Disclaimer: InuYasha is the intellectual property of Rumiko Takahashi, and The Count of Monte Cristo is a product of the brilliant mind of Alexandre Dumas. I own rights to neither and am writing this story for my own twisted amusement, not for profit.
Rising Sun
Chapter Twelve—Revelations
The building before him bore the unmistakable wear of abandonment. Inuyasha felt himself slip further into despondency as he stared up at it, sailors and townsfolk skirting around on either side of him, the empty sound of ocean waves ringing in his ears.
He hadn't anticipated this.
"Hey," he plucked at the sleeve of a passerby, "what happened to—" The man shifted out of his grasp and hurried away, never so much as making eye contact.
Inuyasha snorted, for once in his life unsure of whether he was receiving this treatment because he was a stranger, or because he was a hanyou. Turning his eyes back on the building in question, he allowed his gaze to linger on the sign that still hung—albeit askew—next to the door. In worn, faded characters it proclaimed the name of the business that should have resided there.
"What the hell happened to you, Myoga?" the half-demon murmured, feeling as though everything from his past life had just crumbled out of his grasp, leaving him with nothing more than a handful of dust.
He had come here directly from the shrine, reasoning that if Kikyo had gone anywhere, Myoga would know. The tiny parasite had always been one to stick his proboscis where it didn't belong—both literally and figuratively—and had thus been a fine source of town gossip. Even if he didn't personally keep an eye on Kikyo—and Inuyasha had always just assumed that he would, given his nature—he would have at least known what had become of her.
The hanyou never would have guessed that the old flea had gone out of business. Size notwithstanding, Myoga was a shrewd negotiator and had been more than prosperous at the time of Inuyasha's arrest. The amount of traffic still along the docks and the number of ships in port testified that trade still burgeoned in this port. At first glance, it seemed illogical that Myoga's business could have gone under. Rather, it should have been flourishing, its owner growing fat in his old age.
Perhaps he retired…?
The hanyou batted the thought away the moment it entered his mind. Myoga was decades—possibly centuries—away from retirement. He had derived too much pleasure from commanding underlings so much larger than himself, had enjoyed his own power too keenly to give it up in favor of a life of rest and relaxation.
Besides, Inuyasha realized as his attention shifted to other buildings along the waterfront, Myoga's wasn't the only shipping company whose windows were now vacant. From the looks of it, all of the nearby competition had disappeared as well. So who exactly owned all the ships in the harbor?
"Dammit," he swore under his breath, feeling like he was trying to untangle a mountain of threads all knotted together, and getting absolutely nowhere in the process. He had come all this way, only to be met with dead ends on every front.
Briefly he speculated on the possibility of tackling someone and forcing them to give him answers. The pedestrians along the docks skirted around him, leaving a wide berth as though he were a plague-infested pariah, but he could easily close such a distance in a single leap. It was a simple matter of choosing a likely victim… Out of the corner of his eye, though, he caught sight of a couple soldiers coming his way and quickly decided against his rash plan of action. Instead, he walked resolutely forward, nimbly stepping through the doorway of the abandoned building and out of sight.
The last thing he needed right now was an encounter with the law, especially since he didn't have Miroku around to talk him out of any trouble.
Speaking of Miroku… Inuyasha wondered for a moment what had become of the monk. No doubt he had remained behind to ask the anonymous shrine maiden some intensely personal and completely inappropriate questions. He was probably lying in a bloody heap on the dirt pathway.
"Keh," the hanyou snorted, watching from the shadows as the two soldiers passed the building and continued onward. Miroku could take care of himself. No doubt the two of them would meet up again later. And if not… well, that was fine too. Inuyasha was used to doing things by himself, after all.
Inquisitively, he let his eyes travel across his surroundings rather than immediately returning to the waterfront. A thick layer of dust had accumulated on the barren floor, marked with the various footprints of previous intruders—some adult and some obviously children. The furniture and fixtures had been cleared out long ago, whether by Myoga's command or the hands of a thief, he did not know. Either way, the room was empty, wholly abandoned to dilapidation.
He was about to leave when a scent caught his attention, a fresh scent that stood out against the stale, musty air. Its presence was like a red flag to the hanyou, plainly signifying that he was not alone in the building. He did not recognize the smell and found himself wondering what sort of person would be loitering in an abandoned shipping warehouse. Perhaps some homeless creature had taken up residence here, though he could discern no signs of prolonged tenancy. Surely a thief would recognize this place as a waste of his time, but other criminals might consider the desolation to be terribly convenient. Or perhaps someone was, like himself, merely curious to see the inside of an abandoned building.
He followed the odor to the back room, only to find it empty, save a few planks of wood propped against one wall. Sniffing the air again, he briefly pondered the possibility of his nose playing tricks on him after years of breathing nothing but demon stench, only to discover that the scent had intensified; someone was in here, hiding from his view, and the smell was unmistakably demonic.
With growing interest, he padded over to the few weathered planks, inspecting them closely, making sure nothing was cowering behind them. The scent spiked as he came to the last one; he caught sight of a small, furry tail as it twitched slightly.
Snatching up the fluffy appendage, the hanyou was somewhat shocked when the plank itself emitted a loud pop and suddenly transformed into a squirming body.
"Let me go!" it hollered. "Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!"
"Shut up, runt," Inuyasha snarled, holding at eye level what appeared to be a kitsune child. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
"Let me go!" the child again demanded, glaring up at him with bright green eyes. "It's going to take me weeks to wash your hanyou filth off of me!"
So much for not hurting him. Inuyasha instinctively rapped the small child on the head with his free hand. "Is that really how you want to talk to me?" he inquired as the kit yelped in protest.
"You said you weren't going to hurt me!"
"Yeah, well I ain't gonna let you insult me, either," he answered unrepentantly. "Now what're you doing in here? And do you know anything about the business that used to be here?"
His captive apparently thought better of sassing back, much to his satisfaction. "It was run under when I was just a child," came the sullen response. "I like to play here sometimes, because no one bothers me." He glared accusingly at Inuyasha, who forbore telling him that he still was a child.
"What do you mean by 'run under'?" the half-demon pressed.
The kit eyed him as though he were daft. "The Thunder Brothers ran all of their competition out of business; they have the only shipping company in town now."
"Thunder Brothers?" Inuyasha repeated, an unpleasant sensation twisting through him. "You mean Hiten and Manten?" He had almost forgotten that Hiten even had a brother, let alone what they used to call themselves.
"Of course I mean them! They own this entire town! Now if you don't let me go, I'll yell for my pa, and he'll tear you to pieces! He's a powerful demon!"
"Where can I find the Thunder Brothers?" Inuyasha pressed, ignoring the child's threats. "I have an old score to settle with—aagh!" His words broke off into a yelp as a wooden snake suddenly erupted from the kit's sleeve, flying into his face. The shock caused his grip to slacken, and his captive fell to the ground, flinging paper charms and yo-yos at him all the way.
Inuyasha deflected most of the projectiles but was bowled over by a large, spinning top. He landed heavily on his back in the far corner of the room.
"Stupid hanyou!" the kitsune crowed from the doorway. "Everyone steers clear of the Thunder Brothers, and you'd be no match for them anyway with that taint of human blood!" Without further ado, he scampered off, leaving a trail of childlike trinkets behind.
Inuyasha picked himself up off the floor, brushing the dust from his haori sleeves and feeling thoroughly disgusted with himself. Kikyo had vanished without a trace, Myoga had been run out of business years ago, and he had just been beaten to the ground by a small child.
The kami hated him, he decided then and there.
………
A jumble of sounds drifted to her ears, a cacophony of voices that called her back from the realm of unconsciousness. She mentally tried to bat them away, as though they were flies buzzing around her head, but to no avail. There was an awful stench to the air she was breathing, and she blindly tried to focus her thoughts through the haze of sleep that still blanketed her.
"Hey," one of the voices broke through in perfect clarity, "I think we've got a live one over here!"
…Live one?
Memories crashed down on Sango as she jerked her eyes open to see her own fingers still entwined with her dead father's. The next instant, multiple hands grabbed at her shoulders and pulled her away from the corpse, the voices behind her jabbering, barraging her with various questions. She struggled against her supposed assailants with a sudden frenzy to get away, to return to her father's side. Two strangers were hefting him up by the shoulders and legs, carrying him away even as she was pulled in the opposite direction.
"No! Father!" she cried, pushing forward to follow. "Let me go!"
The hands held her fast; for all her struggling, she could not break free. "Shh," someone whispered in her ear sympathetically. "He's gone. There's nothing you can do for him."
The words coursed through her brain like lightening, and she went limp, her sudden deadweight causing her captors to release her. Dropping to her knees, she stared vacantly at the scene before her, eyes unblinking and mind in a stupor. The ruined village was crawling with people, all working to clean up the destruction that abounded. The bodies of her kinsfolk were being carefully laid against one wall, while the demon carcasses were taken to another area. Soldiers made themselves busy digging graves for the villagers, while a band of monks purified the dark auras from the remains of the grotesque attackers.
"Come away." She barely registered the voice next to her, too intent on staring ahead. "Can you walk? Are you injured?"
Sango weakly waved one hand, gesturing for the man to leave her alone. She watched, dazed, as her father's body was placed among the others, arranged for an indiscriminate mass burial. The very sight was surreal, and she found herself wondering how long she had been staring at it, for it seemed like days and mere seconds at the same time. The next thing she knew, the stranger beside her had placed a hand around her shoulders and another behind her knees, sweeping her up into his arms as he carried her away. She did not struggle against him, but simply turned her head and continued to gaze at the rows of corpses, numbness settling thick on her shoulders.
Her vision was cut off as they entered one of the few remaining huts, the darkness seeming to smother her in contrast to the too bright sun of the outside world. Her anonymous companion set her down upon the floor. "Wait here," he adjured before slipping back out the door.
Her mind was surprisingly blank. In a buried part of her soul, she impassively reflected that she should be screaming, sobbing, throwing things; at the moment, though, she lacked the energy for any of it.
They were gone, every last one of them. And there was nothing she could do.
Two figures entered the hut, silhouetted against the daylight. Sango didn't bother raising her eyes to see them, not really caring who they were.
"You have our deepest sympathies," one stated in a voice that sounded oddly familiar, and she vaguely registered that the man was bowing toward her. She didn't move.
"Acknowledge Lord Kagewaki when he speaks to you, girl!" said the second, his tone much gruffer.
"Quiet, Brother Seikai," the first motioned him to silence with one elegant hand, but Sango's gaze had jerked up at the mention of the lord's name. She recognized him as the same man who had visited her father only a week ago, who had sat and counseled with him about the impending war, who had pleaded for his help.
"You," she whispered, meeting his keen eyes, recalling the unsettling gaze she had previously experienced from him.
"Are you injured?" Lord Kagewaki intoned, apparently unaware of her borderline-hostile tone of voice. "The men said they found you among the dead."
"How did you come here?" she countered with a query of her own, her mind suddenly afire with a thousand suspicions. She couldn't forget the argument between her father and Kagewaki, nor the contention that had arisen when the slayers' allegiance had been refused. And now, for this same man to appear within hours of the entire village being slaughtered…
"Our envoy was passing through this country on our way north," Kagewaki readily answered. "Last night, after we encamped, the monks could sense a great disturbance of demonic energy, and then, just before dawn, we received a plea for help. We hastened here, only to find the village already destroyed. And so we're doing what we can now to lay these poor people to an honorable rest."
Sango stared up at him, seeking in her trauma to latch on to anything that made sense in this new, jumbled life she found herself living. "A plea for help…?" she repeated uncertainly, wondering why the slayers would send word to outsiders. Such a thing went against their nature.
The two men exchanged glances, and the monk Seikai cleared his throat. "A young boy," he clarified, "badly injured and carried on the back of a demon-cat."
Sango's heart leapt in her chest, beating erratically as a desperate surge of hope pulsed through her. "Where?" she demanded, springing forward on her knees and catching hold of the monk's dusky gold robes. "Where is he now? Is he alive?"
"W-we brought him along," Seikai answered, bewildered. "He's being tended in another—wait! You mustn't—!" His words fell on deaf ears. Sango had already hurled herself past both of them, bursting through the doorway to the outside world. The bright sun nearly blinded her as she scanned the ruined village, eyes darting past the patchwork of destruction to hone in on a cluster of less-damaged dwellings. The next instant, she was bolting across the grounds, a spectacle to the hard-working soldiers and monks as she hurtled from house to house, peering briefly in before moving on.
Each in turn stood empty, and her frenzy escalated as she heard footsteps clattering behind her. Seikai still called for her to stop, but she ignored him, continuing in her search. And then…
The darkness in the next hut obscured the figure that lay upon the floor, so much so that Sango's mind didn't at first register it; she froze momentarily, trying to discern if her eyes were playing tricks on her.
"Kohaku," she breathed, starting into the gloomy room, taking in the sight of the bandaged, sleeping boy as a miser would a pile of gold. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she choked on a sob in her throat, her apathy-suppressed emotions crashing to the surface in a ragged release.
"You know him, then?"
The voice startled her, deep and calculating, not unlike Lord Kagewaki's. Sango whirled, for the first time catching sight of a figure sitting in the corner by the door, a man shrouded in a white pelt, sharp eyes carefully observing her through the pale mask of a baboon.
Sango stared back at him for a moment, breathing heavily from her frantic search and overflow of feelings. Then, wordlessly, she turned and knelt next to her brother, checking him for fever and examining his various injuries. Her first priority was Kohaku; she would concern herself with oddly clothed strangers only after his well-being was assured.
She pointedly disregarded the tumult of a panting Seikai as he erupted into the tiny hut. Instead, she leaned forward to listen to Kohaku's breathing pattern, to watch the rise and fall of his thickly bandaged chest, idly listening to the monk's gasped apology.
"F-forgive me, Lord Naraku! I tried to stop her!"
"Do not concern yourself," the baboon-swathed man responded. "It appears she knows our mystery messenger."
"Where's Kirara?" Sango spoke up abruptly, glancing once around the room before resting an accusing gaze on the two strangers.
"Kirara?" Lord Naraku repeated.
Her attention shifted from him to the bald monk. "You said that Kohaku came to you on the back of a fire-cat—Kirara, where is she?"
The two men exchanged glances, one apprehensive, the other seemingly bored.
"Fetch the creature," Naraku commanded, and the monk quickly bowed and scurried off to obey. "The fire-cat is under watch by some of our spiritual brethren," he explained when the two had been left alone. "We did not know whether she was a minion of Lord Sesshomaru or not."
Sango's breath caught in her lungs. "Lord Sesshomaru?"
"The demon hordes that attacked this village did so under his direction. Surely you did not think this was a random act of aggression?"
"But," she protested, even as pieces clicked into place in her mind, "this village was no threat to him… we're so far removed; we posed no threat!"
The fur-clad figure shrugged negligently. "Perhaps he decided to eliminate the exterminators before they became a threat—a pre-emptive strike. Or perhaps it was merely done in spite; demons have long memories, after all, and this village did help in Lord Sesshomaru's defeat nearly a quarter of a century ago. Either way, there is no doubt that this destruction was his doing. Who else could organize those lesser demons into such an assault?"
Sango felt almost as though a blanket had been pulled from her mind, exposing her to the raw, brutal truth. Who else indeed?
The words on the tip of her tongue died as Seikai reappeared, basket in hand. Sango could hear scratching from within and noted with irritation the holy wards pasted to the wickerwork. Seikai removed them before she could rebuke him, though, and from the tiny confines ricocheted the two-tailed cat; Sango barely caught the quivering creature in time, holding her close as Kirara plaintively mewed.
"Kirara," she whispered, reaching for her brother with her free hand, "and Kohaku." They were both safe, both alive. If only…
…ashen face, dull eyes, cold fingers interlaced with her own…
Images of her father's broken body flooded her mind, consuming her with grief even in this fleeting moment of joy.
"I'll kill him," she vowed impulsively, voice hardened with resolve beneath an unconscious stream of tears.
"Kill whom?" Naraku inquired as though the matter was simply a passing curiosity.
"Lord Sesshomaru. I'll kill him."
The sharp-eyed man grunted with… satisfaction? Seikai, however, promptly voiced a sneering protest. "Don't be stupid, girl! You wouldn't last five seconds against a demon of his caliber!"
"Don't underestimate me because I'm a woman," Sango snapped, her grip on her brother's limp hand involuntarily tightening. "I am a fully trained slayer! If I had been here when the hordes attacked—"
"You'd be dead." The monk's cruel words slashed across her more bitterly than any weapon ever could. "Be grateful you're alive and don't throw your life away in a futile attempt at revenge! Only a core of highly trained spiritual warriors will succeed in destroying the demon emperor—leave that job to us!"
Sango bristled. "Listen, you…"
"Brother Seikai is correct." Naraku's quiet voice cut through the tense atmosphere like a hot knife. "You should not waste your strength in a single-handed attempt to destroy Sesshomaru. If vengeance is your goal, you would do well to channel it in other directions. Demons, after all, can't help but be violent—it is in their very nature. And while you could rest the destruction of your village solely on Lord Sesshomaru's shoulders, there is ultimately another who is to blame…"
His words trailed off on a leading note, calculated to make her ask him for more of an explanation. Sango eyed the man suspiciously, her instincts lightly warning her not to play his game. Not that it mattered; in truth, she had no choice, she realized, giving in with an unfriendly glare.
"What are you talking about?"
Beneath the fringe of jagged baboon teeth, Naraku's mouth twisted into a grim smile. "Lord Sesshomaru is acting according to his vicious nature; it's the very reason he was imprisoned in the first place. However, he did not escape through mere luck or coincidence. He would still be in exile were it not for the assistance of another." Naraku paused, turning his attention to the bald monk beside him.
Seikai grunted, his visage contorted into one of unadulterated loathing. "That's true," he affirmed as Sango stared, wide-eyed. "We were betrayed by one of our own. Were it not for the treachery of one cowardly spirit-guard, the emperor would never have escaped Nishi-no-shima."
"So," Naraku concluded, "really the slaughter of your village rests on that traitor's head. Would it not be more reasonable for you to avenge your people against him?"
A thick silence descended as Sango digested this new information. She had a sneaking suspicion that she was being manipulated, but as her thoughts tarried on the events of the past several hours, she wasn't so sure she minded. Kirara's tails flicked, and Kohaku's hand twitched in her grasp. The sounds of digging and murmured prayers filtered through the walls from outside.
"Who is he?" she found herself asking, her voice seeming strangely detached to her own ears.
The two men glanced at one another, speculation in both their eyes.
"His name is Miroku," Naraku calmly informed her.
………
Miroku sneezed violently.
"My, my," intoned a thin, reedy voice nearby. "Someone must be gossiping about you."
"Only good things, I'm sure," he replied, turning a charming smile on the speaker, a withered old woman. He took in the sight of her pursed lips and wrinkled face and idly wondered if she had ever been beautiful. Not that it really mattered—age had a quiet sort of dignity to it, one that Miroku would never experience himself, thanks to the curse in his hand.
"Have you lived long in this town?" he inquired conversationally. He should have been looking for Inuyasha, but he wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to dig for information on Naraku, especially since most of the villagers wouldn't even make eye contact, let alone speak to him.
"All my life," the woman replied with a faint smile. "It wasn't always like this, so cold and oppressive. You'll pardon my neighbors—strangers are not trusted in these parts."
"So I've seen. I had come here inquiring after an old family friend, but no one will agree to speak with me. Perhaps…?" He adopted his most hopeful expression, inwardly praying that the old bat had some sympathies he could play on.
A moment later, a wry smile curled across her face, the cobweb of wrinkles shifting and contorting with the effort. "You're certainly a handsome one," she commented, motioning him into her home. "Come in; perhaps I once knew of your 'old family friend.'"
Miroku silently thanked his lucky stars and followed the crone into her dwelling. A few scant minutes later, he found himself seated between two tiny, furry dogs, making polite conversation with the old woman seated across from him. His surroundings were worn, yet comfortable, testifying that this household had likely been prosperous at one time, though perhaps not so much now. He had the impression, though, that money was scarce for most of the town's inhabitants.
His presence seemed an indulgence to the crone as she smiled graciously and accepted his feint compliments. "I think," she stated when she had finally had her fill of such niceties, "that you did not come to admire my home or my dogs."
"That is true," Miroku agreed all too readily. He gently pushed away one yipping pet and plunged into the avenue of conversation he thought most prudent. "In all your years in this town, were you ever acquainted with a priestess named Kikyo?"
His first instinct had been to inquire directly after Naraku, but some quiet voice within told him to postpone that particular line of questioning. Kikyo had served as a miko to these people; doubtless any memory the old woman had of her would be positive, and would loosen her tongue toward other topics.
Much to his surprise, though, the crone looked first surprised, then disgusted. "If you're searching for that demon-lover, you've come to the wrong place," she stated coldly.
"Then you do know of her?" he pressed, ignoring her sudden stiffness.
Her eyes glinted with stony wrath, and the slight movement of her body indicated that she was about to send him packing. Miroku waylaid her by resorting to one of the oldest methods of persuasion known to man; a few coins jingled together as they clattered down on the floor between the two.
The old woman arrested her dismissal of him in favor of scrutinizing the proffered sum of money. "If you must know," Miroku volunteered, his voice guarded, "Kikyo is not really an old family friend."
With fragile fingers, she picked up the coins one by one before meeting his expectant gaze. "That woman," she sneered, deigning not to pronounce Kikyo's name, "abandoned her calling a decade ago to marry a hanyou." She spat upon the ground, her expression vitriolic. "She hasn't been seen in these parts since, and good riddance."
"B-but," Miroku protested, slightly confused, "I understood that the hanyou was executed just prior to the wedding. Was I misinformed?"
A cross between a smile and a grimace leapt to her shriveled features, a graceless snort erupting from her. "The girl had low tastes," she pronounced as though declaring a curse. "She was engaged to a hanyou who was put to death just before their marriage, true. Three months later, she found herself another to wed—a dark, sinister creature who called himself Naraku."
Miroku felt his stomach wrench into knots at the mention of that single, loathsome name. The old woman across from him was shaking her head back and forth in open disgust. "There really is no accounting for tastes, is there?" she commented rhetorically.
"Naraku is a demon," he managed to counter, his voice quiet.
The old woman shrugged negligently. "Hanyou, demon, it's all the same filth. He masqueraded as a human around these parts; ran some sort of trade or something. It doesn't matter. That woman married him and turned her back on the people of this town just when we started needing her the most. I always said humans and demons couldn't live together peaceably, whatever ideals people may cling to." She shook her head, clicking her tongue against her teeth in disapproval, and Miroku suddenly realized that she was about to enter on a lengthy tirade, which he had absolutely no desire to hear. He had gleaned enough information from this source already.
"Well, I think I've troubled you enough for one day." The words spilled out of his mouth as he stood and bowed politely. "I thank you for your time, dear lady." He dropped a few more coins for good measure, snatched up his staff, and was out the door before she could so much as respond.
So Kikyo had married Naraku, he reflected as he put some distance between himself and the crone's house. He had sensed that the two would be connected somehow.
Now all he had to do was break the news to Inuyasha.
………
A/N: The plot thickens… or just congeals. I haven't decided yet.
Über-thanks to Lavender Valentine, Kyia Star, Maiden of the Seven Stars, and undecidedlycertain for the lovely reviews!
