Tick. The clock on the nightstand read 4:02 A.M. in fluorescent green light, and Kurama couldn’t sleep. Even though he knew school would begin in a little less than two hours, his mind couldn’t seem to slow down enough for exhaustion to take over.

Tock. For the past month, ever since he’d returned from his impromptu visit to the Makai, his mind whizzed along like clockwork, worrying and scheming.

Tick. Groaning softly, the red head rolled over to his back in the futile hope that if he was not facing his clock, time would stop. Wide open eyes staring restlessly at the ceiling. His blankets had begun to resemble a giant knot, but he was too tired to get up and make his bed again.

Tock. That drew his attention back to the issue of his “slavery”. Not surprisingly, Hiei had been very neutral about the whole idea of mastery over the kitsune, and did not press his advantage, although he very easily could have. Without much effort the kitsune could name at least thirty varieties of horrendous things he could have been forced to do if Hiei wasn’t such a stickler on doing every possible thing by himself.

Tick. Through tacit consent neither of the demons had told anyone about their arrangement. Kurama didn’t want to worry the others or draw them into his private affairs and Hiei… Well, the fire youkai never bothered to tell anyone much of anything, so this silence wasn’t actually all that unusual. Kurama suspected Koenma knew at least part of it, but if the junior god did he never said anything.

At that point the line between sleep and wakefulness blurred a bit. He suspected he was dreaming when he started to thoroughly describe the healing benefits of liquefied feathers to himself. Usually the kitsune’s dreams were either eerily accurate portrayals of heists he had made during his reign as Youko Kurama or, a more recent memory, bloody battlefields.

Abruptly the dream shifted. The whispers and sighs of growing things combined with the heady scent of moist, fertile soil filled his senses.

Acting without any order from him his eyes opened, revealing a familiar tangle of Makai strangling vines, each of which twisted and flailed about like thick ropes. Oddly enough the plants’ twisting about never seemed to constrict, and instead formed a rough circle about a small niche covered with moss that smelled heavily of fox. A den, then.

One of his hands (which, he noted, seemed especially small and rather less angular than he recalled from seeing them last) reached out and gently caressed an especially large specimen as his voice (he noted that this was higher pitched and more melodic than usual) soothed the writhing plants, singing soft assurances.

He was a kit again, then, probably about one hundred years old in his first life as Youko Kuramaat this point if he remembered this den correctly. And he had an excellent memory.

As a small kit he had hidden himself away in this mat of vegetation for several weeks before moving on to a den that was horribly inferior: a small patch of dying grass that grew in the shade of a deep canyon.

He had loved these vines, and had an arrangement with them, or as much of one as plants ever could have. In exchange for protection he had kept the various herbivorous beasts from feeding on it, as well as an occasional boost in girth, compliments of his power. Granted his power wasn’t fully developed at that point and was mostly useful for growing small thorns, but the vine hadn’t seemed to mind.

Yes, it was a wonderful den for young kit; in fact, the only reason he had left at all was…

Ah, there it was: that sharp, offensive odor that stung his sensitive nose. At the time he hadn’t recognized it, but had quickly become familiar with it: smoke. In any case, it appeared to be the cause of the vines’ agitation. Whispering assurances to the plants, the kit cautiously crept from the concealing cover of the vines, pausing every few feet to check for danger, fuzzy ears swiveling about alertly.

Kurama knew what had happened next, and dreaded it.

The creature that had carelessly started the blaze, for of course it was a fire he’d smelled, had discovered him creeping toward the unfamiliar scent and sounds. The demon, a juvenile salamander, a lizard-like creature distantly related to the true fire demons, had nonetheless been large enough to pluck him from the ground by his tail. After that had been an unpleasant toss in a nearby river.

But none of those things happened in this dream.

Instead he crept up, unhindered, to the source of the blaze. The phrase a red flower? Popped unbidden into his mind. Curiously a thin hand, fingers not yet as supple as they’d become in several hundred years, stretched out to touch the “red flower”. Halfway to their goal the fingers froze as his empathetic link with plants swelled briefly, allowing him to hear, as clearly as speech, what the surrounding vegetation was saying. Instantly the fox kit cringed away, trying to escape from the dying screams of plants which fueled the hungry blaze. But it was too late.

A pale hand snapped out from the raging inferno and seized the fox kit by the scruff of it’s neck. Hauling Kurama up to a dizzying height, (or at least it was to his miniaturized body) the hand suspended the squirming young demon before a pair of eyes. Cold blue eyes. The ones he still saw in his nightmares at night.

I believe I told you that you were mine, little fox, hissed a chillingly familiar voice from the flames. A second ivory skinned hand emerged from the fire carrying a heavy chain. Let’s correct that. With a burst of mocking laughter and the snap of rusty hinges a thick manacle closed shut on his hand.

An obnoxiously loudbuzzing sounded directly in his ear, but failed to distract either the panicking kitsune or his captor. Remember Kurama, the voice hissed again over the racket. I'll be coming for you.

The buzzing increased in volume, finally forcing the terrified kit's golden eyes torward the sound.The bright green numbers 5:15 flashed in his face. The teen woke with a gasp, eyes flying open. Karasu’s laughter, for all that it was in his head, seemed to echo about his room. As his wide emerald eyes darted about, his breathing gradually slowed as it slowly became obvious that no one was in the room.

Shuddering slightly in the wake of his dream, Kurama struggled out from his sweat-soaked sheets and gathered together his uniform. The twisted mess that made up his blankets had been kicked halfway across the floor sometime during the night.

Needless to say this dream had him spooked. While some kitsune had indeed been well known as soothsayers, Youko Kurama had never been in their number. But this nightmare had the ring the prophecy in it.

I have to consult Genkai… discretely.

It was only as he was locking the front door on his way out that it occurred to him that he usually dreamed in shades of gray, as his kitsune form, the one his mind recalled best, was completely colorblind. This dream had been in color.

P)P)P)P)

This will, of necessity, start off a little slower than FWIS. I wanted to point out from the getgo that Kurama most certainly didn’t bounce back from that last adventure. He’s still smiling that everlasting, vaguely creepy smile of his to fool everyone into thinking he’s happy, but don’t be fooled.

The updates probably won’t pick up until Wednesday, as I have relatives visiting. And even then I’m simultaneously trying to hammer out a story for Firefly that’s been picking at my brain. So I make no promises about updates. But think a minute: this is the same author who was disappointed at making four updates a week.