In the Night by Mikaela
1997
Part I
1997
There was never a doubt in his mind that the world was a mysterious place. It was filled with wonders that very few were privileged to know, and he was one of those few people. He knew of the races that traversed the world, and knew that he was one of the many that had been discarded into mythology. In the end, it came down to two separate groups of similar beings: humans and demons. The human race was not very diverse except for in appearance – they were a people founded on the same model, each group of them painted differently than the last. The demons were far more complex. Their race was diverse in nature, culture, appearance, actions, and systems: in some way or another, each of these diverse peoples had leaked into the populous human race. Most became what was known as “monsters,” a very broad category littered with lies, misconceptions, incorrect facts, and myth. Vampires, werewolves, sea monsters, demons, hell raisers, ghosts, and spirits all fell into this category; the list was endless, but Sesshoumaru knew from what each human monster was derived from. He would be classified with the appearance of something similar to a vampire, though with the actions of the non-hell related demons. The vampire classification came because he was attractive – and he was very, very aware of this – and the fact that demons were not widely regarded to have attractive physical forms. Apparently, they were supposed to be some strange mix of animal and man and hell raiser. He was classified as demon in action because, disregarding the fact he was demon, he was of the selfish, power hungry, egotistical type. That was merely what he was, and it would not change. Sesshoumaru was the center of Sesshoumaru’s world. Yes, there were others in consideration, but he was held in highest in his own priority. Thus, it irked him that the world had changed in such a way that he could not come out as being what he was – he, supposedly, was party of mythology: he did not exist.
That idea angered him, but the emotion had been dealt with a disregarded many centuries ago. The great Sesshoumaru had found other ways to exert his power after the acceptance that he would have to masquerade amongst the despicable humans. After some years, he found that he had more power working in the darkness than he had as a man roaming as the all-powerful demon – his reputation already established amongst the demon society, which was a very tight nit group these past centuries, he could influence events in the human world with the easiest of methods. Humans were a greedy sort, and all it took was a few hundred thousand yen here or there to change things to his liking. Having been around for so long, Sesshoumaru had managed to amass a wealth in some smart investments and in the sale of ancient artifacts he had collected over his years of existence. Effectively achieving such wealth, the demon soon had a comfortable life in solitude. Jaken and Rin were long dead, and though he knew that his Mother was still existing somewhere, the man now preferred to live without company. Who need connections and weaknesses that came with companionships and relations? Rin’s often kidnappings as a child had been far too tedious and repetitive; as much as he liked the long-dead girl, he wasn’t about to willingly put him in a situation that allowed such obligations to another being.
This is not to imply that Sesshoumaru did not allow himself connections to other people and demons. He had many business and political connections about the world that allowed him to continue to live comfortably, and every few centuries he would find a female to act as his amusement – sexually or otherwise – for an extended period of time; however, he would never been and never would be as fond of them as he was of Rin. Admittedly, his heart had ached for some time after her death at the end of the Muromachi period, but he soon let those feelings fade. Rin was gone, and that was the end of the story. Why hold on to emotions that only made him weak? Soon, all the effects that she had had on him eroded away with time. Only a few were left in this day and age, but he refused to let them affect him any longer. Again, he considered it weakness to emotionally rely or obligate himself to another.
This day, he walked the streets of Japan in a black trench coat, his boots tapping the sidewalk to create the rhythm of his steps. It was pleasant to be back on his home islands, he thought. America was such a dirty place, though they claimed to be superior. Such a thought was ridiculous, for the country had a scarce amount of culture and a gross population of what he considered to be ignorant fools. For many years, he had yearned for the soil and culture of the lands in which he had grown, ruled, and lived. Now, he had finally returned to a familiar ground after an absence that allowed all humans he had known to die, effectively concealing his immortal identity to the human populous.
It was 1:42 AM, spring 1997, and the clouds in the sky were crying small raindrops on the darkened world. Sesshoumaru had just left the airport, preferring to walk in the smog polluted rain than be accompanied in a cab with a driver that smelled profusely of sweat and cigarettes, which had been his option in vehicle transportation when he had existed the airport. The pitter-patter of raindrops provided a fitting background music for his walk, calm as he was. He had left the islands in 1920, before the start of the second World War, when things have been relatively calm. The remain reminded him of those times he had left behind. Traveling to America during the Great Depression had been beneficial to him, as well as necessary. Having been noticed as a never-aging individual, Sesshoumaru had been fortunate enough to leave the country at a time where he could easily find the underground societies on a different soil, which was crucial to establish himself a property and standing in the demonic community. Returning home, he did not need to seek such – a few well-sent letters of return had him new property in Tokyo as provided by old acquaintances and business partners. (his old home had been in Okinawa, and had been leveled to the ground by the A-bomb) and a place to start again. He would stay in the darkness this time, to extend the length of time in which he could live in Japan. Perhaps, were he crafty enough, he could masquerade as a family line. Some demons managed to remain in one place by crafting together a lie that they were always the next son or daughter – maybe even a cousin – in the family line, if they found a property isolated enough or in a quiet area of a city that frowned upon socialization.
During his walk, he noticed the westernization of his land. Outwardly, it had no effect on him. Yet, a piece of his heart pined for the olden days. He had watched the traditions of his lands fall over time, just as the samurai fell. Recollection and observation of the world were halted after some hours of walking, when another scent came with the rain.
…Half-Brother.
Vile spawn. Vile half-breed.
Even so, his dirty blood had still been the true master of Tessaiga. He had risen and fallen with their Father’s fang at his side. Considering this, irony was sweet in that InuYasha met his fate in the face of illness. And so, he was a dead man. Knowing that the brash hanyou had been buried and decomposed many centuries ago, Sesshoumaru did doubt his nose for a second. However, that was InuYasha’s scent, coming from his left. Up the stairs, past a temple arch, into a shrine compound, his half-brother’s scent was lingering. But why there? Yes, Tokyo had once been the site of that pathetic village that the boy had been fond of, but his scent from then should have left on the winds so long ago. Sesshoumaru wondered, pondered, as stopped walking. The shrine was an open compound, and it would be simple for him to climb the steps and investigate. But he want to? Should he revisit a past that was long gone? A past in which Rin had existed? Would that Sesshoumaru return, if he cracked open the lid on past events?
No. No, he wouldn’t. Sesshoumaru wouldn’t let that happen. The man that had existed was weak, that Sesshoumaru believed. That was what he accepted as fact. And he was confident he would not falter in restraining the memories and feelings he had once been subject to. So, looking left and right, Sesshoumaru pushed himself off the sidewalk with powerful legs and leapt up to the top step, landing without a sound. No one had seen him. No one had heard him. He was the aristocratic assassin again, in just that moment.
Your scent, half-brother. It annoys me still.
The source of the scent was soon discovered, near the back of the compound. There was a small wooden shed, as best as Sesshoumaru could describe its state, that stood lonesome in the darkness. The rain poured off its roof, creating moat of puddles about the structure. A lock on the door hung on its ring unhinged, rusted and worn with age. Within the wooden structure was the source of his brother’s scent. Without hesitation, Sesshoumaru strode to the shed, slid open the door, and entered. Closing the door behind him on the off chance someone wandered up into the shrine and saw an open door as sign of alarm, it became dark. Though Sesshoumaru’s keen eyes could see almost clearly, he found it bothersome to strain his sight. Investigation was far more effective under light. From within his trench coat pocket he withdrew a lighter bought in America, silver and rectangular. It was the sort with a lid, which he opened with his thumb. The flame burst to life, illuminating a small section of what he found to be a well house. From the upper level, he jumped down to the dirt floor. Stairs were a waste of time when he did not need them.
InuYasha’s scent was rising from within the well. Peculiar, to say the very least. In sake of investigation and in disregard for fire hazards, Sesshoumaru let the resilient flame fall with the lighter down the wooden well – it extinguished itself half way down, but the illumination was enough. There was nothing in the well. Hoisting himself over the rim, Sesshoumaru fell to retrieve his lighter. This action was well timed, he discovered, as the door to the shack opened just as the last of his long hair whipped down to the pits of the dark well with him. He landed just as silently as when he had jumped up the shrine’s steps, taking his lighter swiftly and storing it in his pocket for safe keeping. Pressing himself in the darkest corner of the well to conceal himself (which was easy, due to the night and the absence of a moon behind the clouds), the demon listened to the happenings above.
A woman, crying. He determined her sex by scent; there was a familiarity in her smell.
Her steps down the well stairs.
Rainfall against the roof.
The padding of her feet on dirt, approaching the well.
Creaking wood as she gripped the lip of the well.
Drip, drip – her tears hitting the bottom of the well, at his feet.
Creaking wood as she gripped harder and harder…
Her knees hitting the ground.
Sobs.
Sesshoumaru seemed only briefly curious of the woman. He was more concerned on why his brother’s scent was strongest here, where there was no source. Again, he had no doubt that the world was mysterious. Perhaps he would have to leave InuYasha’s scent to that reason, and forget about it. Why was he wasting time with that half-breed anyways? The boy, scent or not, was long dead in the ground. Sesshoumaru knew that. Sesshoumaru was never wrong.
He turned his attention to the woman above, still sobbing, after accepting that the scent would have to be disregarded. His investigation had been fruitless, and admittedly, he found his interest waning. The more immediate issue on his mind was who the woman was. Her scent was familiar. Perhaps she was a reincarnation of someone he knew – maybe the whore from Moscow he had taken in until she died of cancer, back in 1802…? No. That wasn’t it.
And then, after a moment, he heard what he needed to identify the woman.
“Inu…Yasha…”
The weak sobbing whisper from above caused his abdomen to tense – it felt as if something heavy had dropped to the lowest portions of his inner torso. If memory served him well, and it always did, that was the voice of a woman he used to know through that vile half-breed: Kikyo, was that her name? No. Her name had been Kagome, the strange girl in the inappropriate clothing… The junior high school uniform. He paused when he reached the realization. Indeed, she had been wearing a modern school uniform.
”Inu…Yasha…”
Again, the hanyou’s name. He was allowed deep thought about her attire from the past for only a moment, for the sound of creaking wood brought him from his mind. He could see her now, falling. Falling down, down, towards him. Instinct was what caught the girl. His voluntary mind was filled with other thoughts as she fell: was she so pathetically suicidal over such a disgrace as InuYasha, or did she find some solace in the bottom of the well where he had found his half-brother’s scent?
He heard a gasp from his arms. His conscious mind recognized her presence.
“Inu…?”
Kagome’s voice. Yes, it was her. He knew this now. He could see her face in the darkness, a face that he had never expected to see again in his life. It almost…irritated him. Why did something like this have to be brought to his attention? Because of foolish curiosity over the unexplained scent of his moronic half-brother? How inconvenient. The past was the past, and he did want it looking him in the face like it was now.
He dropped her without ceremony.
All that was left of him before the second was over was unnatural wind, and the poor girl could only blink in confusion as tears continued to fall down her reddened cheeks.