Chapter 2 - Slow Descent

It was a very strange nightmare that twined its sleek, strong arms about Naraku in the middle of the night. Strange enough for having come to him at all, so unexpectedly; slumber was a vast ocean he rarely cared to cross, and when he did slip beneath its waves to sink and drown in the cold, tranquil darkness below - where dreams dwelled, silver and shining, lights in a lightless world - it was not without his decision, his edict, to allow the descent.

He knew his limits; he was strong, but not immortal. Not yet. If he began to tremble with one of many human weaknesses - with hunger or weariness or cold - he could do no more than acknowledge and attend to it; ignoring the vulnerabilities of his human blood would only make him more vulnerable. So when his flesh ached for a moment of rest and even his mind grew so sluggish that Onigumo would become bad-tempered and complain - Hey, some of us are trying to live here; if you can call this living if you would even dare to tell me I'm still alive - Naraku would close his eyes to let his hateful human side bathe in stillness while the demon in him flexed and coiled restlessly, scenting idly for danger in the waking world, watching radiant dreams flit about in the murky darkness that claimed his senses bit by bit. Most often, there was no danger and the silver dreams were too timid to quest forward and envelope him in their curious light. That was why he disliked sleep: only part of him engaged in it, and the other part had nothing to do.

Nightmares, in a sense, were the only form of entertainment Naraku could enjoy while his body slowed its higher systems of thought to a gentle stop. Nightmares offered . . . amusement. Distraction. Contentment, even. Unlike the wandering, wary dreams, they did not wait to be invited, were not timid, were not silver and inviting. They rose up from below, closed their great claws on drifting, half-dreaming prey, and then sank slowly back to the ocean floor; down; down; down to a velvety blackness that frightened Onigumo and soothed Naraku, so rich and bleak and smooth that it burned away all anxiety, all doubt, all the world. It seemed, to both the man and the demon, that neither truly slept and both drifted side by side through an endless night sky stripped of every last star.

Where did they go, the stolen stars? Who had taken them?

Who else? They were in Naraku's hand, hundreds of thousands of millions of glittering stars pressed into one, resting there on his palm, singing quietly to him. The full moon, made of starlight, gleaming bright as a . . .

. . . jewel . . .

Stars. Shards.

They looked alike, if he allowed himself to gaze upon both with a poetic eye.

Dreams, as well; they, too, were brilliant, beautiful, blazing monuments of hope and power and success. They, too, were scattered across the world, winking at him, difficult to capture.

Stars, shards, and dreams; they would all submit to him, by the end.

Yes. Even the stars in the deep, dark sky would come rushing down like rain from the clouds when he held the complete jewel in his hand. He would be able to command it. He would be able to command anything then.

Including the removal of a tiny voice speaking - even now, even in a dream - from somewhere within him, rambling on and on in a low, constant purr. Naraku paused, listened closely, knew suddenly that this monstrous vision of sleep and sleek creatures was nothing more than the familiar nightmare he lived each day. He knew that voice, perhaps more thoroughly than he knew his own; it was always there, always throbbing with emotions and sentiments that he could name but not quite relate to, like a strange growth - no, a festering wound - stretching from the nape of his neck to the spider-scar marking his back. Always there, always weak, a thing to hide and be ashamed of.

He wanted it to be gone, but he was beginning to despair of ever finding a way to make that happen. He wanted it at least to be silent, but he was too tired to move, too tired to care much about what it was saying. So he floated in the heart of a black ocean, cold and unsettled and unable to banish the whispers sliding about him like glowing serpents in the shadows.

It was a very strange nightmare.

You must be quiet, little wight, or you'll wake him. If he really is asleep, that is. Doesn't really seem like it, but you should know that nothing about Naraku is what it seems.

Hey, what did I just say?

You must be quiet when he is spent enough to allow sleep or he wakes and the shadows have claws have voices make the hills shake fear weakness can't get away from him should have just died . . . but the jewel . . . but the priestess, oh the priestess just wanted her once and maybe we'll still get our chance -

Sorry.

I think he's dreaming. I can feel it, but only a little; dreaming about his dream smelling it seeing it not quite knowing it. That's good, though. I probably don't want to know what he dreams about. Leave him alone, and maybe he'll forget that we're here.

I can tell you a story, if you like.

Yes? Oh. No one's ever said that before.

Be sure to stay still quiet listen. I'm not very good at this kind of thing, but I'll do my best. Should be okay once I get going.

So . . . years and years ago, there was a little kid who was destined to become a thief. He was a really cute kid, with big eyes and scruffy hair. He was like some puppy that you just don't want to kick, no matter how many times it opens its big mouth. Can you guess what his name was? I'll give you a hint; it's my name.

Don't remember it? That's okay. You're a kid too, just like the one in the story. You might even be a little cuter, though that's stretching things a bit.

It's Onigumo. Remember: Onigumo.

Yeah, it's a story about me. Still want to hear it?

Good.

Anyway, I lived with my parents when I was little. They were nice enough. My mom was the most beautiful woman in our village, and I hope my dad gave thanks to every god he believed in for giving someone like her to someone like him. See, I didn't exactly get my good looks from him - no, you've got to stay as still as you can. I'll lose my place . . . see? Already happened. All right, where was I?

Right. My parents.

I killed them.

I didn't mean to, obviously. Who would? But there was this fire one night, and I was scared so I ran right out of the house flames dancing everywhere holding out their hands to me smoke like funeral shrouds everywhere and just like at a funeral, bodies were burning. I could smell them.

Don't really know why, but I blocked the halls with everything I could find; it seemed like the right thing to do. The flames looked like they wanted to follow me outside, so I figured I'd better close everything up as well as I could. I threw down all the furniture that wasn't too heavy for me; that way, nothing would be able to chase me down easily.

I was a kid, okay? Kids get nervous.

When I heard screams, I thought it was just the fire dying; I'd trapped it with itself, and expected that it would just scour its own flames away. Of course, it didn't take me long to realize what was going on, but by then everything was flaring up pretty nice. I told myself that Mom and Dad would just tear through the walls if things got really bad for them.

Turns out that tatami mats burn like nobody's business. And the walls too. And just about everything else in my nice, cozy home; it was all dry straw and wood and paper. When they started screaming, they'd already been as good as dead for about five minutes.

So, yeah. I stood outside while the fire jumped up and clawed at the sky, and I remember thinking that it must have been a real phoenix, like the one I'd heard dusty old legends about. It seemed to be flying away, and the screams were flying with it, fading away as they crossed over the mountains on the horizon.

The other villagers didn't come along to see what was going on until the fire was twice the size of the house. That's because, when I say 'village', I mean one of those secluded valley jobs, with fifty or so families scattered all over the damn place. They might as well have stayed home; took most of them around a half-hour to make it all the way to our property.

So . . . the parents and the house and all worldly possessions are charcoal. Incidentally, I hadn't been the one to start the fire. Later I learned that another house had gone up in smoke just a few days after mine did, and people showed up quick enough to catch a feral kitsune prowling around. Foxfire was the cause then, and there's nothing you can do to guess when or how a minor deity will decide to punish random mortal creatures for past transgressions; a little kid couldn't have stopped a kitsune. In that sense, I really don't have anything to blame on myself. The thing that bothers me is that I could have at least saved a few things.

Like the only two people who had ever meant anything to me.

And that's what I meant by 'a kid who was destined to become a thief'; my whole life - or the only good things about it - were stolen from me. Stolen by a demon that some people would worship as a god. Some might say it was a divine tragedy, a sacred theft. Well, every kid dreams of being more than a mere mortal; I decided that I'd learn from the gods and give stealing a try too.

I was good at it. Maybe because I'd learned my first lesson at such a young age: nothing is impossible to steal. If a home can be taken away from one little boy - if lives can be taken - everything else is fair game. Trinkets. Clothing. Coins.

Jewels.

Who would really miss them? Who would honestly, deeply grieve for the loss of a pretty necklace, or an earring, or a bolt of nice brocade? It isn't like I went around carving limbs off of people; the things I took were strictly decorative. Solid gold earrings can be replaced with nothing more than a little visit to a high-class marketplace; missing limbs - or homes, or parents - are not so easy to come across.

And if I did chop up one or two uncooperative people . . . well, I only give as bad as I get. You cut me, and I'll cut you right back; only thing is I don't aim to deal out flesh wounds. It's just not good policy. Turn your back on a guy who looks crippled, and you might suddenly be wondering why there's a blade sticking through your chest.

I didn't ever have many friends. What a surprise, eh? There were a few people I didn't mind working with from time to time - 'cause thieves are like wolves; you need a pack to take down anything really worth the effort - and I guess you could say they were friends. We met in this hole of a town every couple of weeks; if pickings had been bad since the last little check-in, some of the more successful among our numbers would split their profits with everyone else. The wealth was never divided equally, of course, but at least we made the attempt; and I was one of the more successful, which meant that I had more than enough cash for myself even after I handed some out, which meant that I wasn't going to complain about uneven distribution.

I got to be pretty popular in hole-town after a while . . . and what the hell was it called? Hei-something? Well, it doesn't matter. The important thing is that everyone started looking to me for ideas. Somebody would say: "Hey, Oni; got any plans for next week?" And I'd mention that there was some caravan leaving for the capital in a few days, carrying all sorts of expensive junk in unguarded wagons.

Among various other talents, I was good at prying news out of drunks, too.

So we'd arrange something of a lightning raid, take what we wanted from the caravan or whatever it was that week, and run like the hounds of all Hells were after us. And I'd earn another round of congratulations for my great idea.

Then came my not-so-great idea.

See, I thought this old rich guy was going to be out of the area. I heard the same thing from four or five inebriates in the course of a day: a minor lord had received the honour of an Imperial summons, so on and so forth, praise the Emperor, long story short, rich sucker would be elsewhere for weeks. Sounded perfect to me. Sure, there would be guards around, but most minor lords suffer from major paranoia; the best guards would be in his travelling retinue.

The idea: sack the house by cover of darkness, avoid any housekeeping samurai left on the compound, and then run even faster than usual.

The problem: I hadn't counted on this particular lord being quite so paranoid.

He'd decided that it would be smart to leave at sunset, so that he and his escort could travel by night and rest by day, thus avoiding any typical roadside bandits lying in wait along the way. Crazy, yeah? Needless to say, I was none too pleased when I ran face-first into a pair of mounted guards leading the lord's procession.

Neither were my so-called friends; the ones who managed to escape with their lives were especially displeased that I hadn't checked my information a little more carefully. They wanted to know why I told them to go at sunset instead of midnight, and why we went down the middle of the road instead of sneaking in through the garden. Well, I tried to tell them that I'd planned everything carefully and all of my decisions were made under the assumption that trouble of some sort was expected; I'd been trying to compensate, really, so that we wouldn't walk right into a nest of spears.

Of course the fact that we did walk right into a nest of spears made my excuses sound much less reasonable, and my dear friends had bound my wrists to a tree branch and kindled a lovely, roaring fire under my feet, so it was hard to explain myself clearly. They knew I sold them out, they said; but I didn't, and I tried to make them see that; they only got mad, cut me down from the tree, let me fall in the fire - but maybe I didn't fall maybe the fire came up like a new phoenix lifting me on its dawnlight wings to carry me off away and bring me to my parents beyond the trees and mountains to safety silence someplace like my forgotten home - and then they kicked me out of the flames, just after the skin on my chest had started to bubble. Knives flashed out and left dark tracks on my skin. Somebody cut off a couple of my fingers, a piece of my ear, chunks of my legs arms stomach everything. I remember reaching up to check how badly my nose was broken, and I felt through all the blood that I didn't have a nose anymore.

"Take out his eyes," somebody said.

I started screaming, until a foot smashed into my mouth. Then I was quiet only because it hurt to make noise.

But one of the guys I'd always liked said: "No. Let him see what's happening."

I saw. Couldn't miss it, really.

Back into the fire; blood kept drooling from my face and I watched it boil on a flat piece of wood under my mouth.

Pulled out, to meet the cold, sweeping knives again; one dug a deep line that cut just past my left eye.

Held down, not that I'd be able to stand on my own;the guyI liked -trusted, even-hefted an old, broken branch over his shoulder and brought it down on my legs. I saw him lift it, swing it, but I never felt the pain of it.

I woke up in a cave, with a beautiful girl leaning over me, wrapping what was left of my arms and legs up in strips of white cloth while she told me that everything was okay, I was safe, the pain was over. Best liar in the world, that girl; for a minute I almost believed her.

She was a priestess, she said, and she'd found me in a ravine at the foot of a sheer cliff face. She asked what had happened. I said I didn't know, which was the truth at the time. After a long while, she said that I must have been camping on the cliff edge, and had fallen. Perhaps some embers from a cooking fire I'd made had started a blaze in the dry brush. Whatever the case, I had been burned and bloodied. Then she tied the last bandage and looked me in the eye for the first time, let me see that her own eyes were darker than I'd expected them to be, and that they were full of gentle cynicism. That wasn't what happened and we both knew it on some level, but she said nothing more. She only looked at me and smiled.

Light was falling through the cave mouth onto her hair and shoulders, and she wore it like a mantle. She was dressed in white, her skin was ghostly white to me in the gloom, and her eyes and hair were blacker than black, like streaks of grime on something young and pristine. I remember that instant more clearly than any other part of my life, because it was the first time I tried to reach out to touch her, only to find that I couldn't move. Not at all.

"Your legs are broken," she whispered. "And your neck as well, I am sure. Please do not try to move. It will cause you great pain."

"I can't move."

"Yes." Her eyes were dark but they shone quietly and coldly, like a star in the night. In them, I could see her emotions sliding back and forth; pity, curiosity, compassion, a vague suspicion, less revulsion then I'd seen on a pretty girl's face in years. I don't think she even knew how much she was showing me. "I did not mean physical pain."

Something was glittering. Not her eyes; they were alive with moving lights, but the glitter was wild and heated. Already, I could tell that this girl - this priestess - wasn't exactly prone to such things, though the thought was intriguing. I peered at her, couldn't make out much of anything; the sunlight spilling inside turned her into a shaded figure that knelt at my side, shapeless, stripped of detail.

"What's that?" I asked her.

Right away, she knew what I was talking about, and she told me everything. Why not? What could a cripple like poor Onigumo do to harm the Shikon no Tama, Jewel of Four Souls, powerful and cursed, capable of any number of impossibilities. The more she told me, the more I wanted to know; but when I found out why she had it, I started laughing - which hurt quite a lot - and she quickly excused herself to look for herbs or something.

Once she was gone, I wished I hadn't scared her off; but it was just so damn funny. The jewel, nothing more than a little glass ball hanging around her neck, was impure or so I was to believe; she was carrying it so that it could be purified. Purified. I wasn't much of a religious man, but even I knew that the only ones who could get any effective purifying done were young girls. Pure girls, untainted by injury, age, or men.

Virgins, you know?

And that was funny. Really damn funny. I was lying in a cave in the middle of nowhere, staring up at this pretty little virgin wearing some demon gem of legends, just me and her. What would she do, if I got it into my head that I wanted to steal her precious jewel precious purity precious everything, steal just the way a god would steal? What could she do to stop me?

Nothing.

But she didn't have to stop me. She was kneeling at my hand, and she didn't have to worry about a thing; I couldn't even lift a finger to touch her leg.

Shit.

Hm? Yeah, her name was Kikyo. How did you know that?

Oh. Right. Never mind.

Now comes the part you'll like, little wight. Just listen. Just listen.

Kikyo looked after me; fed me, changed my bandages, told me stories. People might have thought I was her son, if she hadn't been about half my age. Every day she came to me, and every day my life on the ground grew a little less bearable. I learned to roll over a bit, to twitch my remaining fingers and toes. That was all. She was beautiful, and I was trapped in my own rotting flesh, forced to watch her float around me, trailing enchanted dust and light. Black hair. Black eyes. Dressed in white and red. Like a phantom dipped in blood and shadows.

Sometimes I wished that the others take my eyes out. I don't doubt that I still would have been able to sense the jewel - and that I still would have understood just how pretty my compassionate priestess was - but if I hadn't actually seen it and her, maybe I wouldn't have wanted the both of them badly enough to do what I did.

The demons answered my calls quickly enough; I waited for several hours after Kikyo had left for the night before I started, so the echoes of her presence had faded away nearly to nothing. They were afraid of her, afraid of the marks her power left on the things she touched, but without a spell to hold the glow of her aura in a certain place they were not afraid for long. Out of the descending veils of night - that's a good line yes it is help me remember it - I felt them sneak and slither toward my cave, their countless eyes burning in the darkness like a vault of false stars. They came and curled around me, sniffing at bloodstains, waiting to see what I wanted.

After I told them, they shook out their leathery wings, poisoned spines, feathered tails, scaly limbs, tentacles, membranes, extra heads, and whatever and then told me what they wanted, though I already knew.

They wanted me. My ruined flesh and blackened soul.

They wanted to steal from me.

Well, they were welcome to whatever they could take. Onigumo the thief was worthless now, if he hadn't been from the very beginning. I didn't need a crippled human thief; I needed someone else. Someone strong and intelligent and beautiful - because all of the worst things in life look good on the outside, you know?- and superior to Onigumo in every way. I needed Onigumo to die, so that he could be reborn like the phoenix as something perfect and immortal.

Naraku was exactly what I needed. Exactly. I felt it in an instant; beauty where beauty had never before been and grace and confidence and serenity in the middle of the maelstrom that had been living inside me, whispering: "be calm be still the jewel sings my name though you cannot hear it listen listen wait and see and I will show you."

He lifted me out of my black, crusted skin as the demons slurped it right off of my body and he carried me through the night, swift as a cat, flying without wings. I loved him, then. I loved him like a brother, or a father. Part of a family. Part of me.

It wasn't long before I realized that he hadn't meant to take me with him, that he didn't want me there; he screamed when he felt my voice in his head, and threw me here, to this place where the shadows can rip me up and he doesn't have to hear me call for help. I guess I can't blame him; if I was strong smart beautiful and then I felt something like me in my head, I'd probably scream too. He was so angry that he went after the jewel right away, even worked up a plan to taint it, though not the way I'd wanted to.

He killed Kikyo.

About then, I stopped loving him.

Can't say that I understand why she had to die; I'd had things all worked out so that she would come to hate her 'InuYasha' hanyou, that she would kill him herself, so I could do what I liked with her and the jewel. Of course, I'd also assumed that I would always be the one in control; that didn't happen either.

But I trust Naraku as much as I hate him now; I'm sure that he did the right thing, though I don't understand it at all. He knows what to do. He knows whatever he needs to know, and he has never loved anyone. Be afraid of him, little wight, please. Be more afraid than you are.

His plan didn't work. Kikyo died, and had the jewel burned along with her body. The only reason they both came back is because I still want them so much. That's the only reason why. There can't be any other.

Maybe I'll go with you when you're born. Maybe Naraku will let me, so you and I can go find Kikyo. What do you think of that?

Well, I guess that's the end of my story. I've never been good with ending anything, especially when I don't understand what happened halfway through. But I don't really need to understand; Naraku makes sure that everything works out.

Please be afraid of him, for your own sake, please please.

So what did you think? Was that okay?

Yes?

Really?

Oh.

I think . . . maybe you and I can be family, if that's all right with you. I don't remember exactly how it's done - it's been more than fifty years, and all - but I'll help you if you help me. There can't be much to it.

But please, just don't tell Naraku. He'll stop us. He'll take something from us both. That what he does: he takes and takes until there's nothing left and he has won.

He always wins.

Please be more afraid.

Naraku opened his eyes, and the silence that cracked through the back of his mind was abrupt and complete. Not a whisper of movement stirred in him; not a single breath disturbed the stillness of his waiting. For the first time since it had sounded in the back of his mind, Onigumo's voice sank into the shadows, clotted like blood in a deep wound. Light and colour waned away to nothing, left him with a sense of solitude, of an empty space somewhere at the nape of his neck, and of a sudden certainty:

This was what it meant to be at peace.

No sound. No doubt. No echo of weakness.

Only silence.

Thoughtless of the man, as usual; he should have slipped quietly back into his glowing, burning, filthy stream of moans and whimpers. Utter silence was more than merely suspicious these days; it was evidence enough to convict him of any crime.

Not that he could do anything to avoid punishment now.

Naraku had heard everything.

So you were telling the truth after all. I can hear it listening to you.

No response, but none was needed. He had been speaking to the child. Speaking to it without permission, attempting to win it over, attempting to win his freedom from the one who owned his broken soul.

What a strange nightmare, indeed.

I hear, but I can see nothing as of yet. Do you see it?

Though - to be fair - all nightmares were strange, each in its own way. Some were universal, shared among an entire species; some were deeply and fervently personal, nightmares that would haunt only one living mind in all the world. And, whether in one mind or a thousand, no single nightmare could ever be like another. They were too complex, too removed from the mortal realm; they had evolved too far apart from each other and the creatures who spawned them; they were as individual as their victims.

Nightmare. The word itself was the one thing that could unite them all. In most cases, it was the closest thing to a name that any nightmare had.

Naraku knew perfectly well that the darkest of these dark dreams were the ones that did have names, and they were formidable because they were not dreams at all. They were dream-like, perhaps, but that only made them more difficult to conquer.

Do you see my lovely child?

There was doubt; a flaw of the self, which Naraku would not tolerate. Could not; his plans were beyond all doubt now, and could not be tainted by it so long as he held more and more shards of the jewel in his hand. The Shikon voice always assured him of his eventual success. In fact, that was all it spoke of these days, and Naraku took that as a good sign.

Do you see that it is mine, and not yours, and that the sound of your squealing voice will ruin its perfect beauty?

There was old age; feared by humans and scorned by demons. Naraku, as a creature possessing the nature of both, might grow old someday, in flesh if not in mind. The thought was appalling; to grow weaker as the years crept by, weaker, and weaker still, until death was the only haven. If for nothing else, Naraku would become a demon to someday die as a demon; in screaming elation, slain at last by a worthy adversary or else swallowed up by the very elements of the world when the time for it came. Yes, better by far to meet a savage, beautiful end than a slow descent into frigid, empty darkness. Yes.

Do you see, my little human fool?

There was pain, there was confinement, and there was - of course - the impossible notion of defeat. Formidable nightmares, all. Naraku was surrounded by them even when he was not asleep, saw them as drifting wraiths in the smoky light of sun and candles, wandering about, unable to touch him through the bright shield of his ambition.

But even they were not quite like the nightmare already caught within his shields, his carefully-controlled world, his mind. The nightmare of many names.

Yes. Yes, Naraku. I'm sorry. Please don't hurt me IT don't hurt it please I was the one who spoke and it did nothing wrong.

It was cowardice.

Please, you know I didn't mean any harm.

It was humanity.

Please don't hurt the child.

Most of all, it was Onigumo.

Please.

When Kagura returned, her rebellious indignation went before her like the chill wind before a storm, filling the castle with its bitterness. It was not quite a smell, not quite a wave of demonic power - and yet it was by something like smell and demon-senses bound together that Naraku knew her mind. She was displeased to have been called back so soon; she was displeased to have been sent out for a jewel shard held by a creature that a far lesser servant could have recovered. She was displeased, it sometimes seemed, to be alive.

Or at least to know that Naraku was still alive, and still lord over her every breath.

He smiled when he felt her come within the walls. Each step she took was weighted with all the reluctance of a wildcat flowing soundlessly into its own cage, snarling to itself as it swatted the door closed - just in the way it had been taught - with its very own paw. She was a fabulously trained animal, far more valuable than she understood, for all of the time and power put into her. That she had been born with such a penchant for disloyalty was the cruellest of ironies.

Punishing her cost Naraku nothing but it always seemed a shame to torture his most powerful servant for a petty thing like speaking sharply to him. If she were slightly weaker, he might even have let some of her harsh comments pass without retaliating; but she was not weak at all, and that meant he could not show her any mercy. For every offending word that passed her lips, she would spend a moment wishing she had never been Birthed. The combination of power and disrespect was a potent one, and Naraku could not permit any of his children to form the belief that he lacked the strength to control them all. Should they come to see that he would not give them pain, even when they had earned it, they would begin to lose their fear of him, one by one. Worse; some might come to love him, as a child loves a parent and a slave loves a gentle master.

And what good was the love of an underling? Love begot only words and tender gestures; soft things, useless for conquest. Fear, on the other hand, spawned hatred and hatred was a weapon that could be manipulated to serve any purpose. It was, in Naraku's estimation, far better to be feared than loved. The results were much more practical.

All that remained was the weaving of a web of unchecked control to be cast over his most potentially dangerous servants, the children he had expelled from his own body by the force of his own power. He felt a vague sense of pride in them, not for what they were, but for the effort their creation had required. That five demonlings - including parasitic Kageromaru, kept locked away in his twin's body - served him now, whether or not by their own will, spoke volumes for his growing power as a demon. He could nearly feel the humanity melting from his flesh, scorched by the heat of the Shikon jewel's insistent song. Soon he would have no need for precaution when it came to his own offspring; soon the word hanyou would be nothing more than a fractured dream, and Onigumo would be silent at last, and Naraku would be reborn as something that would not tolerate the taint of human life in its lands: a true, unchallenged youkai.

Until then, precautions were essential in every moment of every day.

Resting on the little table at Naraku's side, Kagura's heart pulsed with the heat of life, and of hatred. She made no secret of the contempt she harboured for her master; sometimes she even went out of her way to express it, though the only things she could hope to receive in answer were swift punishment and cold, disdainful censure. Strange of her - childish, even - but Naraku had come to understand. Therein lay her freedom, such as it was: she possessed the ability to provoke her master whenever she pleased, to choose when he would give pain to her and how much there would be. Perhaps a wiser creature would behave and avoid all pain by acting out the motions of one who was utterly loyal. Kagura was not like that. She was ruled by impulse, rather than the wisdom of slow, cold consideration. The fire in her would not allow her to be so cold.

Naraku could respect her for it, in a certain way. To thirst after complete freedom so blindly that she would exercise what little she had at every opportunity . . . well, if she had no soul now, she would certainly grow one someday, a soul made of focus and flame. He would expect no less of a child of his own flesh.

Which reminded him . . .

Are you there, fledgling?

It was. Swirling like a nest of rainbow ribbons caught in the wind, it moved in his mind - somehow he knew that it moved, though there was no way to see or hear or feel - then brushed against the back of his eyes and burned an image of itself in the still, gray air before him. For one frozen instant, something bright and sinuous and unbearably elegant lay curled on the reed mats at Naraku's feet, lowering its narrow head to him, flinging the dusty shadows aside with a sweep of one, burnished wing. It was there, wreathed in clouds of glitter and submission, clearer than an empty sky or a lake filled with crystals or the voices of the Shikon jewel and Onigumo combined. There, and waiting to learn the will of its master.

Naraku smiled - though he did not realize it until he saw himself reflected in the child's sweet, silver eyes; blank as the surface of Kanna's mirror - and twitched one long finger, dismissing it. Though the movement was nearly imperceptible, the child saw it and was gone at once, vanished as though it had never been. Banished shadows rolled out of the corners swiftly, washing the room in dimness like waves of dust sliding over a golden beach.

And as always Naraku found himself unable to describe, even to the ever-present Onigumo, exactly what he had seen. The memory was too powerful; he felt that its light might blind him if he dwelled on it for very long.

Good. Now sit and watch closely. See what behaviour I will not indulge among those who serve me.

Chiming laughter pulsed through his veins, and he took that as a show of obedience. The young one had yet to speak an intelligible word, but it shivered with fierce colour and music that spoke more eloquently of its feelings that any spoken language could have hoped to do. Now that he understood how to read the patterns in its netted ribbons and tickling peals of mirth, Naraku wondered how it was that Onigumo had been first to notice the astonishing creature.

Then again, it was probably the only astonishing thing the wretched man had seen in half a century. Onigumo - he who had been granted a second life, only to spend it steeped in shadow - must surely have been starved for light and companionship. What else had he to do beyond mouthing his meaningless prayers for understanding and a peaceful end, beyond scanning the perpetual darkness that had become his cage? Of course he spotted the child first; it was a blaze of sunlight on a horizon that had never known the sun, a spray of rainbows sketched out for the senses of a blind man. Onigumo had been drawn automatically to its might and beauty because he possessed none himself.

Naraku, on the other hand, spent much of his day leading the life of a respected lord; whole rooms in the castle that had become his sanctuary served no other purpose than to house glittering baubles, tapestries and blankets woven of metallic thread, golden figurines and ivory and gems that gleamed like captured stars. Most of the useless trinkets were gifts both old and new from lesser lords, or merchants hoping to win an influential man's favour; one of the tapestries had even been sent by the Emperor himself. A reward, Naraku supposed, for remaining detached from the many assassination plots circulating throughout the provinces. He could not help smiling a little when he walked past that particular ornament and thought on its unspoken message; as if he, Naraku, had the time to waste concentrating on whether a single human leader lived or died; as if he would furtively plot, rather than putting an arrow through the man's throat himself. And to think that he, a supposed son of gods, offered gifts of gratitude to those who had no reason to see them dead. Why not simply kill off the known traitors, spread fear and become strong?

Odd, to say the least. It was little wonder that Onigumo was such a convoluted creature, to have come from the lower ranks of a race that saw death in every shadow and every surreptitious glance. No wonder at all that he so sought the company of demons when he realized that his own kind was not capable of achieving anything great or immortal. Perhaps he was more intelligent than Naraku had come to believe, or at least more aware of the world as it truly was; if nothing else could be said of him, the man was not prey to the illusion of the world humans always wanted to see.

He had vision. He had seen the new child and instantly known its magnificence. Years spent in the company of a demon must finally have been having a favourable effect on him.

A pity for the poor youngling. How long had it spent calling and calling for its beloved master, only to receive the inane replies of a human idiot? The poor, dear child. Its stubborn loyalty in these first few stirrings of its awareness was a treasure beyond all of the jade and silver in the world. It was different than the ones that had come before, Naraku could sense it. Loyalty, colour, curiosity, the desire to communicate; all were things that the elder children had lacked in their dawning days. They had all been smudges of paleness wandering about, always clinging to the trail of their master's thoughts. He had Birthed them in the end simply to be free of the constant feelings of confusion and unease they had impressed upon him.

Kanna had been brightest of all before this fledgling, appearing as a wavering white flame in the darkness far beyond Onigumo's reach. Like a winter ghost, she had spread a chill through Naraku, had turned his blood to flowing frost and frozen his machinations in mid-thought. Each of her movements dazzled him with the radiance of sunlight on cracked ice, but she had not been trying to gain his attention; learning the limits of her knowledge and abilities had been her only intention. And if her frigid presence - the most memorable of all - had resulted in the Birth of his most useful and thoughtlessly obedient child thus far, Naraku could only imagine what the fledgling would be like when it was truly coiled before him, a flesh and blood manifestation of the fleeting visions it painted for him. Even Kagura and her indomitable strength of spirit would be insignificant next to this gleaming wonder of scales and feathers. Even she would finally see the power and potential to be had in serving her creator as well as she could.

Eventually.

Abruptly, the fledgling chirped a warning - silently, but with every colour Naraku had ever known, and some he would never have believed possible - and leaped in blazing arcs of anticipation, eagerly announcing its eldest sister's arrival. It enjoyed the moments in which it was permitted to see through its master's eyes, to hear what he heard, to live through his senses; it had no other way to experience the outside world yet, and had learned this technique completely by accident. It had not quite taken over Naraku's body - it was not, possible for a demon to be possessed by another demon, as far as he knew - but suddenly he was seeing everything in the chamber he knew so well for the very first time. The walls, the mats, the dim shadows, the dance of candleflame with the patterns of light and darkness cast on the floor, thin lines of smoke, thin lines of sunlight creeping through the screened doorway, angles, edges, movement and stillness, and the stunningly beautiful shimmer of the broken jewel in his hand, an aura like the flood of light that poured from the sun, flickering and changing with each fractional shift of his fingers.

It had not taken him very long to realize that the child had linked itself to his eyes and snuck its first glimpse of the waiting world. Its awe and excitement had been overwhelming and had effectively incapacitated Naraku for a long moment. Obviously, it would be impossible to conduct himself in his usual way if the fledgling was allowed constant access to his senses. And yet he saw no harm in giving it some time now and then to learn the sound or scent of things that peaked its interest. This would be the first attempt at letting it listen in on a conversation, when the risk of discovery ran the highest.

It was likely a bad idea to conduct the experiment on Kagura, but none of the human servants would suffice - Naraku did not care much for the thought of listening as rumours spread furiously across the grounds; "Pity the poor young master, he must be going mad. Did you see the look on his face? Lost, confused. I'm sure it was the death of his father that did it. You'll never forget something that terrible, not ever. It's finally catching up to him." - and he spent little time speaking with the other children. They would think it somewhat odd if he called on them for nothing more than light banter.

So Kagura it was. Naraku had sent her to fetch the nearby jewel shard exactly for this purpose; she would have to relinquish it in person, and that was all he needed. She would bring him the shard, and probably a display of disrespect - followed by the appropriate reprimanding - for the fledgling to witness.

She was padding quietly down the corridor. Naraku could hear her; so, now, could the child. Just beyond the doorway she paused and steeled herself for the encounter, drawing a soft breath, an inward sigh, letting it out in an effort to calm her aggravation. She was partly visible through the hanging screen separating the chambers of the young lord from those his servants frequented, be they human or demonic, a veil of smoke and cobwebs. Through it she was nothing more than a pale silhouette, shoulders set in a straight, harsh line, which lifted and fell like the ocean tide and failed to relax at all.

Leaning close to the screen - almost certainly shivering with fear and distaste - she intoned, "One most unworthy begs a moment of your attention."

"Come," he murmured, so softly that a human would not have heard.

Kagura heard. Pushing the thin veil aside, she stepped into the room and approached her master, seeing only one creature, assuming that he possessed only one consciousness. He nearly smiled at her, because he knew her so well and she knew nothing of him.

Her steps were neat and quick, carrying her silently out of the warm globe of candlelight and into the deeper shadows netted about Naraku's circle of comforts; several ornate cushions piled behind his back and the table bearing the Shikon jewel and Kagura's heart. In the heavy gloom her eyes were large and luminous, and as sharp as a bloodstained knife. They were red like her lips, like the patterns on her kimono and shawls. An appropriate colour; sometimes Naraku marvelled that she could not call a bleeding wound to his flesh with the swipe of her gaze alone.

Fine silks fluttered about her like the beat of hesitant wings, flaring with the hidden power of her movement, the wildcat grace locked away in a delicate girl-shape, and he could not help recalling some of the exotic myths this body had been entertained with years before, when a man who had crossed oceans and foreign lands begged a night's rest on the castle grounds in exchange for the most enthralling stories he had to offer. One in particular came to mind; the myth of the divine creature called Sphinx, body of a cat, wings of a falcon, face of a woman.

Servant of the gods.

Reluctantly, Kagura went to her knees before the dais, bowed properly and then stood again - all so quickly that it bordered on impertinence. It was a minor fault, so Naraku said nothing. Still, he made certain that the fledgling felt the little ripple of his displeasure.

Just as a warning.

Returning home.

It should have been a happy thing, but Kagura had no true home. She had only this place, this nest of suspicion and loathing, to come back to. Every time she spotted the castle's grim silhouette on the horizon, she would let herself think idly: I would rather die than go back there.

Which was not true. She loved life more than she hated Naraku. So she would endure him and all of his awful intrigues.

Kill this, find that, do as I say, shed your dignity as a whore sheds clothing: with obedience.

No.

But she had to.

Don't think about it, don't think about it.

She had landed in the gardens, because they were beautiful in a way that was real and unpretending. Flowers and trees and groomed wildness, like a specimen of the meadow she had left behind. Captured, as she was captured, but not tamed. Never tamed.

She thought only of the gardens. Through the outer chambers, the inner corridors, thinking only of colour and sunlight and wind in the leaves. Her eyes were trained on the paths before her feet, but she was looking inward, at the things only she could see. At the only things worth seeing. Walking, walking, wherever it was she needed to go, not thinking about it. Thought was a valuable talent, to be hoarded and brought out when nobody else was looking.

For some reason, she found herself kneeling on the mats in a dark room, in front of a darker creature poised like a proud predator over cornered quarry, confident and dispassionate.

At least I make pretty prey.

Taste of sourness in her mouth; vaguely, she remembered speaking the formal request for permission to enter and swept immediately to her feet. Pride was one of the few things left to her. She had pushed its well-being out of her mind for long enough; now, in the presence of someone truly and utterly dangerous, it would be wise to think about it again.

Not for the first time, she gazed over at Naraku and felt a thread of stunned surprise pull taut in her chest. Mortal. He was not supposed to seem so mortal, so soft, so easily killed. It was a lie; his appearance and serenity and his gentle little smile. With him, everything was a lie. And yet it always looked so real.

Come on, time to think now.

That was easier said than done. Her mind was muddled by the screaming jewel shard, churned like the waves leaping from a stormy sea. It had become frantic, recognizing that it was a step away from others of its own kind, and it gripped her as firmly as it knew how, crying, laughing, blazing, willing her to bring broken fragments together again.

She resisted, staring at Naraku, wondering if he could hear the jewel's voice as clearly as she. Yes, she decided; probably. Something was stealing his sanity away, something that grew more cunning as his portion of the jewel grew larger. What was it saying to him? How deeply into its thrall had he fallen?

Far enough to be manipulated?

She glanced at the glittering thing waiting smugly at his side, her interest slowly uncoiling, like a sly-eyed serpent gliding silently through the woven branches of an ancient tree, seeking the nearly unreachable prey hidden away at the top of its crown. Out of her league. She should not bother considering it, but the idea smouldered inside her, its embers fanned by the jewel's ferocious encouragements.

Until she saw what else was sitting on the shadowed tabletop.

Then she told the shard to shut up, and it recoiled from her sudden, sharp anger. Left her in peace. In silence, anyway.

Coolly, she shifted her gaze back to Naraku, knowing now with perfect clarity that he meant to intimidate her. Why else would he leave her heart out in the open, easily within his reach? He wanted her to be afraid. She pressed her lips into a thin, harsh line and stared a wordless accusation at him.

His eyes were so bloodthirsty and beautiful that just looking at him was enough to send a thrill of dread down to her fingertips. The beauty was another lie, she reminded herself; nothing to fear. She only needed to watch out for the danger it concealed.

She waited for him to say something, but nothing came of her patience. He was as silent as she, looking over her as though he had never seen her before, pale face upturned, fierce features smoothed and unassuming. He sat there and appeared somehow - innocent? curious? - young.

Kagura disliked it.

"Your skin is getting pasty," she said abruptly, secretly exulting at her own courage in speaking out, in speaking first, in remembering how to speak at all. "You should get outside more often."

Not quite an insult, because she knew that he would punish her for being insulting and not for making a snide observation. Between the two of them, the steps of a strange dance had been mapped out; she usually knew where he was going, where she was supposed to go, how far she could deviate from the pattern without irritating him. Strange dance, and a delicate one.

His brilliant eyes flickered closed, then open again, and something came back to him. Or left him. Kagura was not quite sure which, but the change turned him back into the Naraku she knew. Her entire body began to echo with the mindlessly instinctive urge to flee.

Shaking back a heavy sleeve, he held out his elegant hand and quietly commanded her to give him the shard.

Do as I say.

Through a haze of jewel-light, she studied his palm and the long fingers fanning out to her. There was a stillness to her own expression that made her uneasy, as if her face had slipped away and she wore nothing on the bare bones of her nose, brow, mouth. In a way, it pleased her though; Naraku would not be able to read emotion on an uncovered skull.

Obey.

No.

She fell immediately, doubled around the expanding ball of screaming, slashing pain in her chest. First to her knees, then to her side on the hard floor, limbs and muscles working, twisting, vainly squirming away from the touch of sourceless agony. In silence.

She did not make a sound.

She never had, said that she never would. Just to spite him, of course. He closed his fingers more tightly around her heart, crushing it like captured prey in the talons of a hunting bird, and she gripped at the fine silks she wore with hands curled in mimicry of the cruel claws digging into her flesh, pulling her rib cage open bone by bone, tearing her apart over and over again. Through all of the pain, the wrenching, the ripping, the blood and death and endless pain, she kept her head down, hiding her contorted features from Naraku's gaze. The child and its cacophony of light dimmed slightly in disappointment.

Kagura writhed on the floor, wallowing in shadows that turned to cloudy mud under the assault of her silent cries and shrieks of outrage, agony, helplessness. In the world of her own mind, she was threatening and pleading, screaming her inner voice raw with plans of coming vengeance. There was no one to hear her, and still she must be crying out for mercy or help or something else she could not have. But outwardly she was silent, silent, silent.

Let her go.

Baring his teeth in a smile or a sneer, Naraku released her desperate, choking heart, threw it down on the table as though he had never held anything more revolting in all his life. There was a fierceness in him that brought the beat of exultant joy to his blood, a scalding wave of inhuman elation for the control he could summon with a flexing of his fingers, for the pain and humiliation he could culture in others like a deadly disease. Not even Onigumo could bear to watch - and was he truly watching, or merely gauging Kagura's anguish by the fledgling's enthusiasm? - but Naraku caused it, prolonged it, rejoiced in it. He felt the fire of a demon pass through his body and he knew for certain that he was not meant to be this abomination, this tainted creature. Let this be his proof; he was not human, he was not weak, he was not unworthy.

Gods! Sky and earth, what the hell are you? Filthy animal! I was never like this I never wanted this filth filth filth filth FILTH!

Onigumo was screaming in his head. Kagura was screaming in her own. The child was laughing, the child was laughing, the child was laughing, and he could not believe that no one else heard it, that no one was running into the room, flinging themselves to their knees, weeping with the wonder of the sound.

Slowly, Naraku rose. Shaking back the weight of his hair, he descended from - paradise - the dais and moved to stand at Kagura's side. She had not yet raised her head, had not even pried her clutching hands from the folds of her robes. In silence he stared down at her, let the child see her horrible degradation, her punishment for insulting one who would not stand to be insulted.

"You may have it," she had said, so airily, "if you can guess where it is."

This is what she has earned. Look at her. Remember just how she lies here, hating herself for being weak, hating herself far more than she will ever hate me. Do not be like her. Do not be weak.

And the child sobered, reining its wild colours in, casting a vista of deep reds and violets and shimmers of gold across his mind's eye to show that it understood. Those were the colours of comprehension; sunset colours, the rich strokes of an end, of a death.

Naraku knelt, pressed Kagura's shoulder back until he could reach into her outer robe. Withdrawing the fan she so prized, he snapped it open and caught the little flake of light that fell from the painted silk, felt a familiar little thrill when it touched his skin. He examined it for a moment, then glanced down at his eldest child pleasantly, meeting her gaze directly; she had twisted around to glare right back at him, her radiant eyes filled with rage and curses and demands. He had known from the beginning where she would keep it, and she had only invited him to come and take the shard from her by force. Now she knew the trap she had walking willingly into, and it was good to see her face as the realization washed over her.

He closed the fan and held it in front of her nose, waiting patiently as she shifted stiffly and with obvious discomfort; working one hand free, lifting it, snatching the fan from his grasp. There was a sudden tightness to her features when she reached out, and a flash of giddy desperation - the thirst for sanctuary - once she had her possession in hand. She looked at him as if he was a venomous snake, curled over the one thing she wanted in life, poised to strike the moment she brought the tips of her fingers against it. Like a wounded animal, she huddled there, waiting for the killing blow until she realized that it would not come. After that, she lowered her eyes to the floor and would not raise them to his face again.

He smiled at her, gently this time, more gently at least than he had while her heart still rested in his clenched fist. Straightening, he watched as she struggled to scrape up the rags of her dignity and felt a marked recession in the violent delight he had taken in her suffering. He was not beginning to pity her, but his demon blood was slowing and cooling, and the moment for savagery was past. He felt now what he usually felt for her, which was very little.

Holding her fan close, squeezing it tightly enough to wring the blood from her knuckles, Kagura climbed to her feet and stood looking at him, then away, then back. She was a little unsteady, but that would not last much longer. Even now walking would not be an impossible feat.

Holding his jewel shard even closer, Naraku went to the table where the rest of the jewel sat waiting, keening with glee and agony for the nearness of another of its kind. He set the shard against the larger fragment, knowing that the two would meld before he returned.

And then he turned to Kagura and said, "I have spent many days within these walls during the last few weeks. There is no need to concern yourself with my well-being, but I suppose I could use a short walk outside. You will accompany me to the gardens."

Here, a loyal servant worthy of praise and not punishment would understand the irony of this command and - bowing her head, accepting defeat - would reply, Yes, Master.

Seething with fresh anger, Kagura looked him in the eye and hissed - like a serpent, or perhaps like acid venom on exposed flesh - "Fine."