Hey guys! I'm back and this chapter is nice and long, partly because I feel bad for being away for so long and partly because the beginning is a lot of exposition and I wanted to get some fun stuff in there for you too.
I hope you enjoy and review!
Sesshoumaru Takamatsu woke in the middle of night to a curious feeling.
It felt like the room was humming, or maybe the air itself.
Sesshoumaru rose from his bed and walked across the richly adorned floors of his home, in the wealthy suburb of Weston, to a glass cabinet, similar to the one recently destroyed in his office. Swords of all shapes and sizes, but mostly of Japanese make, filled it, artistically displayed. Aesthetically, there was no true rhyme or reason to it, but one sword among the bunch called to Sesshoumaru's blood. It called out daily to be used, to hunt.
In Sesshoumaru's youth, after his father's death and before his arrival in America to build a business, he had roamed the Japanese countryside. He had been a terror – answering to no one and destroying all who blocked his path. Fools who would challenge him met their demises with looks of terror, but alas, he had no formal weapons. His father's sword, bequeathed to him without its proper brother, was practically useless to Sesshoumaru.
Sesshoumaru's father, having suffered the cold disdain of his son for Certain Actions That Are Never To Be Named, knew he must give his eldest son one of his magnificent swords – if only because Sesshoumaru's half-brother and product of Certain Actions That Are Never To Be Named was not powerful enough in his own right to have both. Unfortunately for Sesshoumaru, it was through these Certain Actions that his father developed a sense of compassion for human life, rather than the merciless killings he had likewise performed beforehand.
So it was that the father of Sesshoumaru placed a powerful and ironic curse on the magnificent sword: a spell that only allowed one to cut flesh with it when the person wielding it had compassion for human life. There could be no merciless killings with this sword, no leisurely deaths. (As it is with magic and twins, the spell happened to leak into its brother blade, but fortunately for Sesshoumaru's younger half-brother who inherited it, he was compassionate.)
Thus Sesshoumaru, angered beyond all comprehension, and burning with righteous indignation: tried to kill his infant half-brother.
To his everlasting embarrassment, he had drawn the sword, intending to stab the child even if the edge could not slice. But when he stood over the crying child, its mother lying on the ground nearby, unconscious from a blow to the head, the blade refused to pierce the boy's skin in any way. It halted an inch above his flesh and no matter how much of his incredible strength Sesshoumaru threw behind the thrust; it would not move any closer.
Furious that his sword was impotent, Sesshoumaru left the babe, declaring that if he could not kill the boy with his father's sword, it wasn't worth the effort.
He hailed to a demon sword-maker, the very one who had crafted the twin swords of his father. The demon had the appearance of an aging, male human and lived in a smithy on a high mountain in northern Japan protected by wards and spells to keep humans from entering. Sesshoumaru demanded the curse be lifted from the sword but the old, man-like creature had shook his head and declared it couldn't be done. He said the spell was too powerful and not his in the first place. He demanded that Sesshoumaru leave and refused to give into his threats or demands.
Normally, Sesshoumaru would leave after decapitating the demon with his sword (for the curse was against human flesh – not demon) but the somewhat unsubtle gestures the sword-maker's apprentice had been making behind the old demon's back had piqued his curiosity. When Sesshoumaru was able to speak with the demon apprentice alone, the shifty-eyed demon offered to make him a demon sword – as deadly as they come. Sesshoumaru agreed and the sword was made.
Unfortunately, the sword's demonic power was something that needed to be conquered and only a strong will could accomplish that. The apprentice's will was weak and he succumbed to its lustful demands for blood, death and wanton destruction. Sesshoumaru had returned on the day agreed for the finish of the blade only to find the apprentice had murdered his master and was petting the sharp blade in the corner of the shop, his fingers cutting on its edge.
Sesshoumaru had been disgusted by the demon's lack of control and would have slain him anyway even if he hadn't attacked without cause.
With the demon's body twitching in pieces and blood slowly crawling across the floor, Sesshoumaru bent down, picked up the demon blade, and in a matter of minutes, conquered the raging sword's aura. Such was the strength of will of the warrior, Sesshoumaru. He continued traveling the Japanese countryside for years, burning the fires of his youth with thoughtless actions and an icy demeanor. It wasn't until he had finally matured into adulthood that he calmed and killed only when the need to defend himself arose. After a few incidents that are better left discussed another time, he made the decision to leave his homeland and come to America to begin his business and live his life peacefully.
Sesshoumaru had named this sword Tokijin and practiced with it every day. He spent hours in the dojo he'd had built in his house, reminiscent of his Japanese homeland, going through the motions of various sword dances and practice sequences.
However, it was not this sword – not that bloodthirsty, violent creation of hell that was the most important piece in Sesshoumaru's collection. Tokijin was powerful, yes, but if he lost it, it would not be a great loss for he could win any fight. For all its demonic birth and power, it was still but a sword.
His father's sword, however… that was another matter all together.
The sword was smaller and more delicate than Tokijin, with more of a curve to its blade that the ramrod straight steel of the demonic weapon. It was beautiful and deadly, but without the blunt and rather crude destruction of Tokijin. Rather, it was artful in its decimations, bringing victory without the hollow feeling Tokijin often left behind. Its hilt was plain and bound in yellow leather with a rounded end to prevent the hand from slipping off in the heat of battle.
(Not that Sesshoumaru ever lost his grip. He was a creature of control, someone who prized his ability to allow nothing to slip, to make no mistakes. Hence, he wore a mask of disinterest the stoic attitude and allowed nothing to crack his veneer. Emotion was weakness and there was no reason to allow enemies to engage so easy a target as one who wore his heart in his sleeve. It wasn't a matter of being callous, really, but of being a survivor – being the one who hunts rather than flees.)
Tonight, however, it wasn't the hellish blade that made the air hum and Sesshoumaru's hackles rise on end, but Tenseiga, his father's sword. It was disturbed in a way Sesshoumaru hadn't recognized in a long, long time.
The last time Tenseiga had wept like this, his father had died.
Sesshoumaru entered his office the next morning just as the sun was rising. Golds and reds spread across the polished wood of his desk and the design of the rug. The newly repaired display case shone brightly in the morning sun.
He crossed the room in the same graceful yet purposeful stride he had always had and tapped in the ten-number code before pressing his thumb to the recognition pad. The security system beeped and he was able to open the glass doors to place inside his father's Tenseiga and his demon sword Tokijin. When he closed the doors, not only could he hear the sound of the alarm system restarting, but he could feel the brush of their magics as the security spells fell into place.
Sesshoumaru was a cautious person and despite having not killed a single creature – human, animal or demon – in many, many years, he always kept on alert. Dropping his guard would take an act of a god, especially after the violent life he had lead.
A faint scent caught his nose as he turned back to his desk and he paused. Unable to catalogue it from the momentary whiff he had gotten, he took in a deeper breath.
Hundreds of smells poured into his nostrils. He could smell the polish the cleaners had used on his desk, the leather from the swords' hilts, the leather of his shoes and the detergent on his clothes. He could smell Jaken, his manservant, who he had been in the presence of only moments before and who was in his office a good bit of the day. (Unfortunately.) He had thankfully left to go fetch the girl who was supposed to be acting as his secretary.
But the scent he had been searching for was one he was unused to smelling and it threw him off just a bit. For you see, humans had an annoying tendency to cover themselves with perfumes and colognes, flowered shampoos and scented soaps. Not only that, but Sesshoumaru's disgust with the general population of slobbering, ill-mannered, poorly-behaved human race turned even their natural scents into something terrible. There had been only one exception before and now… if he wasn't just imagining things… it seemed as if there were two.
He couldn't put a face to the scent right away, but he could tell it was a female. She was somewhat young (especially so, compared to him) and except for the faint odor of blandly-scented soap and shampoo, it was entirely her natural scent.
And what a scent it was. Pure. That was the only way to describe it. The person who had this scent had a pure soul – one without any terrible hatred or greed or any taint at all. Sesshoumaru had only encountered one such person before in his life and she had been only a little girl. Who could imagine that such a person could age as much as this person had and not have lost even a little of her purity?
All humans were base creatures, Sesshoumaru had discovered early on, and the stench of their vices was terrible, oftentimes no different than a demon's. Now, obviously, a demon's very nature was more given to acts of depravity and evil so it's true it would have been even rarer to find a demon with a pure soul but even finding a human with one was surprising.
A truly pure soul, like this girl's, was different. Most of the time when people live, they suffer through traumas and hardships. These things harden a person or cause them to change in some other way. Born – everything is pure – but as life goes on and things happen, the purity slips. This doesn't mean everyone turns into creatures of darkness or anything; it's just a fact of life. There were some people with scents Sesshoumaru found acceptable, but he never enjoyed smelling them like he did the pure soul.
But someone born with this kind of pure soul could go through these hardships and suffer and feel pain and never lose their purity. It wasn't even a question of sexual purity, because the only way that affected a person's scent only lasted for a couple of weeks at the most.
That's not to say pure people are perfect. They can have failings; they just aren't destroyed by them, like so many of those martyrs out there.
Sesshoumaru inhaled again and wondered who it could be. He followed the smell back to his door, sniffing lightly to make sure it was getting stronger. Opening them, he realized the scent filled the anteroom to his office, but mostly it was concentrated on the desk there.
Oh no. That girl? That destructive beast of a girl was pure? What did she even look like again?
Japanese, he realized with a minute amount of approval. Or at least partly. Her eyes (if he remembered correctly) had been blue, not brown. He didn't remember much else because it hadn't been necessary to take notice. Why would he care for some young female, barely out of high school?
Sesshoumaru was filled with sudden disgust for himself. How had he not noticed this before? True, living in a city required a sort of… filtering to be employed to keep out some of the more pungent smells so he didn't completely collapse, but he hadn't realized just how much he was filtering out. What if she had been a danger?
Especially now with Tenseiga still mourning, he would have to stay on top of things.
Even if that meant having to smell Jaken more.
"WAKE UP!"
Kagome groaned into her pillow.
"What are you?" Kagome demanded. "My new, annoyingly loud alarm clock?"
"I am no one's alarm clock!" Jaken screeched at the top of his lungs. "And you will be late! My lord has been in his office for forty-five minutes now and demands your presence! Who are you to keep him waiting?"
Kagome pushed herself onto her forearms and slowly turned to glare at the toady man next to her mattress. He gulped audibly at the look on her face.
"Do you know," Kagome spoke in a low voice. "That you end every sentence that isn't a question in an exclamation point?" The toad-man just continued to stare at her. "And did you know that it is very annoying?"
When Kagome didn't continue, Jaken opened and shut his mouth a few times, trying to work his throat.
"You, you," he stuttered, trying to build back up his bravado. A determined look came over his face and he suddenly straightened as if someone had replaced his spine with a pole.
"You should not speak that way to me! I am my lord's most trusted follower! You are nothing but scum of the earth, not worthy to adorn his shoe!"
Kagome rolled her eyes and got out of bed. "Whatever," she muttered. "It's not like he's even really your lord. He just a man. There's not even lords and stuff in America anyway. Go back to medieval England."
Jaken huffed as Kagome walked to the bathroom.
"I am not from England! I am from Japan!"
"So am I," Kagome threw back over her shoulder before slamming the door behind her.
"It is obvious you have never touched the soil of Japan in your life!" Jaken seemed to disagree. "Maybe your ancestors were Japanese but you are not worthy to claim the same!"
"Maybe you're right!" Kagome shouted through the door and around her toothbrush. "I'll just go with what my mom is: French Canadian. Am I worthy of claiming that soil?"
She spat into the sink and walked back into her bedroom.
"Now get out, munchkin," Immediately regretting the word as she jerked her thumb to the bedroom door. Stupid conscience… "I need to change."
"How dare you!" Jaken sputtered once more. Oh no… he didn't just look angry. Was it Just Kagome or did he look kinda hurt as well?
Kagome scratched the back of her neck and looked at the floor sheepishly.
"Yeah," she demurred. "You're right. That was uncalled for."
She couldn't even look him in the eye! God, she was such a softie! This guy was a total jerk, waking her up in the morning in the rudest way possible, screeching at her, insulting her, and she felt bad for calling him "munchkin". It wasn't even that bad a name and the guy probably had some genetic defect he couldn't help and made him feel self-conscious which lead to his rude behavior.
Oh wow. Now she felt worse. This guy probably spent his whole life hearing stupid comments like that and even though hers had been off-hand and not really biting, it probably still hurt. He probably just wanted people to accept him for who he was, rather than pick on his size.
"I'm sorry," Kagome apologized sincerely. "I shouldn't have said it; it was wrong."
Jaken glared at her suspiciously but she didn't seen. She could feel his disapproval coming off him in waves, though and it made her feel worse.
"Would you like something to eat?" she offered, eyes still on her toes. "I've got orange juice and bagels and cream cheese. You could eat while I get dressed."
Jaken sniffed and looked away. Kagome looked up at him.
"I don't need your food, girl" he said.
"Okay," Kagome shrugged, not knowing what to do. "Well… if you change your mind while I'm getting ready, just go for it. It's no problem. Really."
Jaken left as Kagome went to her closet.
Twenty minutes later, when Kagome had finished dressing and pulling back her hair, she walked into the kitchen area.
Jaken was standing by the door, ready to go and looking as ornery as ever. He made the same disparaging comments about the time and her clothes and her unworthiness to work for his wonderful and perfect master that Kagome was coming to realize would be regular.
But she noticed. Oh yes she did. She saw those little crumbs sprinkled on his shirt front and she noticed the knife covered with cream cheese in the sink.
Maybe she wouldn't be best friends with Jaken, but she could try to at least not be enemies.
Jaken would so do that, the little brat. Review, please!
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I am also on A Single Spark with the same fic title and the pseudonym AnitaGrace.