Fandom: Inuyasha

Challenge: None. Written on my own time for my own reasons.

Warning: Some adult situations


Fairytale Ending

In the forest once named for a hanyou, though the hanyou is no more, there is a small hut. A man and his wife share this hut, nestled in a small clearing underneath a mighty tree that will one day be known as the Goshinboku. They scrape away their living as best they can, but life is very hard indeed.

The man walks to the village every day to work in the fields and, if need be, fend off marauders and stray demons. From the early morning light until deep into the evening, he toils with the other men. At his side a battered sword hangs, now useless.

When the day is done, he returns to his wife. The long walk through the forest is quiet—contemplative. He often thinks of times long past. Times when he felt stronger, invincible even. Now all he feels is the heavy, heavy weight of mortality. Every day it weighs down on his shoulders more and more.

From time to time he glances at his calloused hands, remembering how it felt when they could easily destroy any creature in their path, when he had claws sharper than any sword.

But more than what he once was, he remembers others and what they had once been. In his mind's eye, he can see the falsely innocent face of a black-haired man, the eyes that were wiser and more terrible than they had any right to be. He remembers the jingle of a holy staff and the resounding smack of a female hand against soft flesh. And he remembers the man's proud death at the hands of their mutual enemy.

He remembers a young woman, garbed in clothes that spoke of a proud taijiya heritage. He remembers the aching sorrow that burned in her, the woman beaten down by tragedy, but still strong enough to keep fighting. He remembers her final days with them, when the death of the monk and her brother crushed what was left of her strength and drove her away. Mostly, he remembers her tears.

From time to time, he even remembers the little orange haired kitsune, now not so little. He remembers the boy's bubbling laughter and later, his teenage sullenness. He remembers spinning tops, blue flames, and hopeful green eyes. But most of all, he remembers the extinguishing of the hope in those eyes when she left.

More than any other friend lost to him, he remembers the girl. If he tries hard enough, he can still remember the exact nuance of her scent, the dangerous breath she took before she started yelling, and even the exact color of the little gold flecks in her eyes. He remembers her kindness and acceptance of any living thing—her willingness to see past the blood and the rough mannerisms. He remembers her gentle touches and careful acquiescence to the things he really needed. And he remembers the end of it all, when she gave up everything to make him happy.

His thoughts linger too often on that day, forgoing happier memories. He remembers the way she made the wish and the sudden feeling of being less, of being mortal. He remembers feeling a warm hand in his where there should've been cold clay. He remembers how the girl from the future turned away, tears in her eyes.

Often, he thinks of how he chased her to the well. How they had yelled at each other, and then how they had cried at each other, and finally, how they had held each other. The strongest memory of her is there. The moment when she touched her lips to his, tears streaming down her face. Whispered confessions that were not supposed to exist. He can remember the moment he lowered her down the well, hands clasped in hers. And most of all, he remembers how he let her go.

When the man comes home, he is greeted by his wife. She wears a kimono now, instead of the miko's garb. She was no longer needed to guard anything, she was free to love. Her hair is shot through with premature gray, because though her holy powers are not needed, she still has such great knowledge of healing.

Their son greets him also. The boy is small, rambunctious. His eagerness to learn and to play are rivaled only by his stubbornness, a trait passed down from his father. The boy lives as happily as he can with no children nearby as playmates. Instead, the forest animals are friends to him. And if his eyes flash golden and his teeth seem longer than normal, his parents say nothing of it.

Sometimes, after the boy is asleep, his parents sneak away to the hot springs, as though they were teenagers again. It is unlikely the woman will ever have another child. Something went wrong with her first pregnancy. But she still enjoys the happiness that can be found in loving another and being loved in returned.

And if the man does not feel so amorous towards his wife, he will follow her anyway, for it is another woman he sees in her place. When they spend long nights under the stars, she pretends not to notice if he cries out another name in his passion. When he spends hours worshipping her body without really seeing it, she watches with sadness, but says nothing. After all, better to be loved a little, to be cared for as much as possible, than to be alone in the world.

When she at last falls to sleep, he often moves away from her and goes to sit on the lip of the well. In troubled times, he might jump in with thoughts of Just this once, maybe once more, but always in vain. And so he mostly sits and thinks, wondering if they will ever see each other again, if she even aches for him as much as he aches for her.

As time passes, the couple ages. Their son goes off to see the world, to fight nobly for the samurai as all young ambitious boys should when they are too naïve to understand the world. They never see him again.

Passions wane and they are left with only the quiet, uneasy company of each other. The world continues, day in and day out. The village grows, becoming a small city that will one day be a sprawling metropolis clogged with people. For now though, it stretches into the woods. The couple is not so alone, but there is still a dark emptiness in their tiny home.

She passes away in her sleep. A blessing, people tell him, that she didn't seem to suffer much. They do not even notice that he suffers more because of it. A shrine is built and he becomes its caretaker. He tends everything meticulously, as if that will make his dark thoughts and aching heart go away. Seasons pass and the shrine prospers, though its caretaker fades like a mist under the morning sun.

When he passes, the people celebrate his death in grand style. "A great man," they say. "A good man who removed evil from this world. He lived the life every man should dream of." The people continued on in this manner for a week and then the man was slightly forgotten, his name only present in ancient scrolls and whispers of days gone by. The people remember his legend and his greatness. They speak of the fairy tale ending that he so deserved.

They are fools.