Pairings: Implied Kouga/Kagome, Kouga/Kagura, and Kouga/Ayame.

Disclaimer: I don't own Inuyasha.




He is wood and she is ash, dancing between the columns of pestilence and wind and mirage, chortling of purple jewels and heartless reincarnations.

"In your legs, in your legs," she sings and dances into the sunset.

He runs with tornadoes of liberty into her wake of cinders to trail clumsy fingers through her tresses. She moves away and laughs, and chants "Osuwari", calling her white haired dog home. He sprints into the dust, flesh melting into the pale timbers of oak and elm and cedar, murmuring ancient melodies of windswept birdsong and revenge.

In the growing rise of ignored twilights, she twists his way and asks, "Don't wolves mate for life?"

"Yes," he answers.

The ember burns and rises, falls.

"Ah," she says and pulls her chord of magenta purpose.

He hastens through the falling soot, coating his bronze frame into weakened weald's. She giggles and turns, dissolving into amber and fangs.

"Why?" he asks.

"For love," she says and turns into a puddle on the floor.

The dance is over, replaced by countless corpses that move on sandy swells. Bloodied arms and tapered fingers. The tornadoes of sovereignty beckon him into a carefree embrace of running in breathing caves and woods. He is free of ash and soot and responsibility. He is tied by kin and payment and need.

The wind shifts, whispering in his ear.

"Today," he responds and follows her down uneven trails.

Fire and emerald perch on pale satin. "Didn't you promise?" she says, mouth full of catty softness and sanguine snow.

He blinks opals and wonders.

She crawls silkily into his arms, into his heart, into the festering relics of ash and wind and jaundiced requital. Curls waxen fingers around the jilted cedar and neglected oak, caressing blooms of pink and red and white. Stabs a purple one into his affections.

"No," he lies and dashes into the clouds of corruption.

In pretty hues of disease and decay he twines copper malevolence, calls it liability. Ebony eyes perk from under fine starless eyebrows.

"In your legs," speaks the dying blaze.

He grins, life pooling through his teeth, drying in the dirt.

"For me?" she pleads, stringing her chords of magenta purpose through his veins.

"For love?" he asks, wrapping her in his embrace.

"For everything," she answers.

She sparks amber shards, develops fangs.

He slides under his rancor, into the shell of lost running's and absent kinsmen. He is tired.

"For vindication," she tries again, burrowing into his weary soul, uprooting his hidden desires and unfulfilled yearnings.

He draws out his breath, stabs nails into burnished flesh.

She clutches them to her breast, blood dripping her fist to form scarlet splotches on her starch blouse. She disappears down the wooden manmade structure, fades in a flash of magenta purpose, drags his heart away in crimson hands and dangles it on the other side.

The dance is over.

He changes into wood, changes to exist as freedom is meant to exist. He merges into the forest, vines and leaves scouring tooth and nail and claw. He stands on the rocky slope and searches in the dye's of sunset, hoping for one last glimpse of ash or wind or satin. Then walks away, away to the shattered tornadoes of broken salvation and stolen reprisal.

"Don't wolves mate for life?" laughs the dark.

But this time, he does not answer.