Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha


He is a happy boy of ten, running through a secret field of lilies, dressed in carefree smiles and creased, shadowed freckles.

He stops, stoops, stands straight. He takes in the scent of the flowers around him. He takes the kusarigama from his side. Grip upon a bundle of stalks, one quick slice of the blade, and he has reaped them like wheat. A sweet set of flowers for a sweet-faced girl, Big Sister will like them a lot. The smile she will give him, her warm embrace as her arms wrap tightly around him, unwilling to let him go - what a sweet, small exchange it is.

One year down the road he is a travesty of a boy, running aimlessly yet where he is told, dressed in things foreign yet familiar. He feels like his skins don't belong to him. His freckles are still creased and shadowed, but he can barely bring himself to smile.

Something tugs at his mind, hooks itself upon his skull and scrapes along the sides. The long gashes it leaves are all he needs to know of the heavy burden he carries, even though it is something he cannot yet decipher. At times it is enough that it wishes to remain hidden. But when he fingers the scarred grooves, when he wipes away the dried blood and smoothes his hair over the strange wounds, the quick-flashes that enter his mind are almost seizure-inducing.

He stops, stoops, crouches, kneels, bows in submission. He winces, gasps, unable to stand the blinding pain pulsing as it passes by. It is unbearable at times. He remembers something. Never have memories been this painful. These ones whisper to him in seductive curls; he doesn't want to answer. He takes in the scent of old-new blood around him. One hand leaves his pounding skull to grip the handle of his kusarigama. Grip upon the chain, the blade swinging above him in the air before the impending-untimely release, and he sees but not-sees that he has reaped many humans like helpless stalks of wheat - or beautiful, aromatic lilies.

Felling a flower does not result in immediate wilting of life, and that is where his visions frighten him. Felling humans is messy, noisy work. The glaze covering his eyes thickens, and he forgets for a moment before it is clear again. His joints are stiff, and the bile in his throat becomes the most delicious thing he has ever swallowed.

The girl in black turns, the last human who has not been felled. A sweet set of human lilies has been felled for her, in a wilting array of still bodies. Her voice lilts as she speaks his name. He stills in place; he cannot understand. Why doesn't she like the pretty flowers he cut for her? Don't they smell wonderful? Can she not appreciate the beauty of their black petals, all trimmed in hints of green and red and yellow and blue? Such rare flowers he'd gathered for her.

His eyes sting. Confused, he runs his fingers over the blood-rusted blade. His palm splits open on accident, and he closes it to hold in the blood, but the pain cannot compare to the ache in his chest, which can almost compare to the foreign pain that spreads through his shoulder like poison spreading from a snakebite. The way she shivers and shakes sends a shuddering quiver through his frame, and he winces yet again, unable to handle the rejection. If she doesn't like rare, beautiful black lilies, what can he give her, if only to see her smile, and feel her arms hug him to her chest?

He ponders this for a moment, and she runs. He can't let her run, he thinks, not without the smile he'd worked so hard for. But he knows she's too fast for him to catch.

Then he remembers: she is a human lily of similar beauty, with gorgeous black petals trimmed in pink, the most beautiful specimen he's ever seen.

The ground almost sways as his grip tightens. The sky almost darkens in violent streaks as he aims. His heart almost stops as he releases. She no longer flees as the blade digs into her back. She does not fall. She is unfellable.

He no longer tries to understand, as they sink to the ground in a clumsy embrace. She still won't smile, but she is warm, warm as the red-tinged tears he sheds. His throat is on fire, and only when her black-petal skin begins to burn from his touch does he tell himself that he is hazardous to her health. The black and pink dots dancing before his eyes flood his vision, and everything begins to blur, as if someone attached hooks to the corners of his eyes and began twisting the scene on display before him, before ripping it to shreds.

When he wakes up, his head aches, his shoulder screams, and his mind is blank like a hungry void. He feels hollow and desperate from the fresh development of emptiness inside. He has forgotten.

All that remains is the sweet scent of flowers, with a hint of underlying darkness. He shivers from a barely realised loss, unable to remember.