A/N: This is all for you, my darling Raihu, and I know you don't need to be warned. You picked the subject matter, after all. But for the rest of you, beware gory descriptions and underage yuri.


A child's stature suits Kanna. Legs too small to follow, too short to run for help, suited only for kneeling endlessly at her master's side. Arms that cannot reach out, hands that fall short of another's touch, always bent inward to her mirror, with which she shields her vulnerable stomach. It was not by Naraku's design that she appeared this way, rather it was the outcome of her own nature. Skin unlined by smile or frown, an expanse as smooth as the gray surface of her inexperienced brain.

She had liked Kagura's hands.

Kagura's hands that fluttered with the interest of birds newly revived by spring. Hands tipped by deft claws that Kanna could imagine scoring the skin of enemies and lovers with equal passion. Caught in a flurry, slipping into her kimono, whipping about her fan, expressing the need she felt where words were inadequate, those were the hands that Kanna remembered.

Hands are very important.

Naraku's beautiful hands, folded elegantly in his lap, needed little provocation to become the spidery things they really were. His fingers in a fight became long, rigid claws like wasps' stingers, incongruous with his still-human arms. His hands, like him, covered their cruel nature with deception.

Hakudoushi, like Kanna, had the short child-arms that could never reach out to another, but his were made to hold a weapon, and in doing so, become one with that weapon; his hands were a blade, sharp and long-reaching.

Mouryoumaru's arms were long with wanting, needing to reach out, but his hands were mutilated and unusable save as hooves in the long path he had before him.

Kanna had once uncurled one pale finger very carefully in Kagura's direction, like a mushroom growing towards whatever can be grown towards in a lightless place; perhaps merely in the opposite direction of gravity. Kagura, of course, had not noticed, captivated instead by her own fast, capricious movements.

Kanna could not remember what those hands had held as they disintegrated, what those bones had held before they'd been burned to black smoke and fine white dust.

She hopes it was nothing.