InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Beautiful Priestess ❯ Prologue: Michiro ( Prologue )

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the world that Rumiko Takahashi has created. Nor do I own the character designs/ideas of any character in Inuyasha.

A/N: This is a more serious story than any other fanfiction that I have written. It revolves around Inuyasha's mother and how she eventually met and fell in love with his father. For the purposes of my story, Inuyasha's mother will by named Michiro. Enjoy!

PROLOGUE: Michiro

"Michiro-sama…..It……is time……" The servant spoke in a hushed tone, warily laying the words upon Michiro's shoulders, and pleading that her lady could find the strength to leave her quarters.

After all, it had been less than a week since the miko's mother had passed of a ruthless plague- one that ravaged the bodies of its victims with fever and insanity, which left behind in its wake bodies drenched with the never-dying putrescence of death and the stench of sickness.

Michiro roused slightly, twisting and turning out of her slumber until her eyes adjusted to the sharp daylight. Her whole presence felt thinned and drawn, and her usually creamy complexion shined an unhealthy gray. But, despite her physically drained appearance, the priestess's dark eyes shone with a strange vehemence.

"Arigatou, Ukei-san. I will….dress myself," she uttered in a low tone.

Ukei nodded and tightly pursed her gnarled lips, bowing out quickly through the clothed doorway and leaving the girl to her own devices.

Rolling her stiffened joints, and rubbing the sleep from the corners of her eyes, Michiro allowed her shoulders to sag slightly. It hadn't fully hit her yet. Her mother was dead. Her body was currently lying on a bed of planks in some empty, silent room down the covered hallway.

Though she had not looked upon her mother's corpse since the sickness had overtaken her, Michiro imagined the white burial garments hanging awkwardly off the scant limbs, the dead face no longer radiating light or joy. A fat tear welled from the miko's eye, and rolled with painstaking slowness down her cheek. Michiro pushed the salty bead from her lips. She wanted desperately to bury her soul into her bed again and not wake up till the pain of loss had vanished.

She comforted herself with the idea that her mother was probably enjoying herself in the afterlife, was sprawled serenely across a never-ending lawn of sweet-smelling blossoms. In her daydream, her mother was smiling to herself, the sweet expression lighting up her features just like Michiro remembered of her. She stretched her slender figure in the sea of vibrant flowers, rolling in the thick scent. Then she was toying with a silky pink bloom, caressing her cheek with the softness of the flower. Her okaa-san was eternally free from the woes and torments of battling illness.

Michiro smiled at the thought.

Once they had given her the proper Shinto ceremony, her mother's soul could rest in peace forever, and wallow in the peace of the afterlife.

But, as the thought faded into naught but a pink wisp in her mind, Michiro was returned to the harshly cold and bare reality. Her mother's remains were to be burned in less than a half an hour, and she had to compose herself before she entered that solemn courtyard.

She slowly slid her body from the woven mattress, and shed her shoulders of the layers of blankets that had protected her from the outside world for many days and nights. Only clad in a very thin cotton kimono, goose bumps spread like wildfire over her exposed limbs. Michiro hurried to open the intricately carved wooden chest that stood in the corner. She observed that Ukei had placed her funeral garments on the top of the layers of clothing.

With great care, she pulled the thick pastel kimono from the box, a bit too sad to relish in its rich weight or it's shade that perfectly matched that of a new sakura blossom. She was far too preoccupied to notice the heavy layers or the sleek way the sleeves swished to the floor. The implications of the material and color were too much to let the beauty penetrate her thoughts.

After she had slid into the six-layered kimono, tied the thick bundled sash, and run a comb through her matted raven locks, Michiro left her sleeping quarters to join the rest of the Hakeda family in its ceremony.

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A set of chopsticks across a bowl. The smell of incense drifting in a steady path towards the heavens. Flickering flames of candles that danced in the morning dew.

Michiro glanced languidly over the pool of scant Shinto offerings that had been placed in the courtyard at the foot of the shrine, in honor of the courtier's deceased wife. The items reminded her of the small children that had been ushered into the funeral procession by their servant parents- they huddled in small lonesome groups with each other, dancing around the slowly moving feet of their elders. Most weren't aware of why the cloud of sadness hung over the mansion, but only that it existed.

The offerings, too, were clustered in their own forlorn way, placed out in the open for reasons beyond their comprehension. To Michiro, even though she was a miko, a vessel of the gods' power, the offerings meant little to her heart. The incense and fermented liquid only represented the pitiful way that the mourners tried to overcome their fear of death and the pain of losing one who is beloved.

She was relieved that she had not been forced to perform the ritual cremation ceremony for her mother. The dull ache in her heart would have made her more of a hindrance to the burial process. Besides, her skills and knowledge as a priestess were underdeveloped. Instead, a neighboring priest, Ganzau, had volunteered to perform the rites of the ceremony.

Her hands folded delicately in the sleeves of the heavy pink robes, Michiro let Ganzau-sama's guttural chanting wash over her. Far across the courtyard, she saw her father. He was surrounded by a sea of his advisors, all adorned in matching black silk vestments with ridiculously tiny hats perched atop their withered skulls.

The man in the center of the group of tiny hats looked shrunken. His dark eyes gazed unblinkingly from pouches of sallow skin. He was noticing even less of the funeral that Michiro was. Her heart nearly cracked in two as she witnessed the defeated feel to her father's posture.

He had adored his beautiful, delicate wife. He had been at her side for many years, petting her shiny black mane with reverent hands, smothering her beautifully pointed face with little kisses. And he had felt her thin fingers lose their grip on his, as her life was suffocated with fever.

Ganzau continued with a mournful hum, as the body of the noble-lady was lifted into the pit at the center of the dirt courtyard. As the branch was lit, the fire was spread along her lifeless body. Michiro looked on as a roar of flames overtook the corpse, sparks and ashes spitting ever so often from the angry blaze.

Her mother was dead. Her dear mother was gone.

Michiro was only 14.