He found her when she was young, torn apart by wolves.
He'd seen her before—that face had a smile then. Now it was blank, but not like a canvas. A blank canvas was possibility; a blank face was nothingness. Her back was bloody and the wolves were still feeding from her. Teeth and flesh and bone and growl.
It didn't take much to shred them; his sword was sharp. Then the second one, that sword of no use…perhaps now it had a use.
She opened her eyes, confused. There was sun and no pain and he was beautiful.
Sesshomaru.
She smiled and he let her follow.
She was like a shadow, but shadows didn't smile like her. Shadows didn't bring him flowers. Stupid human. What use has a demon for flowers? He took them anyway—she smiled when he took them.
Soon she grew. She was still small, and she still smiled. Her laugh changed, deeper but still soft. He loved when she laughed for him. Stupid human. What is there to laugh about in this broken world? He enjoyed the sound anyway—he almost smiled.
The palace was different. High walls and judgmental eyes. Why did the lord keep a human girl? Whispers, whispers. Just like his father.
How absurd. He was nothing like his father.
She still smiled, but not as often. She knew she was unwanted by the others. She heard them. Whispers, whispers. That weak human whore. Just like his father.
She didn't know his father, but she knew he was nothing like his father. He said so himself.
He was angry. It wasn't her fault she was beautiful. And it wasn't his fault he was enamored by her. Who could not be enamored by her? Only the whispers, whispers, but they didn't know.
Didn't they see her smile?
She lived in the gardens. She'd always loved flowers, he remembered. He brought them all, just for her. At night she smelled of flowers and dirt, but not dirty. She was like the earth and life sprung from her.
She was older now. They almost looked the same age, him maybe a year or two more, but he was still old. Her voice was mature when she moaned against him.
She fit into him well, his careful claws caressed her skin. So soft, so delicate. He feared she might break apart like one of her flowers. She was so fragile, and so fleeting. I love you. Do demons love?
She cried a lot now. I am old. I am ugly. How can a flower be ugly? She was still small and she still smiled, but her smiles were rare now.
He knew she listened to the whispers, whispers. She can only give him a half-breed. Is that why she cried? He told her not to worry, but he knew she did. He could smell the herbs she took, and she never bore children.
He saw her most in the garden. Sometimes he'd even catch her smile, but it was small. Sad. She didn't smile for him anymore. Her eyes spoke of shame, but she did nothing wrong. The whispers, whispers didn't care. She felt small.
She was quiet. He almost forgot what her laugh sounded like. She had lines on her face from where she used to smile—she didn't smile anymore.
Her hands touched his face. It was the same as when he found her. I look like your mother. She knew it wasn't true; his mother looked younger than her. He still kissed her, but she felt cold.
She turned away from him, embarrassed that time had run her through, worn her down. She didn't cry anymore. Crying didn't help.
He told her she was beautiful. She sighed. I can't stand for you to see me old. He didn't understand. He was older, and she was beautiful.
He found her in her bed. Her eyes were open, glossy, blank. He'd seen them blank like this before. He didn't like them blank.
There was a bottle by her bedstand. Nightshade. No note. She'd had nothing to say to him.
If a demon could cry, he might have cried; demon's can't cry.
He buried her in the garden; flowers belong in the garden. Above her he planted roses. They reminded him of her.
He sealed the garden behind him. He'd never cared for flowers. What use has a demon for flowers, when all they do is wither and die?