The Human in the Painting
By:
Fear Die Rothaarige
There was a painting in his father's study. It had been there since before he could remember, probably many years before his birth. He loved the painting, he wasn't sure why, but he did. His father loved it, though in a different way. Though, his mother hated it. Honestly, as he got older, he thought she might have been more jealous of the women in the painting than actually hated it.
The women in the painting was beautiful. Not beautiful in the demon way, but in the human was. She sported no features linked to the demon species. She was human. Her hair was the purist of blacks, tumbling over her shoulders. It framed her heart shaped face with perfection. Her chocolate-brown eyes were alight with happiness. Her smile was lopsided, but it fit her well. It wasn't fake, like Mother's, she was truly happy in that captured moment. Her skin was alive with a golden tan, like the sand on a far-away beach. The contours of her body were perfect. Her breast filling out the top of her kimono and they were also equally proportioned with her ample hips. Her legs and arms were well toned, as if from years of physical work. The kimono she wore was simple. It was a soothing blue with pink cherry blossoms dancing around the fabric. The obi was just a simple white ribbon. Despite the simple design it seemed to be made of silk, not cotton. Most humans could never afford even a scrape of silk. She was sitting in a field of spring flowers, her legs tucked under her with grace. Her hands was extended, motioning to the painter to come join her.
He always wondered who the painter could be. Perhaps it was the girls lover capturing a moment of joy on his canvas. Maybe it was a friend who had become to caught up in his work to enjoy the beautiful spring day. Or maybe, they were just strangers, the painter enlisting the girl to be his subject. There were many possibilities. None of which he could verify, being that the girl in the painting was probably dead. Her painter probably having joined her.
The subject of the painting also caught his interest. She was human, so why would his father hang a painting of her in his personal study? Had he known her? She seemed well off, not sporting the cotton rags that villagers commonly wore. Her body, while in shape, didn't hold the signs of years of working in the fields. While she looked close to child-bearing age, her flat belly seem to portray that she had yet to become heavy with a child. Perhaps this piece had just caught his father's eye during his many years of travel around Japan.
The painting was a fixture of his life. Many a day he had sat on his father's knee as he was taught politics and demon traditions, the painting standing guard over the father-son pair. As his amber eyes, just like his fathers, gazed over the painting he often caught his father committing the same deed. His eyes held a strange softness that he never saw any other time. As he got older, he grew to understand this look in his fathers amber eyes. It was love and longing mixed with guilt and sadness. This look made him think that his father had known the girl sometime in his long life.
His mother did not like the painting. He had known this from an early age, watching as her glares turned sharp at the women. She saw the way her mate, his father, looked at the women and she couldn't stand it. She couldn't stand that the man who shared her bed did not love her. He did not love her like he loved the girl in the painting. If she had her own choice, the painting would have been tossed in the fire ages ago. She would have stood by and watched at the paint and canvas burned to a crisp, leaving nothing but ash behind. But she would never dare defy the Great Lord.
It was by accident that he had stumbled across the answer to who the human in the painting was. He was looking for his father, bringing news that his newest pup was about to be brought into the world. He followed his scent through the great mansion. It had led him to the wing where he was always told not to go. He bit his lip, his fang poking out as he debated going in. With a sigh, he entered the forbidden wing to follow his fathers scent. He found him easily enough. There was a small garden and e was sitting on his knees in front of a grave marker at the center of it. The old stone was worn with age, the kanji having become dull from weathering. As he moved closer, he could hear his fathers labored breath and detect the salty smell of tears. Without thinking of the possible consequences, he got on his knees next to his father. He knew from the way the older male stiffened, that his presence wasn't exactly welcomed, but he was not shooed away.
His eyes took in the engraving on the stone. The years of life and death showing the marker belong to a young girl, only 18 years old. Such a young age, even for a human, to have the spirit snatched from her body. Her name had been Rin. A short and simple name, but beautiful just the same. A quote accompanied the age and name on the stone. My Flower of Spring shall never be forgotten.
As his mind pieced the puzzle together, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning to face his father, he was surprised by his red eyes and the trail of tears drying on his face. "Don't tell your mother that you know who she is." The Great Lord of the Western Lands got to his feet. He wiped his eyes and face, leaving his son alone in the garden, the piece of the puzzle having finally fallen into place.
His father had loved the human in the painting.
Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha.
Just an idea that popped into my head today. Hope you enjoy. Please excuse any and all mistakes in spelling and grammar.
Read and Review!
Later!