Chapter Twelve: Sore, Salt, Fear, Fault

A/N: It's been eleven months. How many of you still hear me out there?
This chapter's songs are "Josephine" by RITUAL and "The Yawning Grave" by Lord Huron.

Mistakes weren't something that he made.

Beauty was a subjective thing, and art doesn't have to be beautiful, he mused to himself, the cloth that once held his kimono together now straining against his fingers. There was a certain satisfaction that comes from watching a master at his craft – is it an appreciation of beauty, or of art? Could this be considered artful? He leaned away from the grasping, cragged fingernails and ignored the way the chief's tongue flopped around in his cavernous cesspit of a mouth, the stilted and dry choking not loud enough to draw attention. Is this beauty, or art? To know the exact time that the willpower to escape crumbles into the sheer panic and desire to live… there is a mastery to it, and he was a master. He'd worked tirelessly to hone himself into a killing edge, then twisted himself to 'nefarious purpose' under his mistress. That's what his mother would have called it, anyway. She wasn't around long enough to see her little boy kill. He twisted the garrote just a bit tighter, the bulging, bloodshot eyes reminding him that it's been ages since he'd last had a decent fish.

He sighed, looking around the room as he waited. To describe it as a shack would be a generous idea, mold and maggots taking the place of decorations and a mysterious black sludge on the wall told him all he needed to know about the humans living inside of it like so many cockroaches. If he were to put it to the torch, would they scatter?

He released the pressure as his host began to slip into unconsciousness, the vile creature's flesh slapping against the floor as he splayed out, greedily sucking in air and coughing.

It hadn't been an easy thing to come across, but he'd managed to find the shattered halves of the demonic spirit mirror that Taizu had held a piece of his mistress' soul in for nearly two decades. It had lost its power when the priest suddenly sacrificed himself to bring Lixue back, but it still held memories of her soul. He'd sent the fledgeling herons to track it down, digging it up from the salted earth, their lady's dying blood casting an eerie crescent where no plants would grow.

He placed a foot firmly onto the human's forehead, forcing him to look the hyena in the eye.

"You could make this stop anytime you wanted," he said, sadly, sweetly. "Why are you making this so painful for yourself? I just want to help you, and you won't let me." He waited for the only correct answer, or it would repeat again.

There was a comforting feeling in knowing you were doing what you were born to do. He had flourished as the hidden right hand of the Tigress. She was no fluttering maiden; she was no burly cudgel. She had recognized him, eventually, and shone her light to him – a violently burning light that burned his edges as it warmed his face. He'd never held that against her. She gave him purpose, in a hazy and chaotic world, and he'd never let go of his gratitude. She didn't know how chained to her he was; he gripped to her because she was all he had, but she was so much more.

The answer… hadn't been what he'd been listening for. The sweat on the unwashed fearful was always strong, but this pathetic scrap of humanity was another degree of filthy. His sweat was likely the closest to a bath he'd had in years, and it slicked the human's entire body. They were alone; he'd sent his violent underlings out of the room for a little alone time with the demon. What, exactly, had been planned… well, it didn't take a lot of imagination to know what would happen to a lone, weak man in the company of someone that had the charms of a rabid rat. If he'd waited a few minutes longer… The thought yanked at the pit of his stomach.

The human probably had a name, but it wasn't worth learning at this point. The scratchy screams muffled by the stained cloth stuffed in his mouth, ignored by his own men, who knew what their boss did. It wasn't them. They didn't have to care. He was in charge. So long as someone went in there, they wouldn't have to. He shook his head, a low wailing and shivering, as the hyena carefully rearranged the ropes to allow the human to see his hand, fingers splayed against his own leg.

"How sharp is your blade? I hope, for your sake, it's not dull."

It had been an enormous undertaking to piece the mirror back together. She'd been gone for months, nearly three full seasons gone by, and her mate had finally been able to separate himself from the mountain on his promise that he was going to try and find her himself. It had to be him; nobody would miss him, but Sesshomaru still had his holdings to put in order. He had been too long away, and while it wouldn't be pleasant to go back to Japan without his mate and without an answer, his life couldn't stay stopped in time. They had to move around it, or past it, or through it, but the world wouldn't let them stay. Minami had unwittingly let slip that the spirits he spoke to lived beneath his temple, but refused to take him down. But the hyena was a master of his craft. The mirror, newly pieced together and a shell of its former power, tucked safely away in his clothing as he stole his way past the slumbering deer into the cavernous deep and dark. The guardian spirits that patrolled the stone pursued him, the chill and fog creeping into his mind, twisting and confusing. He had fallen into the tiny craft on the eerie, still shore, full of perfectly round black pebbles and perfectly sheer black water that stretched away from his precious lantern, paddling with his hand. The wonder had overtaken him then, the clouds of etherial golden butterflies bursting from the blackness, tired and alone, drifting in the empty dark with the name of his mistress on his breath.

She probably wouldn't like to know that so many based the direction of their lives on her. She'd say something about burdens or living for oneself, or just leave. He smiled at that thought, the predictability of his Lady Xing. If she hated it, she'd flee (in a stern, tigerly fashion, naturally), and let it sort itself out. She wasn't exactly mistaken – these things did have a habit of turning out alright in the end. His smile must have been out of place, the flesh twisting away from him in the renewed vigor of dread.

"You do have an unusual clarity for missing two fingers. You have my commendation! You must be proud." He raised his voice just enough to be heard over the tired sobbing. "I wonder if that's the shock? I admit, I'm not practiced at this with someone of your… size. Your contributions to science will not be forgotten. I just wonder why you're putting yourself through this... It only takes a word. One word, and you don't get hurt anymore."

He didn't even need to keep him alive anymore… not really. He'd tasted enough of the creature's blood to know all he needed to know – he'd been captured off in the woods, dragged here without much resistance, and left to the leader's discretion. He was still a little disoriented, and his gut felt like it were made of rock – not helped by the questionable quality of the blood he'd ingested. He hated resorting to it, but he'd already made a mess by the time he'd thought to put his finger in his mouth. It was always so much easier to sort through the information without it being shot through with emotion or whatever else. At this point, the torture was to make a statement. In his state, he was unlikely to take on a few dozen feral humans and get out untouched. His body felt soft and weak, his hands sore from what little work he'd done, his mind almost a quaint level of uncluttered blankness. He couldn't even get high – his pockets were as empty as his head. He worked now because he needed the chief, battered and bowing, to cow the lesser into obedience. He refused now, but between the two of them, the demon had the luxury of time.

Yes, there was a certain beauty to watching a master work. They shape their hands just so, with deftness and swiftness and surety of purpose. The single stroke of a brush, or of a sword, neither affording mistake or timidity. The pulling of glass, or bone, or flesh, twisting it to be the way one desires, turning its base existence to higher purpose. It is a result that comes from years of study and practice, natural talent shining through only rarely. His was a rare art, one that he could only show to his master and to the pieces as he worked on them. She knew of his art, and allowed it to blossom in her shadow. He was her hand, and he held her brush. That's all there was to it.

It was true, then, that the spirit of the artist can be felt through his works. The satisfaction of completion was dulled by her absence to witness it. The shuddering, bloodied creature bowing at his feet wasn't something he'd be proud for her to see. It wasn't worth her attention, but it was necessary. She'd understand, like nobody else did. His devotion to her was natural. It was a matter of course.

She didn't need him like he needed her, and he did need her, hobbling along in their uneven affections and convincing himself that it was good enough,

that she'd always be there,

that there'd always be time later,

that she'd never leave him behind.

Mistakes weren't something that he made.

A/N: Please review! Also, since I've gotten a few requests to explain, here's an exposition dump – in this fic, there are two versions of the world. The original, in which the first arc takes place, is an AU in which the inu no taisho and Lixue's pappy were bff's. Between the arcs, she was pushed into the second/current version of the world, which is canon Inuyasha world. The main difference between the two is that the fathers never met. There is a Minami in every possible universe in some version or other, taking care of the spirits of possibility, which exist in every universe at once and tie them together. He is aware of the other universes and has limited communication with the other versions of himself through them. Lixue, and now Adisa, came across and switched souls with the original versions that exist in the canon Inuyasha universe. They take over the bodies, the original souls kind of going to sleep in their own bodies. The memories are kind of overlaid over each other – like looking at a lenticular print. It changes depending on how you're looking at it. It's sometimes hard for them to know what their "original" memories or feelings are and what are remnants of the sleeping versions that are sharing the body. That's why, prior to the takeover, Lixue was a sadistic, well-spoken princess, and Adisa was a critically gentle, needy thing. The only thing that I haven't really explained yet is why Adisa-the-lesser had vivid, strong dreams about Lixue as soon as she is transported over and Sesshomaru doesn't. It's tied to Adisa's ability to absorb memory through ingesting blood and to the method used to transport Lixue over in the first place – and that's all I'm saying right now because I haven't quite thought of anything past what I'm writing right now.

EXPOSITION DUMP COMPLETED. Have a nice evening, everyone.