Title: Things You Let Go In Order to Live
Author: queen-of-sinking-ships
Rating: R [implied rape, kidnap, adult situations, violence]
Pairing: Naraku/Sango
Summary: A give-and-take that will never be equal.
Length: One-shot [891 words]
Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha. Lyrics belong to Florence + the Machine.
But you took your toll on me,
So I gave myself over willingly,
You got a hold on me,
And I don't know how I don't just stand outside and scream,
I am teaching myself how to be free.
- 'Various Storms & Saints', Florence + the Machine
Things You Let Go In Order to Live
Give it back.
She's talking about her weapon - the impossibly large boomerang of bone and blood, slung over her shoulder in times of peace. In times of war it cuts through the air and her enemies with ease before returning to her hand, forever faithful.
Now it does nothing but stay in the dirt, just out of reach, and she feels betrayed.
The red that pulses around her weapon is the same red that looks down at her fallen form, shining through a gaze she has come to hate. Once upon a time, before the red eyes and stolen brothers and spider-souls, his gaze belonged to a prince. Once upon a time, she might have thought him handsome.
But this man smirks and kills and steals and is not a prince of fairy tales. Red eyes and greedy bandits do not coincide with Happily Ever After's.
So instead of returning her weapon, he keeps it, and keeps her, too.
Give it back.
She's talking about her uniform - the black bodysuit adorned with pink armor that she had earned and did not steal.
The room is dark and she's slick with sweat, but the pit of her stomach feels cold, somehow, even when it's over. And though she cannot see what he has done or what she has become, she thinks that if her uniform is returned, she could feign warmth and invisibility; could pretend that it had protected her from this demon, just like it had protected her from all the demons before him.
He misunderstands. Laughing cruelly, he says that he couldn't give it back even if he wanted to.
It's a bitter moment. She wants to correct him and kill him, wants to rip out his mismatched organs and step on his white, spidery, thieving fingers so that he may never take something from her again.
But she does none of these things, because he's robbed so much of herself by now that any attempt to hurt him would only hurt her in the long run. She is missing a family, village, brother, weapon, uniform, everything -
And what is he missing?
A few pieces of a wretched jewel and the love of a woman he'd never truly known.
Unbidden, the image of a grinning monk with a cursed, wandering hand fills the spaces beneath her eyelids - the one whom she'd wanted to give something to; the one who'd declined in favor of flirtation and lechery.
With no small amount of resentment, she thinks, damn the lustful.
When he leaves her alone, she wonders.
She wonders where the silver-haired boy is.
She wonders where the girl-from-the-well is.
She wonders where the fox-child is.
.
.
.
She wonders where the monk is.
Give it back.
She's talking about her brother's soul - something that does not belong to her, though it is precious beyond measure. Out of all the things he's stolen, the loss of this one thing remains the most painful.
Quite frankly, she thinks she's earned it back by now. He takes her so often that sometimes it's easier to pretend that she is giving herself instead - a fair transaction, rather than the endless one-sided pillage their relationship really was.
One night he notices the sickle-scar between her shoulder blades - something he's given her through the hands of her brother, back when he was pretending to be a prince, back when they had first met.
Wryly, he remarks, we match.
She does not miss that he has ignored her request.
As he kisses her neck, her nails tear into the rugged spider-scar on his back, so that they might match a little less.
He no longer calls her by the name of the undead girl; the one who looks like the girl-from-the-well, the one made of bones and clay and love-gone-wrong.
She no longer weeps.
.
.
.
For the first time in what feels like forever, she wants to be rescued, just this once.
.
.
.
No one comes for her.
.
.
.
And then, one day, she realizes he's stolen from her, again.
"Give it back."
She is well aware that she is begging, but this is something he can not have, because without it she will never be able to save her brother, will never be able to see her companions, will never be able to escape his filthy greedy thieving clutches.
(She almost understands the wind witch, now.)
He looks at her with something like pity, but not quite. Empathy, perhaps. A mutual understanding, for his predicament with the undead girl is remarkably similar.
Slowly, surely, he reaches within himself, and pulls out a black, burned, beating thing, offering it to her beneath the shadows of time.
Her throat goes dry, drier than paper, and she knows that they are both doomed -
Because once more, he's misunderstood.
.
.
.
Hold on to your heart, you'll keep it safe
Hold on to your heart, don't give it away.
.
A/N: Eh, this kind of sucks.
I'm relatively new to this fandom, but this idea has been floating around in my head for a little while now. I absolutely adore the show; and subsequently, this pairing. I wish people wrote more of them.
Not sure what to do with my unfinished FF's. I don't want to abandon them, but I'm not sure how to continue. It's a dilemma.
Reviews, sharing, etc. are greatly appreciated.