Losing herself to the demon power was always a rush. Odd thing given she never remembered what happened afterwards but in the moment, Moroha drowned in it. Her vision enhanced, her hearing enhanced, even her sense of smell as developed as it was, enhanced.

Yet for all the power and strength that flowed through her body, it was the memory she looked forward to the most. Everything became clearer and crisp and mysteries she'd been pondering for days were suddenly so obvious that she felt silly for spending any time on it.

Attacks flew from her claws that felt so familiar—surely, she'd done this before, right?—and it all felt like an eternity yet gone in an instant. The rush as the power flowed out of her always felt like a crash, like her bones had dropped from her flesh and much as she was careful because just collapsing without allies or shelter was a very bad idea, she welcomed the sleep.

She never recalled it when she awoke but every time she entered this demonic power state, the collapse that followed brought with it a bonus—dreams. Not like the dreams she usually had. These were always much richer, deeper, stronger.

Memories.

Memories that alluded her in her normal state, despite how she would seek them out. After a while, it became so disheartening that it was just better to try and accept the reality—she would never remember so why torment herself trying to catch something that would forever pull ahead? Sad maybe but to her, it was reality, nothing more and nothing less.

But here, she would remember and oh, the things she remembered!

It was always a little hut. Not much to speak of in terms of things especially compared to those huge huts made of stone and glass that she'd discovered in the modern era. This one certainly was not nearly as fancy. But there was a warmth to it, a familiarness. The floor was coated in wood and bamboo save for the circle of dirt around the fire pit.

So many smells! That was always the most overwhelming part. It was hard to distinguish all of them. Some she recognized as food smells but the others felt more like cloth or belongings.

People.

Moroha waited, as she always did, for the figures to appear. They always did, without fail and she both dreaded and longed for it.

"Moro-Chan!" A woman's voice. High, full of life and spice. It was always intoxicating and she ran for it, wrapping herself in the arms that never failed to embrace her.

The face was forever hidden from her, tucked away in shadow even here. But the long black hair, the priestess outfit—this must have been who she learned her sacred arrow techniques from. The woman smelled of spiritual energy as much as she smelled of flowers.

"Where have you been?" The voice was not chiding, merely concerned. "We thought we lost you."

You did, she always found herself saying though she never said it aloud. "Why would you lose me?" She said instead. "I'm right here." Burying her face into the woman's side, she inhaled, taking in the scent that was equal parts alien and familiar. The hand that ran through her hair triggered so many thoughts. She'd been here before. She'd done this so many times. More times than she could count. There was times here, with this woman, full of laughter and happiness and a connectedness that she was still seeking out.

Then there was that smell.

A new one but an old one, one that always conjured an odd emotion within her that she could not yet label. But it always came from outside and then the towering figure would push aside the leather over the entry way and fall out "Hey! You ain't buggin' your mother are you, squirt?"

She always ran for him with a deep longing that she did not understand. And he always caught her up, held her over his head and the strength and power she felt in those arms gave her a sense of safety so often denied to her. Claws like hers. And such raw energy in them that she would have believed this man before her could have sliced through the Afterlife.

White hair, strong eyes—were they golden like hers when she let her power reign out?—and ears. His face was clearer to her than the woman's and she grinned and wrapped her arms around his neck when she was finally lowered down.

The woman laughed and walked over, embracing them both before letting her fingers linger in Moroha's hair once more. The quarter demon girl leaned into it.

Mama. Papa.

She knew that for a fact as much as she knew her own name. Their names...Inuyasha and Kagome were thrown around like the titles of legends but that's not what they were to her. Those names meant little to her. They were Mama and Papa.

She was Moroha, daughter of Inuyasha and Kagome.

This was the moment she clung to for these dreams. The warmth. The closeness. The smell. The safety. The...belonging.

It never lasted though.

When consciousness began to pry at her like beams of light, the figures began to fade. Gradual at first, like wisps of mist over the stream on a cloudy morning. It always started with Mama.

She would start to loosen her grip and pull away despite Moroha's attempts to cling to her. For a moment, a brief fraction of time, are could see her face—eyes wide with fright and dismay as she called out to her "Moro-Chan! Moro-Chan!"

Scrambling to her feet, Moroha ran after her. She never got very far though before the hut itself would start to crack and break. Soot and fire rained down on her and she wrapped her cape over her head to spare the burns. "Mama! Mama!"

Gone. Emptiness. Silence. As if she'd never been there at all.

Turning, toe to heel, she ran back the way she came. "Papa! Papa!" If she had to lose her mother, she would not lose her father.

"Crimson!" His nickname for her. Crimson. Was that why she was drawn to the term? In any event, it conjured more desperation than her mere name would have. But there was splintering wood and ash and ...

Suddenly, she was there, pressed tight against his chest. "Papa!" She cried out again as if that word would solve all the evils of the world. She dug her claws into his back, ignoring that she was likely leaving little scars in his skin. She buried her face and inhaled, taking that smell into her chest and holding it, breath baited.

He always faded too. More gradually than Mama but he faded all the same. She always found this way worse. But by bit yet fast enough for her to dread it and when he finally was gone and she was alone, she clung to that smell, holding it in her mind as long as she could.

But when it finally drifted away, memory on the wind, her eyes opened to blue sky and the forms of Setsuna and Towa not far away. She sat up, hands to her temples as she tried, in vain, to catch the last visages of memory before they slipped away. But they were beyond her reach, back into whatever abyss they'd been condemned to.

And she was just Moroha again.