Fifty-eight.
The miko couldn't understand the deep turmoil he was facing.
He hadn't felt this way even when his half-brother cut off his arm – the relatively temporary pain of losing one's limb couldn't be compared to the constant torment of feeling his own soul broken, incomplete.
Trying to reach for his youki led to nothing; seeking for the innermost feeling of his beast was useless. For where a rumbling, comforting presence was supposed to be, there was now only a terrifying silence.
Emptiness.
His own scent was foreign, his sight faint, his perspective amiss.
Helplessness wasn't something Sesshoumaru was used to.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
(100 words.)