Disclaimer: I don't own Inuyasha. sniffle
For my lovely new friend and Beta. Thank you Salome, you made my day!:)
I Could not Love thee Dear so Much
Inuyasha's silver hair floated behind him as he jumped down lightly from the branch he had been reclining on. He seemed to glide in the air for an endless moment before he landed on the ground with a soft thump. A few leaves, shaken loose in the wake of his passing, gently drifted around him. One caught the fluttering ends of his sleeves, but he made no move to brush it off. Inuyasha remained absolutely still - all senses alert for any sign that he had been detected.
His sensitive nose picked up nothing unusual, only the scent of his friends mingled with the earthy bouquet of the forest and his keen ears caught only the sibilant whisper of a breeze as it wove through the night like ribbons of silk.
Still listening for any untoward sound, he started moving stealthily through the clearing where the group had camped for the night. The soft, springy grass muffled his footfalls as he stalked intently toward his goal; his steps unerringly sure even in the dim, flickering light of the fire.
Silently, he skirted around the slumbering forms of Shippo and Kirara; cautiously avoided the neko's tails as they thumped in feline dream. But despite his caution, he almost stepped on Mirouko's hand as it wandered, even in sleep. Inuyasha froze for a second when Sango turned over, but she only murmured something suspiciously like "lecherous monk" before she snuggled into Kirara's soft fur, and fell back into oblivion.
He waited tensely for a few more moments to make sure that Sango was indeed asleep. His nightly ritual was the most important, most guarded part of his day; and he would not, could not risk its discovery. He would rather be that bastard Naraku's lapdog than have anyone know this secret.
At last, absolutely certain of his privacy, he moved, soft- footed and sure, towards where she lay, peaceful and utterly vulnerable.
When he finally reached her, he simply stood looking down at her for endless minutes, lost in bleak contemplation. In moments like this, when he was so close yet so far from her, the pain would hit him; the agony of denying what he desired most.
Eventually, he stirred himself from his joyless reverie, and quietly settled next to her sleeping form. Fascinated, he watched the soft rise and fall of her breath, watched the way the firelight painted her face in shades of gold and ruddy orange- how it picked out coppery highlights in her hair that were invisible by sunlight. He prized these moments when he could watch her with all the longing he kept so carefully hidden. The longings he dreaded to admit even to himself, because he was desperately afraid they would make him weak; incapable of protecting their very object: Her.
With wistful gentleness, he brushed back a curl from her forehead- his strong, clawed hand in vivid contrast against her fragile, mortal skin. Looking at her so beautiful and so beyond his reach, words from a poem she had once read to him, played across his mind: … I could not love thee dear so much ...
He shook his head sharply, he couldn't let his mind start wandering down those paths. In the end though, he couldn't help himself, he shifted just a little bit closer to her. With a slightly guilty look, he took a breath redolent with her scent- that dear familiar scent that tormented as it soothed. As he inhaled her fragrance, the lines of his face relaxed subtly, and a barely perceptible smile hovered on his lips.
But the smile was replaced by an exasperated frown when he saw the blanket she had haphazardly flung away from her - leaving her body exposed to the spring wind. True, it was a mild night; but Spring was a season known for its fickleness, and the night could with very little warning become bitterly chill.
"Stupid wench will probably get sick again," he growled, but the harsh words couldn't hide the concern blazing in his golden eyes.
With a careful tenderness he would never show her when she was awake, he drew the blanket over her and smoothed it until it covered her perfectly. Satisfied that she wasn't going to catch a cold, he sat back to do what he did every night in secret. He watched his Kagome sleep.
He leaned his head against the tree she had put her sleeping bag under and tried to get comfortable against its trunk; to no avail -that stupid poem kept bothering him. He didn't usually pay attention to these things, but he had listened when Kagome had read it aloud; only because the poem was about a man going off to war. But it wasn't the war part that he remembered now, just the two last lines:
...I could not love thee dear so much / loved I not honor more.
And wasn't that his problem –honor? The cause of his silence, silence that put shadows in Kagome's clear eyes – a silence he couldn't honorably break. He knew that it was his fault. He could guard her sleep against everything that might harm her, but he could not guard her waking against the pain he himself caused. Because, even though she held his soul and he loved her beyond death- he could not love her beyond honor.
His damned honor. It hobbled him to the past, bound him to a dead woman he had failed to save. He was bound still, because even though he failed to keep one promise to her, he had made another. He had vowed to avenge her. And he had to fulfill that vow at all cost, even if the price was his own happiness.
Because if he showed Kagome that he couldn't keep his word, how could she have any faith in the words that he longed to say to her? If he showed himself unable to keep his old promises, how would she ever trust any of the new promises he made her?
So, constrained, he could do nothing but wait for the day he would be able to speak. Wait in hope, that despite his silence, she would still be there besides him. But until that day came, he would only watch her - he hadn't earned the right for more …yet.
Throughout the night, his fair hair haloed by firelight, and his face hallowed by contentment, he sat besides her in the shadows. He was so silent in his vigil, so still, that he seemed without substance; only a fancy of the night wrought by smoke and the flickering flames. Perhaps not even there.
But his presence beside her was undeniable- because whenever a shower of sparks illuminated the shadows from where he watched her with unblinking gaze; his golden eyes would smolder with their own secret fire, like embers, waiting, just waiting for a breath to ignite into full conflagration.
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A/N: Recently I have started interpreting everything according to Inuyasha.(obsessed.. nah!) So when I reread this old favorite by Richard Lovelace, I was like "Hey, this works for InuYasha!" XD
To Lucasta, Going To The Wars
Tell me not (Sweet) I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee (Dear) so much,
Lov'd I not Honour more.
Richard Lovelace