Phantom
a fantasy
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by satirical
prologue.
the leviathan
They obviously poured money into funding the funeral and the wake. Leagues of mourners lined to see the coffin of the former Miko of the shrine, kissing what they could reach of her bone-white hands and snow-touched hair. The sound of wailing syncopated in rhythm to the priestly liturgy for the dead. Just beyond the coffin, presiding over the ceremony with the legal heads of state—his father and stepmother—stood the heir to the Western Dominion, Sesshoumaru. His robes were white for mourning, but he preferred to think that they were white for the new spring.
He caught the sight of his stepmother stifling a yawn in her heavy sleeves and twitched. Soon, his father would turn over the scepter to his hands, and all questions about the growing insect in that woman's womb would be eliminated. His half-brother would be born in isolation and raised as it was, a bastard, with his retired, ailing father and that peasant woman for company.
There was no use maintaining wastes of space; but for tradition and that sliver of respect he still possessed for his father, he would've found some way to cast out the abomination and relieve it entirely of the wealth and privileges due to it by the random fortune of royal blood.
His mother still roamed somewhere over the wide plains toward the rising sun. Suddenly he recalled the scent of the autumn wind and a feeling of damp darkness. His mother's cave, he thought. His thoughts turned to the ivory and jade coffin and its contents. The Miko had grown old in her station, the first in over a hundred years who died of old age, not exhaustion. There was no need to tax the abilities of Mikos when a truebred Lord wielded the scepter, thought Sesshoumaru.
The rule of the emperor was ending—his era had passed. Now the warlords stirred, remembering their age-old feuds, rivalries, alliances, ambitions. Marriages. He could last some twenty years without even thinking of marriage, but too soon it would become a necessity to a lord of the blood. To maintain his dominion in his elder years, around a century from now, he would need sons, or depending on the political climate, daughters. The question of rebellion and an early death briefly crossed his mind, but he dismissed them. Sesshoumaru was reputed to be the most skilled swordsman and the most acute wielder of power in living memory; his autocracy would be balanced by years of peace and prosperity in his lands—by expansion, glory, conquest. His limbs burned to think of it, and he could hear the wind's howl heightened in his ears. No, it was no good getting whipped up into a frenzy in front of the public, at this meaningless spectacle. He took stabilizing breaths which brought the color down in his cheeks.
Even now the crowd rippled with the question—who would replace the old woman as Miko? Legends dictated that another Miko was born at the moment of the old Miko's death, and already dozens came bearing babes toward the citadel to show him. As if he had an eye for magic. Sesshoumaru scowled (and in the crowd, a few of the more sensitive spectators began to weep).
This was the major reason his father had not completely abdicated his position over to Sesshoumaru, though the young lord was of age to assume power. Inutaishou had developed the vision, or the ability to identify magical auras, in the last months before he took the scepter. Sesshoumaru had already reached fifty-seven without this ability, three years older than his father did. To choose the new Miko, his father would come out of his semi-retirement and inspect each newborn for the right aura, and finally settle on one.
He might never be secure in his scepter.
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Note: I do not own Inuyasha. I also don't know where exactly I'm going with this fic, so bear with me. Hopefully the pairing is obvious. From this note on, there will be no notes, excuses, or thankyous at the end of the story--email me if you'd like to discuss it. (Oh, and reviews, which are always welcome = faster updates. Just saying.)