InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Tsubaki's Revenge ❯ Kuroshin ( Chapter 12 )

Disclaimer: This story is based on "Inuyasha," copyrighted by Rumiko Takahashi. No infringement of copyright intended or implied.

 

 

Tsubaki's Revenge, Part XII: Kuroshin

 

His body did not want to wake up. He growled, trying to clench his hands, his youkai instincts shrieking that something was seriously wrong. But his eyes would not open, his body would not stir, and a heavy blanket seemed to envelope him and suffocate him. It wanted him to sleep. Sleep forever.

 

No! He snarled, angry, feeling a whisper of fire running through him. He would not sleep! He urged the fire to become hotter, to burn through the suffocating blanket. It responded, and he shivered as the fire burned in his veins, growling in what was somehow a mixture of pain and ecstasy. Wake! Wake! Wake!

 

His eyes were open; he was on his side, staring at a mat-covered floor and a plain paper wall. The palms of his hands hurt. He raised one hand to his face and discovered it was clenched in a tight fist. Blood dripped. Blinking a little, he opened his hand. His claws looked longer than normal. That didn't make sense. He arched his fingers, cracking his knuckles, then clenched and unclenched his hand several times. He examined his fingers again, and decided he was still half asleep. Of course his claws weren't longer.

 

Rolling onto his back, Inuyasha groaned. His head hurt, his mouth tasted absolutely foul, and his stomach—

 

He barely managed to get to all fours before his stomach tried to eject itself through his mouth. The paroxysm was brief, but left Inuyasha panting, head hanging, half-dazed and waiting for anything to feel right again.

 

Footsteps behind him kicked him out of the daze. One ear pivoted. The odd combination of youkai and ink and paper came to his nose, and his body reacted before his thoughts. Ears snapping back, he growled, tensing, his feet shifting so that his toes were pressed against the floor.

 

The footsteps came to a halt. “Please do not attempt to attack me,” said the shikigami. “I am shielded against your attack. It is also fact that I am not here to hurt you.”

 

Inuyasha hesitated, but his throbbing head and his queasy stomach made him reluctant to start something he wasn't sure he could finish. Especially when he was on all fours, with his opponent behind him. Backing up from the small puddle of liquid stench, Inuyasha pivoted and sat down cross-legged on the edge of the futon, noting absently that at least this time, they hadn't stripped him completely naked. Ears half-back, he looked at the shikigami.

 

Kuroshin bowed. “I wish to apologize for your illness. It was necessary to give you a potion to counteract the poison, and then it was also required to keep you asleep while the mistress recovered. The herbal tea was intended for youkai, and while it was effective, in combination with the mistress' spell, I feared that it might also make you ill.” He raised the bowl he was holding. “This will ease the distress of your stomach.”

 

“Keh—why should I accept anything from you?” Inuyasha snorted, folding his arms across his chest. “It's probably got a spell on it.”

 

“It does not. I made this myself; my mistress is otherwise occupied, and left your care to me.”

 

“And I should believe you?”

 

“The mistress did not create the ability to lie, in me.”

 

Inuyasha stared at the small puppet. It was totally unreadable. If it had emotions, it did not give out any scent related to emotions, and the white face was inhumanly calm. His ears twitched as he sniffed, trying to make out the contents of the bowl by odor. He smelled chicken broth and herbs. Eyes narrowing a bit, he tried to identify them and their uses. Fearing that he would end up on his own, his mother had taught him as much about herbal lore as she had been able to get him to learn—which hadn't always been much, to his later regret. He'd learned more on his own, though until he'd asked Kikyo one time, he hadn't known the names of everything he'd figured out to use.

 

“The broth contains salt, ginger and chamomile,” said Kuroshin.

 

Safe enough, if the shikigami was telling the truth. “Why?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Why make something to help me? I am a captive of your mistress; she intends to kill me.”

 

“That is true,” admitted Kuroshin with his unnatural calmness. “But I was created to serve. The mistress has not given specific orders on how I care for you. Unless she tells me otherwise, if I see a need that you have, it is my—desire, one might say—to serve that need.”

 

Inuyasha scowled at him, ears flattening a trifle more. He didn't like this. He was a prisoner, so why wasn't he being treated as one? He expected torture and pain, not this polite—thing—who was trying to do him good for no reason.

 

He wanted to throw the bowl in the shikigami's face. He wanted to snarl defiance and throw his claws at the thing, shield or no shield. But the new, annoyingly cautious part of him seemed to still be in charge. Moreover, his mouth was watering, and the lingering nausea was not hiding the awareness that he was both hungry and thirsty.

 

Inuyasha sighed, and forced himself to be polite. “Thank-you,” he said stiffly, unfolding his arms. Kuroshin walked forward, with no apparent concern for a sneak attack, and held out the bowl. Accepting, the hanyo took a single swallow, keeping his eyes fixed on the shikigami. It tasted a bit odd, thanks to the herbs, but his body clamored for more. He refused it, trying to remember how long it had taken for disaster to strike after he had stupidly gulped down that bowl of stew some days before. Nothing seemed to happen, save for a slight warmness in his belly, so he took a second swallow. The third swallow followed at a shorter interval. At the fourth, craving overtook caution, and he downed the remaining contents in one breath.

 

Kuroshin took back the bowl. “When you feel ready, I will show you where you may clean up. I have provided fresh robes for you.”

 

Inuyasha rubbed an itch behind one ear. “You keep talking like I'm a guest, not a prisoner,” he growled. “What if I try to escape?”

 

“My mistress has prepared a collar. If you come into contact with any of her barriers, or if you attack her or myself, the collar will appear around your neck and punish you.”

 

Inuyasha stiffened. His ears went flat and he snarled, lurching to a crouched position, claws digging into the tatami mat. “I - am - not - a - dog!” he spat.

 

“True. You are a hanyo,” said the shikigami. “But as with many creatures, your neck is vulnerable, is it not? My mistress has perceived that you are much more dangerous than she originally thought. She did not explain, but to me, it is only logical, that she seeks to control you with such an item.”

 

Inuyasha glowered at him, growling, struggling to get his outrage under control. The shikigami might understand and believe his `logic,' but the hanyo knew better. He had not forgotten what the witch had called him. She wasn't the first human to look at his ears and call him `dog' or `puppy,' which he hated being called worse than being called `hanyo.' He remembered how she'd looked at him yesterday when he'd first woken up, how she'd mocked him. His claws ripped through the mat, as he flexed his fingers, continuing to growl. He was no one's `puppy', no one's `dog', and anyone who tried to put a collar on him was going to get a handful of claws in his or her face!

 

“Please do not damage the mats, hanyo-san.”

 

Inuyasha blinked, his hands going still. Startled by such a nonsensical request, he stared at the shikigami. “Who the fuck cares about a few mats?” he demanded. “That witch wants to put a dog collar on me, wants to kill me, and you want me to be worried about a stupid mat?”

 

“She is a dark priestess, not a witch. Please refer to her properly.” The shikigami tilted his head to one side. “Why do you indulge in rude language? Does it not make it more difficult to obtain what is needed?”

 

Inuyasha blinked again, taken aback by the strange entity. Easing his weight back, his hands relaxed unconsciously. “Why should I bother to be polite, when nearly everyone I meet wants to kill me? Including your mistress.”

 

The shikigami hesitated. “Why does everyone want to kill you? Does everyone want to kill you? Is that truly fact?”

 

He opened his mouth, then shut it. “Almost everyone,” Inuyasha grudgingly acknowledged, looking away. “Everyone else runs away in fear—well, most run away.” His ears and shoulders sagged as he remembered Korana. “A few … don't,” he whispered. Something in him lurched a little, and he wondered, with a pang, if he'd ever get to see her again.

 

“But, why do people fear or hate you?” asked the insistent shikigami. “What have you done, to make people react so?”

 

Inuyasha gave him a sour look. “I exist, that's all. I'm hanyo.”

 

“Merely because you exist, people hate and kill you? Why is that? I understand that a hanyo is the offspring of a youkai and a mortal mating—that is sufficient to cause hatred and fear? I do not understand.”

 

“What the hell are you, that you don't know about hanyos?” demanded Inuyasha, when he finally was able to get over the incomprehensible idea that someone didn't know.

 

“I am a shikigami, created by Tsubaki to serve her. I was made to be independent of her direct control, yet loyal to her; I was made to speak truth, and to seek for truth, that I can better serve her. The knowledge I was created with includes what hanyos are, but not why they come to be, or that they are something to be hated or feared. I wish to be informed.”

 

Inuyasha fidgeted. “Look, everyone thinks hanyos are abominations and ought to be killed; if you think you're stronger than the hanyo, you try to kill it, if you're not, you run away thinking it's going to kill you. That's all. Now, could we—could you show me where I'm supposed to go?”

 

“Forgive me, this matter is uncomfortable for you. If you will follow me?”

 

Inuyasha scrambled to his feet with a sense of relief. The little man was just about the most confusing person he had ever met, and he'd rather do almost anything than continue the weird conversation.

 

* * * * *

 

Four rings nestled inside one larger ring, sitting atop a densely written piece of paper, which lay upon the altar. Each ring was black, with barely visible sutras written within and without. At the top of the spell sheet was a paper cutout, on which was written another sutra, in blood. The cutout was two pieces glued together: between those pieces, neatly coiled, was a single, silver hair. It leaned against a stand that held the silver hilt of a thin, double-edged knife. It was a very strange knife, for half of it was made of pale, pink quartz crystal, while the other half was black obsidian. Both edges were razor sharp. At the tip of the knife, the two materials spiraled together, as if they been melted and drawn out with a glassmaker's skill, until they merged into a pinkish-gray tip that was sharper than any needle.

 

Tsubaki eyed the arrangement with satisfaction. She had labored over the rings for most of the day, infusing much of her own spiritual power into the rings and the spells. Even a taiyoukai would have trouble with those spells, of that, she was certain. The half-breed would never be able to break them. Though she hadn't specifically asked him to, Kuroshin had managed to keep the hanyo from losing his temper and attacking, which had given her time to add more power and protection to the spells.

 

The smell of roasted chicken wafted through the house. Tsubaki smiled. The hanyo must be starving by now, despite the broth that Kuroshin had so thoughtfully provided. She would be generous. She would show him the advantages of cooperating with her.

 

“Kuroshin,” she murmured. “The hanyo?”

 

Sitting on the west porch, watching the sunset, the shikigami replied. There was a moment of hesitation, and then he continued. Mistress…if the hanyo is an abomination, as you say, then why did it use the Shikon No Tama to save the lives of those villagers? Why did it not simply try to save itself? If the hanyo is by nature so vile, so evil, that it does not deserve to live, then where did it find the selflessness to wish for the lives of others, before its own?

 

Tsubaki stiffened. Kuroshin had asked her about hanyos a bit earlier; she had given him the response she had learned as a child. Hanyos were vile, disgusting results of shameful coupling between youkai and mortal; there was nothing of good in them, and they should be killed wherever they were found.

 

“Who can understand a hanyo?” she said finally. “It probably had some nasty plans for those people, and didn't want to lose them.”

 

That does not make sense, mistress, came the shikigami's reply. The hanyo was horribly injured, according to the villagers. If it were evil, why would it not have used the power for itself, for healing and strength?

 

“Why don't you ask it, if you want to know?” she snapped, exasperated. She had designed Kuroshin's curiosity into him, and it had already served her well on several occasions, but his need to know could be so annoying at times.

 

She regretted making the suggestion almost as soon as she made it. A lower murmur of voices came from the porch. The hanyo says he wanted them to live, because it wasn't right, that a monster killed them simply to make the Shikon No Tama more evil.

 

That sounded like something Kikyo would say, Tsubaki thought sourly. No wonder she had fallen for the hanyo. Self-sacrificing idiots, the both of them.

 

Mistress … I think you should let the hanyo go.

 

Tsubaki's eyes went wide. “What?” she exclaimed. “Why should I?”

 

Your power may not be enough to hold him. I have been watching him. His aura is stronger than even this morning. When he is angered, his youki grows. You indicated that you sensed his youki was constrained, somehow. What if, at some point, he is able to surpass this limitation, and call on the full strength of his father's taiyoukai blood? He might find the strength to shatter your spells. He might kill you.

 

Acting out of impatience and greed, she had attacked Kikyo directly, rather than waiting for her earlier curse to work. Because of that, she had nearly died in the backlash. Experimenting with the power she had obtained from the first youkai she had bargained with, she had created a shikigami that would be useful less as an attacker, than as a servant and adviser. She had remembered the bored, young girl who had spied on her father many times as he had sat in council with his samurai. She had remembered how he had always seemed to turn to one particular man for advice; and how that man had, at times, flatly disputed with his overlord. From her own experience, she had expected him to knock down and berate his subordinate, but he hadn't. And she had remembered his explanation, he had given his visiting nephew once: “People who always agree with you will give you bad advice, sooner or late. Isao has never wavered in loyalty to me, but he speaks to truth, and does not fear to confront me. Such a man is more precious than gold, youngster.”

 

She had striven to create such an adviser. She thought she had succeeded fairly well—he had disagreed with her course of action a few times, and at least once, her corrected action had clearly been superior. So she should consider his warning.

 

Her hands curled into fists as she stared at the altar. She wanted the hanyo quivering at her feet, whimpering. She wanted that piece of filth that her body was so attracted to broken and bloody, reduced to ugliness and powerlessness. If she let him go, healed and strong, how many times would that dream repeat? How many times over the next days, moons, years, would she find herself falling into a reverie about those those eyes, those hands, that long, silky fall of hair?

 

“I need its power,” she told the shikigami.

 

You have been obtaining power from the youkai you bargain with, he pointed out. You can continue to gain strength from them, can you not?

 

“At the price of my soul,” she reminded him. “And not nearly as much power as it has. If I can drain it, learn the secret of how its human and youkai powers are merged, I'll gain more from it in a day, than from years of bargaining with youkai.”

 

But is the gain worth the risk? The miko Kikyo is searching for him, is she not? What if she finds this place, before you have gained his power? She has defeated you before. With much of your power tied into controlling the hanyo, will she not be able to defeat you again?

 

“She's already taken my bait, and is searching the wrong direction,” she told him. “I have no intention of letting her find me until the hanyo is mine: at the worst, I will use my youkai and move us to a difference location before she can find us.”

 

That should suffice, as long as you do not lose track of her, Kuroshin acknowledged. But how well are you prepared for further surprises from the hanyo? You first told me, that hanyo are weak. He is not. You told me he is abomination. Yet his actions with the Shikon No Tama contradict that description. Hanyos are rare. Have you handled another hanyo? Have you encountered a hanyo with a taiyoukai parent?

 

Tsubaki shifted her position slightly, uncomfortable. “No,” she replied reluctantly. “I have never encountered a hanyo before this one.”

 

And you have no knowledge of hanyos that is unquestionably true.

 

“No.” She looked down at her hands, unhappily realizing where Kuroshin was going. And worse, that she could not deny the soundness of his suggestion. It would be safer, far safer, to give up her plans, at least until she had learned everything to be known about his kind, and until she had, for certain, the strength to keep him under control.

 

Then, I believe that the risk is greater than the gain, mistress. Let the hanyo go. Or, at the least, kill him quickly.

 

“No.”

 

Why not? Is his power truly worth risking your life? Is your desire for vengeance, for losing the Shikon No Tama, worth the risk?

 

She stared at the knife, realizing at that moment that she should have made Kuroshin female. His `maleness' might be in physical form only, but it was enough. She could not tell him about her dream. About her reaction to the hanyo's physical presence. About why she needed to not kill him, but destroy him. It.

 

“I've made up my mind, Kuroshin.”

 

But, mistress—

 

“The discussion is over, Kuroshin.”

 

Very well, mistress.

 

The knife wavered in her inner vision, wreathed in a paired aura that was half spiritual power, half youki. They spiraled about each other, but did not merge. That would change, she promised herself. The hanyo's power would be hers, one way or the other. Placing one hand above the rings, she sensed the coiled power within them, waiting for the right word or action. She smiled, but without humor.

 

The battle was about to begin.