She bled. The scent of such rarely spilled blood reached her nostrils as she tried to distinguish one thing from another, but everything was a blur. On either side of her there were figures – men, she decided, after hearing the tones of their voices. Her head pounded with the sound of her heartbeat, such percussions drowning out all that was happening about her: the yells, barks, and demands of the faceless blurs as they communicated to the others about them. The only sense she could be confident in was that of touch. She could feel her arms held tight on either side, hoisting her off the ground; however, the men gave so sparingly with their strength that her strained shoulders were lifted only high enough so that her knees could scrape on the ground and be drug over sharp rocks, spilling blood with cuts and gashes. Her fingertips still tingled from what the woman eventually identified as the remnants of her own previous assault against the men that were holding her now. After all, who had the right to barge into her house in the middle of the night without even the courtesy to knock on her door? She reserved the right to protect herself and her possessions at her own discretion, even as a female. They had no right – no bloody fucking right – to do what they had done or drag her away from her house like this; however, she could do nothing to stop them. She was incapacitated, so slow to reattach to reality that she did not realize that smell of smoke was the smell of her own house burning to the ground somewhere behind her.
She then met the ground with a less than friendly hello, tossed upon the dirt like a scrap of meat meant for the wolves. It seemed such a jolt helped right her eyesight, bringing her into a conscious state with the abrupt pain. She could see that her hand was in a puddle of something red. It smelled, a little. It almost smelled like blood, she thought. Only a second later did she push herself right off the ground and to her knees, withdrawing her hand from what it had fallen in. The substance was blood, and the red life left over dripped from her fingertips. Admittedly, she felt a little sick. The only time she ever saw blood was when it was an animal's, usually when said prey was the meal to be prepared for herself and her partner. Yet, the woman forced herself to look away from this short event. There were more important issues at hand, such as what was going on. She looked about her in an attempt to identify the situation, but a laugh soon interrupted her from her self-appointed task.
"Sorry bastard deserved it," a loud voice said, "Give his body to the dogs. I don't want it stinking up my tent."
The source of the interruption was a very large man standing tall compared to the men who had been dragging her (who she now just acknowledged as standing on either side of her, as if she were some prisoner of war), walking out of a tent and towards them. He wore a silk white kimono and heavy armor of grey and silver that rested upon his broad shoulders and over his torso, a sword at rest in its sheath on his back. His silver hair was tied up high upon his head, each step he took making the ponytail swing like a pendulum, ticking away the seconds of the day. Before she realized it, his shiny black boots were only just a few inches away from her as his golden eyes bore down upon her. Her eyes, the same color as his, returned his gaze. Her confidence surprised her when she recognized this man. He was a warlord who had lay waste to anyone who stood in his path as he went on his way claiming lands as his own with his small army of dog demons that followed him. This gained him the reputation of the "Inu No Taisho": the leader of dogs. In only a mere year he had conquered and gained most of the western lands in the country. She should be frightened – terrified, really. It was either the head trauma or raw courage that allowed her not to be.
"Found this in 'is place," the man on her right said to the powerful newcomer before her, "Didn' know the idiot could get tail like this."
Then, it clicked.
"Where's my husband?" the woman demanded, standing quite quickly, "What have you done with him?"
She was nose-to-nose with the feared warlord, her eyes unwavering as she looked up into his with such emotion. Only an instant after she had acted out, she thought she would soon regret it and face her death at the hand of this man. He was not known for level headedness or mercy. So her surprise was warranted when he laughed at her.
"Vixen," he accused, pushing her a step back from him with a sharp thrust to her chest with only his index and middle finger, "You have quite some nerve…for a woman."
She refused to back down, staying her course though her mind told her it could easily lead her to an untimely death.
"Where is my husband?" she demanded.
"Lying with the wolves," he responded coolly, no remorse in his voice, "He planned to stand in my way, so I disposed of him."
His words took the breath from her lungs. Blood rushed out of her face, leaving her an even paler white than her already ivory skin; he chuckled, touching her chin. The tip of his claw traced down the stretch of jaw, a smirk coming to his lips. As his eyes gazed over her face, trying to find any response to his words, she could only stare forward. His lips moved to form words, but she did not hear what he said. All she could hear was the beat of her heart, fast and panicked.
Hitoki.
Her partner. Her lover. Her…friend.
What happened next would be beyond recollection for the woman for quite some time. A part of her brain knew that she was moving, but she did not voluntarily make any action with thought. She knew anger and saw red. She felt something warm on her fingertips… Then she felt her body slammed full force against something hard – a tree, identified by the massive downpour of leaves as the trunk shook with the force of her body against it – and her vision failed her for just one moment. She felt the vibrations of a growl shake her very skeleton as a hand closed around her windpipe. When her vision righted, she saw the warlord looming above her, holding his iron clad hand over her neck and crushing her into the unfortunate tree that had become a victim with her. A cut was on his face, acting as a new neighbor to a jagged stripe lining his right cheekbone. From it fell a single drop of red blood, which first traveled down his cheek and hung on his jaw, clinging to remain with its Master. Yet, it fell despite its best efforts, landing on her bottom lip. The blood drop slipped within her mouth, completing its journey and tainting her tongue. It tasted sweet, she noted. Strange.
Again, her eyes failed her. The edges of her vision were turning black while her lungs burned and screamed for air. He was suffocating her. The warlord was…killing her. Like so many before her, he held his hand around her neck and crushed her throat, creating a seal that no oxygen could enter. She was afraid, yes, but knew there were worse deaths she could be met with. If there were anything good about this fate, she could only find one thing that might give her some solace: she would die just as her lover. There was nothing to look forward to in her afterlife – for only hell awaited demons as she – but there would be no Inu no Taisho and no pain. She and Hitoki would both be dead, perhaps even together if she allowed herself to hope, and all of this would be gone.
Her head hurt. She felt dizzy. Her diaphragm was contracting, trying to bring air in, but there was none to come. Eyes sliding closed, she felt her lungs burn and burn and burn. She felt consciousness slip into nothingness…
The man threw her to the ground some feet away, possibly at the very last seconds of her life. Unconscious, but alive, her lungs filled themselves without provocation and flooded her body with ever-needed oxygen. Gasping, panting, she was slowly regaining stability.
"Get her up," the warlord demanded to the men who had dragged her to him, "Bind her and throw her in my tent."
The Inu no Taisho wiped his face and found blood on his fingers, a place where such blood was never found. The wound her claws had inflicted was already gone and no trace of it was left on his perfect skin, but the undeniable proof of blood was there before his eyes.
Bitch.
She would pay. Death was too sweet of a release and far too much of a merciful act in his opinion. This bitch would repent for every drop she spilled and swallowed – who did she think she was, tasting his very blood? – before he even thought of allowing her an end. This woman, adorned with the crescent moon upon her brow and purple markings of her race, would be just one of his many spoils of war.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is connected to another fanfiction I have written: Twisted. It is the background on the characters of Sesshomaru's mother and father and the relationship the two shared. So, one could say it is an prologue of sorts; however, this story will only be updated based on the time I have in my life and the response of readers. (This is not to say I will not update if there are no reviews. I will be looking at viewing statistics to see how many people are actually reading.) So, happy reading!