A/N: I'm not exactly sure why I wrote this - because it's a story we all know - but it wouldn't leave me alone for some reason. I do enjoy introspection though, so hopefully this is a worthy effort at capturing Inuyasha's thought process.
If you wish to become human...use the Shikon Jewel.
Even as she stands before him, bloodied and torn and smoldering with rage, he cannot see the way her powerful form trembles with bitter vengeance. Instead, he sees how weak and fragile she was, her slim body bent with the burden she must bear; the gentle face and sad, soulful eyes that tugged and tugged at his consciousness until they filled it completely. He cannot see the warrior priestess before him; he sees only a girl.
And now, as she turns to her younger sister with the Jewel grasped firmly in hand, he wishes he had never caught sight of that hateful object. He tries to turn away, but the effort is excruciating, and his muscles have gone slack. He is forced to watch her blood soil her robes against the backdrop of a burning scene of death and destruction, all wrought by his own hands.
Her name escapes his parched lips, a foresaken whisper.
Maybe she was wrong; maybe it could never work. He saw himself an animal, and the dying village before him only screams that this is so. But she saw something - someone - different, someone gentle and kind and worthwhile, and so they were going to make it work, because they would have the Jewel and their entire lives to figure out how.
He cannot breathe for the pain. The arrow in his chest gives him discomfort, but the misery in his soul brings raw agony. Beyond the rash, initial anger he threw against the village, he can summon nothing more. He is empty, and the thought of bringing more rage to bear only makes him ache for rest.
His vision begins to fade; whether from death or a spell she has cast, he does not know, nor does he care so as long as he is sealed away from this world of hurt and betrayal. Already she is hard to see, a stooped and battered form darkened with blood, but he is grateful for this respite. His memories rise to overwhelm him in a crushing tide of better times, and he is helpless to stop them. There are arrows that nick his skin and pierce his clothing but never come near his heart. There are hazy summer evenings thick with the scent of blossoms, there is damp earth beneath him when she lures him from his tree and persuades him to talk. There are moments of silence that say more than words, and there are meaningful glances that speak the heart. Most of all, there is that fateful evening, only yesterday but seemingly centuries ago, the dying sunlight casting soft shadows on her gently-crafted face, the featherlight touches of her fingertips against his jaw, and the feeling that, although he is embracing mortality, he will live with this woman forever.
The last thought in his mind - just before oblivion claims him - is how funny it is that his time's already run out.