InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Devour Prometheus ❯ The Man Behind the Masks ( Chapter 7 )

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Rumiko Takahashi and other associated companies.

 

 

Chapter Seven: The Man Behind the Masks

 

 

Masks turning to face them, the attentive guards stationed around the pagoda watched the mikos as they approached. One fluid and the other hampered by a limp, the men followed each stride as they passed. The imperial priestess lent them no notice as well as the other who was more preoccupied with the massive building itself than with those who loitered around its foundation. Backlit by the moon, the four-tiered tower cast its shadow over the ladies with its even number of floors standing out more than the elaborately carved wood of its curling eaves. Decay brought by time and neglect, its beauty had rotted over the years and the men who now occupied it seemed not to care to repair it to its former glory.

 

The heavily-guarded entrance soon before them, a scene of repulsive demons being impaled by the spears of indifferent warriors played out on the double doors. Swallowing down, Kagome stared at the grisly battle etched into the wood as Kioshi signaled for one of the guards. Stepping forward to grasp the handle, the beckoned man slid one of the heavy doors to the side along its track to reveal a dark room lit in rare places by firelight.

 

Through the gap, the priestesses entered the building, the entrance closing behind them once they were over the threshold. While tall in height, it was massive in length and width and they began to walk across the large room. Elegant and simple, they passed by delicate, silhouetted pillars that stood throughout the space, supporting the immense weight of the stories above. With each step, the dull, wood floor clapped, its expertly molded boards unpolished and but free of dust and debris. Dark, rust-colored stains marked their path, the smeared blotches appearing neither old nor fresh. Heavy and thick as they breathed it in, the stale scent of oil filled their lungs and spaced along the walls were the old lamps that proved the source. Reflecting the flickering, amber light were several statues, each tarnished and stained.

 

Out of place beside the ancient ones, they soon approached the end of the room to discover a set of newer walls that jutted out from one of the back corners and came together to form a smaller space. Pushing aside the sliding door, Kioshi entered the makeshift room with Kagome cautiously following behind. Larger than it seemed, the tidy area was well organized even without furniture to stow its contents. Lining the walls were neat piles of black clothing and folded futons. Bending down, the masked priestess sorted through the stacks and gathered a coat and a pair of pants.

 

“Wear these,” Kioshi ordered after she stood up, holding out what she had selected.

 

“Why?” the apprehensive miko replied, making no effort to accept the gift presented to her.

 

“You cannot be heard by Lord Jianyu when you are soaked in blood. If your desire is still to have an audience with him then I suggest you depart from this childishness and disrobe.”

 

Gray eyes fixed on the demanding woman whose will she reluctantly surrendered to; Kagome began to undo the ties of her hakama. Thumbs hooking into the waist, she pulled them down over her hips and let them drop naturally to her ankles. Then she stepped out of the pooled fabric and gently kicked it to the side. Draped loosely, her coats hung over her body and with a shrug, they fell easily from her shoulders.

 

Nude but for the fabric wrapped across her breasts and the strip of silk concealing her modestly below the waist, the exposed priestess snatched away the proffered clothing and began to redress. With a soft growl of disapproval, Kioshi stepped away to kneel before a collection of bowls and tubs. Choosing a small basin among the many, she took a ceramic pitcher and filled it with water.

 

“Cleanse yourself first,” she ordered, gesturing to the smears of blood that had seeped through the miko's coats to stain her chest. Scowling but compliant, Kagome took off the thin undercoat that she had slipped into and accepted the wash bin along with the remnants of an old sea sponge to scrub with. Wisps of red curled and dissolved in the bowl as she dipped into it each time, slowly dyeing the cool water rouge. With her attention on the bundles of herbs hanging on the far wall, the imperial miko gave her as much privacy as she would permit and soon Kagome finished her bath, the gore of the evening's spilt blood replaced with unblemished, porcelain skin.

 

A quiet sigh of relief escaped her with its vanishing and the priestess wrapped her nakedness with her new coats. Soon she was fully dressed and cinching the ties of her pants. Black and worn but clean, her fresh attire reflected that of the warriors who had captured her. Swathed in it, she shifted uncomfortably, wondering if her individuality would fade like it had with them.

 

Ringing brightly, the clinking of bottles startled Kagome from her thoughts as Kioshi busily sorted through her assorted medicines before settling on a particular jar. Considering it for a moment, she then grabbed a roll of mottled bandages from a box beside it.

 

“Come here and sit,” she barked and Kagome did as she was told. Grimacing, she knelt down slowly before leaning back far enough to tip softly onto her bottom. With the brisk manner that suggested she had seen far worse, Kioshi firmly took her presented foot by the heel and looked over the swollen ankle. Satisfied by what she saw, she then dipped her fingers into the muddled red paste in the jar and proceeded to rub it all over the afflicted joint. Smelling of cool mint laced with the spicy scents of herbs and the unusual briny tones of iron, the strange salve tingled as it warmed. As precise as she was quick, the masked priestess tightly bound bandages over the ankle, taking note that it had already begun to heal.

 

“What is that?” Kagome asked in wonderment, the taut bandages loosening with each passing moment as the swelling subsided.

 

“An ointment,” she answered. “Fresh this evening, but made from impure ingredients. It works all the same however. Your ankle shall impair you no further.”

 

“Impure or not, it's still amazing. What's it made from?”

 

“As of right now, it is not of your concern,” Kioshi replied firmly and rose up to stand. “Come. Lord Jianyu is not partial to waiting.”

 

Rising to a crouch and then fully to her feet, Kagome watched the miko wipe the excess medicine from her fingers, the delicate bandages that wrapped them discolored further by the oily salve. Brusque and cold in manner yet kind enough to tend her sore ankle, the confused priestess wondered again about what sort of woman shared her company. Graceful and skilled, she truly was a miko worth revering, but embodied by her black, tattered clothing and terrifying mask, a mysterious darkness dyed her purity with shadow.

 

“Move,” an abrupt order sounded and Kagome stepped quickly to the door where Kioshi waited. Sliding it shut behind them, the imperial priestess escorted her guest toward the opposing corner along the back of the immense room. In a recess, a flight of stairs led to the next story and Kioshi began to climb them.

 

“May I ask a question?” Kagome spoke up and the ascending miko paused in her step.

 

“You may ask, but you may or may not receive an answer.”

 

“Why do all of you wear this clothing? For the men perhaps it suits them, but you are a priestess. It seems too dark for someone empowered by the gods.”

 

“It is because we are empowered by the gods that we choose to wear these robes and not the other way around, miko. We are the raptors that exact the punishment they have demanded and so we dress for our roles.”

 

“Punishment?”

 

“It is not my place to elaborate,” she answered, continuing up the stairs. “I have spoken more than I care to. Your ankle should no longer impede you, so I will not tolerate any further delays.”

 

Without further comment, Kagome followed the woman. Curious eyes drifting about the narrow stairwell, she noticed the strange, brown stains that blemished the floor of the room below continued to do so up the creaking steps.

 

Reaching the crest, an overpowering mix of scents hung in the air like a thick, fog. A youthful tan beside the darker, ancient timbers, a newly erected wall separated the stairwell from the second floor and at its center was a large, heavy door. Amber lamplight graying in the haze, dozens of pots lined the floors with hidden sticks of incense protruding from their rims. Tips glowing as they burned, dots of orange cut through the smoke and the priestesses carefully waded through them.

 

Up the next flight they climbed and were met with a similar scene once they arrived at the summit. The taste of sweet ash coated Kagome's mouth as she breathed in the heavy air. Beside the bland flavor of cinders, a new question now tickled her tongue, but she kept it leashed as she saved her curiosity for the man they had promised to deliver her to.

 

Again they ascended and after the final flight, they stood in an entryway of rice paper walls with a single sliding door midway along it. The once dull floor and its odd stains were replaced with a polished reflection. Her sandals striking cleanly as she strode, Kioshi approached the door. Then with a light rap, she knocked.

 

“Jianyu-sama,” she called out politely.

 

“Yes, Lady Kioshi,” a genial voice answered, his words muffled but audible.

 

“I have brought the miko as you requested.”

 

“Very good. You may enter.”

 

After slipping off her sandals, the masked priestess grasped the half-moon handle and slid the door open. As it parted, a rush of cool air fanned over them and with Kagome close behind, together they stepped through. Piled high to form peaks and ranges, stacks of books and scrolls were littered along the walls and across the floor. Breathing in the musty scents of old paper and ink, Kagome looked over the unstable towers of literature as Kioshi led her through the meandering maze. Woodblock prints and tattered scrolls beside hard-bound books and manuscripts, prose from dozens of languages both eastern and western were scrawled on parchment, calf leather and papyrus. She had found herself in a vast library that would not know its equal until the modern era she had left behind. Set on metal plates upon the highest stacks, flickering lamps burned to guide their way and after a few more turns, the room opened up.

 

At the center was an exquisite, oriental rug and upon its swirls of burgundy and gold was a low, black lacquered desk with a poised man seated behind it. Scattered pages both filled and starkly blank were laid out before him and to his right was an expensive, onyx inkwell that was rimmed in gold. Held delicately in his hand was a calligraphy brush and as they approached, he busily penned kanji with exact precision.

 

A persuasive tug pulled at Kagome's sleeve and she looked to her side to seek its cause. With chocolate brown eyes, full lips and the pitted roughness of a healed burn on her left cheek, she found a young, once beautiful woman with a stern expression and it took a perplexed moment for her to realize that she was staring at Kioshi. Her mask set neatly on the carpet, imperial priestess gave her stunned ward another downward yank until the meaning of her wordless demand overcame Kagome's surprise. Gracefully collapsing onto their knees, both women settled onto the rug in front of the indifferent man and awaited his attention.

 

“From what has been told, you have brought me quite an extraordinary guest, Lady Kioshi,” he eventually spoke up, his gaze veering nowhere but on his writing. A heavy accent edged his drawn out words, again reminding Kagome of mainland China. “I am Jianyu and I must ask you honorable miko, what is your name?”

 

“Kagome.”

 

“How unusual. I do not believe I have met a maiden by that name until now.”

 

“No, it's not very common.”

 

“So it would seem,” he remarked warmly and set his brush down across the inkwell. Draped in the smooth sheen of luxurious silk, he wore a long, white yukata robe trimmed with embroidered gold that shimmered along the fringes like a gentle flame. Stark against the fabric, a thick braid of black hair trailed over his shoulder to pool on the carpet beside him and around his head below his ears; his scalp was neatly shaved to the skin. As black as the pupils at their centers, his eyes finally rose to meet the priestesses and he brandished a friendly smile. “And neither are the noble deeds you have committed this night common. To think that a single priestess still embraced by youth would succeed where countless armies of battle-hardened warriors would fail and die.”

 

“There was nothing noble about it. I just didn't want anyone else to die.”

 

“By your words, there is truthfully some nobility in your vanquishing of the demon. After all, a priestess and a monk perished this evening along with ten other men. Further lives were spared by your unmatched bravery and nothing else.”

 

“Why were they sent into harm's way to begin with? A daiyoukai of his strength should be avoided and not fought. Those people were placed in unnecessary danger and were victims of what they were ordered to do by you and not by him.”

 

“Unnecessary danger,” he repeated, chuckling softly at her uninhibited tongue and the boldness it spoke. “Aside from this obstinate, old man and the scowling priestess beside you, please look around this room, miko and tell me what you see.”

 

“Stacks of books and scrolls from all over the world.”

 

“A very astute observation,” he commented with a facetious air, inviting an unamused glare from her. “I am a well-traveled man who has seen and experienced much of this earth and my greatest indulgence is the literature that overflows from it. To think of the difficult languages I have mastered to quench my thirst to read and understand. In my collection, I have one story that shall make the unnecessary danger you have quoted into one of such poetic eloquence that it cannot be denied. That it will drive many to be willing to sacrifice their lives to accomplish its end. Do you know the tale of Prometheus, miko?”

 

In the veiled recesses of her mind, the foreign name haunted her memory, reminding her of fluorescent lighting and the soft rustling of notebook paper. However, her occasional lessons on world literature were too far in the past and left her answer empty but for a few truths.

 

“It's an ancient, European myth, isn't it?”

 

“Ah,” he answered, his grin broadening. “Please, forgive my earlier impoliteness. That you would know it to be western in origin and ancient at that proves that you are far more educated than I judged you to be and I fear I have done you an injustice in assuming otherwise. Yes, the story of Prometheus originates from Europe as you suspect and more specifically from the once great, conquering nation of Greece.

 

“According to their legends, a primal clan of deities once governed their earth and their oceans. Called Titans, they were simple gods, powerful to be certain but primitive all the same. Unable to attain true grace where their progeny would, they were soon conquered and banished to the furthest depths of hell for their impurity. However, not all were imprisoned as those who vowed to serve the new virtuous gods were permitted to stay.

 

“Prometheus was one such Titan who had eluded isolation under the guise that he would honor the Olympians, but his intent was not as noble as it seemed. With a foolhardy trick, he stole fire from the heavens and delivered it to the humans of the land. This brave act which would seem at first generous for the people would instead exchange an equal cost from them as well, because with the gift of fire they would lose the easy means of life granted to them by the gods. The time of a day's toil yielding a year's fruit ended when their hearths burned with flame.

 

“Zeus, the greatest of the gods, sought out Prometheus in his wrath and exacted a punishment upon the defiant deity. Binding him to a rock deep in the mountains, he chained Prometheus and then called upon an eagle. The raptor flew down and ripped open the defenseless Titan's belly, devouring his liver. Screams of horror and agony escaped him as the raptor fed until nothing of his liver remained. Sated, the bird left in the evening and then as the night passed, Prometheus' liver became whole once more. In the morning, the eagle returned and tore him open again to consume the regenerated organ. And so the years passed as each day the bird ate and each night he healed, his persisting immortality becoming his bane.”

 

As his telling of the legend finished, an expected silence passed as Kagome absorbed his story and he patiently awaited her thoughts. As he had recited it, the haze filling her schoolgirl memory lifted so that by its end she would anticipate his every word.

 

“I remember it now,” she finally spoke up, “It's a well-shared story where I was educated, but there is something that I don't understand. How is it that a foreign myth of a deceased religion would have any bearing upon us as we seek shelter in an old, Shinto shrine among monks and priestesses? It seems as dishonorable as the grime that sullies the walls of this pagoda.”

 

“I do not purport to be a religious man, Lady Kagome. As a former merchant who has sailed on nearly every sea, I have seen and committed enough wicked acts to deprive me of any pleasant afterlife by our gods. But when I learned of this tale, I saw in it a way to make amends for the transgressions of my life. A parallel that would permit us to act as avengers against the evils who defy the gods and to ease the lives of the victims they make. Once I explain further, I will offer to you the opportunity to join us and I shall hope you will not disappoint.”