Disclaimer: I own neither Rurouni Kenshin nor InuYasha, they belong to Nobuhiro Watsuki and Rumiko Takahashi, respectively, and all the companies that hold rights. This is purely for entertainment.
Author's Notes: Take fair warning. This is a dark story, and the materials discussed within will be dark. There will be light moments, but do not expect an entirely or even a mostly happy story, because you won't find it here. There will be plenty of anguish, guilt, revenge, bitterness, hatred, and passion (and by passion I'm not intimating sex, necessarily). I do not, however, believe in darkness/angst without a purpose. I have a plot, folks, and if you can stick with me throughout the ride, you should find that everything will fit. It may not necessarily be a happy fit, but it will fit. Thank you.
Prologue
Wind, whispering through the open fields, bent the long wisps of grass beneath the softest of celestial caresses, teasing the long, ebony tresses and billowing crimson hibakama of the miko who stood as the solitary figure amidst the acres of open wood. One hand was drawn up close to her chest, the beaded strands of a necklace falling out on either side of her lightly closed fist, the curl of ivory fingers hiding the central treasure. The other lay softly at her side, her pale skin hidden by the bulky folds of the chihaya sleeve. The grasses, golden in hue but interspersed with green, came up to her knees in height, swaying under the breeze's invisible touch. An expression of expectant anxiety briefly crossed over her features, her chocolate-hued irises darkening from the shadow of narrowing eyelashes as she looked off into the distant horizon.
Within a moment, the steady chirrups of crickets and cicadas and the pleasant birdsong died, and a swirl of youki rose in the meadow. The young woman's visage bore an expression then of curious puzzlement, as an unexplainable and unforeseen dread began to twist her soul. She turned her head, pale lips parting slightly as slender eyebrows knitted in almost hesitant confusion.
"Inuyasha?" she asked, her alto tones carrying notes of wary bemusement into the air. The deadened, quiet hush of all the native wildlife had made her uneasy on a basic, instinctive level and her heart was pounding thunderously against her ribcage, adrenaline rushing unbidden through her veins. Her sense of trepidation intensified with the sudden sound of furiously quick steps hastening through the thick grasses towards her, and the woman whirled around, recognizing her fatal error a heartbeat too late, the searing anguish of claws ripping through flesh and tendon and bone coursing through her. It had happened so fast, so unbelievably fast, and she could feel herself falling away. Her body, overbalanced by sudden weakness and the momentum of her attacker's strike, collapsed against the earth, now damp with her blood.
Her only sound was a groan, shivers of pain rippling throughout her entire body. However, she could still see it, the Shikon no tama, that beautiful jewel and terrible power, clutched just barely in her weakening grip. Ahead of her were two bare feet she knew very well, their appearance roughened and calloused from years in the wild, the skin dirty. The young man who owned them knelt in front of her moments later, his silver hair falling over his red fire-rat haori. Shame and anger consumed her as his amber eyes cast a glance over her prone form. Hatred burned in her dark gaze as she caught sight of his cocky smirk through her blurring vision, and she tried vainly to clasp her hand tighter around the bead in her fist. She couldn't die here. She had to protect the Shikon no tama. What a mistake it had been to allow herself to love this hanyou who only loved himself…
"…Inu…yasha…" she tried, her anger overpowering her disbelief and pain to twist her tone into a growl. His smirk deepened as he casually plucked the precious emblem of her life's devotion to duty from her struggling grasp.
"Human?" he mocked, glancing over at her with those beautiful, gleaming amber eyes that she had once loved and would now forever hate, "As if I could ever possibly degrade myself to becoming such a weakling for you."
With the cruel sharpness of his disdainful words sinking into her shattered heart, the anger filling the miko dissipated for a moment, her eyes widening despite herself with the unbearable pain and hurt of betrayal. As he walked away, his merciless laughter echoed in her ears, drowning out all other sound.
For heartbeats, she could only lie there, unable to struggle to her feet and unable to see beyond the haze of bloody rage and bitter betrayal falling about her in a dark shroud. A slight whimper escaped her lips as she tried to move, trying to push herself up. She had to stop him. If he became a full youkai with the power of the Shikon no tama, there was no telling the amount of evil he would become able to unleash. Inuyasha was her mistake. She had allowed herself to fall in love, to trust that he loved her as well. What a naïve fool she had been, and now innocents would suffer for it.
'After everything we have been, have done, is this all that I am to you? You have taken my heart, bled it dry, and now leave me here to suffer not only the pain of knowing your love was a mere farce, but the burning agony of my violated flesh, torn by the fury of your claws. My love for you ran deep, Inuyasha, but my hatred for you shall run deeper. For you I faltered. Because of you, I now must lay down my life. However…' eyes, dark in color and expression, became shadowed by soft eyelashes as the woman lowered her gaze, her hand tightening its grip about the smooth wood of her bow, her limbs beginning to faintly tremble with the effort required. Dipping her head, the raven strands of her lustrous hair falling over her white miko's chihaya and contrasting sharply with her blanched skin, she gathered her wits and the remainder of her faltering strength about her and climbed slowly to her feet with her weapon as a crutch.
'…I shall not die alone. I swear, Inuyasha, upon the blood that you have spilled that your soul will find no peace in this world or the next.'
It was with a startled gasp and a jerk that Takani Megumi found herself awoken from what she had anticipated to be a peaceful, relaxing sleep, but had instead been a sojourn in a dismal world of betrayal, bitterness, and death. Pale hands went to her face, shielding her eyes as she sat up, long, thick tendrils of midnight-black hair falling unbound over her shoulders and chest, spilling down her back and over the blankets of her futon. Her breathing was erratic and her chest still rose and fell with the quick tempo created by the adrenaline running its course throughout her body.
"Not again," she groaned, the inflamed passion in her tone making the words into a furious snarl as they left her unpainted lips. With a hauteur born of frustration, she flipped her hair over her shoulder with annoyance and pulled the blankets from her legs, pulling herself into a standing position. For weeks now Megumi had found her sleep disrupted by these dreams, their often-brutal imagery leaving a lasting impression upon her subconscious mind that kept them fresh upon awakening, as the dark circles beneath her cinnamon-hued eyes could attest. The context and setting for the dreams often differed between them, but there was always the central figure of that unnamed miko, the vessel through which Megumi was drawn into the feudal world. Every time she awoke, the emotions of the woman would linger, mixing with her own and shifting her perception, be it bitterness, anger, despair, or even joy and love, but always leaving a sense of anxiety and expectant dread. Tonight, the dread smoldered strongly; an unaddressed writhing in the pit of her stomach that carried the weight of warning. But a warning for what?
Pragmatic individual that she was, Megumi had never kept much regard for superstition, or even religion. She didn't hold much faith in the power of prophecy, and dismissed the dreams and the feeling it stirred within her as yet another venture of an exhausted mind, her subconscious throwing her own past and repressed emotions in her view in another form. When viewed in that light, the dreams were not simply an annoying form of inducing insomnia, but a dangerous prodding at the still-bitter side of herself she refused to allow to come to light. Every time she awoke, she could feel her darker emotions in their raw, hostile entirety simmering close to the surface, and every time she had to harden her will to push them away again.
With another irate sigh, Megumi tightened the sash about her sleeping yukata and slid open the door to her room, shutting it behind her with a soft click. The halls of Genzai-sensei's clinic were silent, the girls and the doctor himself having gone to bed hours ago and not to wake for hours more. Unfortunately for her, this had become an unpleasant ritual. She would fall asleep only to dream, and then only to wake up in a sweat, and retire to the engawa for a cup of tea in the hopes of being able to return to sleep. However, better experience had taught her that returning to sleep would not happen. As such, she found herself heating the copper kettle with no illusions.
Upon setting the water to boil, the lady doctor turned her attention to the door, where the sounds of the autumn's dry, brittle leaves scraping against the wood could be heard. Bringing up a hand to pull her yukata tighter about her lithe form, she padded softly across the tatami mats to slide the door open, resting her hand against the sturdy frame. With the initial anger and frustration having passed, a thoughtful melancholy had seeped into her thoughts and spread over her pale visage. Why was the woman so often in her dreams? She, and through her, Megumi, had died in this last dream; of that much the lady doctor was certain. Her words, her thoughts, still resounded within her mind.
'I swear, Inuyasha, upon the blood you have spilled that your soul will find no peace in this world or the next.'
"Inuyasha." The name rolled off her tongue in a quiet, thought-provoked whisper, the cool breeze with its foreboding prophecy of early winter rippling the raven strands of her hair about her face, dancing through the dark tresses and through the fabric of her yukata. Despite herself, Megumi shivered slightly, turning her gaze up to the faintly flickering stars. The moon was but a sliver of a crescent, casting only minimal silver light over the glistening dew-laden grass and shadowed engawa.
Shadow. The word lingered in her thoughts, its meaning unclear but seemingly heavily burdened. However, the whistle of the kettle snapped her from the quiet reverie, and she shook her head, shutting the door quietly so as to quickly attend to it. It simply wouldn't do for Ayame-chan and Suzume-chan to be woken so early from their blissful slumber.
To be continued.
