Inuyasha, his friends, and his world belong to Rumiko Takahashi.

PROLOGUE

London really wasn't a very attractive city, Isaac Tyson mused to himself, observing the streets from the window of his private parlor. People scurried like ants along the road, rarely pausing to acknowledge their fellow insects, unless it was to bite off a scathing "mind yer step" if the unfortunate pest tread too closely upon their heels. Not so very long ago, beggars lined the street below; new vagrancy laws under the Lord Protector had swept them away.

Isaac hadn't been especially pleased about that. One of the beggars had been an old mustered-out soldier, who often spun tales of the glory days for Isaac in exchange for a hot meal, days when the Commonwealth had been fresh and new and full of ideals, and the New Model Army had been a legend in its own time. But Cromwell had betrayed the principles he'd fought for, and his son lacked the charisma his father had exercised to maintain military control. The Commonwealth falling to pieces, and Isaac privately thought that Charles Stuart, or King Charles II in some circles, could do no worse than his more "liberal" predecessors.

A commotion in the street drew Isaac's attention. A young woman was on her knees, in tears, reaching for something that had evidently been taken from her. A crowd of burly, rough-looking men surrounded her. Isaac saw the flash of a gold chain as one of the men dealt a vicious blow to the girl, a blow that left her gasping for breath, prostrate on the filthy street.

Within seconds, the window was unlatched and thrown open, and Isaac had leapt nimbly down to the crowd. Though he was not as bulky as the men he approached, he was taller, and his fine linen clothing served to guard him from any unwelcome attention as he forced his way into the circle.

"When, pray tell," he began haughtily, "did it become common practice for Londoners to assault women in the streets?"

"She's a bloody Catholic, gov'ner," one of the belligerents protested. "An' a whore besides!"

"She's a woman, isn't she?" He offered his hand to the girl, who took it, though hesitantly. "That ought to be protection enough, whatever her religion!"

The man who had spoken had the good grace to look ashamed.

"Did you take something from her?" Isaac demanded, lifting the girl to her feet.

" 'Twas me mam's rosary 'e took, ser," she mumbled, looking horrified. She probably was horrified, Isaac grimaced inwardly. How often did a girl like this meet with any kindness? The only "gentlemen" she'd ever seen were probably those who stripped her down, took the only valuable possession she had, and left a few coins on the bed when they were done. All without ever knowing her name.

"Return the trinket to its mistress," Isaac ordered, laying a piercing glare on each of the scoundrels. The individual who had struck the girl cast the rosary at her feet and stalked away, muttering darkly. The others slowly dispersed as well.

Isaac knelt to retrieve the rosary. The gold was a bit tarnished, but every bead was intact. Obviously, its owner had done her best to properly care for the heirloom.

"I believe this is yours, miss." He offered it to her.

"Thank 'e, ser," she whispered, curtseying clumsily. She fumbled for the golden strand of beads, and scurried away.

Like an insect, Isaac thought sadly. He sighed, and walked back toward the townhouse he had been forced to vacate so unexpectedly. Running a weary hand through his thick black locks, he reached for the door handle.

"Hello, Inuyasha." A light, mocking voice sailed down to him from his own window. Startled, he backed away from the door and managed to catch a glimpse of red hair before the figure sporting it retreated from his parlor window. Off-balance, concerned that someone had entered his home without his knowing, and convinced that the stranger had confused him with another – Inuyasha? Really, what kind of name was that, anyway? – he threw the door open. As he prepared to charge up the stairs to confront the intruder, he found the red-haired individual comfortably ensconced in the downstairs parlor, in his favorite chair, no less, looking for all the world as though he hadn't just raced down a flight of stairs.

Fiery red locks cascaded over the stranger's shoulder, bound by a leather thong at the nape of his neck. Though he appeared to be no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, his twinkling eyes held worlds of mischief and wisdom. His clothes were obviously foreign, as was he, but the most remarkable feature of the invader was the amused expression on his face.

"Who are you?" Isaac demanded. The figure ignored his question, but his expression slowly turned pensive, and the smile on his lips faded.

"It's about that time again, Inuyasha," he noted thoughtfully. Staring out the window into the street, he added, "Though it doesn't seem that you're leaving much behind this time."

Isaac repeated his question.

"I think we more or less decided to dispense with the formalities last time," the red-headed youth shrugged. "So time-consuming. There's an old battered sword lying on the harpsichord over there. Pick that up for a minute, and if you still find your questions unanswered, then I'll resolve them for you."

"Now wait one bloody minute!" Isaac objected hotly. "Just who the deuce are you, anyhow, that you think you can command me in my own home?"

The formerly twinkling eyes rolled back in exasperation. "Only the guy who's been taking care of you these hundred and fifty years past." When Issac opened his mouth to protest again (he was only twenty-two), the red-head growled – yes, growled! – at him. "Pick up the damned sword, Inuyasha. I promise, all your questions will be answered, if you'll just cooperate, just this once. I don't want to go through this every single time, you know."

"I'm not – what did you say? – Eenyashah." Infuriated but certain he would get nowhere with the youth until he had done as asked, he stalked to the harpsichord, keeping his eyes on the red-head all the while. The sword was, as the devil in his chair had said, old and battered and probably completely useless. Nothing he could see indicated that it had the capability to answer questions. He glared at the intruder once more before snatching the old blade up.

The rush of memory forced him to his knees.

Kagome.

"Shit!" he ground out when he could speak again. Shippou was at his shoulder, crouching beside him.

"That looks likes it gets harder every time," Shippou said sympathetically.

"It does get harder every time." Inuyasha rocked back on his heels and was silent for a minute as he looked around Isaac Tyson's main parlor. He picked up a lock of silvery hair, a shade he hadn't seen in ten long years.

"I'm never going to get used to this." Images of Isaac's friends flashed through his mind. William and Emerson weren't going to be happy to see him go. But go he must, and say his goodbyes tonight, during the new moon.

Outside, the sun was setting, and soon, the silver hair would revert to black. The sounds and scents he was picking up on would disappear. The clawed hands he hadn't fought with in over a century and half would become the weak and useless appendages that had seen Isaac Tyson and fourteen other human versions of himself through their ten years of existence.

He drew a deep breath, closing his eyes against the memories each life kindled in his soul.

When he finally opened them, he saw Shippo sitting at the harpsichord, waiting.

"Did you ever learn to play this?" the kitsune asked curiously.

"Why?" Inuyasha asked suspiciously.

"Just a little detail I could include in future illusions," he shrugged. He looked down at the keys, pointedly not looking at Inuyasha. "The more of you I can preserve in the illusion, the less difficult remembering everything will be when it's time to move on."

Night fell, shriving away the brief taste of supernatural senses, reminding him he needed to make his farewells.

"Have I thanked you?" Inuyasha asked suddenly. Though gratitude came to him as naturally as anyone else, expressing it was not something he ever felt comfortable with. Still, Shippou was probably the only reason he'd kept his mind after Naraku's terrible curse, and he didn't exactly have a lot of time before he lost himself in another of the kitsune's illusory lives.

"Yeah. Don't worry about it." He grinned suddenly. "I knew what I was getting into. Being your keeper was never going to be an easy job."

Inuyasha harrumphed gruffly, pleased that this particular bit of discomfort had passed so inoffensively. "Where to now?" he asked.

"Turkey, Ishmael al-Rashid," Shippou supplied.

Inuyasha groaned. After fifty years of living in lands that abhorred Muslims, the idea of ten years in Turkey rankled painfully. It was foolish; his half-demon nature knew it, but it wasn't as if he could just lose all of the memories he'd created, and many of those memories included horror stories about savage Turks. The idea of being one of the said savage Turks was unpleasant.

Shippou shrugged. "I thought you were getting to be too European. Maybe we'll go back to Japan next time."

Japan. It would be a hundred years now since he'd learned of Sango and Miroku's deaths.

"Miroku? And Sango?" he asked hungrily, having just awakened from his ten-year submersion in one of Shippo's false lives. They were nearing their seventies now…

The kitsune's face clouded over. "He passed on about eight years ago. She wasted away after that; she was gone in three months. We buried them together, near Kohaku's grave."

A terrible wrench tore at Inuyasha's soul, and a lump the size of his fist hung cruelly in his throat. He hadn't seen them since Shippo had laid the first illusion on him, fifty years ago. And now he would never see them again.

"I was supposed to give you these." He stretched out a clawed hand – now nearly as big as Inuyasha's own – and offered the half-demon a shining metal mask and a string of rosary beads. "Chiyoue – their oldest daughter, you remember – wanted you to have them. Said you had more memories of these things than she did."

Looking away, perhaps as much to respect Inuyasha's grief as to conceal his own tears, Shippou withdrew his hand when the objects were removed.

But though Inuyasha couldn't know, in the corner of his eye, Shippou watched the half-demon carefully tuck both into his shirt.

Inuyasha rose. After the initial memories of Kagome reasserted themselves in his consciousness, it was this memory that assaulted him, every decade of these past hundred years. From the door, carefully keeping sadness from his voice, Inuyasha told the kitsune to wait for him, and to stay out of sight.

"I have to make my goodbyes. Then we can go."

ooooo

Ishmael al-Rashid passed his ten years comfortably, as did the persona that followed him, and the persona after that. Shippou was always careful to settle him in a fairly respectable position, within the ranks of the minor nobility or the upper echelons of what would come to be termed the bourgeoisie; never placed highly enough to be noticeable, never lowly enough to be uncomfortable. He didn't return to Japan; no, he specifically asked not to be placed there, having no desire to return to the birthplace of his unenviable dilemma. In the brief days Inuyasha spent between lives, conscious of himself and his peculiar, difficult situation, he struggled with depression and found himself longing to submerge himself in whatever new illusory life Shippou had created for him. His feelings toward the kitsune wobbled wildly between profound gratitude and black hatred; at times he was awed and humbled by depth of Shippou's devotion to him, and at others he was deeply resentful of his dependence on the fox's machinations. He did as he was told, because he had no choice, and because he really didn't have enough strength left to make choices anyway.

What little strength he felt remained to him he spent in trying to block her from his memories, her and all the questions that surrounded her.

Had he pushed her through the well in time? Had she made it home? Had the well remained intact, or had it collapsed on her when it crumbled in the feudal era? Had she been hurt in the crash? Or worse…. Was she safe? Was she even alive?

Would she move on… without him?

He had been prepared to leave Kikyo behind. She was dead; her murderer was dead. He was ready move forward in his life.

If he didn't reach her in time, could she do the same? Could he find her in her futuristic city, with its damnably strange smells and twisty-turning streets and mountain-like buildings?

Before someone else found her… before someone else took her.

Haunted with unanswered questions and fears, plagued by doubts, Inuyasha welcomed Shippou's illusions as reprieves from himself, from his immortal existence, from the uncertainties he wasn't brave enough to face.

He welcomed the illusions. And hated himself for his cowardice.