Disclaimer: Rin, Sesshoumaru and all other characters from Inuyasha belong to Rumiko Takahashi and the other various entities involved with the production of the manga and anime. I do not profit from this piece, nor is any copyright infringement intended by it.
This is a retelling of the Sess/Rin origin story, crossed with a little bit of Sleeping Beauty, a hint of Beauty & the Beast, and some post-canon goodness so that it all makes sense. (Written for the dA "Time After Time" Fairytale Contest 2013.)
In the End
Once upon a time, in a desolate forest far, far away, lived a prince who was not all that he seemed. At first glance, one could easily be lulled into a false sense of security around him. He was tall, smart, well-spoken, incredibly powerful and deceptively handsome. His features were fine and regal; skin and hair as pale as snow. His voice was deep and soft, almost soothing in its cadence.
It was a fine cover to mask the black, frozen heart of the monster lurking just below that pristine surface.
The prince was a bitter creature. Driven by an insatiable lust for power and the urge to prove he was a greater demon than the ghost of his father, the being who slighted him in life and haunted him in death, he sought battle with the strongest demons he could find. He slew all who were fool enough to stand in his way without thought, without remorse. He took that which was freely given, and took by force that which was not.
It was all too easy.
He found immense pleasure in the havoc and misery he wrought. Being a harbinger of death was the only thing that could make him smile. He was like a force of nature, unstoppable to the pathetic wretches unfortunate enough to cross his path.
Unstoppable, for a while at least.
Unstoppable, until he found an opponent who he, in his arrogance, could not help but underestimate. The half-breed should not have been able to lay a finger on him—not a pure-blooded demon like him—and yet he did. He lost the sword, the powerful heirloom bequeathed to the hanyou after the death of their father, and his left arm in the fight.
The defeat was humiliating.
The second loss was just inconceivable.
On this day, the demon prince lay broken in body and in spirit beneath the cover of a thick copse of trees. His pride, and his impetuous half-brother, had bested him—again. He drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of the setting sun when he was not otherwise blinded by the searing pain of his injuries. He was not so impaired, however, to be ignorant of the human approaching his sanctuary, the unmistakable stench carried by the wind throwing his senses into high alert. Were it any other day, he would not have cared—not in the least.
Were it any other day . . .
The brush over his shoulder rustled loudly. Immediately, he rose, as much as he could, and hissed menacingly at the creature intruding on him; his eyes still blazing red and his facial markings wide and jagged from the previous battle. Even if he could not act against the threat, he would certainly pretend that he could. At best, the intruder would leave. At worst, the intruder would return with monks or demon slayers. If the latter occurred, it would be most unfortunate, but he would deal with it then.
He was dumbstruck when he saw the form of the small girl cowering against the trunk of the narrow tree, her chocolate-colored eyes wide as she stared at him. She was clearly startled; startled, but undeterred as she took a deep breath and approached his prone form.
Although she was only a child, she recognized his plight; a fact he realized a split second after she unceremoniously dumped a flask of water over his head. She doted on him, tending to the small cuts on his face in the manner one would expect a small child to tend to the injuries of another—imitating actions most likely learned from her mother.
It was rather insulting, the thought of this child—this human child—taking it upon herself to rescue him. He was above this, and yet, he was completely powerless to stop her. Fortunately, the pain and exhaustion were more than he could stand. Blissful darkness overcame him as sleep dragged him away from the unimaginable indignity he was suffering.
The sun rose and set several times after the prince's first encounter with the girl. How many times he could not say. He knew that she visited him frequently, bringing him food and water, vain attempts to give him aid—aid that was neither wanted nor warranted. He openly rejected her next attempt to help him, callously knocking away the small offering of fish and mushrooms she presented to him.
"Mind your own business. I do not eat human food," he snapped sharply. A flicker of hurt flickered in her eyes as she hurriedly collected the pieces of her cast-off gift, setting it neatly at his side before she left. Perhaps she would take his advice and leave him be. It was all he wanted—to recover, and to brood, in peace.
The girl, he soon learned, was far more tenacious than he realized.
No matter how many times he told her to stop, that her efforts were wasted, she continued to leave rations for his consumption. He finally stopped putting forth the effort into trying to dissuade her, passively declining her help in order to maintain appearances, but no longer caring what she did. What was the point, when she would only ignore him anyway?
He ignored the fact that he had been bested by an eight-year-old.
The prince's indifference for the girl abruptly ended the morning she appeared to him with a black eye and bruises littering her small body. For a moment, for the one fleeting instant when he laid eyes on her face, he felt something. For a moment, his interest lay in something unrelated to himself.
"What happened to your face?" he asked, careful not to let his curiosity show in his voice.
The girl seemed genuinely surprised by his question, her face snapping up to stare at him in wide-eyed shock. A long moment passed between them, the silence long and heavy, until he looked away. She was obviously uncomfortable being under such scrutiny.
"You don't have to answer if you don't want to," he continued, giving the girl a reprieve from his question. It was then that he wondered if she could even speak at all. It would explain her constant silence, an appreciated but notable oddity.
Her reaction was wholly unexpected. The widest, brightest smile he had ever seen on any living being burst across her face, accompanied with the slightest bit of raspy giggling. He did not understand it. Why would she be so happy over being asked such a simple question? The question mulled around in his mind for several hours after she skipped away.
The prince soon woke to the shrill sound of his name, loudly carried over the wind. He grimaced at the familiarity of the voice, but quickly shifted to a seated position. He may have been helpless to avoid showing weakness in front of the girl, but he would be damned if he let the imp see him this way. The moment his servant crossed the tree line, he forced himself to his feet, a gruff order to depart his only words in reply to the overly enthusiastic greeting he received.
His footsteps ceased as an odd odor filled the air; his thoughts darkening at the heavy scent of blood and wolves. The scent of this particular blood though . . . he knew this scent; knew the owner of this blood. It had become all too familiar over the past few days.
Morbid curiosity changed his course, to an extent that the prince could not have ever imagined at the time.
A rather bloody and brutal display of carnage awaited him upon his arrival at the scene. Before him, in the middle of the dusty road, a small group of wolves circled a small body, littered with bite marks. The dirt was stained a dark crimson color, thoroughly saturated with her blood; the iron-heavy smell bitter in the daiyoukai's nose.
He watched as the beasts feasted on the spoils of their battle. He looked back to her lifeless form, his eyes softening as something akin to pity or regret, perhaps even sorrow, sat heavily in his chest.
He looked to the wolves again, who had since recognized his intrusion and growled menacingly at him, with every intent of defending their kill. Whatever compassionate feelings the sight of the girl had elicited evaporated in a heartbeat, quickly replaced with a deep, resounding fury.
The audacity—as though such foul, pathetic beasts could challenge him.
The air heated and crackled around him as his jyaki flared dangerously. With a sharp glare and a snarl, the wolves whimpered and fled, leaving him and his servant alone with the body of the girl.
"Ah, she's a goner," the small toad said as approached the corpse, prodding it with his staff. "Milord, did you want something from this girl?
"No," the prince replied, turning on his heel to leave. A rustle of wind brought a fresh waft of her scent to his nose. Instantly, his mind filled with the image of the girl's smile, so odd and out of place for the circumstances.
He could not walk away.
In one smooth motion, he turned again, this time drawing his sword; a sword that usually lay unused and forgotten at his hip. A sword that could not cut. A sword that he hated for its uselessness, but a sword he could not discard for its sentimental value, if he could be accused of indulging in such a trifling thing.
He studied her body closely, the blade pulsing in his hand, in rhythm to the beating of his heart. Just then, he saw them—the pallbearers, demons charged with the task of bringing souls from the world of the living to the world of the dead. They surrounded the girl, preparing her for the journey to the next plane.
What was this strange sword telling him? Were these creatures something his blade could penetrate? A foe he could defeat?
He tested his theory. With a single powerful swing, he cut through the apparitions. The pallbearers dissipated, obliterated by the power of the sword. Once the space was clear, he stepped closer, kneeling by the form of the lifeless girl and gently gathering her into his arm.
Suddenly, he could feel it—the faint, but steady rhythm of a small heartbeat. His face fell into a look of unhidden shock, watching with unwavering fascination as her tiny form slowly revived. Breath filled her lungs, and, in a moment in which time seemed to stand still, she opened her eyes.
Somewhere behind him, his servant noisily squawked about the uncharacteristic nature of his actions. The prince paid no attention. He and the girl were too busy staring at one another, both in equal states of shock. He helped the girl to her feet, then quickly rose to his own, his mind racing furiously as he began to walk away. Nothing broke through the haze—not a thought of his destination nor the realization that the equally dazed girl now followed closely behind him.
Tenseiga . . . you made me save a human.
In the weeks that followed, the prince quickly fell into the role of guardian for the young girl. He ensured she was clothed and fed. He protected her from danger, sometimes going to great lengths, and often at great inconvenience to him, to ensure her safety. She quickly found her voice, filling his dark world with light, nearly ceaseless chatter. Such a thing would have infuriated him before, but he found she had the strangest effect on him. With her, he was calm, at peace, not at the mercy of the fires of greatly desired omnipotence and revenge that were his usual motivations.
He was often asked what the girl was to him. He never bothered to answer, but it was clear that she held a place of importance; even more so after a tragic incident in the depths of Hell itself threatened to wrench her from his world permanently. Nothing was more sacred to him that the life of the girl, and all that he did henceforth reflected that revelation. As a result, he eventually told the girl that she would need to learn to live amongst her kind, allowing her live in the village inhabited by his half-brother and his companions. When she was old enough to do so, she would have the choice to stay in the village or return to his side.
The little girl, on the other hand, knew exactly what the demon prince was to her. She saw him as her handsome prince and she his beautiful princess. From the moment she opened her eyes to behold his face after being killed by the wolves, she knew she never wanted to be without him. She knew they would be together forever.
She was told she was silly; that she dare not get her hopes up for he was not the kind to share affection. The most she for which she could hope was to stay in his good graces. Others said she could never truly stay by his side because she was only a human. The transient nature of her life made such a thing impossible. Someday, she would be gone, nothing but a flicker in the life of a timeless being such as the demon prince. She fiercely argued her point to anyone with a contrary opinion, refusing to believe anything other than what she felt in her heart to be true.
The prince, for the most part, ignored it all, writing off her feelings to the overactive imagination of a star-struck child. Eventually, the fascination would fade. Eventually, she would realize that the nomadic life he promised would not be what she would truly want.
Many, many years later, he realized she was right all along.
One day, the prince arrived just a few moments too late to protect the girl—now a woman—from the powerful blows of the serpentine demon assailing her. He made short work of the creature, slaying the foul creature with a swipe of his clawed hand. The damage was done though. The girl lay on the ground unconscious, her body broken and bleeding profusely.
He quickly bandaged the worst of her wounds as best as he could, then carefully gathered her into his arms and rushed to find help, eventually finding himself at his brother's door. His brother's wife shooed them inside, going to work the second he lay they young woman on the pallet on the floor. After what felt like an eternity, she finished her work, telling the prince that she had done everything she could. It was up to the girl now.
The prince did not sleep. He did not eat. He stayed by her side over the endless days that followed, watching over her and quietly willing her to wake. He felt the fear creeping into his chest again—the darkness, the deep despair and profound helplessness he had felt so long ago when he lost her in Hell. He did not want to lose her again, not when there was no hope of bringing her back a third time. She still had so many years ahead of her. There was still so much time that they could spend together before the ravages of time and age finally tore them apart. There was so much he still wanted to tell her.
So much he still needed to say . . .
In that moment, he knew.
He knew what she was to him. He understood exactly what he felt for her. He knew exactly what he would say to her the next time they spoke.
If he had the chance . . .
He whispered her name softly, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from her face. "Open your eyes."
Please . . .
As he sat in the quiet room, he thought of a story she had told him once—one recounted to her by the strange woman his brother had married. It was a tale of a princess cursed by an evil sorceress to sleep for one hundred years after pricking her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel. She was eventually rescued by the kiss of a handsome prince—or something to that effect. He had not paid a great deal of attention at the time, having found the entire premise of the tale annoying.
A kiss . . .
It was a silly notion. As though a mere kiss had such power.
He tested it anyway. Leaning forward, he gently pressed his lips to hers. They were soft and slightly cool to the touch, much like the petals of a flower. He allowed himself to linger for a moment before pulling away. Then he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Logically, he knew nothing would happen. He had not expected anything to change, and yet, he still found himself disappointed by the lack of results. Growing weary of indulging such a nonsensical idea, he moved away from her bed, settling against the wall to wait for the dawn.
As though a mere kiss had such power.
The next morning, the prince woke from a light doze to find a pair of brown eyes watching him very closely and quite intently. He was instantly alert, amber eyes snapping open in surprise.
"You're awake," he said, blinking rapidly, still foggy from crossing the threshold of his dreamscape to wakefulness.
"Good morning, Milord," she said, a soft smile creeping across her face, sliding back slightly. "You fell asleep."
"What are you doing?" he asked, concern heavy in his voice. "You shouldn't be up. Why aren't you in bed?"
"Well, I woke up and I really needed to . . . um . . . you know," she stammered, an embarrassed blush creeping across her cheeks and she cocked her head towards the doorway. "When I came back, I noticed you were sleeping. It happens so rarely, you know. I just wanted to get a closer look."
He arched a questioning eyebrow, but offered no other reply. She shifted to sit beside him, resting her head against his shoulder while, not so subtly, snuggling into his mokomoko. He had half a mind to scold her, to insist she return to her own bed, but the weight of her body was pleasant and he was loathed to tell her to move. He leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes as they fell into a comfortable silence. He considered confessing now, telling her all the things he swore he would say to her, but she broke the silence first.
"I had a dream about you."
"Oh?"
"I dreamt I was Sleeping Beauty. Do you remember? I think I've told you the story before," she asked, craning her neck towards his face. He gave a short nod in reply.
"Anyway," she continued, "in my dream, I pricked my finger on a magical spinning wheel and fell asleep. You battled an evil dragon—somehow I knew you were fighting a dragon even though I was asleep. Then, you ran up a huge flight of spiraling stairs. You came into my room and knelt by the side of my bed. Then, you leaned over and ki . . ." Her hands flew over her mouth as she realized what she was about to confess.
"And?" He pretended her answer was inconsequential, hiding his interest behind the flat, bored tone of his voice. But in reality, he was a completely captive audience, hanging from every word now coming from her mouth.
She looked around the room shyly, before steeling herself for the admission. "You kissed me. You kissed me and I woke up. And then, I really did wake up."
"Hm." She was unconscious. She could not have known what he had done, could she?
A small yawn slipped from her mouth as she resettled, leaning her head into his shoulder. "How long have I been out?"
"Almost a week."
"And you . . . have you been here the entire time?"
"Yes."
"Oh no! I'm so sorry, Milord!" she exclaimed as she shot out of her seat, turning to bow in prostrate. "I didn't mean to . . . I mean, I didn't mean to be such a burden to you. I'm sure you have much more important business to attend to, and you were stuck here worrying about me and . . ."
The prince put a finger to her lips. "Stop."
"I'm sorry."
He shook his head. "Stop apologizing. You need not concern yourself over such a thing, especially in your condition," he replied. "Besides, it gave me time to think."
"To think? About what, Milord?"
"I . . .," he began; his carefully planned words quickly running dry as he looked into the face that so intently watched his. He raised his hand to her face, lightly tucking a few stray locks of ruffled chestnut hair behind her ear, watching as the strands slid smoothly through his fingers. She was still pale, but the color had finally started to return to her face. Hints of brown and yellow bruising lingered around her eye and on her cheek. The angry gash that ran from her temple to her chin was fading, most of the redness gone. What remained looked like no more than a long scratch.
All of it though was just a canvas for those eyes—dark, chocolate-colored orbs framed by long, full lashes. Eyes that glowed with joy, life and intelligence. Eyes that he swore could see past the mask and into the depths of his very soul. Eyes into which he could lose himself completely. Lost, like he was now.
Ten years ago, he would have called himself a pathetic fool. Perhaps he was. Funny how it was so inconsequential now, when it came to her.
"Milord?" Somewhere in a corner of his mind, buried beneath his musings, he heard her call his name. Her voice was soft, distant, like that of a specter in a dream, yet she seemed so much closer than before. He could feel her breath on his skin, hear her increasingly rapid heartbeat echoing in his ears.
His gaze traveled lower, lingering on her mouth. For a fraction of a second, the tip of her tongue slipped out to moisten her lips. It was a simple motion, one he was sure she had probably done hundreds of times before. Yet, this time . . .
He wanted to taste her again.
Dipping his head, he closed the final bit of space between them, claiming her lips once more. He buried a hand in her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the contact. It was different this time—her kiss. She was so warm, moved with him so freely. It felt as though fire was flowing through his veins. Only when she winced while trying to wrap her arms around his neck did he pull away.
"Stay with me."
Her eyes went wide with shock. "Huh?"
The prince took her hand into his, lightly tracing circles into her palm with his thumb, before carefully raising it to his lips. He pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles. "I know I told you when the time was right, you would be able to choose the life you wanted. But I am asking you now—will you stay with me?"
Her head began to move, slowly at first, then speeding to a more vigorous nod as realization took hold. A wide, bright grin stretched across her face. "Yes. Yes I will."
From then on, they lived happily ever after, reigning together as king and queen of the unbeaten path.
"The end."
"She's asleep," Rin whispered to the figure sitting on the other side of the fire as she looked down to the small, white-haired girl sleeping soundly in her lap.
"Amazing."
"Well, I wouldn't say tha . . ."
Sesshoumaru shook his head. "She survived another night without dying of boredom."
"I happen to like that story," Rin replied haughtily, sticking her tongue at the demon lord. "She does too."
"Would it be so terrible to tell her another story once in a while? You have told it to her every night for almost a year."
"You don't like the other story."
"That story is completely ridiculous. The entire plot hinges upon an entire kingdom's worth of people being incapable of keeping one girl away from a needle," he replied, his voice not quite hiding his exasperation as well as he had hoped.
"It was a magic spinning wheel! It appeared out of thin air! And, Sleeping Beauty was possessed by the "poke-your-finger" spell at the time. How can you possibly expect people to plan for stuff like that?"
The daiyoukai quietly sighed to himself. This was a battle he would never win. "Surely you know more than two stories."
Rin looked away, brow furrowed in deep thought. Suddenly, her expression brightened, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Oh! I could tell her about the time you chased your tail and accidentally stabbed yourself!"
"No," Sesshoumaru snapped, glaring at her sharply, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "You may not tell her that tale because your understanding of the facts are grossly lacking. That was not my tail."
Rin bit back the urge to burst into uncontrollable laughter. It really was funny. Instead she took a deep breath and composed herself. "You could always take a turn."
"Really?" Sesshoumaru asked, arching an eyebrow. "You would permit me to tell her a story? I distinctly remember you forbidding me from telling her any more stories."
"That story," Rin said, pointing at the daiyoukai accusingly, "was completely inappropriate for a girl her age. She threw rocks at Jaken for a week after that. He was traumatized."
He shrugged. "He has suffered worse."
The young woman's mouth fell open. "What a terrible thing to say! You're evil!"
An amused smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth as he from his resting place and crossed the short distance between them. He knelt beside her, dipping his head so his lips hovered just over hers.
"And yet you can't get enough of me," he whispered, his voice low and husky. He lingered for a moment longer, waiting until her eyes finally fell shut before abruptly pulling away.
Brown eyes opened and blinked rapidly, surprised at the sudden absence of the warmth of his form. She crossed her arms with a huff, turning her head away dramatically. "You really are evil."
"And you, milady, are the salvation for this wicked soul," the daiyoukai replied, a surprising level of gravity in his voice. With one hand, he reached over and gently lifted her chin upwards. Leaning in again, he finally claimed her lips with his own. So soft, so inviting . . .
No, he would never tire of this.
Sesshoumaru settled on the ground beside them, draping an arm around Rin's shoulders and pulled her closer. She shifted slightly, not so much as to disturb the slumbering child, but enough so that she was comfortably nestled in the warm fur of his mokomoko. They sat in comfortable silence, staring into the fire lazily, watching the flickers of light and shadow dance around them.
A soft giggle broke through the quiet. He looked down to see the young woman stroking the hair of the little girl in her lap. She gently nudged him with her shoulder once she noticed he was watching her. "Despite how much you fuss, you really do enjoy the ending of our story."
Sesshoumaru could not disagree.
Thanks for reading!
P.S.: For anyone who has read some of my older stories over at the Moonlight Flower website in the past, there is a reference to another one of my fanfics, "What Lurks In the Shadows." I haven't gotten everything that I used to have on that site uploaded here, but I'll get around to it eventually.