Disclaimer: I don't own Inuyasha, Rumiko Takahashi does. Also, I'm not earning a single Euro with this.
Long before the first stirrings of his yet incomplete body were noticeable to anyone but his mother, his name had already been chosen to mean "Deathly Perfection." - And from the moment he was born carrying the blood of one of the most ancient, most infamous lineages of demon nobility, nothing short of that was expected of him.
The long line of the many glorious deeds of the white dog-demons of the west dated back so far that they had become legends even amongst the timeless creatures of the dark, their feats so many in number that their foes often found themselves wondering how strength like theirs could even exist in this world, and in fact, the otherworldly power that had made them known and feared far beyond the borders of the lands they controlled might not be of this earth at all; Accounts of their origin state that their ancestors were the offspring of one of the very hounds of hell who had fallen in love with an earthly demon when the world was still young; No matter how far it might have been diluted, blood from hell flowed through all of their veins, and this was the legacy that every single young dog demon had to live up to, that was the meaning of the name they had to carry; Achieving anything less than illustrious glory would be enough to sully it all and brand them as failures.
And yet, none of them knew the weight of this burden as well as he did, for none of the many clans that the canine sovereigns had brought fourth quite as many excellent warriors as the half-moon-clan of the floating citadel, whose princess was his mother, and no single individual had ever amassed as much well-deserved fame as his father, the man that even his closest confidantes amongst his subordinates would only ever dare to address as the Inu no Taisho – He was the youngest to ever claim that title, and as long as he lived, his position was absolute: Unparalleled in skill, strength, determination and demonic power, he was known thorough the land as an invincible immortal whom his foes would often jokingly refer to as "almighty one", spitting the word out like it was the dirtiest of insults. No one could hold a candle to him, no one was a match.
And he, his son, could only look up to him in awe like he was a huge, strong, impregnable tower casting its long shadow at the edge of the night.
Now, there wasn't a single child in this world that didn't worship its parents like they were some sort of Gods; As he should find out much later, that was the very beauty of children, that they just went along and loved you, just like that, without asking for anything in return, and waited roughly until puberty to judge whether you were even worthy of any love at all, reaching out to you with their tiny hands, showing you irresistible gestures of innocent affection and unconditional adoration; His admiration for his parents would probably have been just as boundless if they hadn't been powerful demon lords, and as a young child, he didn't possess the capacity to understand the meaning of their titles anyway; All he knew was that everyone was saying how his parents were very great, and while that wasn't something he needed to be told to know it, it gave him a warming satisfaction to be told that he was right. He figured that the praise of others would make his parents happy, and that was enough for him to be happy as well. His first concepts of pride, honor and legacy were similarly simple and free of any notion of pressure: His parents were great, so it was only natural that he should try to be as great as them and do things like they do.
Later, he puzzled the words of the servants and vassals together to realize that many of them talked of something he owed his parents and other ancestors, that people would be ashamed of them and him if he should fail. Naturally, he didn't want his family to be unhappy, and much less because of him, so the logical conclusion was that he should do what everyone said he should do so people would praise him.
And he hungered for that praise, for it was the only sort of orientation he had, the only signal that could tell him if his efforts were enough, the only thing that could calm the fears which, in hindsight, seemed ridiculously childish.
It was only as he grew older that he came to understand. While he lived a sheltered life with dozens of servants ready to read his every wish off his small lips, the world outside was filled with countless miserable beings that were ceaselessly killing each other in meaningless strife, dying senseless death without being remembered. In a society such as theirs, which was composed of beings that held immeasurable power from the moment they were born, no law could be upheld but that of the jungle: The strong live and rule, the weak die or serve. There wasn't a single demon who wasn't also a warrior. Strength was valued above anything else, and honor and pride were a luxury for those who could afford to have them and live. In other words, it was this pride that separated those worth living in this world from the short-lived trash beneath; If he did not pay respect to himself and act in a manner worthy of a future demon lord, no one would respect him.
When he was young, the young demon Prince saw that as one of the pillars of the world, a law of nature that was as senseless to wonder about as the question whether something he let go of would fall to the ground.
The knowledge that he had been born in a privileged position, that his parents had already reserved him a place in the greater scheme of things did not calm him, but served as a constant reminder of the status he had to uphold; One moment of weakness, and the many weak ones would rise from the deep to shoot him out of his orbit, dragging the pride of his family down with him into the swamp of their unworthiness, and it would only be what he deserved.
To be safe from such a downfall, he needed to be strong and free of fear, and to be free of fear, he needed to know that feeling it was unnecessary, that he was worthy of staying here.
He needed his pride.
True pride, not foolish delusions like vanity or arrogance that would only serve to blind him.
He had to crush his insecurities with strength and hone his skills so he could just know that he was good enough to back up the promise that came with his name.
Every ounce of weakness had to be eliminated from his being.
Of course, he wasn't alone with this task; Only the best of the best were handpicked to teach the lone son of the Inu no Taisho; General Culture, the History of his clan, the exact magnitude of his duties and obligations, the correct manner and bearing of a lord, and of course, most of all, how to fight.
Nothing less than his very own name was the goal, no one less than the Inu no Taisho set the bar, and nothing but utmost excellence would come close to being anywhere near enough.
If he couldn't master a skill at the first try, he would train until every part of his body protested in agony, if he did, which was the case often enough to leave his teachers staring in awe, he would still work to further perfect his abilities until his hands bled.
His senses had to be the sharpest, his reflexes the fastest, his elegance pristine, he could not accept the tiniest flaw and he would be damned if he ever came close to the average.
Many a hardened demon would have broken down crying under the strain he put himself into as a mere youth, even as his teachers and even his father objected. But he was actually good at it, he did have the innate talents to make it work and surpass their expectations time and time again.
He made himself aware of every single muscle in his face and the effect of every ever-so-tiny non-verbal cue, and taught himself to monitor every small change in his posture, every sudden movement of his heart. He chose his clothing and armor to immediately tell anyone who he was and how they compared to him, elegant, with a few discreet, yet brightly colorful patterns to mark himself as one who could afford the material, but not needlessly grandiose, balancing between instilling fear and establishing distance and superiority, while always putting freedom of movement and functionality before anything else.
He would not allow any tremor of his hands, any quiver of his brow, any grunt of pain, any twitching in his face any uncontrolled flare of his demonic aura and least of all any tears to disturb the calm, controlled demeanor; His firm, nonchalant expression was his castle, his bulwark against the world, and he sure wasn't going to surrender it to the enemy.
The hardening of his face was again something he could begin to take pride in, something that elevated him and separated him from the lowly vermin crawling over the ground.
The only deviation from his usual expression that he allowed himself was a thin smile of cold delight not unlike his mother's, reserved for when he was supposed to be mildly amused, looking down at the weak or exchanging banter with her, playing along with that dramatic side of hers he had little understanding of.
He also carried that smirk into battle, whenever the opponent was worthy of seeing it, or when he felt that he was pushing his limits, reaching the point where he could feel himself wearing thin, with every single muscle and every tiny bone in his body begged to be allowed to collapse onto the slippery, muddy ground, so the cool, steady rain could wash over them until all the heat, tension and pain that came with his exertion would have dispersed into his surroundings, giving his thundering heartbeat and his fast breathing time to normalize It were these moments where he felt the closest thing to bliss, where he didn't have a reason to hold back his elation and felt most one with himself.
If he should succumb to his weakness and fail to keep himself upright, he wound promptly punish himself with more exercise – His father had often told him that there was nothing lower than a hypocrite, and thus, he regarded his own weakness with the same cruelty he would apply to the weak ones he considered beneath him; He would not tolerate any of it, expunging it without mercy, and if that meant drenching himself in his own sweat over and over again, then so it be.
It wasn't as if his efforts were futile; As critical as he might be with himself, it did not keep him from taking pride in the results, for he could feel himself changing, both mentally and physically. When he was small, he used to see the world as a large, scary place that he only knew a tiny fraction of. Now that he was starting to understand, its rules and truths seemed very simple, and the possibility of making use of them was visibly within his grasp.
He found himself able to do things that once would have had him gasping for air after a few futile attempts without the slightest effort, catching himself marveling at the amount of the destruction that he was able to cause completely unarmed, with nothing but his bare hands.
His body was not maturing as fast as his skills, but the almost delicate-looking boy he had once met on the opposite side of a mirror was long gone, replaced by a lean, slender teenager with swirling fires of determination beneath his deadly serious exterior who in turn watched his reflection fade into that of a tall, well-built young man whose icy calm could hardly be shaken by anything.
As he was entering that last stage, he began to think that the hairstyle he had worn nearly all his life no longer looked appropriate, and the silvery-white bob of hair which had always been neatly cut off somewhere between his chin and his shoulders was allowed to grow freely; Allowing it to flowed behind him like a stream of liquid silver that had suddenly come to life when the cool, nocturne wind took hold of it in its attempt to wrest it from the grasp of the moonlight which danced within the strands, endowing its owner with a wild, unearthly presence that he felt a proper demon like himself should have.
It would probably take quite some time for it to reach the length of his father's hair (In fact, his father ultimately didn't live to see that day), yet he doubted that his choice to stop cutting it would go unnoticed for long – Combined with the garments he had chosen to somewhat mimic the style of his source of inspiration, the purpose of that detail should be plain to see. He might've tied it up as well, that hair of his, but that would have been too blatant; A man of power should never be so easy to read, plus, the one time he actually tried it, he instantly came to the conclusion that it just didn't look right; The hair he had inherited was his mother's, completely straight and silky, lacking the fullness, volume and slightly wild quality of his father's. Still, its length and the outfit would have to be enough; Imitation was said to be the sincerest form of flattery, and one of the few that he could allow himself; It wasn't becoming of a demon prince to show himself easily impressed; He couldn't just come running to his father and gush about every tiniest thing he did like he used to do when he was an ignorant child.
Sure, he always spoke with the utmost respect when talking about or to his father, and tried his best to be as dutiful and obedient a son as one could only wish for, but that hardly went beyond of what all the servants and vassals did; It just wasn't enough.
"I admire you."
"I want to please you."
"I want to be like you."
"You're my greatest hero."
"I'm so happy that you of all people are my father."
"I love you."
Simple statements, that once left his lips like the most natural things in the world, now hopelessly sticking to the inside of his mouth to the point that he thought he could smell them sometimes, calling for him to sublimate them to fuel his every action, for it was the wish to show all these thoughts to his father that warmed his cheeks and drove him forward, the longing to challenge him to a duel and to sense that he wasn't holding back, and, as his soft boyish dreams increasingly matured into the sharp ambitions of a youngster, the desire to beat him one day, when his father would hand him the western lands, the Title of "Inu no Taisho" and all of his swords with a regretless smile, leading to one surreal moment where they would speak to each other as equals, face to face, one man to another.
Within his heart, there wasn't a stronger emotion than his wild, intense longing for this moment, as if that instant would be the only justification of his existence, as if without it, all he had ever done would have been in vain. He yearned for it with every fiber of his body, every layer of his soul, every nook and cranny of his mind, and every ounce of willpower he could muster; He worked towards it with every single action, every sweep of the weapons he was training with, every enemy he dispatched, every single breath he took as years became decades and decades turned into centuries, flying past the slowly, but steadily changing features of his face, leaving him mostly unimpressed.
He knew that his goal was high and his path was steep; he would have to succeed at what countless greater demons had failed at, but when you were the son of the Inu no Taishou, immaculate perfection was barely good enough.
At some point, after having gained some basic experience with most kinds of weapons, he decided that he would focus on swordplay – One reason for that was that he was simply good at it; Those who taught him about its finer points always noted that he seemed to have an incredible affinity towards it, that the flow of his movements looked incredibly natural, as if he had been doing this all his life, no, as if this was what he was created for.
They mentioned how he had been able to use the blade as a medium to project his demonic energies on his first try and praised his grace and lack of wasted movements.
Now, he was never one to take much pleasure in the flattery he was covered in every day, since no praise but that of his father would never be enough, but it weren't the schmoozing servants or easily impressed amateurs saying this, but the battle-hardened warriors his parents had picked because they were amongst the best their clans had to offer.
What he liked the most and might have been what ultimately convinced him, however, was how everyone was comparing him to his father and saying how he must have inherited his talents. Tough his status demanded that he must not be seen blushing or visibly embarrassed, he could not help but feel warmed on the inside when he heard these words.
He figured that he could not really claim to have defeated his father without beating him at the discipline whose mastery he was best known for, and quietly relished in the certainty that he was getting closer and closer and closer to his father's large shadow, faster and faster and faster if only for the few moments he allowed himself, knowing very well that the gap between their power was still deeper than the oceans, and that there were many things that he had not mastered quite as fast as his father.
He had to get better, no matter how high the cost; He, Sesshomaru, fully aware of what that name meant, would not let anything hold him back or stand in his way, not the limitations of his physical form, and least of all his father's needless worries.
As the years went by, he started to feel almost betrayed whenever someone underestimated him, and it bothered him greatly when his father eyed him with that worried, pensive look instead of nodding in approval.
Shouldn't that make him proud? Shouldn't he be looking forward, too, to the day all of his work as a master, teacher and a father would be rewarded?
Or was it simply not enough yet?
He told himself that it was only natural that the Inu no Taisho would not be allowed to express delight at accomplishments that still lay so deep below his level, but some nagging presence in the back of his mind kept protesting, reminding him how his father had never been sparse with words of encouragement when he was younger, how his quest for power seemed to increase the distance between them instead of mitigating it, and as much as he wanted to forbid himself any thought that was so unbecoming of an exemplary son, he could not help feeling like he had been left on his own in the rain.
His only ally in his cause seemed to be his mother, who would often just sit back with a thin, poison-like grin on her lips and tell those around him to just let him be. "It's no use. That kid is just as stubborn as his dear father. Let him be. If he overdoes it, he'll be the one to deal with the consequences. It's not our business to save him from his own misjudgments."
There might, and there certainly were those who would confuse her words with nonchalance, but it was quite the opposite. She understood, even if she occasionally challenged him by pointing out some of the limitations he had yet to overcome. She was just like him, like he always wanted to be, so very, very proud, and so very, very strong.
She was a prime example of pride, and the dissipation of the fog of his childish naivety did nothing to mitigate it, for it allowed him to see how few other noblemen and –women were actually deserving of the adjective "noble", adultering and gossiping and neglecting the maintenance and honing of their powers.
He and his parents were different from them, not only because they were the rulers of them all… or, perhaps, it would be more correct to say that they were the rulers because they were different.
At this point in his life, he was convinced that his parents would never do such a thing, that his father would never let himself fall to weakness, that he would never look at another woman, that his mother would never let such a thing happen and reward it with the taking of her mate's head.
He did not even consider any of that possible, for it would equal the realization that he hadn't understood a single thing about this world ever since he was born.
And so, he was completely unprepared when his world crashed down on him and threatened to crush him under its ruins just as the sun of his inner universe had been buried under the collapsing walls of a burning castle.