A.N.: I'll save part of my rant for the end, as to not spoil the story.
I wonder if anyone is familiar with Chinese literature…in particular, the novel called "Dream of the Red Mansion" that was written a few centuries ago. I've reference a couple of ideas from one of its major poems throughout the fic, and even given almost exactly translations of the original text in some places (two, to be precise). I shall be very deeply impressed if someone manages to uncover those.
I'm also aware that the fic starts off a bit slow. Bear with me to the end, please, and you shall see...
Disclaimer: I'll keep it simple. Inuyasha doesn't belong to me, nor do the blatant references from the abovementioned piece of literature.
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Autumn Frost
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Sakura fall and sakura fly, so that for a short while their blossoms seem to dominate the skies.
Yet after their scent has faded and their purity worn away, none will there remain to pity them.
It is strange that walking under the cherry trees in spring can geminate thoughts such as these. In one such as myself, nonetheless. One who supposedly represents all things ruthless and unfeeling.
Do the servants believe me unaware of that which they say of their lady? They have yet to learn that heightened senses customarily accompany the purity of demon blood.
It is also said that kindness, on the other hand, does not. I am not kind.
One poetic zealot or other once wrote that one with complete peace of heart would be able watch the sakura fall, and sense only a state of peaceful bliss. All but those rare few will feel instead perturbed by its implication of emphemerality, and the inescapable nature of death and decay.
I believe I saw this particular piece of nonsense in one tome of literature or other, back when I dwelt at the old estate. Ironic, I suppose: in some corner of Father's old library that had all the semblances of a stone dungeon, a poem about sakura, and spring.
I see that the groundskeepers, industrious as they would perhaps wish to be, have not been through this particular garden today. The blossoms lie thick on the ground, where they have fallen. With every step I crush some into the stone-cobbled path, leaving them as wilting patches of red that will eventually be reclaimed by the soil below.
The servants think themselves observant. They have seen me do that which is necessary for the survival of the realm, and thus deem me as having a heart of steel. Seeing me display no emotion, they say that I lack capacity for it. That I am as unfeeling as a stone.
I do not know if they are correct, although I find their gossip perfectly acceptable. A stone does not feel, but nor can it be moved.
In one sudden spur of literary embellishment many centuries ago, Father named me, "Akishimo". Most of the people here, for simplicity's sake, refer to me simply as Shimo-sama. Lady Frost. Very appropriate, one must agree.
Of my lord's lieges, a certain Yomichi is the only one who dares to be anything less that perfectly stoic and well-mannered in my presence. It was he who suggested to me that the frost and the sakura are inherently similar in property.
And what will befall these stubborn flowers once the garden caretakers arrive? They will swept up, gathered into the bamboo basket that rests under the eaves of the main hall, and poured into the mound of refuse that lies behind the kitchens. From there, they will eventually decay, and find themselves under the ground as shades of their former frivolity.
I have always been pragmatic. If I had ever required confirmation for this statement, I would simply walk to the outer courts and eavesdrop upon the conversations that take place amongst the vassals. To ensure the survival of this realm, I have cheated many, mortal and demon-born alike, of the entity of their youth and purpose. I possess power, and thus I do not believe it my duty to accommodate the weak.
And here I find myself perturbed by the idea of gardeners disposing a few basketfuls of flower petals. Does the lady of the estate become mentally unstable? I would truly like to see how the people here would react to such a circumstance.
My lord is not present this evening, and so I am certain that I may walk in the courtyard undisturbed.
He does not love me, not in the fashion that men do their spouses. Has never loved me, not even after the birth of our only son. And because I have my pride, I say that I need not his love, nor, for that matter, that of any other creature.
Perhaps none would dare say that the Lady of the Western Lands neglects her duties. But, in any case, she does not. I rule alongside my lord, his equal in status and power. Our son, too, has already begun to master a great part of my own battle crafts.
The servants say that I ought show the latter greater kindness. But I cannot. A stone knows no kindness.
And yet the stone no longer desires to tread upon the flower petals underfoot. I tell myself it is because they are an annoyance. One easy amended, of course. If the garden caretakers choose to be tardy, I believe it well within my rights to take matters up myself. After all, it was I who had laid out this particular courtyard in the first place.
A sweep my sleeve and a slight stirring of my youki send the petals upon the ground stirring. They come to a rest in a ragged pile at my feet.
I almost wish that the servants had seen, merely to savor the bewilderment on their part. Would they believe the ruthless Lady of the West to be mad, if she were caught playing with flowers in the fashion of some sentimental female from a mortal village?
I believe that it would, at least, tarnish my reputation as the mistress who lacks a heart.
For the lack of a better means of transport, I kneel, and begin gathering the crimson mass into the front of my kimono.
I think it strange myself. These same hands now handling the blossoms have seen enough blood to last any mortal several lifetimes. It is easy for me to envision them, tearing through all the foes that I have faced in battle, rending life, shredding bone. The blood that they have drawn have likely seeped into every pore. Rains of blood, to match the showers of sakura currently falling about me.
And yet here they are, slowly picking the last drops of pink from where they have fallen upon the stone path. Yes, the servants would think me mad, indeed.
Rising, slowly as to not spill my load, I move towards the rushing water at the back of the garden.
A few decades ago this patch of land had embodied the typical palace courtyard, filled with rows of sickeningly bright flowers and neat piles of stones. A world of sentient beings deprived of the power to scream.
As the meticulous yet fearsome lady of the estate, it is needless to say that I managed to convince the builders to restructure it. The place appears quite a bit more…natural, one could say. Or, at least, as natural as anything walled in on four sides could become.
A wide brook runs diagonally through the plot, spanned only by a row of ragged boulders placed across it at one location. I step onto the first of these rocks, making my way to the center of the stream. Demon blood and the abilities that accompanied it would make it impossible for me to fall. Although the idea and mental image of it causes me to almost smile.
Something else that Yomichi had once said: One begins to wonder at the quality of one's life, after one has not tumbled into a river for more than two centuries.
I let the edge of my kimono fall, the petals cascading into the water in a rain of red, floating thickly near its surface as they pass downstream. A river awashed with red – like so many others that I have seen.
The water rushes forth, across the courtyard, disappearing into an outlet at the base of the palisade walls. And from there, where will it go? At the ends of the earth, there will be a tomb for such tranquility, and all those who wish to perish with it.
And who will come to do the same for me? Who will send me along my way, after I have given all I can to the land and fade away myself?
And such a day will come. Sunset follows sunset in the inevitability of time. Flowers will fall, souls will perish, and both will be known no more.
I cannot continue to dwell upon such thoughts. I will not allow myself to.
I turn back towards the trees, and I see, in their midst, the figure of a child that, by mortal standards, would have looked to be twelve or thirteen.
But, as my son, he is clearly not mortal. The two parallel markings on either side of his face and the crescent-shaped one imprinted upon his forehead see to that. Then there is his silver hair, identical to that of his father.
Sesshomaru…
You were watching?
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Yes…it ended up being his mother – a character that happens to be entirely absent from the series.
I had no intention of writing this at all, actually…until I spent too much time reading one chapter from "Dream of the Red Chamber" and listening to the accompanying song from the Chinese VCD production. And now, against my wishes, my mind is slowly creating a backplot for this thing, so I may be forced to continue it…
I may edit after I let this sit for a bit. Just because the Akishimo I had in mind proved very difficult to write.
Thank you all for reading a fic that, well, hardly deals with the more popular characters in the fandom. Reviews are much appreciated… :D
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