Blood Fang
Co-written by LadyPenguin ( www. fanfiction. net /u/ 392027/ ) and AubreyWitch ( www. fanfiction. net /u/ 781853/ )
Prologue: Dystopia
I wanted to be that touch of lavender behind her left ear.
He remembers the hands. Millions of them coarse and calloused gripping at him, holding him taut and occasionally ripping his flesh with filthy nails as they pulled at him in every direction. Each one of them could tell a story. And even though time had stopped he couldn't find his own. Then they were closing in on him as a single swell faster than he could react, drowning him with their million angry voices all equally as grimy in nature. Accusing, threatening as if they were somehow different—better. But they couldn't know. He remembers someone screaming. And then the pain came when he realized that it was his own cracked voice.
He wants to scratch his cheek where the blood has dried. It's been hours since he moved despite the cramping in his arms and back; he's used to waiting and he's used to pain. What he isn't familiar with is the sight currently before him.
The young woman looks hesitant as she grips one of the wooden bars loosely like she has nothing to do with her hands. "They call you Inuyasha. Is that your name?"
He doesn't like how she looks away as she speaks to him, but he can't stop himself from answering, "Ain't got a name." He makes his voice gruff and hopes that it scares her since she doesn't seem deterred by his appearance alone. He doesn't want to be bothered.
She doesn't seem to register his words as she stares dully over her shoulder to the left, and for a moment he sits listening to the steady sound of her breathing. She is dressed in mourning, her grief draped like a veil across her face. But there is no sorrow in her words when she speaks. "They're going to kill you tomorrow."
"I figured as much." He lets his voice fall flat. He doesn't feel angry at the thought of his death; in fact, he doesn't feel anything at all.
The departing sun glowers behind her like a covered flame, casting a shadow across her face. He is forced to squint to read her lips when she whispers, "Then you feel no regret."
The words provoke his anger, an immediate and severe reaction. Had he really expected her to be any different? A laugh builds in his chest sinister and low, causing his body to tremble. It is when it finally bursts from his throat that her dark eyes meet his own. He can see fear there. A fear of him. A fear he is used to.
"Sure. It's only a crime what I did to others, not what they did to me." His words are unforgiving and full of contempt.
"What-what did they do to you? What had he done to you?" Both hands grip the bars now so tightly her wrists begin to shake. Her face is open, earnest, her voice strained. In that single moment her need has erased all apprehension. He's never seen a look like that.
He slides his golden gaze off of her to stare stubbornly at the stone wall to his right, signaling the end of their conversation. This woman affects him. He doesn't look back even when he hears her footsteps fade away. He tries to forget her face and is finally distracted from the discomfort of his immobility.
His curiosity wins out over his annoyance when she returns for the second time. Her hands are clasped behind her back and she leans forward to peer down at him as she forces a polite smile. "Hungry, Inuyasha?"
In her mind only hours have passed but he hasn't eaten in days.
"Don't be stupid." He scowls and glances away but the effort is strained. He's finding it more difficult to keep up his front as his condition worsens, but he's not about to play into her game.
He can smell the food behind her back, and his stomach reacts by constricting painfully. If he wasn't stuck in that damn cage he could take it from her—bring tears to that pretty little face for trying to make a fool of him. But for some reason the thought of it makes his throat tight. He doesn't want it to be like that this time, so for just a moment he's glad that the bars separate them.
"Here."
She speaks only one word and yet her soft voice commands his attention. He turns in response to her call, and narrowed eyes lock on the wooden bowl she offers single-handedly through the bars. The distrust must be written on his face because her expression softens at his reaction. Carefully, she places the bowl on the ground as far in as she can reach before sitting down some distance away, her knees tucked up against her body for warmth and comfort. For a moment he just stares at her, eyes wide with unnamed emotion and a rawness of past hurt. And then his body moves without thought.
She watches him in mild amusement as he plunges his face into the bowl like a starved dog. She had expected to feel many things when she met her father's murderer, but sympathy wasn't one of them. The ropes which restrict his arms behind his back look tight and painful, but he doesn't seem bothered by it. Mostly he doesn't seem bothered by anything. She lets out a soft sigh. She can't image what the life of a half-demon must have been like. At first she was upset to discover that she didn't hate him for what he had done. But how can she when she looks at him and sees only the scared little boy he must have been?
Already he has finished the meal. He doesn't thank her, but she hadn't expected him to. And somehow he looks hungrier than before.
"Hmm, I guess I should have brought more." She frowns slightly at her short coming but her fragile smile soon returns. "Now come here."
"What for?" The suspicion returns, immediately evident in his wary expression.
On some level it reminds her of a mutt whose been kicked too many times.
"So I can clean your face," she offers almost cheerfully while producing an ornate handkerchief from the folds of her sleeves, "unless you'd like to do it yourself?" Her words are playful and intended to elicit a response over the fact that he can't, but she adds genuinely, "I also have some water if you're thirsty."
"Keh."
For a moment he doesn't move and she finds herself holding her breath. She feels the heat of his gaze roving the length of her, summing her up. He can't figure out what she wants from him; after all, he's got nothing to give. Part of him wants to resist the funny way she makes him feel. But he's got nothing to lose.
He looks away in a gesture she assumes to be her second dismissal of the night, but just when she accepts rejection he slides awkwardly towards her. Even though she refuses to look, she senses his chest, bare in the night air where it hovers near to the bars.
She is surprised that she has to steady her hand as she reaches through the bars once again this time in such close proximity to the half-demon. But he's already noticed her trembling and for a moment his lips twist slightly into that cool arrogant smile he likes so much to wear. She grips his chin lightly as she wipes his face with a damp corner of the cloth, making the night air cool and refreshing on his skin.
It smells like lavender and tears.
"There, there." She speaks to herself as distraction from his watchful eyes. She finds herself relaxing as he allows her to continue without threat and is finally able to smile for the first time in days as she finishes. She's glad that she did this, glad that she met him.
She's the first girl to smile, really smile when she looks at me.
The thought strikes him suddenly though he doesn't know where it came from. Why should he marvel at such a simple thing? But he can't deny that she's pretty when she smiles.
In fact, she's beautiful but he's never had the luxury to look at a woman that way so he doesn't stop to notice it now.
The ceramic bowl is soothing against his lips, holding the water that he so needs, that she freely gives to him, and when his thirst is satisfied he expects her to leave. He doesn't understand her actions toward him or the things she makes him feel. She makes him upset and happy, and he'll be glad to be rid of her.
So it's not surprising that he becomes angry when she remains seated in the same position.
"What do you want from me, woman."
After a few moments of silence she finally decides, "Promise me something, Inuyasha."
He glares at her, certain that this is the cause of her visits. "What?"
"Anything at all. I just want you to keep it." When he looks at her incredulously, she adds, "Haven't you ever made a promise before?"
"No." She confuses him, and he finds it impossible to lie. Still, it makes him angry to hear the sincerity of his voice. She makes him sound weak, like a victim.
He resolves to tell her off for good, but she cuts in happily, "Then it will be good for you to know what it's like."
He can't image how she could possibly desire the word of a man condemned to death, but he fails to see the catch. Finally, he answers warily, "And what are you going to promise me?"
She is all smiles now, enjoying their game and quick to return, "What would you like?"
"My freedom."
The smile slides from her face and he feels that he has somehow tainted her without even having touched that milky skin. For the first time he feels uncomfortable in the silence that follows. It presses on him like an accusation, threatening to crush him under its righteous weight. How is it that one woman's sorrow can make his chest feel so tight?
Several moments pass, and he has to fight the urge to steal glances at her, but surely she'd notice so he feigns disinterest in her company altogether. Honestly, he's confused as to why she remains.
I promise.
It's on the tip of his tongue when she stands abruptly to leave. The ceramic bowl slips from her fingers, the sound of its shatter jarring to his sensitive ears. This time he watches as she runs away.
They've come to wake him just before dawn, only he hadn't been sleeping. He's all too ready for their sneering reception, expectant of the blows he receives even as he is hauled forcefully to his feet. This is it, he thinks, and somehow he's ready, but as they drag him along he finds himself searching the crowd for her face.
When they reach the courtyard, the executioner is waiting. And so is she. He jerks forward without thought and instantly receives another round of beatings. He's panting, heart racing as he struggles to his knees and starts to call out to her when he realizes he doesn't even know her name. Besides, she's already watching him with those same sad eyes, and he understands then that she was never really on his side. She's not dressed in mourning anymore but instead wears the bright red garb of a priestess.
Suddenly, he's got the nagging memory of that head-priest he slaughtered less than a week ago, and it makes him slightly sick. One of the younger court officials is speaking to her, one hand casually resting on her shoulder. When he leans down to whisper in her hair, and she averts her eyes, Inuyasha lets out a growl, immediately overwhelmed with rage. He should be the one to take her, mark her as his own, but how can he when he is the cause of her anguish? He feels his face flush at the thought and instead thinks only of how it will feel to pull out the court official's guts as his revenge.
They are addressing him, already starting with the proceedings, all of them impatient for his death. The head court official's words disappear into the wild chanting of the crowd, vulgar words drowned in his ears like the low hum of a cicada. He doesn't care to listen, doesn't care to react. Then everything is silent, the courtyard one collective breath held for his response. They are waiting for the answer he doesn't have.
Then unexpectedly she's before him. When had she crossed the gap?
"You can't save my soul, woman." He lets all of the anger he feels boiling in his chest leak into that one sentence. The words come out low and dangerous like an animal threatening attack. Like the monster he truly is.
"I'm not going to try."
She brushes his hair to the side slowly to expose his neck. He watches her, silently, unmoving even as her fingertips brush over his bare skin. When she is finished tying a single, white ribbon around his neck, she raises her dark eyes to meet his own, and he is surprised to find them filled with regret.
"I'm truly sorry," she chokes on her words, and he finds himself again perplexed by her actions. "I tried to change their minds, but they wouldn't listen to me."
His golden eyes open wide in surprise when she rises on tip-toes to crush her lips against his own, one hand fisted in his hair, the other resting on his bare chest. He's returning the kiss fiercely, without thought or question, pressing his body into hers, savoring the taste of her lips and mouth. And then without warning he is being shoved to the ground, forced to kneel as the final preparation to his execution, not allowed time even to resist. She's backing away, one hand trembling over her mouth, ready to smear away the memory of what she has done.
I promise. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears.
"I promise. I won't forget you."
He feels the words burst out simultaneous to the final beats of his heart, and then there is nothing but the hard bite of metal in his back and all-consuming darkness.