Disclaimer- I don't own Inuyasha.

When They first appeared, Kohaku was confused. He knew not where this girl in white, nor this lady of the Wind had come from.

His empty mind stirred with questions that were unsaid.

Yet a small part of him that was not yet quite dead shifted, as though the presence of a being other than Naraku could comfort his shredded soul.

Neither one took notice of him, unless it was on the orders of Naraku. Kagura was too busy plotting, too busy weaving the wind and struggling to be free.

Kohaku supposed she despised him for not even trying to be free, and relishing this life of memory chains. Or perhaps her disgust came from the fact that they both were at Naraku's ambivalent mercy.

Yet he knows that her chains are ones of desire, of longing. He longs for nothing but Death.

And the other... Kanna. She paid no attention to anything or anyone. She only came to life when Naraku wished it.

Kohaku felt as though she was a fellow prisoner, only she was bound by nothingness, and he was bound by life itself.

He wondered if she knew that her captivity was so much better than his.

Feeling nothing was far better than feeling everything, Kohaku had come to understand.

Sometimes, he watched her, sitting in the corner, eyes as empty as her soul, her mirror gleaming dully in the eternal night around Naraku.

He longed for the nothingness she embodied, to finally have it end, this wonderful agony of life.

And one time, he sat next to her.

She did not speak, or move, or even acknowledge his presence. Kohaku did the same.

Two prisoners sharing a silent empathy.

He found that her taciturn presence was a soothing remedy on his befuddled mind.

So in the many interims between doing Naraku's bidding, he would sit next to this girl of nothingness, and relish the silence.

Yet one day, something quite different occurred.

Kanna spoke.

"Why do you sit here?" she whispered, her voice like a cool knife against his neck.

Startled, Kohaku blinked and sputtered, as though he had never known she could speak. "I... I don't know." He said, the stutter in his voice faltering as he turned his head.

Kanna said nothing, and did not speak again.

The silence seemed a tad cruel to his ears afterwards.

He did not sit next to her for a long, long time after that.

He wonders if she's forgotten. About him, about her question and his false answer.

And he finds that he does not like either outcome.

So, after this long period of lonesome, Kohaku sits next to her again, as though nothing had changed.

She does not acknowledge his presence, nor even seems to be alive.

The action feels spiteful to him.

"I lied earlier," he began quietly, so softly that he wondered if his voice was slipping into oblivion from disuse, "I did know. I... want what you have. I want to be nothingness."

Kanna still, did not come to life. Yet she spoke, with no expression and no movement. "I want to be alive." The voice was no longer a cold blade but a soft pining.

Kohaku wondered if he should tell her of how awfully wonderful the agony of life was. How every moment could be the greatest mistake or the greatest triumph, but no matter what, you could never take it back.

He stayed silent, and let her dream.

They stayed there, each of them representing what the other yearned for.

Perhaps, Kohaku decided, nothingness was just as bad as living.