By twelve noon he had not gotten a call from anyone at the school nor Kagome, so Sesshoumaru stretched and left his room for the kitchen. He pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and downed it, tossing the empty plastic into the recycle bin. He perused the rest of the fridge and decided to forgo eating anything there. They were all leftovers from an undecided time and so must contain a questionable substance inside of the unassuming containers.
They'd have to go grocery shopping soon, he mused, as he picked up a slightly-wrinkled apple and bit into it. He made his way back to the stairs but became sidetracked when he glanced into the living room.
It was rarely used. Both of the boys liked to keep to their bedrooms. And there was no one else in the house to occupy it.
A brown leather couch, almost pristine in its condition, sat on the eastern wall. It faced, on the western wall, a large HD television at least three feet wide gathering dust. The northern wall was taken up by an elaborate brick fireplace. It was this that his attention was focused on.
The family crest was mounted nailed onto the brick. A replica, of course, as this was not the main house, but almost indistinguishable from the real.
Three swords nestled in a patch of bronze and copper grasses, as if they had been freshly stabbed into the dirt. One was larger than the others, on the left, curved like a scimitar and just as wide. Its handle was wrapped in leather that was frayed and falling apart. Tessaiga. The one on the right was straight and true, polished and bright, a meticulously-kept hilt. Tenseiga. The one thrust through the middle was the longest, reminiscent of a nodachi, the tip resting against the mantle. A pale pink-ish lavender jewel the size of his fist glowed on the hilt that resembled a piece of driftwood or bone. Souunga.
He regarded them coolly, the unfinished apple in his hand forgotten. The realm of man, the realm of heaven, and the realm of hell. All three were represented here. Protection, life, and conquest.
All he felt when looking at it was contempt.
Contempt directed towards his father.
"You died," he said to the still air, and the words fell at his feet. "You made him and you left him here."
There was no answer from the swords. Naturally. He felt like he was going mad. But the words kept coming.
"What do you want me to do, father? Take care of your unwanted offspring? The bane of our family? Did you even love him at all, to leave him here with all that? I'm tired of it already. Exhausted. He was foisted off on me and here I am. Do you want me to kill him? Is that it? Did you sire him just to let him die by my hand because I'm too tired to have any inhibitions?"
He tsked, biting his lip.
"He's already dying. I don't even need to do anything."
It was almost instinctual, the movement, as if he was possessed, as he brought his arm up and threw the apple with all his might at the swords. It clanged against the blade of Souunga like a large brass bell and plopped to the floor, where it rolled under the couch.
Sesshoumaru turned around with the accompaniment of vibrating metal, immediately angry at himself for having such a strange outburst, saying words he hadn't known he had meant until just then. And angry at himself for having meant them.
There was a sharp sound and then a loud cacophony behind him. He paused and turned, and his eyes widened at what he saw.
Tessaiga lay on the exquisite rug before the fireplace, shaking slightly as it settled from the momentum of its fall. He watched it grow still, dust motes having been stirred up by the commotion dancing in the sunlight peeking through the shut blinds to shine unassumingly on the steel.
The end of the blade was pointing towards him.
"...Is that your answer, dad?"
Silence.
"So be it."