped past her lips.  He unleashed an enraged howl as he shredded the vines as though they were made of little more than paper in his haste to get to her.  As he reached her, as she closed her eyes, an oddly misplaced yet peaceful kind of smile, quirking the corners of her lips, and he had heard her one word: "Sesshoumaru . . ."

He barely noticed as the sparkling streak of a sacred arrow skimmed over the ground, as it joined with the steady pink glow of the dead miko’s arrow . . . They had exploded as they struck true, as they obliterated Naraku’s body with the force of InuYasha’s kaze no kizu following close behind.  Naraku’s screech died out slowly, carried by the gale force wind that had crashed down on them, only to fade out to nothing as the jyaki dissipated, as the unholy body that was once Naraku melted away.

“Kagura!” Sesshoumaru hissed, jamming Tokijin into the scabbard on his hip as he dropped to his knees to pull the broken body of the wind sorceress into his arm.  And the vicious growl that escaped him as he held her limp form . . . Holding her in one arm, he felt the red bleeding into his vision as a rage the likes of which he’d never felt before surged through him, growing louder and more malignant like a howling in his ears. . .

Suddenly, that smile that had remained on her face contorted, disappeared as a sharp and ragged gasp, as a harsh grimace, twisted her timeless features.  Eyes squeezing closed as she gasped once more, her body tensed against him, and his eyes flared wide as the sudden resonance of her beating heart erupted in his ears.

‘Her heart . . .?  Because . . . Because Naraku is dead . . .’

And that body that had been fighting so hard to heal itself . . . It wasn’t fast enough, was it?  Through the gaping holes in her chest, he could see it: the flow of blood that was hastened by the heart that was restored to her, only to become her worst enemy as it pumped it out faster than she could heal, the scarlet trail of blood that slipped from the corner of her lips . . .

Tightening his jaw, he ground his teeth together.  Somehow, somehow, the idea of allowing her to die here, amongst the destruction of the conflict, in this ignoble place, torn by the ravages of battle, rent by the violence that lingered in the air . . . Standing up, cradling her in his arm, he strode away, ignoring the voices that echoed in his wake, intent on the sound of her heart as it fluttered and struggled within her . . .

“Put . . . me down . . .” she murmured, her voice, tight, constricted, even as she struggled to mask the pain in her voice.  She shoved lightly at him to emphasize her point, but he ignored it.  She didn’t have enough strength to put up a fuss, anyway.

He stopped for a moment, glancing down at her hand, resting against the smudged armor that covered his clothing, and what he saw made him frown, made him blink.

That hand, so small, so delicate, marred with streaks of her blood, crusting around her fingernails . . . Something about the slight way that her fingers trembled, fluttered with the labored quality of her breathing . . .

“You’ll heal, Kagura,” he said, unsure where the words were coming from; unsure why he felt . . . compelled . . . to reassure her, at all.

She managed a quiet little laugh, almost more of a breath than a sound.  “I . . . I don’t know why I . . . My body . . . just moved . . .” Then, she sighed.  “That’s . . . a lie.  I . . . I wanted to . . . protect you . . .”

“. . . Arigatou gozaimashita,” he murmured.  It was a phrase he didn’t often say—couldn’t rightfully remember having ever said it before . . .

Sesshoumaru gritted his teeth as she gasped, whimpered, her body, tensing in his arm, her hand, balling into a fist that still rested against his chest.

Ever so slowly, she relaxed, and yet, he knew, didn’t he?  With every step he took, he could feel the waves of pain, rattling through her with the jarring motion, and before he could think about it too hard, he quickened his step, pushed off the ground, the end of his Mokomoko-sama, wrapping around his feet.

He didn’t think about where he was going.  It didn’t occur to him that he’d left Jaken and Rin back on the battlefield.  Nothing really mattered to him, at all, except that he wanted—needed—to get her somewhere peaceful—beautiful—somewhere far removed from the ugliness that he knew instinctively had been her entire life since her shameful beginnings . . .

And the feel of her hand, wrapped around a long strand of his hair, drew his attention, and he glanced down at her.  The vague and dreamy smile was back, but her gaze was clouded over, as though she didn’t really see him at all, and, with a sickening sense of understanding, he pushed himself farther, faster.  ‘She . . . She doesn’t have much time . . .’

It was true.  Her pale skin was taking on a strangely sallow undertone, and it seemed to him that her skin was even sinking in around her cheeks, her eyes.  He could feel her body against his arm, his shoulder, and even through the fabric of his clothing, he could feel the drop in her body temperature.  Shrugging his shoulder, he managed to slip Mokomoko-sama down, allowed it to fall onto her in a vain attempt to replace some of the warmth that her body was losing entirely too quickly.

He landed just as the first stars of the night sky flickered to life high above.  He didn’t have to look around to know, just where he was.  Somehow, he’d brought her to his home—the castle on the cliff—the courtyard where the flowers grew in a chaotic order—in the farthest, eastern corner where the wisteria grew, thick and intoxicating, beside the steady, gurgling stream . . .

Sinking to his knees in the soft, soft grass, he gently settled her on his lap, helped her to rest her cheek against his chest, just below the spikes of his armor, lost in the softness of the Mokomoko-sama, both white and crimson—stained with her blood.

The sounds of the night creatures sprang to life, one by one, and the breeze that descended smelled like her, brushed over his skin like a taunt, a tease, a vengeful gentleness.  Her breathing was labored, shallow, and he frowned over her head, unable to reconcile the vast ache that opened up, deep within his chest.

“What . . . is this . . . place . . .?” she mumbled, her eyes slowly clearing as she looked around.  He’d thought that she had fallen asleep.  He was wrong, and the sound of her voice, weak as it was, was both welcoming and yet, ghastly, too, even if he didn’t know why.

“This is . . . my home,” he replied.

“Your . . . home . . . It’s . . . beautiful . . .”

He grimaced.  She did not see it.  “It’s just a place,” he told her.  “It is peaceful, though.”

“Why did you . . . bring me . . . here?” she asked quietly, breathily.

“I . . . I don’t know,” he said.  It was the truth . . . or was it . . .? “I did not think about it.  I just flew.”

She managed a very small, soft laugh, and it was missing the harsher edges that her laughter had once held.  “Thank . . . you . . .”

Holding onto her for a painful heartbeat, he drew a deep breath—could she feel it?  Then, he slipped her off his lap and stood, drawing Tenseiga, holding it upright, resting the flat side of the blade against his forehead.  ‘Speak to me, Tenseiga . . .’

The sword remained silent as the evening shadows crept closer.