Wow this is...wow. I've never, ever written anything like this before ever.
This is my prize for jtdarkman for figuring out the poem and writer I got the name for "Behind Ourself Concealed" ("One Need Not Be A Chamber to Be Haunted" by Emily Dickinson for anyone who is curious) who wanted an M rated Hiei/Botan fic for winning :) Here you go sweetie! I hope you like it!
Alright, so...I both really like this and am really iffy on it all at the same time. I think once I give it a while and come back to it and do some edits I will like it a lot better, but for right now my feelings change by the minute. I think my biggest problem was the fact that this actually contains something Lemon-like in it. That's right...Lemon. Or as much of a lemon as I am ever likely to be able to write. It nearly killed me, honestly I think I must have lost a few years DX In any case this is the longest single-chapter fic I've ever written.
Readers are my lifeblood, reviews are adored and reviewers worshiped. Concrit is, similarly, a necessity to my life :)
- Sin
I do not own Yu Yu Hakusho or its wonderful characters, I just force them into all sorts of disturbed little situations.
Edited 9-4-12: You should never attempt to proof read while sleep deprived, nor should you attempt to post either. You end up forgetting important things like grammar and spelling and the fact that while you spent several hours looking up stuff and adding it to your story, no one else did and will not know what to make of the seemingly random Japanese words and traditions peppering your work. Cheers :)
Translations:
Kodachi - A short sword forged in the same style as the traditional Katana, similar to a wakizashi. It is a sword mainly used for self-defense, "the sword that shields" as it is.
Okugatasama - "One of remains at home." The title of the wife of a samurai.
Koishi - beloved/darling/wanted/dear
Notes:
Women during the Samurai were pretty kick-ass all the way around. From the perspective of western culture they enjoyed a surprising degree of power and freedom, at least those of the Samurai class and families did. The Okugatasama of a household, for instance, was in charge of maintaining her family's estate, educating her children, and even defending her home forcibly from an attack. In fact, most women in Samurai families were trained in wielding the Naginata (a long pole weapon with a blade at the end, vaguely like a scythe but with the blade more like a wide sword than a curved blade) or various types of swords in order to protect their homes, families and - in more dire situations - their honor. Some women even became Samurai themselves, known as Onna Bugeisha (as the word Samurai is masculine in the Japanese language) who were pretty much as bad ass as you could possibly imagine, and went to war and fought. Some even became heads of state and were considered even more powerful and well-respected than there husbands.
Note to my Note: You should go and look up Onna Bugeisha and women of the Samurai age now. I'm not kidding, stop reading this and go - google awaits! It's that freaking interesting. Really, I'm not just being a research geek on this!
What more can they tell you?
I am neither good nor bad but a man,
and they will then associate the danger
of my life, which you know
and which with your passion you shared.
And good, this danger
is danger of love, of complete love
for all life,
for all lives,
and if this love brings us
the death and the prisons,
I am sure that your big eyes,
as when I kiss them,
will then close with pride,
into double pride, love,
with your pride and my pride.
"And Because Love Battles" – Pablo Neruda
It was an odd world, were an Imiko of all creatures could serve as hero to the closest thing to a saint the worlds had ever crafted.
If Hero was the word for it.
"Thank you." Her voice was scarcely a whisper, thick with tears and emotions he never would be able to put to words. She was always something of a mystery to him, a creature so different from what he knew, so beyond his realm of experience and expectation. His life had been blood and darkness, abandonment from his earliest memory and she…she was a creature unfamiliar with such aspects of the three realms. She was loyal, peaceful. She would happily die for someone she cared for, perhaps she might even kill for them. Though taking a life was something that would alter her fundamentally, change her. Darken her. There was enough darkness in the universe. Too much.
"Thank you…you didn't –" Her hands shook as they ran over the slight wounds he had gained from earlier that night, energy so pure that it sparked as it came in contact with his skin danced from her fingertips. Heat seeped into his skin, nearly enough to burn but still hers, still gentle and soothing. She slowly wove his skin and muscle and flesh back together as seamlessly as if he had never been injured in the first place, painless and perfect. His blood, slowly darkening as time passed, stained her fingers and palms, marring her skin with the harsh red of death and destruction. Quietly, not certain of his actions, not certain of any of his actions over that night, he moved to wrap one of her hands in his. He pressed her palm against his, trapping her much smaller hand between both of his. Their skin, like everything about them, was a study in contrasts. A healer and a killer, a creature of light and the bringer of the dark, a ferry girl and a demon, they were like the beginning of every bad joke placed in a bar he had ever heard. But they were alike in that moment, that single silent moment. Both of them broken, both of them singular in their existence…both stained with blood.
He closed his eyes.
Keeping blood off her hands had been the whole point of it all, hadn't it? He had done what he had done so that she would not have to be tainted by the darkness of the worlds, but why had that been important? During the entire ordeal, the past weeks of watching and waiting, of an unfamiliar sense of dread poisoning his bloodstream, he had known deep in the very core of his being that he could not permit the events set in motion from happening. But he had never been able to understand why, why it had been so important to him that she not be twisted, why he could not bring himself to let her be changed. They had never been close, for the majority of their knowing each other they had scarcely even spoken – and rarely pleasantly at that. The most he might have been able to say was that they had an understanding, something like a mutual respect for one another but without so fine a point on the matter. For reasons he would never be able to understand, she trusted him implicitly. Even in the moments when he had threatened her life, when his loyalties were in question and his past laid bare for her to see. Perhaps that was why…perhaps…
He felt her free hand come to rest hesitantly upon his wrist. Thin fingers warm against his skin, she was a delicate creature, fragile and bird-like. Brittle. He could break her, if he was not cautious, could do so easily – far too easily. "H…Hiei?" The tremble that had racked her slim body had moved to her voice, tainting it with uncertainty at his odd behavior. Opening his eyes, he found her looking at him, eyes bright with tears and face tilted into quiet confusion. She was kneeling before him, far closer than they would normally permit themselves to be, hair loose and curling wildly as it fell around her face. He let go of her hand, claws brushing curiously over the apple of her cheek as he looked her over, taking in every line and every shadow upon her face. There were many things about her he didn't understand, there were many more things he did because of her that he understood even less. He curled his fingers, stained though they were with blood that was not his, through her wild blue locks, the curve of her cheek fitting perfectly in his calloused palm. Her eyes widened slightly when he pulled her towards him, but she did not struggle or pull away as his chapped lips settled against her smooth ones.
He didn't know why he kissed her. He didn't much care, either.
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It had started as so many terribly events started.
A single, unremarkable moment in the never ending drone of life, one like so many others that meant so little in his life. It had been a sunny day, bright and warm and heavy with an oncoming storm. The scent of summer grasses had drifted lazily in the air, the occasional breeze sweeping through the hills to offer momentary relief from the stifling heat. The days had begun to drag out longer, the nights cut short by the sun's late fall and early rising at the end and beginning of the day. The humans seemed overly found of the long, hot season though he had little patience for the cheerfulness it seemed to inflict upon his bothersome companions. It, perhaps, would not have been so irritating if the group he had been forced into hadn't been so insistent in joining him in the isolated park he had claimed for himself.
The Detective's loud, violent woman had arranged something she called a "picnic" – the third she had decided they were to have that month – and had arranged for the entire mess of the team and their various relations to gather for the odd event. Food had been cooked and packed and blankets had been thrown into something like a patter upon the long, sweet-smelling grasses. He didn't understand the point of it all, the joy the humans he was forced to deal with seemed to gain from eating their meal out in a field rather in a building like they would normally do, but Yukina seemed enthralled by the entire ordeal. He had fully intended to refuse to join them – as he had for nearly all the odd things they planned – but his sister had been insistent and had looked at him so imploringly that not even his dark heart had been able to refuse her. He had been grudgingly roped into the ridiculousness of his comrades. It hadn't taken long for the meal brought to be devoured – and thrown about by the Detective and the Oaf, much to his and everyone else's exasperation – and for the mindset of the group to turn to pointless games.
She had been with them; she was always with them, during the fights and the fair days, always with that same warm smile. He hadn't given her much notice, he hadn't given any of them much notice honestly, but he was always watchful, and had been aware at all times where both she and his sister were during the gathering. He was not fond of her, that was a fact, but he had over time come to feel a sort of responsibility for her, even – though he would die before admitting – something like respect. He lived by his own complex code of conduct, and her actions in the years they had known each other had, unwittingly on her behalf he knew – aligned with that code. She had proven herself, in a way he wasn't entirely certain he could explain, as someone worth his time. She was not a fighter, could never be a fighter, but she was loyal – and loyalty counted for far more than could ever truly be expressed to him. She was, in an odd way, like his sister – someone in need of his protection, in need of his strength and silent guarding – then again, she was nothing like his sister.
She had been rather terrible at the "frisbee" game that had broken out, though. As good as she was at swinging her metal bat around, tossing a small circle of plastic about seemed completely beyond her abilities. It had almost been laughable – would have been laughable honestly if he was the type to laugh – watching as she chucked the bright green disk for all her worth towards the Oaf's sister only for it to careen to the left and hurdle into an unsuspecting tree. The Detective had laughed at her poor skills and the Oaf had shouted out a series of ever more ridiculous "tips" to help her improve. Kurama, helpfully, offered her a few far more accurate ideas on how to better her throwing, though her attention had already flitted away. He hadn't, at the time, fully realized the significance of her sudden preoccupied state. At the time he had only vaguely been aware of her quietly bowing out of the game and stepped to the side, not out of sight, but away from the others.
There were a number of demons that loitered about the park, it was a simple fact. The spacious area, in fact, was more often occupied by his kind then the humans that the realm belonged to. It wasn't something that any of them put much thought to, the demons that roamed there kept to themselves and didn't make themselves targets to Reikai's ire, there was no reason that he or the rest of the team should bother attempting to remove them. That particular sunny day there were several walking about, he had even spotted one or two groups partaking in their own picnics – obviously having spent far too much time in the realm for their own good – all seeming intent on enjoying the sunny weather while it lasted. Something was different though, not that he had noticed, but something nonetheless. It had taken some minutes for him to notice – the Oaf was mooning over his sister again, and his temper had gotten the better of his judgment – but something had shifted behind her eyes, a shade had fallen.
The light in her eyes, the subtle twinkle that usually just irritated him, had dimmed, shadows that had nothing to do with the tree she stood beneath had taken hold of her suddenly too-pale face. She stood far too still, she was a creature of movement, always shifting, always dancing her way through the worlds, her motionlessness was…he had been tempted to use the word eerie, but hadn't. It wasn't his style, and the word was simply…to shallow to be hung upon her shoulders in that moment. She looked as if the bottom had just dropped out of her world, as if everything solid and certain had been torn away from her, leaving her cast in a rolling, angered sea. He had been startled, honestly startled, by the expression that had taken hold of her usually kind face. It was…broken. Or…not broken, but twisted, shadowed in a way he couldn't describe. Her eyes were hard and cold, her hands fisted tightly at her side, her gaze – usually warm, usually kind – had set on a single figure standing across the park. A demon, tall and attractive, tanned skin and hard eyes, the target of her quiet, shattered look.
It had begun.
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Her pulse was erratic beneath his hand, her breath hot as it mingled with his.
The kiss wasn't meant to be anything more than a kiss. A simple pressing of lips against lips and that be the end of it, an action he had not expected from himself but one he was not going to regret. But then her hand had tightened upon his wrist and her other hand had wound its way into his hair, pulling him closer to her. There was nothing romantic about it, it was not the sort of kiss lovers would share or that expressed some unspoken emotion. It was – instead – an affirmation. Proof for the both of them that they were alive and that they had survived the darkness of the world, that they were not alone. It was desperate and frantic, but it was honest. It was real.
They panted the few times they broke apart, lips and teeth and tongues battling as hands roamed in the vain attempt to map with touch alone the form of the other. She tasted in a way that he could not quite put into words, like…winter almost. A sharp bitterness upon his tongue, not unpleasant, he'd even say it was almost sweet, but powerful. Drug-like, it made his thoughts become slow and stupid, as if she was made of mead and wine. As if she was crafted specifically to make him lose his tight grip on his senses and allow for his instincts to drag him about, headless of any consequences that would arise from his actions. Her hands clawed at his bare back when his mouth left hers, nails digging in as she hissed lightly, his fangs grazing the vulnerable skin above the pulse point in the column of her neck. He could hear his name, a soft murmur, almost prayer like, the reverence of it tainted by the dazed, heated cadence her voice had taken.
He closed his eyes as his senses became overwhelmed by her. Nothing but her. Not even the smell of blood or the feeling of death that had been clawing at him all night could penetrate the haze of her soft sighs. His hand slid up her body, slipping past the soft folds of her kimono, grazing over her soft skin with his calloused hands. She gasped, a sharp sound that filled his ears and drove whatever remained of his wits to a faraway part of his mind. Her hands, so small and delicate, the hands of a healer, danced over his skin, making his muscles jump and twitch beneath her warm touch. A deep, possessive rumble filled the darkened room and it wasn't until her mouth was pressing against the soft skin along his jawline that he realized that it was him, he was growling.
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The demon from the park had a name, though he had never bothered to learn it. The name was unimportant, even – it seemed – to her.
After the day at the park, she had changed. Quietly, subtly, and – in his mind – inexcusably. She had drawn in upon herself, the bright aura of welcome and warmth that always surrounded her dimmed and wavered. Her smile had become brittle the few times she even bothered to draw it upon her pale face. She had stopped sleeping completely, he knew, grey smudges marring her waxy, too-pale skin beneath her dulled eyes. He didn't think she had eaten since the day she had seen the demon either, her face was gaunt from the lost weight and the bones in her hands far too prominent for his liking.
She had distanced herself from the others of their group after the day of the picnic, she claimed – for their sake – that her duties at Reikai were heavier than usual and she would be unable to join them for a time. As far as Koenma himself had known, she had taken time off from Reikai for a rest. She had been unable to tell any of them the true reasons, the truth of why she was pulling away from them all. She wouldn't have been able to bare it, them knowing. It went unnoticed by the others, not from carelessness his logical mind knew, but from the distracting happenings of their everyday lives and there was an old human saying, wasn't there? Out of sight, out of mind. Perhaps that would explain why she was never quite out of his mind. She was his responsibility; he could not afford to let her out of his sight with the sort of enemies he and the others held, and trouble was a creature far too fond of her for his liking. And the way she had used the time she had gained not ferrying souls and not occupying made trouble all the more attracted to her slim frame.
He would admit to being taken aback by how seamlessly could slip into the shadows and go unnoticed. It was so completely at odds with her natural state that it seemed as if he had been someone else, some other creature with her form bobbing and weaving this way and that out of sight of her target. It was her though, creeping about, following the demon from the park he had seen her staring at. She had begun following the stranger, had begun stalking him was perhaps the better description of her actions. Her small, much beloved apartment became filled with photos of the man, his schedule mapped out and marked upon, his history uncovered and tacked up on the wall for her reviewing. When she hadn't been following him she had been researching him instead, she had become obsessed, manically, disturbingly obsessed.
It was terrifying.
He was…he was actually frightened by what he had observed. The change in her personality was so…so sudden, so drastic…it was as if he hadn't known who she was at all. He had considered, briefly, consulting Kurama on the matter, considered pulling anyone and everyone in on the matter and demanding that they fix her because the heavens knew he was incapable of such a thing and she simply had to have been broken in some way. There was no other explanation for it, really, somehow she had been damaged and somehow the demon had been involved. The mystery of the matter, the not knowing…it was…unnerving, frightening. But...not as much as what happened next. It was those actions that came next that, more than anything, convinced him to finally intervene.
It was the last day of the fifth week of her following the demon and it was the day that she very nearly destroyed everything that she was. He didn't know where she had gotten the Kodachi from, but he had known as soon as she held the sword in her shaking hands what her intentions were. The shadows he had seen on her face had returned, darkening her in a way he could not tolerate and chipping away at her soul even as he watched. The demon was supposed to be at the park again that night, alone, and she was intending to be there as well. He knew, could tell just by looking at her, what she planned to do, he simply could not understand why. She had always been a mystery to him, but her actions…they were something unnatural to her.
"He'll kill you before you even draw that from its sheath." She had jumped and spun, nearly dropping her old, battered weapon, and had stared at him with wide, sunken eyes. She looked specter like in the dying light of the sun, hair down and skin pale, the fear that mingled in her soft scent made the scene all the more surreal. She had not feared him, truly, honestly feared him, in a long time, to see the emotion again after so long…"Though considering the wards you've prepared I suppose you have already taken that fact in consideration." He had been perched on the slim sill of her window, a shadow shaded in the bright reds of the setting sun, watching her timid movements carefully. When she hadn't said anything he had jumped down from his position, moving to a nearby wall where she had pinned pictures of her intended victim. Some he recognized she had taken over the past weeks, others looked to have been snatched from some half-forgotten file belonging in Reikai, there was even an ancient ink painting on old parchment that had almost completely faded. He had wondered how long the demon had been in her head, taunting her with his existence. He had wondered what their history was, that she would be willing to destroy herself in the way she was about to. "You're not a murderer."
She had stared at him, hands clutching her ancient sword – upon closer inspection he had seen that the Kodachi was as old as the painting on the wall, another piece to a puzzle he could not hope to solve – close to her chest. For a long moment, silence choked the room, the air thick with the questions he would not openly ask and the secrets she had been so determined to keep. "You don't know that." He had glanced at her, his face unflinching as he met her gaze. Her words had been a small, tired rasp, her voice weak. He had wondered how long it had been since she had last spoken, in the weeks he had been watching her, she had not spoken to anyone – another divergence from her natural state. The look he had given her had said what he thought of her odd statement, he did in fact know. She was Botan, she was a Ferrier of the Dead, she was The Woman. She was not, as she implied, a killer. And she knew it just as well as he did, if her eyes dropping to the floor was any indication. "…What do you know?"
He had narrowed his eyes, head tilting as he considered the question. What did he know? He wasn't actually sure, truthfully. He knew she had begun stalking and planning to murder a man she had merely glanced in the park over a month prior, he knew that she had lied to those she cared for most in the world to protect them from that knowledge; he knew that she had some kind of history with her would-be victim – one that ran very deep, if his instincts on the Kodachi and the portrait were accurate in any way. "Not enough." He had shifted, hands folded in his pockets as his eyes took her wane figure in. She looked very tired, not just physically, not even mentally. It was as if her very soul had been drained by the things weighing so heavily on her mind. He had known, the entire time he had been watching her, that he could simply peer into her mind and learn what he wanted to know, but he wanted to hear it. Wanted for the answers to come from her lips, wanted to see the truth in her eyes as she explained herself.
Her hands had shook as she moved, setting the Kodachi down upon the table where all the wards she had crafted lay waiting. She ran a hand through her hair, it had been loose – another oddity for her, but one he did not mind – and curled wildly in the humidity of the summer evening. She had slowly looked back up at him, face drawn and tight. Her next words had taken him by surprise; she had become good at that, at surprising him. He wasn't sure what to feel about that, he wasn't fond of surprises normally but she…she had always been an anomaly in his life. "Do you know what it's like to die?" She had pressed her hands together, staring at them intently as she spoke. Her voice had begun to lose the roughness, smoothing out into the familiar soft tones he knew her for, though there was still something there he could not fully identify. "To feel your heart still in your chest and your thoughts slip away? It's…it's an awful feeling, truly…I can't even begin to describe to you what it's like." She had glanced up to him then, he had almost expected tears to be in her eyes – she was such an emotional creature after all, what else could he possibly expect? – but there were none. She was haunted, yes, but she was not saddened by the events she was relaying to him. "And to be murdered…it's a worse feeling still. You are left there, lying in a pool of your own blood and agony, watching as the man that took your life stands there and look down at you with…with satisfaction in his eyes. As if you are some sort of fly he finally managed to swat away."
In his mind he saw a puzzle laying upon a table, the outline in place crafted from the pieces he held, some faint details here and there from what he guessed and inferred. As she spoke though, pieces began to appear, falling into place easily. In his pockets, his hands clenched into tight fists, realization a cold chill dancing up and down his spine. "That demon…he was your killer – is your killer. The reason you are a Ferry Girl." She had nodded; a slow, painful looking movement that had made her seem stiff and awkward in her own body. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise as more puzzle pieces appeared, his mind quick to place them where he thought they best fit. "And you…want revenge?" It was meant to be a statement, but he was honestly so uncertain on that idea that he could not help but craft it as a question instead. Revenge was his way, not hers. She was a forgiving creature, she could hold a grudge – certainly – but she was not the kind to act on such anger, not the type to plan to kill someone. Even someone who had murdered her first.
She tensed beneath his gaze, muscles pulling taught beneath her skin and making her seem all the more fragile under his stare. Her hands, balled tightly in fists, had clenched all the tighter, short nails breaking the skin of her palm. "I…it's not…" She had looked lost, not quite certain how to explain herself. His instinct was to snap at her, but he had held himself back. She had something to say, something he needed to hear, and she needed time to put it into words. "Yes…and no." She met his gaze, years of a life he had not known dancing behind her eyes, aging her centuries in a moment. "I don't care that he killed me. I don't." Her voice didn't waver, though he had thought that it most likely wanted to. She had grown silent again, eyes moving from his face to the Kodachi on the table, her sight far beyond the old weapon to years and centuries before. Times from long before he had known her, before any of their odd group had known her.
He had closed his eyes thoughtfully, considering her words. An idea drifted through his mind, the many facts of who she was and the things she was capable of dancing through his thoughts. When he had opened his eyes again she had taken to holding herself tightly, attempting to find comfort and failing. The woman that had been standing before him was wane and tired and haunted by a past she had never spoken of before. He had realized, for the first time, that there was very little he actually knew about her, about the secrets of her life before her death. But he had hints, echoes to work with. "Who then?" She looked at him, too-quiet to be natural for her. It was odd; as long as he had known her, he had wanted nothing but to have her silence, now that he had it though…"Who did he take from you?"
She bowed her head slowly, her already too-small frame pulled taught and thin beneath his watching gaze. The sun, drenching her small apartment in a bitter, familiar red, made her look less like a spirit and much more the freshly dead. The freshly slaughtered. Her hands fell and folded before her, shaking slightly as they wound about one another. The awful silence stretched out, behind her dull eyes he could see her considering, searching in him the answers to her unspoken questions. "Her name was Sayuri." He had watched as what little composure she had forced upon herself began to crack and crumble. Her shoulders had hunched upward, head bowing as her eyes closed tightly. He watched, uncomfortable and horrified, as she began to cry.
"She…she was my daughter."
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The Kodachi had not fit in his hand as comfortably as his own sword did, but that had been expected. It was her sword, after all. The handle worn down to fit within her small palm, the blade balanced perfectly for her slime frame and elegant limbs, it suited her perfectly in every way imaginable. She had wielded it in life, had held it as she had laid dying, and had clung to it in desperation for centuries, waiting for the day that she would face her killer once more. It was an ideal weapon for her, though the idea of a weapon in her hand at all was so incongruent with his image of her that his mind rejected it completely, an elegant, simple sword meant for a simple purpose. Not death, not bloodshed, but defense. A protector's sword, a healer's. It was her only link to her lost life, and she had entrusted it – and her secrets – with him.
They had not been given easily, of course. She had held them in her heart for centuries on her own, alone and isolated in her grief and pain, the secrets she held had become a part of who she was. A piece of her whole. Giving up that piece was not a simple task; giving that piece up to him made it all the more difficult. Theirs was a…difficult…relationship, complicated. She trusted him for reasons he could not comprehend, and he protected her for reasons he could not properly explain. They spoke rarely, they didn't need words for the understanding they had, and were rarely civil to one another when they did partake in a conversation. But she did trust him, and he had come to protect her – though it was the first time he had ever had to do so from her own actions.
She told him her story, gave him the pieces of her she had not let anyone else living or dead see before.
He had not been surprised to learn of Sayuri, the little girl with her mother's smile and grandfather's laughing eyes, her daughter. They all had a past; hers was in the form of a life as a widow on her samurai father's estate with her younger siblings and even younger child. She had married young to a man she had met only once before the wedding, she had born her husband a daughter and her nameless husband had died of illness not long after their child's first birthday. It was a normal life for the day she lived in, harsh but not as terrible as it could have been, she had been human, she had even been happy. And then her father had incurred the wrath of a demon lord of a neighboring land, and the peaceful life she had been blessed with had come to a crashing, blood-stained end.
The memories she held from her life were patchy, stretched thin by time and incomplete by the transition from realm of the living to realm of the dead. She didn't know what had become of her childhood home, of her father and siblings and the land that they had owned. But she knew what had become of her, what had become of her young daughter. She knew the face of their killer.
Perhaps if it had been a simple, swift killing her soul would not have become so fixated on the whole ordeal. Perhaps he would not have held such an interest in the matter if her end had been similar to the ones he himself had inflicted upon others. He could not hold sympathy for a casualty of war, for a creature who had lost its life in a war where many had lost their lives. It hadn't been a simple killing though, a swift ending of life of an enemy. His code, he knew, was an odd one from the perspective of others, but it was a sensible one. Death happened. People died. Killing someone was not dishonorable if it brought the killer that much closer to their goal. But there was a difference between swiftly ending a life in the way, and taking pleasure in murdering a much weaker opponent. There was no honor to be had in making victims of the kills, of tormenting an unknown figure when there were true enemies to be hunted and killed. Her killer though…
She had been raised a Samurai's daughter, and as such had been taught enough in the art of war to be able to defend herself, her home and her loved ones. The Kodachi had been a gift from her father on the day of her wedding, crafted specially for her use as a newly made Okugatasama. It had been the Kodachi that she had wielded upon the demonic siege upon her home, the one she had raised against a single demon that had cornered her and her child, the one that demon had forced from her hands and used against her. He had enjoyed harming her before the terrified eyes of her child, enjoyed bringing her to the brink of death before turning on the screaming girl she had so desperately attempted to protect. The demon had forced her to watch the slow, brutal slaughter of her only child in the world before he had finally taken her life. It was no wonder she had gone more than a little mad upon seeing his face after so long.
She told him that she had never any ideas of revenge in her mind, not in the hundreds of years she had been forced to live after her death. She didn't much believe in vengeance, in taking from others what had been taken from her. He knew that, as surly as he knew he took the opposing view on the matter, she was a gentle creature by nature, peaceful. But then she had seen him, healthy and strong and alive after so long. Completely unaffected by the terror he had reined upon her, seeming to have been doing well in the human world that had all but forgotten his kind. It was not hatred that had burned through her veins at the sight of her child's killer, though, which surprised him more than he would ever be able to say. She had been…distraught, saddened. Her daughter's blood had stained that demon's hands, her own death was set upon the contented demon's shoulders, and it seemed as if no harm had come to him at all. The idea that she should take his life came to her not in a rush of blind anger or maternal fury, but in quiet, heartbroken desolation. Upon such an admission, upon hearing her tear choked words and meeting her sad eyes, he had known what his task was.
She was not – despite her duty as Ferrier of the Dead - a creature meant for killing; hers was the soul of a healer, a caretaker. Blood had no place staining her hands; murder had no place weighing down her shoulders. It would destroy her, if she did what she had planned to do, the horror of it would tear at her mind and her soul until she was unrecognizable to him. And that, above all, was an unacceptable outcome of the events. She was an innocent creature, one of the few individuals in the world pure of the evils of the world, someone worth protecting. If she was damaged, if she was changed…she would become disappointingly less in his eyes forever more, and the dedication he had given to her protection would have all been for waste. And what difference would it really make, if one more life was ended by the hands of the dreaded Imiko.
Unlike her, he did not need the use of finely crafted wards to hide himself, or – for that matter – to trap his target. He was Hiei, the flying shadow, the Imiko. Creature of death and destruction and darkness. Hunting down his prey was a matter of finely honed instinct, taking life was as simple and habitual as breathing. The most trouble he had even experienced was becoming accustomed to the weight and balance of her old, worn Kodachi. Because it had to be her sword that ended the bastard's life, had to be her small weapon that finally put an end to all the madness and pain. That brought revenge for tiny Sayuri who never saw her sixth year of life, for her – the Woman – who had been forced to watch her child's slaughter moments before her own death and every night after in nightmares.
He had tracked his victim easily, and had been – he would admit – far too pleased by the poetry of the place the demon had arrived upon the end of his very last walk. The Park. The park where she had seen her killer all those weeks ago, where it had all began, where the ending was set in motion. He had not even permitted the idea of a swift kill to enter his mind when he had taken the short sword from her trembling hands, when he had met her gaze and promised – without words, because silence was the language they were most comfortable with – that he would put an ending to the terrible ordeal. The death of her killer would not miraculously fix all troubles that plagued her, but it would be a start, a solid foundation for him to build up from. She was his responsibility, his to protect, his to fix.
It was the messiest kill he had since his childhood, and the longest that he could recall. He had not, as the demon had those many centuries past, taken pleasure from the damage he inflicted. Satisfaction, yes, oh yes, but not pleasure. The slow murder of his target had been a matter of action that had needed to be taken, not a matter of entertainment. He had drawn it out as much as he could, Kurama or one of the others would have called the things he had done torture, but it wasn't – not in his mind. It was justice, as he knew it, as he felt it was needed to be dealt. Not even the filth's desperate attempt to fight back could still the blade he wielded. The wretched bastard had managed to take a chunk out of his arm at one point when his unfamiliarity with the weapon he carried made him a little sloppy, though it was by pure luck alone that the demon had managed even that.
In the end, he stood in the same field where, over a month before, the group he had somehow become a part of had sat and eaten beneath the warm summer sun. They had happily chatted and shared a meal, played childish human games and spent the day living life. And The Woman…she had belonged to them, for a brief moment of that day, before the shadows of her past had stolen her away. The body of The Woman's killer, of Sayuri's killer, had laid scattered around him on the once green grass. Red was upon him too, splattered upon his face, soaking his clothes, drying uncomfortably beneath his nails. Even in the warm air of the summer night it had already begun to cool and congeal, had clung to him desperately, accusingly. High above him, wedged between the branches of the tree he himself had sat in weeks ago, the head of his victim rested staring down upon the rest of its scattered body. The demon's face was contorted by the emotions that had overtaken him in his final moments, horror and disbelief forever etched upon his once-upon-a-time handsome face. He had grinned back at the face, fangs glinting in the soft glow of moonlight, eyes sharp with the rush of victory.
He had not cleaned the blade he carried of the blood that stained it. The Kodachi had waited, patiently, for years to have been washed in the demon's death, it would hardly be right for him to clean away such hard won victory. Instead, he had returned it to its scabbard, letting it rest comfortably for perhaps the first time in the weapon's very long life. He had left the body – or what remained of it – behind to be found, or not to be found, he didn't much care either way. His duty was done; he had protected the woman from ending her own life by taking the demon's, he had turned his back on the scene and began the short journey back to her. Back to where more changes awaited them.
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"Hiei," He had never particularly cared about his name. It was just a title, something that had been given to him absently by the bandits when he had been young, just another way of saying Imiko, of saying forbidden child. He didn't dislike it, he didn't like it, it just simply was. But hearing it from her, breathy and low, muttered into his shoulder between little gasps and sharp breaths as she clung to him, he found he wouldn't mind hearing it more often. "Hiei." She nipped at the juncture of his neck and shoulder and he almost snarled in response, forcing her mouth up to his to swallow her voice with a bruising kiss.
She was naked beneath him, he didn't know when they had lost their clothes, perhaps it had been the same time they had made it to her bed. He didn't care about the details of their journey to her bedroom, the only care he had was her. Her scent and her skin and her being there in his arms. Her skin was impossibly soft beneath his calloused hands, a perfection he could not quite believe he was so freely allowed to touch. She shivered beneath him, slim muscles dancing beneath his clawed fingers, small breathy sighs filling the quite room as she clung to him. There had been no thought to their actions, any doubts or uncertainties washed away by the necessity of each other. Regret was not something to be considered, they needed one another in a way that could not be put into simple words.
He caught her gaze as he broke the kiss, the only chance he was willing to give her to change her mind before he continued, before they shattered whatever it was they had held before that night. Her eyes were bright in the dim light of the room, the swell of her breasts pressed against his chest as she fought for a steadying breath. The hand she had wound within his hair slipped down, following the curve of his shoulder down his arm until it rested over the hand curled around the curve of her hip. She smiled at him then, radiant and warm and beautiful, weaving her fingers with his as she moved to press their palms together. He felt something jump in his chest, an odd trembling, jump he had never experienced before. He found himself smiling back at her, pressing his forehead against hers and allowing their lips to brush and their breath to mingle, how was it that of all creatures in the three realms it was her, The Woman, to make his heart behave in such a way? How was it that she could even make him have a heart?
He kissed her, not in the hurried, heated way they had been kissing, but something softer, almost…sweet. He tightened his hand around her much smaller one as he crossed the final line between what they were and what they were becoming and buried himself inside her.
She gasped and he swallowed the sound, mouth moving against hers as his body followed suit. Her hand tensed around his, the nails of her other hand digging into his back as she hissed, body rocking in response to the rhythm he set. He panted, breaking the kiss, and rested his head in the crook of her neck, drugged by the headiness of her scent overwhelming his senses. He nipped at her skin, growling when he felt her own small human teeth bite back. He heard his name again, heard her whispering it against his skin as if it was a prayer, and increased the tempo of their movements. "Mine." His voice was low and deep, rumbling through her. He was not claiming her, he was not possessive branding her, he was offering her a place. Offering a home, if such a word could be used, with him. "Botan…"
"Hiei…" She buried her head in his shoulder, her hair fanning wildly beneath them as she moved. He could feel her shivering beneath him, clinging to him all the tighter as they moved, pulling him in for another kiss as she began to teeter on the edge. "Koishi, my…" She was beginning to fall, beginning the euphoric decent into blissful oblivion, dragging him down with her with each rock of their hips and press of her lips. What fragments of the world around them had remained faded completely, only to be replaced by her, the blue haired mystery that he had not expected to find a home with. The Woman, now his as much as he had unknowingly become hers over the years.
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He left a smear of blood upon the pristine white of her windowsill as he crept into her home. He didn't know if it was from the demon he had killed or from the wound burning upon his arm, didn't much care either past absently making a note to clean it away later. The Kodachi had been an unfamiliar weight upon his belt, made heavier with the knowledge it came with and the blood that stained it, but he found himself almost unwilling to give it back to the woman. It had served, in an odd, improbable way, as a means of learning more about The Woman than he ever imagined he would. When she had handed him the sword, she had handed with it secrets she had shared with no one else, living or dead. She had trusted him with her secrets, not just with her life, but with pieces of her soul she had guarded for centuries. Giving that up…it was something he found himself resistant to doing.
When he found her, she was seated in the same place as she had been when he had left. She had not moved a single strand of hair in the hours since he had taken her Kodachi and left to find her murderer, the need to protect her weighing upon his shoulders. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, studying her wane profile with quiet interest for a long moment. She was such an odd creature, lovely and complicated and more mysterious than anyone knew. He sighed to himself slightly, stepping into the room and gaining her attention. He didn't know what to make of the expression of her face when her eyes finally rested on his bloodied form. It was…relieved and sad and thankful and…and so many other things he was not experienced enough in emotions to name. She scrambled to her feet quicker than he had thought possible for her, she had always been clumsy upon the ground, all her grace and elegance to be found in the air upon her thin oar, and moved to stand before him, bottom lip worried between her teeth.
He removed her sword from his belt, slowly holding it out for her. The offered proof that he had put an end to the nightmare of her life and the following death. He expected her to grab ahold of the weapon and breakdown, cling to the last link between her and her long dead child. When she only stared at him, silent and face mask-like, her eyes slowly shifting between his face and her ancient Kodachi, he was confused. At length she reached out and, slowly, pointedly, she took the sword from him, hands trembling as they came in contact with the scabbard. To his surprise, she met his gaze, eyes never wavering from his as she moved to set the sword upon the table nearby, never once looking at the weapon. When it was finally out of her hands, her eyes darted away, down to his shoulder and the wound that he had sustained. "You're hurt." She reached out for the cut, hands gentle as they brushed at the frayed edges of his damaged cloak. He watched as the concerned look from before deepened, her eyes darting up to him. "Here, I can heal it…let me wash it out first…" She moved to lead him down the hall, pausing as his hand reached out and wrapped around her elbow.
"He's dead." He made certain to look her in the eye as he delivered the information. Made certain she understood what had happened. It was over, finally. He knew the heaviness of Sayuri's death would never disappear, but surely it would lessen, surely she would be able to find some sort of closure. Something. "I killed him." She stared unblinking, transfixed by his gaze for a long moment. He saw something flicker, understanding and dark mourning threatening to take her over, it was swallowed quickly though but that same, damning concern.
She nodded, slowly, and gently rested a hand over the one he had placed upon her. "I know. I knew from the moment you asked me for my Kodachi." She squeezed his hand, an almost-smile touching her lips. "But you got hurt because of it, because of me." He could feel the faintest tremor in her body as she spoke, the emotions she was just barely holding back for his sake. "Please…I…I want to heal you…I want to know that you are okay…" The smile grew, warming before his eyes. She took his hand in hers, squeezing it lightly as she again began to lead him into the depths of her apartment, intent on tending to his wounds.
She had waited for him. The realization was so sudden and so sharp that if he had been anyone else he might have stumbled, but he was who he was, and instead he found himself staring at the back of her head. She had waited for him, not for his victory over her killer, not for the revenge she had been so long denied. For him. Something warm filled his chest, something intangible and solid all at once. It felt like coming home, he realized, finding her waiting for him. It felt like he had returned to his rightful place in the worlds. His only place in the world. With her.