A/N: Just getting back into the fandom. Sorry for the ridiculously long delay. It was what? Two and a half years?

…yeah. Enough said.

EDIT: Some minor grammatical errors have been fixed. If anyone spots any, feel free to point them out to me.

THROUGH THE EYES OF AN INNOCENT: CH. 12

Kohaku wasn’t really surprised—it had been what he expected after four years of disuse—but still, it hurt to know that he had allowed his family keepsake to become so ugly. The metal looked jagged and flat, and there was no way that it would be able to cut the muscled flesh of another human being. None whatsoever. Frowning, he ran his fingers across the dulled blade, feeling the chipped edges catch against his skin. It was indescribable, the way the familiar weight was against his palms, the way his whole body seemed to thrum as he held the kusarigama, the chain wrapped three times around his hand. It was so frighteningly comfortable, the thrill that raced through his body at the contact, but still, he couldn’t help but feel guilty.

Guilty because it had been four years since he had last touched the weapon, and it was staggering enough to bring him to tears.

It wasn’t like it was his fault, after all. Sango had… Sango had been the one to wrap it in the slightly moth eaten cloth and store it under her bed, hiding it from the world. From him. And from the memories. Smiling almost bitterly, Kohaku rubbed at a particularly smooth blood stain and wondered why he allowed things to happen the way that they did. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had any control over the situation. Quite the contrary, everything had been left up to him, so many decisions had been his to make and yet—

And yet.

He just stood there and cried the entire time.

Pathetic, he wanted to say, but he knew it really wasn’t. Sango had said that it wasn’t, and whatever Sango said usually was true… except when she had said that it wasn’t his fault. No matter what he did or how he acted or how much he tried to pretend, everything was always his fault.

No matter what anyone said.

But it hurt to think about it, and Kohaku didn’t think he wanted to anymore. His throat was already tight at the unwanted guilt coursing through him, making everything feel so heavy and suffocating. His grip loosened on the blade in his hands, and ever so slowly, he continued to rub at the blood that stained it, needing to stay occupied. He needed to sharpen the blade, needed to clean it. He knew he could find some of the materials he would need to do so down in the armory, so that was his first stop. Then he’d need to practice. Kohaku wasn’t entirely sure how much he’d be able to accomplish in two weeks time, but he knew that it would have to be enough.

Of course, he’d have to go with Jaken, too. While the castle had enough warriors to protect it from a siege, everyone else that mattered was littered throughout the country. There would be very little time for him to actually go to the training grounds and practice. He could always practice on living animals—that he was very much aware of. But somehow, no matter how he practiced, it never gave him the thrill or the sense of satisfaction that he craved. It was different, training with the older, more experienced soldiers. Different because they could push him to his limits, help him learn. Help him to become stronger, more intelligent when it came to battle. Better.

Sango had tried to teach him, so long ago. She had been the one to make him as strong as he was now, and for that, he was grateful. But still—still—it wasn’t nearly enough. He was still too weak, too soft. He could tell it just by the way his chest tightened whenever his fingers rubbed over the familiar spots of blood, the way he hated to see his reflection in that tarnished blade. Kohaku wondered for a brief moment if it would ever go away, the guilt and the frustration. It was like fire in his lungs, trying to keep everything at bay. Trying to stay in control. But Sango had taught him all about control, too, even though she was never very good at it herself.

A warrior always need to know how to control their emotions, otherwise, it can be seen as weakness. Lord Sesshoumaru deplores weakness, and if he sees that in his own men, he will kill them where they stand.

Of course, he had to have already seen it. Especially with the way that he had clung to the Lady Izayoi so shamefully. It made him feel disgusting and weak just thinking about it... And he hated feeling that way, more than anything. Hated it more than the acute, painful absence of his sister.

Sango probably would have smiled at him and ruffled his hair, telling him that everything would be all right. She would have gone with the Lady Izayoi instead of allowing him to—the Lord Sesshoumaru was always very fond of his sister, even if he did disagree with the many things that she said. But for some reason, whenever it came to him, Sango always got her way. Kohaku still didn’t understand why. It wasn’t even as though the Lord Sesshoumaru and Sango were particularly close. They were just—allies. Comrades. Master and servant. Of course, there had to be some sort of respect there, too. Kohaku wasn’t ignorant enough to disregard that entirely. Sango was very nearly the General of his entire army, even if Lord Sesshoumaru always affirmed the final actions that they took. Inuyasha probably had a lot to do with it—too much, probably, considering the fact that neither particularly liked each other. But they got on civilly enough, he supposed.

Even so, Kohaku had the frightening, gut wrenching feeling that Sango would be mad beyond all belief to know that Lord Sesshoumaru was sending him as an ‘escort’ to the Lady Izayoi.

It was almost agonizing to think about the angry, hurtful look on her face when she would find out about it.

Even if his Lord Sesshoumaru always did come first.

-----

Ever since he was little, he never understood what it meant to protect someone.

Sure, he had sought vengeance for the betrayal of his father, had grieved and held dear the memory of his step-mother, but not once was he ever forced to protect someone. It was difficult, wanting to protect his mother—she was strong in her own inimitable ways, always advocating kindness and peace. Desiring prosperity. It was something that never really sat too well with Inuyasha as a younger boy, especially when he landed the killing blow on he man who had murdered his father; it was a day that still lived on in his mind. The rage, the hatred, and fire burning in his veins—and all at the tender age of twelve. Before then, he had never really understood what it meant to take the life of another; naturally, he had seen people die. He had been the only one to see his step-mother die after all; he had been the only available one to stay by her while she was in her deathbed, begging for her husband, pleading for her true son.

It had changed something in Inuyasha, that inherent cruelty. He had always thought that he would have been too young to remember, had told the Empress that he had been too young to remember, and yet…

And yet he had lied. But what had he needed to tell the truth for? It wasn’t as the though the Empress was his ally. Yes, he understood Miroku’s motivations for wanting to protect the girl; he had seen the way Miroku looked at her with that disgustingly sappy fondness, wanting nothing more than her protection, desiring her safety… and he had agreed to help him, if only to keep from being ousted. But now… now there was someone he had to protect, someone who was important to the outcome of the war, someone who… who…

Someone who Inuyasha had no fucking idea how to find.

The Djinn had gone silent as soon as Inuyasha had asked his final question and the darkness had grown thicker and thicker, like sludge lodged in the back of his throat. It had become difficult to breathe, stifling… he was surprised that he had even managed to make it out of that dark room and back into the corridor—his blood was splashed all over, staining the walls, and he resisted the urge to growl. The tang of it was still sweet in the air, if a bit sickening, and Inuyasha couldn’t help but wonder what Miroku would have thought if he had been the one to see it. He’d probably thought that Inuyasha had killed someone else—another servant, maybe. But Miroku was far from stupid. It would be his initial reaction, but afterwards… afterwards he would know that it was Inuyasha’s. Afterwards, he would want to know how it happened, when it happened, why it happened, but Inuyasha couldn’t tell him.

Hell, he didn’t think that he would be able to tell Miroku much of anything anymore, not that it was much of a difference.

Growling, Inuyasha rubbed his raw knuckles against his clothing, smiling as his tender skin pulled unpleasantly.

It had been far too long since he’d experienced the physical discomfort that came with his injuries, and it felt good.

Even if the scent of his own blood was making him slightly nauseous.

The thrill died down though, when he thought about the Djinn, about how secretive they were being. Sure, he had promised that he’d help them protect some weak little girl, but fuck, was he just supposed to know that it was her when he saw her? Was it supposed to feel like something was suddenly sliding into place, making him feel complete and whole and—he had better things to do then waste his time angsting over something so incredibly stupid. If the Djinn didn’t want him to know who he had to protect, then they very well couldn’t hold him to it. After all, there had to be a reason as to why they had gone silent, even if he didn’t fully understand it himself.

And fuck it if he didn’t really want to.

Annoyed, Inuyasha let out a little growl of indignation before gazing at his bleeding arms. It looked positively disgusting, the way his arms were cut open and dripping. Covered in thick, wet blisters. He wanted to poke at them, just to feel the almost unbearable ache that came when the squishy flesh burst—to feel the sting as the pus oozed down in his arms, but he had more important things to do. More important things to think about.

He needed to find Sango. That was the first step. Then he needed to send out word to his brother of his progress—he had tried time and time again, only to be interrupted that stupid idiot that actually called himself the ‘General’s son’ and he knew that if he didn’t do something quick, Miroku would get in his damned away again, and if he did, Inuyasha wasn’t sure whether or not he’d be able to hold back. He was pissed enough as it was, being injured, even if the pain brought him some sort of sick comfort.

And now was as good a time as any really, especially since he was on his own.

Inuyasha nodded.

Screw the Empress, he thought. My country comes first. It always comes first.

And no matter what anybody said, it always would.

-----

The armory was empty except for Kohaku.

He had hoped that someone else would be there, if only to have some company, but even then there was no one. He was well aware of the little ache in his chest as he sat in solitude, well aware of the fact that he shouldn’t have felt so lonely to begin with, but ever since Sango’s absence, he had felt a deep resonating sadness that would not disperse.

It sickened him to think that he could be so weak.

Frowning at the thought, Kohaku tried his hardest to push it away and went about his task.

Finding the cleaning cloths had been easy. They were stained with blood, just as he had expected them to be, and the sight chilled him, just a little bit. His fingers pressed diligently into the threadbare cloth, picking at the holes, making them wider, and he couldn’t help the bitter, almost painful smile that broke out across his face. Yes, he could use the cloths, but they would just tear as they slid over the slightly jagged edge of the blade. He wondered if anybody would notice.

They probably wouldn’t.

He searched through the cloths for a little bit longer, hoping to find something stronger, more durable. When he did, he set the edge of the thick, brown cloth into small vat of polish and started working quickly. He wasn’t sure how much time he would have to practice, wasn’t sure that he wanted to, but the Lord Sesshoumaru’s word was law, and there was nothing he could do to go against it.

He could feel the familiar burn in his arms as he started working across the surface of the blade, starting at the tip and working his way towards the base. The small rust colored stains were the hardest to work out, and even by the time he had finished, they still weren’t gone completely. The surface refused to sparkle and glimmer the way that it had before, the way that Kohaku was so used to it doing, the way he could remember it being. It had been such a beautiful weapon once, so sleek and quick. The chain connected to the scythe blade had clinked and clanged so wondrously and… frowning, Kohaku flipped the blade over and started polishing the other side. Yes, it had always been a magnificent weapon, but Kohaku couldn’t shake the thought that it was twice as beautiful once it was covered in blood.

Perhaps that had been the reason why Sango had refused to let him fight. Perhaps that had been the reason why Sango tried to protect him from the world so diligently, because this evil sick pleasure was nestled inside of him.

Something akin to desperation began to work at him again, but just as soon as it had appeared, he pushed it back down, doing his best to focus on the task at hand. Cleaning the blade was all that mattered. Practicing with it. Using it. Honing his skill.

It had been so long since he had last used it, since Kohaku had held it in his small hands. It had been his father’s namesake—his father’s.

Kohaku stopped as soon as the blade was properly polished, dumping the supplies back into their proper places and moving on to the whetstone.

The sound of metal sliding across stone sent an unpleasant chill down Kohaku’s spine—it was uncomfortable and unforgiving, horrible—but the boy could feel the adrenaline mounting. Bubbling. Festering.

It had been so long since the last time, so long before he knew he was preparing for a bloody encounter. Sango had done everything to protect him from this kind of life, had done her best to keep him from the blood and gore and death that was certainly awaiting him wherever he chose to go. But it was inevitable. She was a warrior, just as much as he was. It was in their blood, pumping through their veins, flowing uninhibited through their hearts. It was something they were both aware of, ever since they were children.

It was their destiny to fight, to go wherever their leader lead them, and—

Kohaku flipped the blade over, his arms aching slightly as the sight of a sharpened, deadly blade reflected in his eyes.

It didn’t take long to sharpen the blade or to seat up practice dummies. His hands ached as he got reacquainted to holding the kusarigama—his fingers were already blistering as he adjusted his grip time and time again, attempting to get comfortable. The chain bit into his hands, painfully, but Kohaku knew he could endure it. He had lived his life for this, after all. Preparing for battle. For blood. For injury. For death.

His arm arced as the kusarigama flew the air, its tip imbedding itself deep into the dummy’s straw belly. He jerked his arm slightly—straw spilled from the opening like intestines from an open wound—the blade cutting across the expanse of the rucksack dummy. His other hand lifted in the air, fingers curling comfortably around the handle, chains twining quickly around his hand as Kohaku sought to control.

His hand lowered as he gazed at the mess before him—ten dummy’s were completely annihilated—wooden heads were strewn across the floor, straw lay in piles on the cold stone. Chest and stomachs and necks were carved into mercilessly, and—if only it were real.

“It seems you have improved.”

Kohaku jerked around, his eyes wide as he fell into the customary bow. Silence was all that met his sign of respect, and for a moment, Kohaku had thought his Lord had left. But the snick of metal against metal echoed throughout the quiet training room, and Kohaku raised his head cautiously, eying the clean, silver, imposing sword his Lord Sesshoumaru held in his clawed hands.

“My Lord?” Kohaku asked quietly, uncertain of whether or not he should respond.

Sesshoumaru’s face remained cold and impassive as he spoke. “Stand.”

Kohaku did as he was told without another word, his kusarigama held limply in his hands.

“I wish to spar you,” Sesshoumaru said quietly. “Prepare yourself.”

Kohaku barely had a chance to respond as Sesshoumaru darted forward, his blade slicing through the air.

Kohaku jerked back, raising his kusarigama in defense—the kusarigama is a long range weapon, so distance must be maintained—

Metal clanged violently against metal, and Kohaku’s eyes widened as pain shot through his arms. His shuffled backwards as his muscles protested against the strain—his Lord was so strong, so invincible—but Sesshoumaru was already changing direction, and the blade was coming towards Kohaku’s side, ready to dig into flesh and bone and spill so much blood—

The head of the kusarigama dipped down, blocking the strike awkwardly, causing the head of Sesshoumaru’s sword to rebound through the air, but—Sesshoumaru's grip changed instantly, and the blade was coming towards his neck—

The chain shot upwards, curling around the blade, but it wasn’t going to be enough. The sword twirled in the air, and the chains slid off effortlessly…

Kohaku’s eyes widened as Sesshoumaru pressed in on him again, refusing to allow a retaliation, only a defense, a weak pathetic defense that left Kohaku’s arms burning as each twang of the sword against the kusarigama blade reverberated down his arms, straining against his bones, leaving his muscles to ache—

—the kusarigama is a long range weapon, so distance must be maintained—

Sesshoumaru wouldn’t allow it. It had only taken a second, but Kohaku already knew the outcome.

He was going to lose.

-----

Kohaku’s arms burned.

He couldn’t quite remember the last time he had ever really felt abuse this wonderful, but so very painful. He could feel his lungs aching, and his throat went tight every time he tried to breathe. It hurt, trying to keep up the pretense of strength, trying to keep pushing himself, but even as the dizziness overtook him with each step, he found he couldn’t stop. He didn’t think he would be able to, regardless. He was certain that his Lord knew that he was already way passed his limits, but he kept coming at him anyways, waiting to see him fall. Waiting to see him fail.

It bled lead all the way down to the pit of his stomach.

He didn’t want to feel the desperation overcome him, even though he knew he was losing. His will was only so strong and he knew that—he knew a lot of things, like the sickening feeling of defeat, the nauseating clenching of his stomach whenever he felt that abject humiliation, the way his eyes burned whenever he thought about how red his face became whenever he was brought down to a level that he had no desire to be at. Oh, he knew it all so very well, even the sorrow and self-hate. He wished for Sango to realize that he felt that way, wished for it desperately, but he couldn’t be desperate, not anymore.

His breath came out in heavy pants, and he was almost disgusted to find that it was the only sound in the room. Lord Sesshoumaru was watching him with an expression of detached calm, and Kohaku could almost hear the thoughts running through his head: weak, pathetic, expendable, unworthy, dishonorable, unfit to serve, liability, failure.

The last one stung, and he could feel it as he stared at his Lord and took deep, calming breaths. He knew he had to get the dizziness under control, had to get rid of the aching, burning, jelly feel of his legs. He had to get stronger, had to beat his weakness, even if it ended in humiliation. What kind of person would he be otherwise, if he could not overcome something so simple?

When he had first started practicing with the kusarigama, he had felt something slide back into place. He had moved with that same painstaking familiarity that came from years of practice. He had felt his muscles pull and contract, had heard the beautiful sound of the scythe soaring through the air, loved the way the chain pulled and shifted, cool against his skin. Everything had seemed so perfect then, and even if the guilt did continue to eat at him, he had overcome it. And then his Lord had showed up, had asked him to spar with him, and he had engaged.

Even though he hated it, he was seriously wishing that he hadn’t. But he needed to. He needed to do it more than anyone could ever imagine, and he had a feeling that his Lord knew this, too.

Kohaku gripped the chain in his hands tighter, and took a small, measured step. His heart pounded almost frantically against his sternum, and it was all he could do not to fall over from sheer exhaustion. He waited for his Lord to make another strike, the nervousness spiking almost immediately. He could almost see Sesshoumaru bending slightly at the knee, the tip of the sword rising ever so slightly as he took a quick, calculated step towards him, could almost hear the sound of the kusarigama hitting the blade of his Master. He wanted to parry, to make a quick but unsuccessful counterattack, wanted something, anything, but he waited for another long moment and still, there was nothing.

Kohaku frowned.

He wasn’t sure whether or not he should question his Lord, but—

“Um-uh, sir?” he asked, hating the way his voice cracked. It was almost painful to talk, but still, he knew he had to. “Why...why aren’t you—”

Lord Sesshoumaru lowered his sword, and Kohaku almost winced as the tip touched the floor. “I do not make it a habit to spar with those too proud to recognize when they have reached their limitations. If I were to attack you now, you would surely die.”

Kohaku’s lips twisted at the bitter feeling that his Master’s words left, and he tugged his chain tighter, wanting to refute everything that was said. But—he had felt his chest beginning to ache the more he attempted to breathe. The dizziness was leaving him nauseous and he hated feeling light headed but… he couldn’t just stop. And if he was still moving, still forcing that weakness to the back of his mind then surely it would be all right. He was still concentrating even though every muscle in his body ached, even though he knew was going to fall over, exhausted and spent as soon as his Master left.

He fought back the harsh sting of the words, shaking his head.

Kohaku immediately bit back his rebuttal as his world tilted on its axis.

“You shall assist Jaken in assembling my army,” Sesshoumaru continued, his face void of emotion. Kohaku wished that he could see passed the disappointment that was no longer there, but the not-thoughts that his Master continued to think left him feeling bitter and hateful. He averted his eyes to the ground almost shamefully. “Afterwards, you are to accompany the Lady Izayoi to the Eastern Lands. While you are there, you are expected to dispose of any one who interferes with her negotiations. Lady Izayoi does not believe that you are capable of going through with the assassination. After this display, I am inclined to agree with her.”

Kohaku could feel the shame coursing through him, hot and violent, and his face heated. His Master continued on as though he hadn’t noticed the slightest change in the young boy.

“You are already aware of the fact that Jaken shall be accompanying you until further notice. Should he find reason to believe that you are indeed capable of handling the assassination, then you shall be the one to do so. You are to complete your preparations before dawn tomorrow. That is when you shall set out. You’re dismissed.”

Kohaku nodded, moving at the command without fully realizing he had reacted. The dizziness assaulted him once more, and he could feel his energy waning. His stomach twisted unpleasantly as his knees threatened to buckle beneath him, but somehow, he managed to make it out the door, the chains of the kusarigama clenched tightly in his fist. He could feel the metal cutting into his skin fiercely, and the shame increased tenfold.

He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t understand it. Why had his Master assigned him to complete a task only to take him off of it a day later? He felt betrayed then, betrayed because Lady Izayoi had been the one to suggest it, betrayed because she didn’t believe in him. Kohaku had always done his best to do right by her, to make her proud and yet…

And yet his best was still never enough. The tears stung his eyes, and he fought his hardest to keep them away, but everything was already catching up to him; the exhaustion was blurring everything around the edges, and he wanted to sleep. At least then, he wouldn’t have to deal with everyone’s harsh judgment. At least then, he wouldn't feel the humiliation and the shame. He wouldn’t have to deal with Lady Izayoi’s pitying stares, thinking she had done something right for him.

How could she? His Master had only ever thought him capable for simply being Sango’s younger brother. He had believed in him once, had trusted him to get the job done. But now… now that trust had disappeared simply because the Lady Izayoi decided to drip poison into his Master’s ears with thoughts of him being incapable. A failure. The words always left him feeling miserable and defeated—he didn’t want to be that way, had done everything in his power to keep from being a failure and yet… he already was. He had already failed and he was already losing and there was nothing he could do about it.

The tears hurt, almost as much as his muscles did, and he staggered into the wall, wishing for something other than the painful feeling in his chest.

He wasn’t a failure, and he knew this.

Sango had told him so, after all.

But everyone thinks so, anyways.

And he hated it.

-----

Inuyasha made it as far as the bathing quarters before he was stopped.

He wasn’t entirely sure when he became aware of the hot feeling of eyes on his back, but he did and it pissed him off more than he already was. It was like some all-powerful deity was conspiring against him, once again, to send him over the edge and he was sick of it. He wanted to turn around and tear the bastard staring him down limb from limb, but he didn’t quite think that it would do him any good. Inuyasha scowled. Of all the days, when he finally—finally—was able to have some time to himself, to finally venture outside the stifling castle walls to do something other than run around after that stupid idiot who called himself his Master, someone, somewhere decided that it was finally time to start screwing with him even more.

His fist clenched involuntarily, even as he whirled around, a snarl on his lips.

“Can I fucking help…” Inuyasha paused, the words dying on his lips. “Oh.”

The Emperor smiled, cruel and pleased, and Inuyasha nearly spat at the way his eyes trailed down his arms and back up to his face once again.

“You’re Master is quite liberal with your lashings,” Naraku replied, moving forward.

Inuyasha didn’t say a word, but he found that he didn’t have to. The tension rippling through the air was enough to put him at odds with the dark haired (fucking annoying) man standing in front of him.

“I seemed to have misplaced my servants,” the Emperor continued. “Follow me.”

“I have fucking shit to do,” Inuyasha snapped, folding his arms over his chest. “Besides I already have a damned Master. Go find your own stupid servant.”

It probably wasn’t the smartest move, being disobedient, but Inuyasha couldn’t care less. He had more important things to think about— bastard brother, idiot master, fucking wimpy assed woman, soft-hearted broad—and the Emperor was only getting in his way. But damn it if he didn’t need to get closer to the Emperor too, because maybe the Emperor would need him for something important like attending some of those tedious meetings where he might actually be able to find out something valuable instead of stalking around the castle and picking at riddles that made no sense and listening to voices in the dark. Sesshoumaru—that bastard—would probably laugh at him if he knew that Inuyasha was actually listening to something that was supposed to be his enemy but—well, his country’s future was at stake and there were far more important things.

But still… the indecision made him growl in frustration and he glared at the Emperor, who was watching him with dark, unsettling eyes.

“I do not take well to being disobeyed,” Naraku replied after a long silence. “Perhaps you should rethink your position.”

As if there’s anything to fucking rethink, you asshole. I’m a damned Prince and you’re my enemy and I could kill you in a second flat, Inuyasha thought viciously, his eyes narrowing. His jaw was clenched as he attempted to control his anger, but his claws were already biting into his skin and he hated it. He didn’t want the Emperor to see his weakness, but he was, and Inuyasha knew that there was something inherently wrong with the entire situation. How could an Emperor, and one as feared as this one, misplace his own servants? The uneasiness of the confrontation started creeping up on Inuyasha, but he merely pushed it away with an annoyed twitch of his head. And then, he was doing something that he thought he would never do in his life, something he thought he had too much pride to do, and yet, he was doing it anyways.

He bowed his head in submission.

Inuyasha could practically see the way the Emperor’s lips curled in satisfaction and victory, and he wanted nothing more than to punch him in his face. But still, still, he was on a mission, and he couldn’t blow it. Couldn’t destroy everything he had worked towards until he was given word to. But oh, how easy it would have been to just put his claws through the bastards stomach, how easy it would have been to tear him limb from fucking limb, and Inuyasha wanted to, so badly. But he knew that the Emperor could sense the bloodlust on him, could sense that he hated him beyond all belief, and he knew that sooner or later, the Emperor would call for his blood, too.

Inuyasha just needed to remember to launch his attack first. And that was where the Empress came in.

Annoyance flared within him as he thought of that stupid woman doing… whatever the hell it was she was doing, and he scowled again, glaring at the Emperor as the dark-haired man motioned for him to follow.

His fingers twitched as Naraku turned his back to him, as he left himself wide open and vulnerable, and yet… Inuyasha could see the way his shoulders were set, could see the way the dark-haired man fingered the hilt of his sword as though waiting for him to attack him.

Looks like I ain’t the only one who wants someone’s head on a damned stake around here, Inuyasha thought, feeling oddly pleased. Earlier, when it had just been he and Miroku, Inuyasha couldn’t help but wonder whether or not the Emperor was blind—he had to have been, not to notice all the people fluttering about, wishing for his demise. But the Emperor knew. Knew just as much as Inuyasha did that there was a rebellion underfoot, knew that something was kindling, ready to lash out at him.

The thought pleased Inuyasha. There was nothing more satisfying than murdering an intelligent opponent. And even if killing the Emperor would be simple, the fact that he was providing some sort of challenge was enough to get Inuyasha’s blood boiling, and damn, it would be so sweet, that taste of victory once the charade was all over and done with.

Inuyasha wasn’t sure of where they were heading, but Naraku continued to lead the way and Inuyasha continued to follow, hoping upon hope that he received some sort of information. The simple fact that there was a rebellion—in the castle and outside of it—wasn’t going to be enough. He needed to figure out how potentially dangerous the army of the Northern Lands was, and the only way to do that would be with Miroku. Miroku, who was the son of the General, Miroku, who had run away to find that stupid Empress with the strange eyes and that pathetic weakness that made Inuyasha growl in frustration.

It had been so different, talking to her that one moment, so different, watching as she begged and pleaded with him to protect her from her husband. But that was not something which Inuyasha was inclined to do—although, if he thought about it, he knew that it was what Miroku had planned for him. Protecting the Empress from her own husband… Inuyasha unconsciously flexed his claws as he stared at the Emperor’s back, wishing for the moment where he could just cleave through all that flesh, wishing that he could see that beautiful red blood spill in that oh so sweet victory.

So lost in his thoughts of victory, that Inuyasha almost plowed into Naraku’s back as he came to a stop.

“Tell me,” Naraku started as he gazed at the door in front of him, waiting for Inuyasha to move forward and open it for him. “Are all demons from the south so disobedient?”

The slight was there on his tongue, and Inuyasha felt his lips curl back as he readied a snarl, but Naraku’s dark red eyes suddenly turned to him, and the cold cruelty in them was enough to get the hairs on the back of Inuyasha’s neck to stand on end. Oh, fucking yes, he couldn’t wait to kill this bastard.

“I don’t know,” Inuyasha grumbled, his hands clenched into fists and his claws digging into the palm of his hand. The slight throbbing of pain was welcome, but somehow, he knew it wouldn’t be enough to keep his temper in check. “Why don’t you fuckin’ go there and find out?”

Naraku’s lips curled into a dangerously pleased smile, and Inuyasha wished that he could be anywhere else but there. “Indeed. Then, perhaps you would be willing to answer another question, demon.”

When Inuyasha’s ears flattened against his skull, the smile only became more cold, more pleased. “What is your association with my… wife…?”

The disgust in the Emperor’s voice was enough to cause a feral grin to spread across Inuyasha’s face, and although the sickening connotation that he would want anything to do with the Empress was there, Inuyasha decided to go for broke. After all, even if the Emperor knew his heritage, knew that he was from the South, he didn’t know of his true heritage. Didn’t know of the position that Inuyasha truly held. And, if the Emperor did assume him to be some hapless servant that his country sent to spy on him, then that was all the better, because Inuyasha had a feeling that Naraku would find him expendable. And if he was expendable, then he wasn’t important. And if he wasn’t important, then Naraku wouldn’t feel the need to kill him. At least, not until he got what he wanted from Inuyasha.

And Inuyasha would do everything in his power to make sure that he didn’t.

“She hired me to assassinate your sorry ass,” Inuyasha replied scathingly, no apology in his voice.

For one, brief moment, Inuyasha was almost certain that Naraku was about ready to draw his sword, was ready to drive it through him, but something flickered in his gaze, something strange and incomprehensible. Before Inuyasha realized it, that cruel pleased smile was once again on Naraku's face, and he was motioning towards the door, ordering Inuyasha to open it.

“Open the door,” Naraku commanded, and with a dark growl, Inuyasha did.

The door itself led to a set of stairs which descended into a dark, long corridor, and for one moment, Inuyasha was wondering how he had missed it. It wasn’t even similar to the one that led to the servants quarters, and he stood there, staring into the musty corridor before Naraku prodded him roughly in the back with the butt of his sword.

“You will stand aside,” Naraku replied silkily, and Inuyasha moved out of the way with a glare directed towards the Emperor. Emperor Yokoshima merely moved past him, his dark, wavy hair bouncing slightly as he moved down the stairwell. Inuyasha wasn’t sure if he wanted to follow him or not, but in the end, curiosity won out, and as soon as the Emperor began his descent down the stairs, Inuyasha was following him, glancing around the dimly lit corridor warily.

It was strange, now that he thought about it, how unaware he had been on the way there. He wasn’t even sure how far it was he had managed to get from that dark room with the strange voices before the Emperor had happened upon him, and even then, he was so worried about actually killing the emperor that he hadn’t noticed that the Emperor was leading him through the maze of corridors that made up the entire castle. The simple fact that he hadn’t noticed the plain, out of the way door during his first reconnaissance was enough to cause his stomach to churn. But if there was something down here, something he could use… as soon as the Emperor left him the hell alone, Inuyasha was spilling every single little thing to the rebellion outside. It was the only way that Sango would get the message… the only way Sango could give that message to his brother.

The stairs themselves were made of stone, and the stones were covered with thick grime. They were brown, not the customary gray that Inuyasha was used to seeing, the sludge was slightly slick under his feet. He couldn’t even curb the slight sneer of disgust he gave as his feet slipped through the mushy mess—he was a Prince, but he had encountered filth, time and time again. It came with being trained, with being left to fend for himself. Missions were always the worst, having to hide out in forests, rank with smells. Deserts, hot and disgusting.

He had walked through sickness and blood the day Rin had brought him to the castle. The area was swarming with infestations—Inuyasha had experienced that kind of filth, too, but… the sludgy mess under his feet was disgusting. Rank. It smelled of rot and urine and something else he was sure he had scented before, but couldn’t put his finger on.

The stairs gave way to a flat landing, which led to another long corridor. Rubbing at his sensitive nose, Inuyasha almost forgot that the Emperor was walking ahead of him, his rubies sparkling in the torch light.

Where the fuck was this place?

The door at the end of the hall was plain by all appearances—wooden with black iron hinges and bolts. The floor leading towards the door was slicked with just as much as the stairs had been, and Inuyasha frowned as his foot slipped once more. The goop splashed around him, coated his pants, and—

“Open the door.” The Emperor’s cool voice cut through the oppressive silence of the corridor, and Inuyasha let loose a snarl.

Naraku merely smirked.

The metal was cold under Inuyasha’s fingers as he twisted the iron handle down, allowing the door to swing open. The room beyond was just as dark—as cold and musty and damp—the rancid smell was stronger here, and there was finally a name that Inuyasha could put to the putrid scent, finally something he could compare it too—

Torches along the walls lit, and Inuyasha jerked forward slightly, his eyes widened.

Cells upon cells lined the walls on either side of him. Cells full of men and women and children. Their bodies were littered with open sores, oozing with pus and blood. Their heads were naked, scabbed, and their bodies were completely bare. They were thin and emaciated, gaunt, and Inuyasha could feel his heart lodge itself somewhere in his throat.

These people were dying.

He wasn’t frightened. No. He had seen people die, had caused the death of others on his own, but…

A child sobbed weakly, and Inuyasha stepped forward, disregarding the silent snick of metal in the almost quiet atmosphere.

He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe the suffering these people were forced to go through. The scent of blood, pus, infection, and death assaulted his senses, and almost as soon as the shock dwindled into something resembling sympathy, the anger burst forth, hot and angry and—

“What the fuck?” Inuyasha whirling around to face the Emperor angrily. “What the hell—”

Silver glinted through the air, and suddenly, all he could feel was pain.

Pain as he staggered backwards, the thick silver sword slipping cleanly from his flesh, dripping with his blood. Pain as the wound burned and throbbed and bled… pain as his head cracked against metal bars, his vision blurring almost instantly… pain as the blade slid through fat and muscle and bone in his leg… pain as fingers dipped into the wound arrogantly, coldly pleased… pain as his throat burned with bile… pain as rotting, infectious sludge was poured into his wounds… pain as his throat was ripped to shreds with cursing and yelling and…

“I won’t ask you again, demon,” Naraku replied silkily as two servants slapped metal shackles around Inuyasha’s bleeding wrists. “What is your association with my wife?”

Inuyasha let lose a bloodied, startled laugh and shook his head condescendingly. “I already told you… she hired me to kill you.”

The crimson blade swung through the air again, and Inuyasha cursed as it bit into the flesh of his arm. It was held there, lodged deep within muscle, but all Inuyasha could do was smirk.

“You’re trying my patience, demon,” Naraku responded coldly, dislodging his sword only to drive it into Inuyasha’s other shoulder. “Answer the question.”

“Fuck you,” Inuyasha spat, blood and spittle flying through the air. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

The sword twisted painfully in Inuyasha’s shoulder, but Naraku just regarded him coldly. His eyes were like flames, hot and fierce and full of so much hate—but he was still amused, even as he looked down at the silver-haired demon. Even as his sword pulled and twisted slowly away from the flesh, causing fresh, warm, sticky blood to spill from Inuyasha’s shoulder.

And it hurt, oh how it hurt, but Inuyasha was stronger and better than that, and he’d rather die than let his enemy think they had one over on him. Pain was nothing. Inuyasha was used to it.

“Demons don’t heal as normal humans do,” Naraku started quietly, taking the cloth from the cowed servant next to him and sliding it along the long, sharp blade. “They can survive multiple, life-threatening wounds… something which humans can not.” He paused then, eying the blood-stained cloth contemplatively. “I wonder, demon, if you will survive.”

Inuyasha smirked violently. “Keh,” he spat. “It takes more than that to kill me.”

Naraku turned dark, cold eyes towards Inuyasha, his lips curving up into a delicate sneer.

“Is that so?”

The sword was slipped back into it’s hilt with a quiet snick, and Naraku thrust the cloth at one of the servants. They took it reluctantly, holding it loosely between their fingers as Inuyasha’s vision swam.

He could still see Naraku. Could still see the wickedly pleased smile on his face. It caused anger to bubble and fester and—the bastard’s fucking playing with me, Inuyasha thought with a snarl, his amber eyes bleeding red. I’ll fucking kill him.

The claws on his fingers elongated, dripping blood, and he could feel the skin on his cheeks start to burn. All it would take was one moment—one moment of unguarded arrogance—and the Emperor would be his. The Emperor would be dead and rotting, just as the people around him were rotting, just as they were dying. His blood would taste so good, so wonderful, and it would be so pretty…

The bloodlust spiked dangerously, and Inuyasha let out a low warning growl as the Emperor neared him. The scent of poison, sharp and tangy, reached his nose, and Inuyasha jerked back as the Emperor moved forward—Naraku’s hands were dripping with a deep, thick, purple liquid, causing a violent mist to raise around them. It fizzled against Inuyasha’s skin painfully—so much pain, too much pain, but the demon was already out, the demon was already trying to disregard it—

“Let’s see just how much more you can withstand.”

The claws—purple and dripping and painful—slammed down into Inuyasha’s leg, and the demon surged forward with a growl, his claws slamming into the Emperor’s shoulder, digging deep, drawing blood. The Emperor smiled as Inuyasha snarled, his leg burning—

It felt as if the flesh was melting from his bones, so hot and searing and so unbearable—

—the Emperor shifted back, Inuyasha’s long claws sliding cleanly out of his shoulder, warm tangy blood scenting the air—

“Fuck,” Inuyasha muttered weakly, his vision swimming painfully. Everything around him blurred, even as the Emperor’s scent reached his nose—it was so familiar, so recognizable, and Inuyasha was sure he had smelled it somewhere before—

His blood burned as it pumped through his veins, and he could taste the bile in the back of his throat surging up, forward, stinging his esophagus, leaving trails of agony and bitterness across his tongue, even as his head tilted to the side, even as the liquid fire spilled from his mouth and spattered against his clothes.

Everything grayed and dimmed around him, but Inuyasha could still feel the Emperor close to him, even as gray turned to black, and the sound of the Emperor’s cold, wicked voice reached his ears once more.

“What is your association with my wife?”

The haze crept up in his mind, and Inuyasha felt his heartbeat slow, trying its best to combat the poison that was working its way through his veins.

Reason left him, leaving him feeling weak and torn to shreds…

…blood took over all his senses… he could feel it against his fingers, after he started to fade from consciousness, his throat working against his will.

“I… I have to…”

…save her.

The world around him shifted angrily. Violently.

Will you protect me?

…yeah.

Inuyasha passed out.

---

IMPORTANT: This story is currently on hiatus for revision. There are many things which I dislike about this story, one major thing being characterization and plot progression. It is because of this that I will be revising the story--I'm hoping to make it more linear and easier to follow. I am also hoping that I can improve upon previous chapters which were boring and extremely tedious to read.

All revised chapters will be uploaded at the same time as the next installment, so if anyone wants to read the corrected version of the story at that time, I would urge you to do so. While things won't change drastically, they will change enough that the reader might be confused by somethings.

So, I'm sorry that I am putting this story on hold until all revisions are complete, but I feel that is best for the story. So, wish me luck, and until next time!