"Brief is life but love is long." Alfred Lord Tennyson

"A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love." Stendhal

"For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of our tasks; the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation." Rilke

I don't own any Inuyasha.

Begin

And as I let the warm breeze shuffle through the garden, tickling my barely covered shoulders, I thought, silently, morosely and happily.

I watched as the beautiful children pounced and screeched, their high-pitched screaming was tinkling music to my old ears, their canine smiles candy to the eye. Seeing the slick silver hair whip around as the children scuffled, like it had sixty years ago, and catching the pair of amber eyes soften a sliver of a degree, like it had sixty years ago, I thought my heart would burst from the nostalgia and the peace that soundly wrapped my wrinkled body.

I'm being perfectly truthful to say that I am one of the happiest people on earth.

To think of all the years ago, when those wrinkled fingers of mine used to clutch a warm, pulsing, clawed hand rather than a cold, stiff wooden cane. When that old cherry tree had stood tall before the villagers came and chopped it and refined it and refinished it into a stiff, sturdy stick for an old crane like me. And my jubilant smile would always be guaranteed a faint fragment of a smirk on that impassive sculpture that could make my heart shatter with happiness. I would dance around him as he tried his best to ignore the buzzing, and bring him flowers, and make him laugh—just because I wanted to. It made me happier to see him happy. And he would even listen to my incessant babbling, though he could not stand for anyone else's', allow me to snuggle against his pelt that had been previously untouched by foreign hands, and I thought I had him.

I thought that I had him.

I thought he loved me.

He still brought home that beautiful Lady, eyes warm with the daftness of new-found love, and a less poised posture but one that seems to shelter a woman, and at once, I knew. I knew at once what it felt like to be the last apple on the tree, rotting away as children didn't bother to reach up and pluck the stem. I realized that there was room in his heart for other's besides me—much more room, it appeared. And the smile that had once been mine was snatched away and split with another inhabitant of his life, and his palace floors were no longer muddy because of my feet, but rather constantly cleaned for the Lady. Yet no matter what harbored feelings I held, I would, and could, not bring myself to hate the beautiful Lady that would glide across the golden floors, her white-painted cheeks blushing with the fragileness of a rose. No matter how much I wanted to inject myself full of hate, bitterness, jealousy, I couldn't bring myself to retaliate against the always smiling Lady—a painting by God and chosen to be the Lady of my Lord himself.

So instead, I tried to channel my hate towards that stoic Lord of mine, whose lap was now always occupied, his ears always listening to something other than my chittering. The roaring current that rushed through the blood into my head built up slowly—like a trickle deepening into a waterfall—and threatened to break the strong dam that I put up to keep it in check. Had the hate not built up so much pressure in my mind and offered to explode my heart into shatters, I would have been able to lock it up inside my heart and tucked it safely into the reaches that no one other than me could reach. Once again, I found that I could not.

Instead, I turned that boiling steam into a cool hope—one that would not overwhelm, but was calm and even enough to satisfy the tumbling torrent already inside me. I deluded myself into thinking my Lord was still there, and I was still there in his heart. It was not love that I wanted, but rather attention, and even my hormone-driven body knew how selfish and impeccable that demand was. It was finally when I saw my Lady, round with child, that I knew it was over—the hope dropped to the ground and shattered, like a pristine china plate. I couldn't replace her in my Lord's heart, ever, no matter how much I cried at night, no matter how much I loved. So I bowed my head, wishing them a beautiful child and a more beautiful life, and sank back into the shadows.

And I remained there for months.

Soon, their pup was born. A handsome, strong boy, powerful like his father. Had my heart not melted under the gaze of the two loving parents, I would have run away. My Lord did not call me once to his room, not once. And I didn't mind. Anymore, that is.

Years passed, and so did my Lady. He mourned her, standing by her grave for weeks, unmoving. He loves her.He loves her.

That hurt more that I can imagine.

My heart twisted, yanked, jerked against the empty cavity inside my chest. He loves her.

I made sure always to take the long way home, sneaking through the winding garden of my Lord's palace, quietly and sure not to tread on any leaves or noises that would reveal my position, scampering around the outside of his chambers, to my room from then on. The thought of meeting him unexpectedly in the hallways made my gut twist. Seeing him in such a state made my heart wrench even more.

I thought I would die.

And there was the one night—the second to last time I had ever seen him. I had filled my head with muddled fantasies of freedom, a crippled bird trying to fly. I was a crippled bird with clipped wings and chained feet—crippled by love, chained to home. No matter how much I tried—tried to run away and never look back—I could not, for the tugging at me was much more than the intention to fly away. The weight of living and loving was something that could never be removed—no matter how much we think we have moved on, there is always that blemish left on life. A little, permanent birthmark, if you will. And for me, this birthmark was the identification mark that kept me from stepping into the shoes of a new person without the burden of love.

He found me there, standing at the edge of a cliff, pondering what it would feel like to die. I didn't remember. What would it be like to experience nothing? What would nothing look like? It is a complex thing—existing beings cannot contemplate the idea of not living. Nothing would be weightless, or would it? There are no qualities that can describe nothing, other than the quality of "not being" itself is used. The waves beat furiously against the rocks, screaming in agony, calling out to me to join them.

I will never forget the gaze in his eyes.

He loves me. I know it.

Unlike death, this gaze was packed full of a message that even I, today, have not finished deciphering. It was an apology for not telling me what was actually happening, and an explanation for why he was not telling me. "Sesshomaru-sama?"

He turned his poised back to me. The padding of his feet began to grow fainter as his silhouette blurred into the twisting trees.

"I love you, my Lord." A whisper, one that barely I could hear, but my heart heard as an echoing scream. It was a pounding message between connected hearts and I needed to know if he knew. The leaves swallowed him.

The wall came between us at I was finally able to break from my chains. I did not feel free, however, I felt even more trapped, less wild and daft from love. The idea of death came flitting by again but a flash of gold wiped it away as quickly as it had come. He had not heard my declaration, and this was the only time completely destined for me to tell him. My feet numbly led me away from him—No! Just look at me once! I'd be able to tell him everything if he had just turned his face and looked me in the eye. One millisecond was all that I needed to make everything right. Please. Please! My arms shook wildly, and my eyes focused in and out on the translucent drawing of my Lord through the leaves. The figure I saw marching away from the field was no longer physically there, but he was there—in my heart. And that was enough.

The figure turned, and mouthed a few words. I could read nothing on his face, and hear nothing but the wind brushing up against my cold legs and twining the grass. The chink of my chains against each other broke this picture and I saw the splintering dawn slowly approach me. A high-pitched shriek tinkled in my old ears, the canine smile sweetened the second.

"Hm? What's wrong, nanna-san?" The young demon climbed into my lap. "What are you thinking about?"

I turned my head to him, and once again, my stomach lurched. His golden eyes, peering into my soul like they had so long ago. I picked him up, and cradled him on my stiff lap. A tearing pain crossed through my bones, but I ignored it and rather smiled through the stabbing and tickled his chin. "Oh, nothing dear."

I petted him on his head. His silver hair glinted in the sun as he ducked away with a whine. "I'm just thinking about"—

He turned his eyes to me, eager for a story. Those golden eyes… No…Stop it.

And suddenly I was drowning in an ocean of molten anger, bitterness, jealousy—and most of all, love. Years and years of misunderstanding piled upon me, hot, gushing blood like newly opened scars. Please. Please! My body was tossed around, a tiny, fragile rag doll, withering with age. I scrabbled around for something to grab onto, anything, and I realized what was pulling me down. My wings were useless in the struggle against the weight tied around my ankles. An echoing chasm—laughter. Laughing at me now?I can't blame you—you've stuck with me all those years when I thought you had finally gone. As I struggled to breathe from the crushing pain of my history, I felt a strong arm pull me up.

Hang in there, Rin.

A breeze tickled my ear and twined the grass. I heard a faint clinking, a tiny, timid little sound far off, like the noise of church bells on Christmas morning. A steady beat of footsteps and the swishing of leaves drowned out the roaring current.

The golden eyes came into focus again, along with the streaks of dawn. They were full of worry. "Nanna-san?"

He tugged on my arm and looked into my grey, old eyes. "Are you okay?"

I rubbed his head and smiled faintly as he ducked away with a whine. "Konohamaru, don't worry."

"I'm just thinking about…

How I'm the happiest person in the world."

End

Please review. This story was niggling at my brain for the past few days and I just sat down and poured it all out. I may write a continuation of this one-shot.

Hi! I did a revision of this story—I was just reading through it yesterday and my awfully short one-shot made me want to lengthen it! XD Anyways… Please review. I hope I helped you guys understand what I had intended for the plotline when I first wrote it by clearing up the descriptions with… more descriptions…? What. Anyways, please review! I would like to know whether I should do more one-shots or possible continue this story.

Haha, the three quotes at the top: I love Tennyson, he's a magnificent poet. I've never read any Stendhal, but this quote was just beautiful. And though the last quote barely has anything to do with the one-shot, I thought it was really touching and added it in. Share the inspiration and the beautiful writing! :D

Alright, I have an excuse for this late posting. FanFiction has not been cooperating with me recently, and hadn't allowed me to update any of my stories, let alone open them. Check out my story Figments, any of you Bleach fans. Please review! (And also tell me whether I should continue this one-shot or not.)

Thanks