Shadows Against a Shoji Screen

Chapter 36: The Whisper of Autumn

The battle had stopped. Finally. It seemed as though the war and the rain had been tied together by fate and for many days the skies were grey; but finally there were signs of clearing on the horizon. It was a relieving feeling, Rin thought anxiously as she stepped out into the pavilion towards the courtyard allowing the cool damp air to revive her senses.

The smell of blood and sweat greeted her nose, but she did not grimace. She had been born and raised in climates such as these and there was no need to fear or be revolted at the fact of such human trivialities. Death was inevitable; death was winter, death was spring, something that would come eventually. Despite the fact that she was in Sesshoumaru's domain, under his jurisdiction, living in his house—it was still a time of war, she had to remind herself. This fact had been reinforced as the whole fortress had gone into an uproar after the unexpected return of Lady Kagome and her band of weary travelers.

Heaving up the bucket of water and plastering a grin of determination on her face, she attempted to greet a most exhausted Shippou who had been up all night, trying to heal the visitors from both lines of the battlefield.

"Are you alright?" she greeted anxiously, placing down the bucket of water onto the muddy gravel, "You look terrible."

Shippou grinned off-handedly and rubbed a bit of dirt off his cheek and exclaimed heavily, "Well…trying to save lives will do that to you."

"But why are we helping Naraku's men?" Rin questioned urgently, noticing that the light of day was beginning to grow dimmer with the onset of late afternoon. In a few hours it would be twilight and the evening meal being served to the soldiers who still remained on guard duty. Their presence was reassuring like the katana that Rin had been sleeping with for the past several nights.

Shippou just chuckled and flushed, "I think we owe people what honor we can give them. Most of the men we captured are dying—we can at least make their death as painless as possible…in war there are few that survive, and…well…"

Rin interrupted his slight speech and rushed towards Shippou who was beginning to flail faintly in the slight breeze. This was not surprising considering that Shippou had been using the midnight oil for the past few nights—and even though, as he said, most of the men were dying, the young fox demon attempted on every possible level to ensure that they might live. For the soldiers to hang in such a dangerous position of limbo for such a long time was more unbearable than either life or death.

"You're exhausted." She exclaimed, holding him upright, "Go off to sleep right now, I shall look after the prisoners until dinner."

"Are you sure?" Shippou asked worriedly, some concern growing in his eyes. Whether they were prisoners, or half dead, they were still men, with carnal interests of the flesh.

"Yes, trust me." Rin smiled, almost in a fox like way as she revealed a small dagger she kept up the sleeve of her work kimono, "I have learned the ways of war and that of men well enough."

A flush of happiness came to the fox demon's face and he grinned ruefully, "Ah, you are indeed my smart girl." And he would have placed a kiss upon Rin's lips had it not been for the appearance of a few guards making their way into the pavilion from the main entrance, and not looking in particularly good moods at that.

Rin, detecting his nervousness gently squeezed his hand before picking up the water and hurrying across the courtyard as quickly as she could go without managing to spill the contents or slip in the mud.

Despite the fact that it was growing dark outside and war and death surrounded him like a disease, Shippou's contentment warmed him as though the escapable sun was glowing down on his heart. The clouds had lifted and there was only sunshine.

Turning away, he made his way towards his private bedroom, deciding that as soon as Sesshoumaru returned from the war, the first item on his agenda was discussing the matter of marriage with the lord, Rin's legal guardian. Although the task was daunting, for some reason the fox demon had a feeling that, in the end, things would turn out in his favor. His instincts would prove to be right. But then, a fox was rarely wrong in days such as these.

Rin, on the other hand, made her way towards the direction Shippou had just returned from into a fairly light room that, although clean and well maintained, gave off the distinct impression of sickliness. The tatami was covered in an array of human figures, some sleeping, and some leaning against the walls listlessly staring into space, while others just lay on the floors with their eyes open, unseeing.

Another servant was in the room as well, gently wiping the sweat off of one of the warrior's brow, her face knit in a mixture of worry and annoyance at her victim. She seemed overly distraught, but, Rin considered, glancing at the girl, she was particularly young and had probably never experienced such things before. Blood, wounds, death, sickness were easy for no one, especially one who had not grown up in such surroundings.

Moving towards her, she questioned, "Is anything the matter?"

The girl, perhaps three years younger than Rin, flushed and exclaimed, "I don't know what's wrong, the medicine that Shippou gave isn't working on him…and, and I—,"

Rin smiled against her will, smoothing out the front of her attire and politely interrupted, "Don't worry, I'll handle this. You have been up all day taking care of these men—you need a rest. I'll get one of the other servants to help me in a bit."

There was a long silence in the room. Obviously the girl wished to leave, but seeing as how Rin was her superior, seeing as how she was bound to duty towards the house—there was no way she could leave so easily. Her tired eyes studied the tatami mats, and meekly she protested, "No, I'm fine. I will attend to these men."

The sounds of breathing echoed in the room against the heavy screens, and Rin, scooting towards the patient in question gently insisted, "I know where your duties lie, but I am sure anyone would understand your condition given the circumstances. Go and get some food and sleep and come back when you've recovered."

The servant girl looked at her, flushed, nodded, and paused a moment longer as if struggling against herself and her duties—to remain or stay; like the seasons that clashed above, were these rains that of late summer or early autumn? A decision was yet to be made.

Moments later the girl quietly exited, only pausing at the vestibule to slip on her shoes and soon enough the dying sounds of wet steps ceased their echoing in the room. It was just Rin and the dying soldiers in the fading grey light of the storm.

Looking dimly at the water she had carried into the room, from the recesses of her kimono she withdrew a bundled package of herbs and spices, which at her leisure she added to the liquid, stirring its depths idly with her fingers, humming a light tune. The figure to whom she was seated by stirred, a slight groan escaping his chapped lips.

But when his eyes did not open immediately, Rin paid him no mind. She had seen the face of battle many a time and it was fruitless to waste energy or concern in some cases. She struck a match in the dim room and the light flared about her features, reflecting her own exhaustion. The girl was not physically tired, no, she had slept enough, but mentally she was at her wits ends. No word had been heard from Sesshoumaru—and although the battle for his domain had been successfully defended, what that of Inuyasha? What that of the other war taking place in those distant rain-drenched valleys?

The figure seated by her groaned again, and lighting the lamp so she could inspect his wounds at her leisure, she began to undue the folds in his clothes, which in time revealed a large gash across his stomach, which, somehow, despite being at least five hours old, was bleeding slightly.

"My, my, my….your body does not seem to want to close…," Rin whispered, taking some bandage and dipping it into the seasoned water. The wound itself was fairly normal for that seen in war, and in general, although deep, it would have eventually stopped bleeding if enough pressure, bandages, and herbs were applied; yet not in this man's case.

Her dark eyes flicked to the face of the man and she was startled and unearthed to find him watching her.

"How long have you been awake?" She questioned, gulping down her fears and continuing to apply a new layer of bandages to the wound.

"Long enough." Was the only response she received, the words delivered in icy coolness and disdain, "To hear you talking like an old woman."

Rin smirked absently and dipped the cloth in the water again, "I see."

There was another pause, not a tense or awkward silence, merely one that lacked words and sentiments. The breathing of the other soldiers whispered through the room, gently filling the quiet.

"There is no point," the solider whispered, propping himself slowly up onto his elbows and leaning against the wooden wall behind him, "I'm a dying man. The wound won't close."

Unlike the first time he had spoken, the man's voice was now remorseful and suddenly tired. His dark eyes stared truthfully at Rin from across the candlelight, filled with no emotion, except, perhaps, regret.

"Of course the wound will heal."

"No, it won't." The solider continued on, more bitter this time, "It isn't meant to, not now at least."

The candle's flame flickered causing the man's face to be cast into shadow and his eyes glowed red in the darkness like that of a—

"So you are a demon? Or perhaps a hanyou?" Rin realized neither taken-a-back or frightened, merely curious. Her guardian was a demon and many of the town's folk hanyou as well.

"What does it matter? My master is Naraku; we are connected and he has called upon my blood—there isn't any use in fighting it, is there? What more is there to live for? The war is over. We have lost—,"

"—But how can you be so sure? We have received no final word as to the victor—"

"—Trust me, we have lost. If not when we attacked Sesshoumaru's abode, then later. I thought and hoped that Naraku's plans might have worked out in the end, but as it seemed fate was not on our side." He moved slightly, wincing in pain, and staring down at one of his hands absently, his dark sleek hair beginning to come undone from behind his back.

"Fate favors no one."

"Or so we say. It is heartening to think other wise—to believe that some good will come out of a person's existence."

The man grinned at this comment, as though it brought him some strange pleasure and a smile appeared on his pale pink lips. For a moment a spark alit in his eyes as though he could see something that Rin could not, beyond the walls that now separated them, past the pavilion and out into the grey-green masses of rolling high hills and mountains that surrounded the two as gently as a mother's embrace.

"Yes, it would be nice to know the reason behind life."

Rin did not reply to this last comment of his but instead tucked her tiresome hair out of her face and continued to bandage the wound, which, as the stranger said, would not heal. Perhaps he had been right in what he had said—perhaps he had made a pact with Naraku. Yet, whatever the case, this did not mean that she would give up on him. War caused many terrible and confusing things, and death was but one. The man, demon, hanyou had much to live for, this Rin insisted on telling herself as she applied more and more bandages becoming frantic to stop the flow of blood.

Yet the blood would not stop and soon the soldier's breathing grew shallower. He never said anything else after those last words; he just stared at Rin, expressionless, sometimes closing his eyes, other times gazing at the flame until the light caused tears to roll down his rapidly paling cheeks.

By the time night had fallen, the man was dead, and Rin was the only witness to the event which to her was neither tragic nor outstanding. When it came to death and war one had to remain calm and cool with iciness in their heart—this was one of the few things that Sesshoumaru had taught her, one of the few she remembered. To grieve would change nothing, to love, to care, would only make the pain more acute. War was not life, and as such, there were different rules to follow. Love was not one of these.

Another servant entered a few moments after the warrior's silent and anticlimactic departure and upon seeing that the man was dead she questioned anxiously, "Should I fetch a solider to dig a grave?"

Looking up, with not a flush to a cheek or a tear in her eye, she remarked, "No, we shall give him a soldier's death."

The girl, who seemed to understand the meaning, quickly slipped out of the room, another servant replacing her in the wake to attend to the other men who had by now awoken for what dinner they could stomach in their conditions.

As she waited, Rin eyed the small collection of personal belongings that were piled by his head. Glancing through them briefly she withdrew roll of parchment with its ends slightly waterlogged—not surprising, considering the recent weather.

Gingerly, she unfurled the scroll and glanced through the writings, in hopes that she could find some form of identification so that it would go down into the formal records—the man's identity would not be lost to the workings of war, she swore. A solider did not deserve such a nameless death.

A moment later, she found—

To General Kai Kurogane – it read.

Looking out into the dark night Rin found that the lanterns had been alit and from across the pavilion the distinct figure of Shippou could be seen making his way towards her. A smile graced her lips, and placing the scroll with the remnants of belongings, she walked to the door to greet him, the orange lanterns reflected in her eyes.

---------------

It was a warm feeling that surrounded her now and the world seemed far away. Like the grey mists that accompanied winter in its dreary tones, she felt detached and devoid of any emotion. Kagome was a blank slate against the world, and perhaps, not even that. She was translucent, everything becoming one at this moment. The songbird's tune meant nothing, or that of the late afternoon sun shining against calmly her back; they had all disappeared to her now, all vanished, and slowly her eyesight weakened and the world grew dim, like that of twilight. It was a sensation she could not describe, nor ever be able to depict, for so otherworldly was it that she could have sworn she was in limbo: that grey plane that would stretch for eternity, with neither a heaven nor a hell, with neither the great gods nor snarling demons to keep her company.

Had it not been for the Shikon no Tama glowing before her she would have forgotten the purpose in this visit entirely. Kagome would have forgotten her purpose, forgotten the pain at which she had suffered the strife which she had forced to endure; all became trivialities, like that of the proper method to cut tofu. All regrets, fears, and angers would have dripped off her body, slowly, had it not been for the glowing jewel that glimmered before her, a forbidden piece of fruit.

Yet, remember it she did, as she gazed down into the scarlet tones that continued to emulate like a halo around the object. This stone, which now hovered between her hands, was something that had caused so much bloodshed and hatred that she trembled at its power that she now felt coursing in her bloodstream.

Kagome closed her eyes. What she was doing, she had not a clue. She had never been a priestess or trained in such fierce arts—but whatever she did at this moment, she felt as though that somewhere, in the sands of time, it had been permanently impressed upon her mind; and so when she opened her mouth to breathe, words, in a language she could not comprehend fluttered forth, like that on the wings of a butterfly.

After she spoke, if words and sound came out at all, it was hot, almost painfully so. The grey plane disappeared and there was no color whatsoever. Just light, a bright light that seemed to strip her bare of whatever clothes she had been wearing, now momentarily forgotten. This light plunged down into her soul with the sharpness of a sword that only the devil could wield.

It plunged painfully down upon her, slashing with burns and wounds, but upon opening her eyes for the briefest of moments, she found herself to be as pristine as she had once been with no torrents of blood covering her frame. But the light was too blinding, so once again, she squeezed her eyes tightly and held her breath, hoping that the jewel would find the true wish within her heart before she could bear the pain no longer.

She herself had no wish to give, nor did she dare think of one—for, as Hiroyoshi had said, the power of the Shikon no Tama was that of great evil and good simultaneously, and it was up to the will of the wielder and their buried dream to produce the outcome.

No words, she had assured, needed to be spoken, accept for those to begin the ceremony—too prove that the wielder was truly the stone's master. The power of the stone would find the wish within her, buried beneath false hopes and apprehensions—the truest form and desire which lay, silenced, in the heart. Kagome only assumed that because so much time had elapsed that the stone found her character and will in its favor, and was now…now…

There was a sharp pain to her chest where her heart lay and it seemed as though something with very clumsy hands of a child was ripping her apart. Kagome screamed. The pain stopped. There was no sound. No jewel. Just her. Just her.

Her thoughts left, and there was only the light that seemed to cut through her eyelids now and bake her throat in its heat. Yet her body could not sweat, it only continued to grow more overheated under the power of the jewel. She would not melt, but it seemed as though she grew white hot under the power which had been her duty to control. Finally, her body could take no more and the torturous light was quickly replaced with dark deep shadows, which seemed calm and cooling. Shadows which her mind and soul quickly retreated to in the growing grey mists once again.

The next time Kagome would open her eyes, the wish would have been granted. The power of the jewel would be one that would grow into myth, as well as that of the priestess.

The rain poured down upon Sesshoumaru in great mysterious torrents, the sword clenched in his hand, his will resolute against the tides of misfortune and serendipity. His fingers curled about the worn hilt, the old and aged leather slicing into his palms, leaving great red gashes on his skin. Nevertheless, with sword in hand, he rushed forward, his steps falling one after another, across the mossy expanse that separated him and the fallen figure from grace, which, inevitably, was just Naraku.

Naraku was merely a form with morality and ideals; a figure who had become polluted by greed, revenge and possession that had sunk deep into his bones with the force of the overhead rain.

With this blade, Sesshoumaru promised himself, without the power of his father's sword, or that of a master craftsman, he would strike down a person, a being, and a thing, in which he saw himself. Naraku was the darkness that lay within his heart, a darkness and hatred which his insipid youth had known in full. A creature he used to place in the rank of a demi-god, a thing that lusted for blood and nothing else could satisfy such a cold and dark heart. Such emotions he had known, and intimately at that; if such a thing as Naraku was allowed to strike victory, then what did this say for the fate of his world? What did this say for the fate of one such as him?

He, who had changed by the end these ordeals, had come to know himself oh, too well indeed. The youkai could not afford for Naraku to win, he could not allow such a crime against humanity, even in its sorry and pitiful ways. For Naraku, such a crime to exist was inexcusable and unforgivable.

With blade in hand, Sesshoumaru sprung forward from his position facing Naraku, not some ten feet away. His movements were slower than he expected, although his injury brought little pain, (though, no doubt, he thought idly, in time it would hurt a great deal more) his clothes and his body itself was waterlogged by the continual rain.

Naraku, like a stone statue of Buddha did not move. His eyes seemed glazed as he stared down at his fresh hand with a look of confusion and abhorrence, as though this new appendage was one of the most loathsome things on earth. His eyes were dark, and stormy, angry and full of hatred. He stood, awaiting the final attack, awaiting Sesshoumaru's blow as though it was not a piece of sharp, if not rusted metal, he carried in hand, but simply a feather, weightless and unimportant.

Nevertheless, Sesshoumaru sliced through the rain to the demon's side and extended his blade with the skill of a ruthless mercenary on their final killing spree, waiting the moment in which he would be covered in a shower of blood: that of his enemy. The blade retreated in an instant, caught behind the whirls of Sesshoumaru's lengthy clothing and with the artistry of the perfectionist; he quickly and silently raised the weapon above his head.

The blade glimmered. The rain fell.

Naraku, from his position, as though he was as deeply rooted into the ground as a tree, looked up, his black eyes glimmering, a smirk upon his lips. No, he would not be killed so easily, he had sworn this to himself from the beginning, when his plans had been but a gleam in his eye. No, he remembered that lavender-colored day in his past, when he and that one other person had promised to die fighting, to die, if possible, protecting one another. Even if their methods were underhanded, even if the world was turned against them, they would not allow themselves to be overtaken so easily by something as trivial as death. No, only matters of the utmost importance did Naraku care for, and death was not one of them.

He would not succumb to it.

Gathering his threads skillfully in his hands, with all his power he wrenched into the darkness, pulling with all his force. Kagome was expected to appear then, expected to fall into his arms, and it would be she, not himself, who would be killed under the blade of Sesshoumaru, her lover.

Ah, what a just revenge, Naraku smirked absently to himself as he gave the final tug, and waited. Waited for her to come, waiting for Kagome's beautiful, if not scared face, to greet him through the rain, waiting to hear her screams of pain, her tears, and her inevitable death to play before him like the great theatrical comedy this all was.

Yet she did not come.

The faintly glowing string fell out of his grasp, the end trailing in the dirty puddles at his feet, where it lay, motionless.

So, it has come to this, has it? Naraku whispered to himself softly, a song of his childhood being hummed in his head as he watched, almost disinterestedly as the metal traced along his profile and continued its journey downwards, ever downwards.

A second later he felt the revolting pain within his insides crush with sting that only Naraku could have understood. He felt the demon souls that he had devoured throughout the years seep out of his being, slowly into the ground. Great glowing globs of blood flowed forth, and with each drop that moved through his body it felt like the pain of a thousand knives being dug into his insides.

What little drifting thoughts Naraku allowed himself in the rapidly fading light were troubled and glassy like the surface of a storm-wrought lake. It did not seem possible that his life now hung about him, a curtain that would soon snuff out what remaining time he had within him. He was the dancer in the dark, he was the performer whose time had come—ah, so it would seem.

It wasn't supposed to end like this, damn it. My end wasn't supposed to be this pitiful.

Ah, yes, his death had been inevitable as the coming as winter, but...but this was not to say it was to be an easy transition. No! He resolved he would fight to the end. He would become the annoying actor with the swan song, he would make the murderers and traitors pay for pulling the master puppeteer.

The blade slowly pulled itself out of his juicy insides, flesh and blood spilling out in its wake, but Naraku continued to remain standing, his expression calm and mocking until the end. He would remain standing until his legs gave way, he would remain living until he bleed to death—a rusty sword could not inflict so much pain. No, it was too fanciful. It was not supposed to happen this way—Naraku knew this. He had suffered a wound like this many a time before, and recovered and lived with just the flick of a nimble wrist.

Something had, very literally, gone deadly wrong.

Yet as Naraku stood standing amongst the grey, casting a look of hatred towards Sesshoumaru who now stood splattered in the purple color of his blood, realization hit him. It was not the famed youkai of the west who had caused his death, nor was it the rusty sorry-excuse for a weapon that he now lazily held in his hand. It was not any of the players that now surrounded him, their eyes filled with an emotion Naraku could not describe; one of utter disgust with the slightest tinge of pity floating about the edges.

He wished for no pity. None.

No, it was none of these people. It was not Kikyou, the love of his life, who now lay in Inuyasha's arms, her eyes cast away from his spectacle. It was not the idiotic and hot-headed hanyou who would not know love if it came and chomped off his face for dinner, nor was it the foolish and rather weak monk who now lay unconscious in the background. Had it been anyone who could have truly inflicted damage upon him, it would have been the two figures that were closest to him now; that of Sesshoumaru and Kikyou, their eyes betraying no emotions, no pity, nothing. There was nothing to spare for the likes of a dying man.

Then again, Naraku was never one to accept handouts, and even in death he would remain stoic in the end.

Even in such a pitiful death as this, one brought about by none other than Kagome Higurashi, the young girl in whom this whole episode had been precariously based upon, he would not reveal the pain that he felt. Ah, to show emotion, that was a fool's ideal—since when did emotion change the course or events of a situation as dire as this? Throughout history such dramatic actions only became annoying and obtrusive in the battlefield, one that Naraku was determined to die in.

All figures stared at him now and he realized that his legs were slowly beginning to give way from the loss of blood that had now formed in a small lake surrounding him like a floating island in an imperial garden. With the last of his strength, gritting his teeth as the pain seeped into his head, causing his vision to blur and grow even fuzzier, Naraku clenched his quivering fingers about a piece of sharp metal, its form coated in a thick layer of powder, one of his own blend. He had to choose his target carefully in the end—who had caused him the most anger and wrath throughout these escapades?

Ah, yes.

That could be none other than Sesshoumaru of course. Sesshoumaru who had, whether consciously or subconsciously, attempted to destroy his plans at every turn in the road, and while falling in love with Kagome had raised the stakes, this still did not place the lord of the western in any favorable light. The scum was always trying to stop him, always urged him to listen to the voice of reason—hah, if such a thing existed—yes, if anyone was going to die with him it would be Sesshoumaru, the youkai he both loved and hated.

To have such a handsome and strapping form in hell would certainly make eternity more comfortable, now wouldn't it?

His grip tightened around the metal, and summoning all remaining strength he was allowed he focused it all into the object. A second later, he flung the small knife in the direction of Sesshoumaru and was pleased to hear the decidedly poignant sound of a 'squish' as the pointed piece of metal had contact with the fragile flesh on Sesshoumaru's stomach.

"You bastard," the youkai lord whispered, keeling over and grabbing the small piece of metal out of his clothing and tossed it at Naraku's feet where the surrounding water began to turn slightly green by its presence. Nevertheless, a small trickle of blood began to stain the youkai's clothes, though no one noticed; all eyes were on Naraku, both wary of another attack, and anxious for the bastard's death.

Naraku just smirked blearily at Sesshoumaru in revenge as he felt the mud surround, the thing he would inevitably become; all by the damnable girl's will alone. Ah, what a pitiful end, he thought blankly as he looked up into the rain that continued to crash down on him.

Yet, as it was, his life was flickering before his eyes. Images of the past begin to drift lazily, as though encased in the swirls of incense smoke in the late summer nights: his insignificant childhood, the tears and the strife of life, war, blood, lust, revenge—but like a firefly, Kikyou's face guided the rocky and windy road into the deep darkness.

He wished, listlessly, suddenly becoming very cold, that he could have truly apologized for making her life as hellish as his afterlife was bound to. It had never been his intention—not truly at least.

As foolish and utterly senile as it sounded, a quiet life with her, passions aside, was all he would have wished. Ah…but those thoughts were for another time, another place, another moment other than now.

He didn't regret his life, Naraku realized as he lay blinking at the drops and the overhanging pine trees that seemed to block the light. He would have probably done it again, after all, who could say that a poor beggar boy, son of a common whore had grown up to scare the likes of the lord of the western and eastern lands and cause a bloody feudal war? No, Naraku thought smugly and with pride, maybe he wouldn't have changed a thing after all. Kikyou aside, his life had been one of pleasure, indulgence and power—the only way life was supposed to be lived as he saw it. And, even if he had been brought down by the likes of one annoying young girl who seemed to be on this earth just to spite him, in the end, he had gotten his revenge against her lover—the dagger being poisoned, of course.

Naraku smirked and blinked back the raindrops, or were they tears? Ah, it didn't matter, did it?

It would have been nice to see the sun one last time, all this rain is so damnably tiresome…

His pale fingers clenched tightly about the string that still lay wrapped in his hand. The thread moved slightly, but as the fingers uncurled with the absence of life a darkened object appeared out of midair, rolling down the mud until it was adrift in the puddle of Naraku.

This item was round, circular and grey, and would have once been referred to as the Shikon no Tama.

In death, it seemed the two were together at last.

---------------

The wind howled like he and his pack should have, should they been wolves. This was a good sign though. By tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, if they were lucky, the storm would be gone. The clouds and rain had overstayed their welcome by far—from the looks of it, the entire world seemed to be flooded, the rivers engorged, and the rice fields overstepping their boundaries into small rural villages. Kouga admitted that he had enough water to last him for the rest of his life in this venture—he felt as though he had been covered in water for weeks on end, which, if he thought about it rationally, he probably had. Days of being dry seemed just a memory to him, dimly alive in the back of his mind, something that seemed just as unheard of as the sun. It was really getting depressing; he thought absently, he hadn't seen the sun in so long.

Just a peek, he promised himself, would be nice. Just to cheer up m'spirits a bit.

Yet he would face a thousand storms such as this if he knew where Kagome was, or just could see her face again, perhaps. Or maybe, just to know she was alive. Yes, that would be nice. To know she was alive and not being tortured somewhere by someone, namely, Naraku. The wind and its gales meant nothing to him, here in the grey alpine meadow; if only he could know that she was somewhere safe, somewhere out of danger.

Kouga scowled and plopped himself onto a nearby rock as he crossed his arms moodily. Things had finally been going his way, he justified, glaring out onto the lake that the meadow overlooked—he had been able to get away from the damnable war, and actually make some progress with his relationship with Kagome, and was making good movement through the particularly cumbersome mountain passes.

At least she had come to respect me more, he thought idly, looking up into the great grey clouds that were scuttling overhead like the movements of a sea crab. It reminded him of the time he had spent in Fukui-ken, on their small rocky beaches, eating kelp and roasting small crabs that he and his men had found in the shallows.

Ah, those had been the days.

Summer and its buttercup painted days had melted away and quite suddenly he had landed himself in winter. Or, closer to winter at least. It wasn't autumn yet, or maybe it was; he hadn't seen a persimmon tree to tell if the fruit was ripe, but it wouldn't surprise him if those golden ornaments had ripened into pumpkin orange. Even in this place, thoughts of his childhood filtered back in his mind—the hazy days of autumn, playing in the long dead grasses, climbing the fruit trees and shaking its branches for the ripe treasures, wandering up into the hills and gathering wild chestnuts…

And here he was, freezing, high in the mountains, looking for a girl that quite frankly, he knew he wouldn't find. Kagome had disappeared like the sparrow she was, the blue-eyed sparrow. She had not run away—for tracking her down would have been fairly easy, what, considering that it had stopped raining and he would be able to sniff down her scent. No, there was no aroma of her anywhere to be found, except for that leading up to this bluff he was seated upon. It was as though one of the great crab clouds had scooped her up for their own merry making. Perhaps it was Susanowo or maybe the thunder god Ajisuki Takahikone, himself.

But what did it matter, she was gone; spirited away.

Rubbing behind his ears idly, Kouga sighed deeply. What was he to do now? It had been his duty to take her to safety—and now he had failed. Guilt hung upon his head like the droplets of water from that hung from the tree above his head.

One fell onto the back of his neck and he yelped in surprise and agitation.

"Boss?" One of his men called from behind him, his voice barely audible in the strong breeze that seemed to cause a tsunami of mountain grasses to cut as his feet.

Kouga turned round and surmised his troop wearily. Although he already knew the answer, he questioned loudly over the wind, "Any sign of her?"

The men shook their heads, almost as depressed as he by these turn of events. It had been enjoyable to have a woman with them—in a way, it had been nice, causing the band not to fight and truly work together. It felt odd without her now; though Kouga would be the last one to admit it, even if he felt it most acutely.

"Well," he sighed, hoisting himself off the gleaming surface of the boulder and running his hands through his hair that was still damp from the last light shower, "Nothing we can do. I have a feeling things have gone out of our hands. Someone has taken Kagome, and I'm pretty sure she is a long way off by now."

The men murmured their agreement, and stomping through the grass which had the current of the ocean, he attempted to make his way towards the group that hung around the edges of the meadow like a ring of wind-blown trees.

"Might as well head back home, hm?" He suggested, attempting to fulfill his 'leader of the pack' position to the best of his ability. It was his duty to ensure that the group did not loose heart. He was the leader and as such, it was his duty, "Nothing more we can do here. I have a feeling our part in this has ended."

A great crack of thunder and the spark of lightening in the distance some ten miles off, and this almost seemed to seal his last statement. Yes, their role in the play was over.

Too bad, thought Kouga absently, gathering their provisions, he had quite enjoyed himself. Quite enjoyed himself indeed.

---------------

The light was pale, soft and comforting. It had a slightly hazy quality to it, as though early morning mist had yet to dissipate and somewhere in the distance a fire had been kindled with its blurry smoke winding blearily into the icy coldness of dawn. The sky was a pearly white, hinted on the edges with the blue of the night before and the stars that had gone unseen by the world; the stars that would remain the same for thousands of years to come. The clouds had vanished and there were only miles upon miles of unbroken pastels, gently painted with the utmost of care unto the world, as though with each brush stroke the intent of the cosmic painter had been fortified with unquestionable wisdom.

In the east the faint orangey glow, the color of pumpkins, persimmons, and goldfish hinged on the horizon behind the hills, now black and paper cut-outs against the silence. It was hushed, everything was so still. There were no birds, or even rustles in the bushes.

Just pure and utter quiet. One could hear dawn crack to life and the sun slowly slipping across the sky curved canvas overhead. The whisper of the world as it moved among the cosmos.

And Kagome had awoken to such peace.

The worn shoji screens, thrown open despite the cold, seemed to beckon her to the world which lay beyond the tatami divided realm in which she had been born and raised. They beckoned her, with voices of the innocent, and that of the promise that only her eyes would see the dawn of such a day; a dawn of such innocence, peace, and tranquility.

The girl moved her body –weary and heavy— as though young children or the dying held onto her legs and arms; this pain was the result of yesterday's events. This tenderness to her bones and joints was by her own decree for it had been she, and she alone who had chosen to wield the Shikon no Tama to whatever foreordained power. Inevitably, what her final desire had been, Kagome would never know. This was the power of the jewel, to look deep into the wielder's heart and discover and take for its own accord what it wished. It was for this reason that the jewel was so powerful; it could grant the most pure and the most wretched desires in a single instance.

Whatever the outcome had been, Kagome would never truly be certain of whatever the wish had found within her soul, she would never know. She only hoped that somehow, somehow, in the grand scale of things, it had helped. At least, Kagome thought silently to herself, looking down at her hands idly, this power would no longer be in the hands of the enemy, of Naraku.

That was perhaps the only consolation.

Yet, the last thing she could recall before the hot darkness took her, before what she had presumed to be death, was the thought, the singular wish—to be happy.

Was she allowed something so cliché? She did not know towards whom these desires had been directed. Herself? Inuyasha? Sesshoumaru? She could never truly know if her wish would be granted in the end. That, like so many other things of the war, would remain a mystery to her—hidden in the storm clouds which had been blown out to sea; to a place never returnable. She would not venture out into those tumultuous waves whose anger and desolation would swallow her whole; she did not have such strength.

Kagome gasped as the cold air met her skin—both awakening her from her grogginess and wishing her to retire to the world of warmth from which she had awoken. The blankets and charcoal heater called out to her, and turning to face the humble housing of the shrine's keeper, she stared at it, longingly, noticing the warm glow from the hearth.

But already she was beyond the gates of the shrine, stepping blindly along towards the bluff that overlooked the valley that she remembered blurrily from the day before—from the place whence she had arrived. The soil was still wet with the recent storm, yet already fresh soft blades of grass had begun to sprout in the storm's turbulent path. The life had begun its cycle so quickly after death.

The sky began to glow the color of fireflies on summer's day, a yellow that brought with it the arrival of the great orb, the sun, that shown down warmly upon her figure. She was alone, surrounded by the great inky pines and the rice fields down below. A slight breeze ruffled her tussled hair and caused her chapped lips to burn slightly, but it was of no matter. Kagome smiled. It was over. Everything was over.

A sob escaped her throat. A cry of happiness as she blinked back tears that she could and would not hide; these tears were that of joy, not of pain. Gently, her sob morphed into a light laugh and she smiled up into the sky, watching as a silent bird flew overhead in the fluid mist.

Her blue eyes fell upon the horizon, and softly she whispered to no one but herself in the silence.

The first sparrow of dawn chirped in the camphor trees and from the shrine keeper's residence, a figure moved from within, looking up from the morning's duties, a thankful grin upon his lips.

What would happen next did not matter. What tomorrow would bring did not occupy his mind, nor doubt hers. Their role in these events had ended, Hiroyoshi thought softly to himself, looking up at the persimmon tree and its boughs hanging heavy with fruits. Autumn had come at last.

And with autumn came the world's freedom from those days of war, of blood, and of tears.

Only a few more drops needed to be shed, those of hers and hers alone.

---------------

The call of a sparrow roused him to his senses. The playful sounds of dawn, of first awakenings, familiar and both strangely foreign to his ears pulled him out of his dark and deep slumber. He was slow to awake, the world shifting and coming to existence, slowly, slowly, and in stacked layers at that.

Nevertheless, the song was the first thing he had become aware of in the dim light.

The next sound was that of breathing; not heavy breathing, but deep and rhythmic—the breath of sleep surrounded him. He had been confused at first, wondering why other people were in his private chamber. Surely he had not asked for someone to stay—

At these thoughts, he had opened his eyes. Not frantically. No, Sesshoumaru was never frantic. Or, if he was, it was only under the most desperate and dangerous of circumstances.

With his eyes open thoughts, colors, sights and sounds suddenly overwhelmed him; like a young child at a festival everything seemed strangely new and foreign, too vibrant, too sudden, too brilliant.

He winced. When he tried to move it hurt as though a knife was prickling his entire body with sharp blades. Sesshoumaru could neither describe the pain nor voice his discomfort; he seemed entirely unable to do anything at the moment. His defenses were down against his will.

Yet what had happened, he thought desperately, trying to the best of his ability to sit upright and lean against a wall, which was thankfully nearby. Why did he feel so utterly wretched?

He closed his eyes and hid from the world, the breathing and the chirps dispersed as he tried to remember, as he tried to capture those events which seemed as flighty as a water-skimmer in the deeps.

Naraku…yes, Naraku had died in the end, hadn't he? He had to have died, for it did not make sense that he should be surrounded by so many people—not if the war was still in full swing. Not if men still lived and died in the battlefield should he, or his brother, asleep in the corner, be here in the confines of…of this place. It did not seem possible should the bastard still be alive.

The rain echoed in his ears, thundering down upon him as he tried to grasp at the smoke before his face. Naraku was dead. No more. This fact in itself was amazing. Dimly, he remembered the priestess Kaede burning the bastard's body…yes, the warmth; he had remembered the warmth of those flames. The sparks that flew heavenward—that tried to reach the plateau of the gods, but the rain had dispersed such hopes in the end and the ashes had fallen. The priestess had then sealed those grey ashes within the hollow shell of some stone, some strange stone that had appeared, glowing grey and white.

That had been the Shikon no Tama, Sesshoumaru realized now. The Shikon no Tama, no longer glowing pink and scarlet, full of power that he could not even begin to comprehend. Yes, that jewel was as mysterious as the workings of life, the purpose to life, the meaning of his existence.

Things were such a blur though; it seemed difficult to remember for some reason.

Sesshoumaru winced and opened his eyes, peering blearily down at his stomach, forgetting those sleeping figures that surrounded him now. Bandages bounded the entire region for some odd reason—their application neat and thorough. The wound he had suffered from Naraku's blade had been minor. Yes, they had caused bleeding at his stomach, but he had obtained similar such marks in the past—and they had never required so many bandages. In past battles he had never needed such care for a mere scratch—he was, after all, a youkai.

"The dagger must have been poisoned."

The voice of Kaede, the priestess, rushed towards his ears, like the surf and the wave of the turbulent seas, fighting through the haze of his mind. Yes, he had collapsed, hadn't he? Yes, that was right. Just after the priestess had finished the sealing process—he had fallen. He remembered the cold mud surrounding him and the faces of all those peering down. Dare he wonder if their expression held worry or fear? He could not remember.

The darkness, the dim misty darkness had silently fallen then—but in the fading light, he remembered those words: The dagger must have been poisoned.

The realization came as no surprise—he had been a thorn in Naraku's side from the beginning, even if that had not been his aim initially. Yet, as time had passed, he had become rather troublesome to the bastard, hadn't he? Sesshoumaru was just acting by morals, something Naraku clearly did not value. Ah well, it was of no matter. Naraku had attempted to get his revenge at the end—a clever trick, the youkai lord admitted softly: everyone had been so preoccupied by the dying spectacle that they had hardly paid his wound mind—even he, himself, had overlooked something so trivial.

Yet…he had been close to those dangerous boundaries of life and death, had he not. Very close indeed. It was almost as though he had been pulled to safety by the guiding hands of fortune. How he was alive, he wasn't sure, yet he had a sneaking suspicion in the back of his foggy brain his life had been in the hand of the precocious priestess and his revolting half brother. Those two, had, after all, been the only ones capable of somewhat intelligent actions. All others presence had fallen by the likes of Naraku, or, perhaps by mere exhaustion.

Sesshoumaru grimaced. This meant that he owed his life to his brother and the younger priestess. To be in debt was one thing, but to be in debt to a person he hardly knew if he respected or not was another. He very much hoped that his brother had nothing to do with the whole affair and had fallen into a deep sleep, or helped his pallid advisor, Miroku.

The thought kept re-appearing in his mind, like a terrible annoying Obon-Odori song: Naraku was gone. With each lilt of the song came the chorus—he was gone, gone. The song was neither wailing nor rejoicing, but rhythmic as though it needed to confirm to the world, the skies, the heavens, the cosmos, that such a thing had essentially vanished. Yet how had it happened? It surely could not have been by the power of that rusted blade and his swordsmanship alone. Somehow, somehow, through reasons that Sesshoumaru could not quite comprehend, the villain had been struck down by a combination of his actions and some other alluding power…

Had this been the supremacy of the Shikon no Tama? Or, dare he conclude, of Kagome?

The thought made his mouth turn suddenly dry, an emotion that seemed impossible after these days of moisture. It was summer all over again: the zinnias and chrysanthemums sprung up in his mind's vision; the blue jay's flitting through the dusty pines trees; her body pressed against his in the rain….

Kagome.

What of Kagome? Where was she? Clearly, he observed looking around the room in icy disdain; she had not returned to the shrine of the Shikon no Tama. Life was hardly that simple, was it? No, she was nowhere to be seen. A slight fear grasped at his heart, one that he tried to cover with reasoning that he had learned with years of experience. Sesshoumaru was the master of reasons, of logic; it was his pride. In his youth he had been a master of the blade; and now, he was the master of deception. Or so he thought. Yet he could not cover this one emotion, not when it came to this subject matter.

He closed his eyes again and tried to calm his rapid pulse that thundered in his ears like the gallop of horses through a dusty back road.

Reaching out, feeling his forehead begin to glow with heat, he slowly and smoothly opened the shoji screens that looked out onto the small garden at the plateau of the hill. The eggplant hung ripe on the vine, glistening with moisture that looked like a polished stone. A few feet beyond the hanging fruit the crest ended and there were but green grassy slopes, their gentle forms alit with the first innocent rays of the sun of a new day.

So, the storm had passed.

How very fitting…Sesshoumaru whispered silently to himself, looking out into the brilliant world. The clouds had vanished as well as Naraku and Kagome. The amusing aspect, the youkai thought to himself, was that he would have wished Naraku alive in an instant if it meant Kagome's safe return. He would have lived with years of rain if that meant, if that could guarantee that the girl was alive and safe. Somewhere, anywhere.

He could not explain the emotion he felt, for Sesshoumaru was never one to go into details. This was the beginning of the end—the end of the Sesshoumaru of his past, the bloodshed had finally stopped. Against his will the girl had changed him. The accursed girl had changed him—and now; she had gone astray into these brilliant wilds without him. The injustice of it all was astounding. Yet all hope was not lost. The storm had lifted, the sun had shone, and hope remained, however small the measurement. Autumn had arrived to save the world from summer's torturous heat. Yes, the world was as it should have been once more.

And somewhere, somehow, in the silence, he knew she was watching the dawn as well.

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AN: Obon-Odori: a type of dance with traditional music of Japan

Susanowo: a very important character in Japanese mythology, one of the first goddesses

The story is not over yet. We still have the afterward.