Follow
by xAvaritia
Disclaimer: Don't own'em.
Summary: Two-shot. She's a masochist, but then again, so is he. SesshoumaruKagome
"What difference is there between us, save a restless dream that follows my soul but fears to come near you?"
Kahlil Gibran
When he meets her in the forest, he's genuinely surprised.
It's been nearly a hundred and fifty years since he last saw her, a hundred and fifty years since he even thought about his half-brother, the sword that could destroy, the sword that could revive. It's been nearly a hundred fifty years since he bothered to care about world annihilation, about evil hanyou, and the suddenness of it all made him pause.
It made him hesitate.
The time between was no more than a flash of whirling memories and conquest to him, his life is going to be impossibly long and tedious if it wasn't already. Days and weeks and years mean nothing to him--he measures his life with only the pursuit and the acquisition of his next goal. Some long, some short.
Sesshoumaru stops and appraises her form slowly, staring hard as if he could divine an explanation from sight alone. Has it already been that long?
Surely, he thinks, because the woman standing in front of him looks no more alive than an apparition. Jaded, fading, and tired.
She gazes up at him, unimpressed, and he thinks that maybe he should remedy that by decapitating her and moving on with his eternity. Only, he doesn't, because he has the sneaking suspicion that maybe that's what she wants. To be killed so she doesn't have to do it herself.
The deduction leaves him with a bitter taste and he turns and walks away.
She starts to follow him, which is strange in itself. Sesshoumaru wonders whether her parents, if she has any, ever told her that traveling with potentially homicidal youkai is not the wisest thing to do, especially if one wants to live to a ripe old age.
He backtracks for a second and reminds himself that she is way past what is considered old in human terms and throws out that train of thought: she is simply an odd creature with little rhyme or reason.
He doesn't stop her.
He doesn't welcome her either.
She takes his apathy in stride and ignores him with equal fervor. For all intents and purposes, it seems as though their roads have simply overlapped and she would be on her way soon enough.
There's no need to ask question, no need to care.
They run into rogue youkai soon enough, ugly brutes with the stereotype of "all brawn, no brains" stamped across their mottled foreheads. It's to be expected, since he has to patrol his land regularly and dispatch any demons that may be trespassing.
He cares little for the lines that humans draw--this is my town, that is your village.
This is his land.
She throws herself haphazardly into the fray even before he has a chance to warn them. He's been more relenting in the stupidity of others in the past couple decades, coming to the conclusion that they aren't entirely at fault. He usually reminds them that no matter their numbers or will, they would be no match for him and if they want to keep their lives, they'd do well to walk away.
He has yet to find a youkai intelligent enough to take him up on this offer.
Sesshoumaru watches as the miko fight and she is merciless. She battles without reserve, a look he knows very well--the one that says: I have nothing to lose.
He stands back, seeing her move. She's like an animal, he notes, graceful but there is something primal in the way she kills. She lacks remorse for taking lives, a sentiment he usually shares.
He finds it curious that it perturbs him.
She's caught off guard only once, a demon runs a sword straight through her chest from behind and her blood spurts hotly on the summer grass. Sesshoumaru is somewhat surprised when his hand twitches toward Tenseiga at his side, a sword he has not used since the final battle with Naraku.
However, his concern is groundless, for she simply turns and purifies the hapless creature into a pile of ash and soot, then grimaces in pain when she pulls the blade from her body.
Already, the wound is healing, the blood is drying.
Wryly, she turns to him.
"This is my favorite kimono." she says ruefully, running a hand over the ruined garb.
It is the first time she's spoken to him in the weeks they have traveled together, one of the handful of times she actually acknowledges him. He thinks he should say something, anything at all to mark this momentous occasion.
He shrugs, he doesn't know what to tell her except that she can get another one in the next town she finds so he doesn't say anything at all.
"You should be dead--you were stabbed through the heart."
She laughs humorlessly and agrees.
"Yes, if only I had a heart to begin with."
"You did."
"Really?" she responds mildly, "I can't remember."
When reconnaissance ends, he heads back to his fortress and she follows.
Nestled in the far west, a vast and untamed land, his home stands just as large and foreboding. It seems as timeless as himself, eerily supernatural despite the age-old architecture.
She stands at the thresh-hold of the main gate, unable to cross. Kagome only realizes now that his travels have led him back here and, for the first time, she feels out of place.
What little she knows of Sesshoumaru used to comfort her. He's supposed to be a vagabond. Homeless. A hobo in a manner of speaking, living nowhere and everywhere at once.
Like her.
He's not suppose to have somewhere to return to. No attachments. Nothing to tie him down. That is what she was familiar with, what drew her to wander with him in the first place, a kindred spirit who understands.
She hasn't had a home in a hundred fifty years, she didn't expect him to either.
But he does and she watches his body relax, and she longs for that intangible feeling of simply knowing where to belong. She rocks on her heels and her body screams at her to bolt, choking on the comprehension that even the lowest servant bustling at his master's return knows more about him than she does and ever will.
But she doesn't because she has nowhere to go. She only wonders briefly about the fact that it never bothered her before and pushes the question of why it should bother her now to the back of her head.
The gate doesn't close on her, the servants look expectant, inquiring, wondering why the young lady who smells of neither death nor life would not come in when clearly, she is their lord's guest.
Bravely, she takes a step and then another and another until it becomes as natural as breathing.
"You aren't with Inuyasha."
Statement. Not question.
"You aren't with anyone either." she retorts, biting back a curse as old feelings pound against her chest.
He shrugs. "I do not have a particular affection towards anyone."
She falls silent, then whispers, barely audible, "He loves Kikyou."
He raises an eyebrow, "And you love him."
"I don't."
"Then why are you crying?"
She doesn't see him very often, sometimes only once a day and at a passing. She wants to thank him for opening his home to her, but isn't sure how to start.
Now, installed in the wing opposite to him, she sleeps in a room grander than one she has ever had the fortune to stay in. Eats food more wonderful and tantalizing than what she has ever eaten before.
But she feels nothing except empty echoes and craves for the old familiarity of traveling with him. To rise and sleep when he does--but now her schedule is aimless and differs so greatly from his that she wants nothing more than to shadow his every step and do exactly what he does.
Learn how to be immortal. How to live past eternity.
She knows she has become attached, and berates herself thoroughly for it. She sees in him all she wanted to see in Inuyasha, and hates herself because she knows what it's like to be compared but never measure up better than anyone else.
"What happened to Rin?"
He looks up from his papers and gives her a frank stare.
"She died."
"How?"
He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. All humans die, sooner or later."
"I'm not human." she says, eyes downcast and turns to leave. Before she walks out his door she hears his voice, weary but confident.
"You are." he reminds her. "You are.
Autumn comes and goes as do the events he hosts for other youkai lords. She finds it funny, hysterical even, that they have formalities as well but bears them with all the grace and beauty she possesses.
Dolled up, she's introduced as the Shikon Miko, defeater of Naraku, and receives gratitude and congratulations from people she doesn't know, whose names she has never even heard of. It's old news, she thinks, but the guests speak of it as though it has happened only yesterday.
She drowns herself in sake and rice cakes, willing herself to forget all she loves and cares for. In her alcohol soaked stupor, she comes to the somewhat comforting revelation that at least, when the time comes in about three hundred odd years, she can pick up her life where it left off, before it was interrupted by a magical well and inu-hanyou.
She wakes up after every one of those gatherings with a blinding hangover, but the pain is oddly satisfying. Youkai liquor seems to be much stronger than normal alcohol.
She looks to Sesshoumaru, wondering what he thinks of her excursion into the land of inebriation but he gives no indication he cares.
She spits the sour bile from her throat and wishes desperately he would do something--scold her, lecture her, anything, but he does nothing and she hates him for it. She bitterly reflects that while being masochistic is not in her job description, she certainly feels as though that is the only thing that describes her at this point.
The looks he gives her now are pitying, and she knows that he knows that more than anything, he's a masochist too.
"You're getting married?" She looks at him dubiously and he sighs.
"Is that odd?"
"No--well, yes! You said you weren't "particularly attached" to anyone."
He tucks a strand of errant hair behind his ears.
"I'm not, but that's not important." he tells her, and is surprised when she whirls around and storms out of his study. He finds it strange that he understands why the scent of tears hung thickly in the air.
She's beautiful--more beautiful than the bride, if the hushed voices and harried whispers of guests and servants were any indication. She knows that his soon-to-be-wife hates her privately, which will soon move to openly once her position in the household becomes secure.
She can't bring herself to hate the new mistress of the house. She is only envious, and not of any material possessions but the simple loyalty on Sesshoumaru's part.
After the wedding, Kagome locks herself in her room and refuses to come out despite the pleas of the servants and the orders of Sesshoumaru. When she is accused of gravely insulting his mate with her lack of respect, she sends a glare so cold that no one thereafter had the courage to pester her. She is left to brood alone.
The new Lady of the West is powerful and arrogant, sometimes foolishly so. The contempt she throws her way is not left unnoticed but Kagome doesn't care. She ignores them and silently wishes that Sesshoumaru could see and kick the insufferable woman out.
For her. Because that would mean he feels something for her.
He doesn't and she's not surprised.
"Low bred, that one." the shrewd voice of Lady Haruko sneers.
Kagome turns to the youkai sitting primly next to Sesshoumaru at dinner.
"Yes." she responds coldly, "And for all your high end breeding, you still came out a bitch." The other woman sputters indignantly and in a moment she finds herself pinned to the wall, perfectly manicured nails digging into her neck.
She reaches up, her hands around deceptively small wrists. I can purify you to the next millenium, she wants to say.
As if he could read her mind, Sesshoumaru is up in a flash, pulling his wife off the miko. Kagome rubs her throat and looks away, the image of him standing in front of the demure and infuriated figure, shielding her from any possible harm sears itself into her mind.
She loses the incentive and excuses herself to her room. She barely notices the molten eyes that follow her down the hall.
He finds her in the wine cellar, filling herself on the best persimmon sake he has. She looks up at him, eyes unfocused, and invites him to sit down and drink with her. He declines and she thinks she sees concern in his eyes and convinces herself he feels something other than fatigued responsibility towards her.
She wants him to show something towards her.
She doesn't know why but she throws the first punch, laced with spiritual energy so that should it land, it would at least hurt him somewhat.
The surprise and consternation on his face is better than the expression he normally wears. Better, but still not what she wants.
When he sidesteps her, she doesn't stop, and takes off up the stairs and down the hall, through the doors and into the garden. She has never been so acutely aware of the brisk night air nor the ice and snow nipping at her bare feet. She begins to run, the blood thundering in her ears as she races into the surrounding forest.
He's following her.
Cautious at first but then with increasing alarm as she moves away from the manor with frightening speed. She guesses that he had simply thought she was going outside to clear her head, but now that it is obvious she has no intention of stopping, he's worried.
Wonderful, she thinks, this is what I want. What I need.
The woods are thinning as she makes her way uphill, and the snow is thick and shin-high. The air she drags into her lungs burns and cuts but she doesn't slow. His energy is pulling at the frayed edges of her consciousness. It wants to know where she's going, why, and when she will stop.
Never, she responds in her heart, never.
Perhaps tiring of the chase, she nearly breaks her nose on his chest when he suddenly materializes in front of her. His hair billows around him and his nightclothes are somewhat in disarray but he looks ethereal in the moonlight. His glare is disapproving and she takes a step back when she realizes its directed at her.
He doesn't accept it and instead takes her by the arm and starts to drag her back toward the fortress. She feels like a child and protests, twisting away from his bruising grasp. His hands burn in the winter night. When he doesn't let go, she sends a surge of purifying energy directly down her arm and he jerks back, his palms smoking as the skin sears off.
Already he is healing. Already the blood is drying.
Then he is moving towards her again. She doesn't know why he is so insistent to taking her back to the home that is no longer hers but it excites her. Has she become indispensable to him? His eyes are flaring and they dare her to try it again. He might just kill her next time.
When he grabs her again, she writhes in his grasp, clawing and kicking and scratching at his grip. Wild and untamed, just like the land around them. She throws a kick straight at his knee and he lets go. Warily, he watches her.
Even drunk, she is still dangerous, having had enough martial arts practice in over a century, she can take down groups of demons with little to no problem. She can probably take him down if he isn't careful.
They circle each other, neither saying a word. Then quickly, a punch here, a kick there, a single sweep sends her to the ground and then he has her pinned, legs trapped between his knees, his hands on either side of her head. He's looking down at her with a mixture of confusion and anger and she glares just as defiantly back at him.
When he lowers his guard slightly, she takes the opportunity to strike him in the crook of his left elbow, grabbing it and then twisting hard so that he slips to one side. In a moment she is atop him, her hands tight, forcibly entwining with his.
Their clothes are soaked but neither feels the cold, she breathes harshly and presses her forehead against his. When he growls a warning at her, she snarls back. She knows he can throw her off if he really wants to, but he's excited, she can feel it through his night robe.
He doesn't move, even when she kisses his unyielding lips and moves her body over him, his face betrays nothing. It's only his eyes, more expressive than anyone else will ever know, that shows his conflict and his need.
"Why?" she whispers to him, her breath curling like smoke between them. "Why is it never me?"
Something seems to break in him and he flips them over so he has her pressed into the snow, her midnight black hair in stark contrast to the white.
"It was always you." he responds hoarsely and she feels him grind himself against her. She bites back a moan and lifts her hips to meet him.
Then voices and crunches of footsteps in the snow interrupt them, and they all but throw themselves away from each other as the servants' torches illuminate the clearing.
It is apparent there was a fight, and the house staff don't suspect otherwise.
Meekly, Kagome follows them back and watches venomously as he returns to the room he shares with his wife. She goes back to her bedroom and, without changing, slips between the sheets, soaking the silken bed-spread in childish spite.
When she wakes up she finds that though she got what she wanted, she is unsatisfied and wants more. She needs more, no matter how impossible it seems.
She knows she's spiraling into madness but can't stop herself.
She leaves and doesn't look back.
TBC
A/N: Just a short two-shot in the style of my drabbles. I can't really come up with a decent backstory to this so it's really up to you why she is now immortal and not sure how to deal with it. I am ridiculously tired as it is 4:30 in the morning and this would not leave me alone.
o_o;;;
Help, Tylenol PM, help me!