+ The Eye of the Beholder +

It was a mild summer day, sunny and annoying. Jaken had spent the last half hour slowly sidling away from his charge towards a nice, cool pond. Rin was running around and giggling (annoyingly) and Jaken really couldn't relax because Sesshoumaru-sama was looking over his shoulder.

Literally.

Jaken could see their combined reflection, nearly mirror-perfect in the still waters of the pond, and suddenly it was enough to melt all his treasured annoyance into a bone-deep sadness. He had spent most of his life slavering for Sesshoumaru-sama's attention, but in this particular moment a tiny, treacherous part of him wished Sesshoumaru-sama would take his white pelt and his shiny hair and just leave.

Because sometimes Jaken just couldn't bear it anymore. It was worst in times like this, when the sight of the two of them together just creeped up on him, sneering. Jaken felt constantly ambushed, by hot springs and mirrors and sudden puddles.

Like onlookers drawn to a car crash, the little retainer's eyes strayed again to Sesshoumaru's still reflection, so polished and white next to his own toadish complexion, and he wanted to curse the gods, but worst of all, he wanted to be sick.

Because, frankly speaking, his master was the ugliest son of a bitch Jaken had ever had the privilege of seeing. Not one wart anywhere, nothing to redeem the horrid, polished smoothness of his skin, or those peculiarly light eyes. And the hair! Jaken was disgusted by hair, abhorred it from the deepest recesses of his soul. But he reminded himself that his master was not at fault for the peculiar defect of his birth, which had brought the combined ugliness of his smooth-skinned, hairy parents to a pinnacle of disgusting flawlessness.

Sesshoumaru-sama was a great youkai nevertheless, despite all this.

The greatest, actually.

Therefore, as befit his station, he was also a being of great insight with an unlimited store of petty cruelty. And unlike the other ningen-shaped youkai, Sesshoumaru-sama understood his curse, and bore it valiantly.

Sometimes, Jaken looked into the mirror and ranted against the fates that granted him such resplendent beauty and cursed his master with that travesty of a shape, white skin stretched tautly across the bones of his skull, no warts is sight when Jaken had such a wealth of them, one heaped upon the other adorning the intricate folds and wrinkles of his body. This was one of those times. Jaken could feel the rage creeping up on him, hot and scalding, at the utter injustice of it all.

There was no way around it. Closing his eyes, Jaken gave in to the burning in his gut and, raising his small face to the heavens, cursed the gods in a long, virulent mutter.

Sesshoumaru kicked him distractedly.

Jaken bowed and hobbled away, muttering apologies. There was pain in his side, but the weight on his chest suddenly felt a little lighter. He knew it must be hard for his master to be faced with such beauty every day. He welcomed the abuse as his due -- if anything, it strengthened his loyalty.

Leaning heavily on his staff, Jaken realized that a long strand of silver hair had caught on his beak. He spat it out, swearing under his breath.

Oh yes, no matter how many hairs fate threw his way, Jaken would be loyal to the death.

But sometimes, treacherously, he couldn't help wishing the master would finally shave his head.

The End