AN: Part 4.
Disclaimer: I don't own Inuyasha.
At the End of Every Road
Broken Beads
The shrine was quiet inside, giving off the image that it was lonely and out of use. However, a man sat inside it, eyes shut. His lips were moving remarkably fast, though the words were so silent that one would have to strain just to hear a quick whisper. A small saucer of incense was in front of him, small wisps of steam curling their way into the air.
Suddenly, he bowed his head deeply before rising to his feet. The man lifted up his hand and stared at it with the same wonder he did every single day. He'd never forget what scarred this hand, even after it had left years ago.
Turning his head to the left, he saw that the beads that used to wrap themselves around his hand and down to his arm were silently hanging from the wall. They twinkled from the small amount of moonlight that beamed through the bars. A placid smile erupted onto his face at the irony of where his thoughts were beginning to take him.
--
Death had been inevitable for him, that much he knew. When he had met those certain people that would leave a lasting impression on him, many years bygone, the haunting presence of death still lingered over his head. However, he wasn't exactly afraid. It was calming, knowing that people who he loved and loved back were there with him.
Especially her.
She was like the light of his life, the one who gave him a reason to just be. But they had soon departed, knowing there was too much of a strain to become something more. So he let her go, like a magician frees his doves.
Sometimes he regretted that choice, wishing he could just hold her close to him and forget there was a past of strife.
But this choice he now had would not be one he'd regret. He'd no longer let something plague his conscience.
--
The sword drove into his palm, letting the blood flow freely from the wound. He stared at it intently, barely wincing at the pain. If anything, he was somewhat disheartened that the black hole didn't reappear and claim his life.
Clutching his bleeding hand with the sword still cradled to his chest, he walked over to where the beads hung, glimmering like how the ocean gleams when the sun touches its surface. He lifted them up from their position on the wall and wove them around his arm, much like he used to do in the past.
A sudden sort of grief overtook him as he fell to the floor, still clutching his hand. The beads shattered on the floor and soaked in the rapidly pooling blood beneath his body. A strange sort of pain was in his heart, and he soon realized where the sword was.
Funny how the smallest of moments could overwhelm you.