I wrote these drabbles for Livejournal communities a couple years ago, though I've tweaked a few words here and there. They are set in the world of this story, and I always intended to add them to the end as a bit of an epilogue. The first three can be read as belonging somewhere in the previous chapters; the last two happen decades after the end of the War. If you don't want the story to end on a sad note, you may want to skip these last two. Thank you, everyone, for reading and for the supportive and kind reviews.
Warnings: Sexual suggestion
Word Count: 100
Summary: Sesshoumaru gets a hint of his future.
I had always considered myself ready, prepared for any challenge.
But when I settle my weight upon you and our bodies tangle and thrust, the world outside becomes nothing. Nothing beyond your arms and your legs around me; your close wet, heat enveloping.
I had no idea everything would change with hearing the sound of my name as you moan it, with feeling your mouth as it burns itself into my ageless memory.
One glimpse into the future of me as a part of you told me…I knew nothing. I was utterly unprepared. You are unexpected.
So be it.
Title: The Blue Hour
Word Count: 100
Summary: Sometimes pleasure comes from the simplest of things
His favorite time of day was early morning, when the sky was beginning to lighten, but the sun remained unseen. He would watch her slumbering beside him, breath slow and even, still inhabiting the hidden world of her dreams. Though he ached to touch, he never did, choosing quiet contentment in her nearness. Her full lips, parted slightly; her dark hair fanned out against pale skin, like black lace draped on a pearl. Occasionally she would wake and drowsily ask if something was wrong. His answer was always the same.
"No. Just watching you. Go back to sleep, Kagome."
Title: Bodies in Motion
Warnings: Sexual suggestion
Word Count: 300
Summary: Kagome also liked to watch…
She knew he liked to watch her while she slept. Sometimes she'd wake and catch him, the weak light of false dawn just enough for her to see amber eyes, intent and vigilant. What he could possibly find so interesting in her motionless form, she never understood.
Kagome also liked to watch, but the thing that drew her to him was seeing his body while he trained. She would stand deep in the shadows, trying to stay unnoticed, as he drew his sword, set stance, and sprung.
The speed and grace with which he performed kata stole her breath; even after observing him so many times and she knew his dance from memory. His face, adorned with the marks of his heritage that she had once touched so shyly, was all calm concentration, focused and sharp. Hands that held and caressed her at night now easily gripped the sword, and as he moved it became a part of him, an extension of the death-dealing power coiled within. She continued to watch, entranced by his command of the art, the precision of every motion. Her appreciation of his mastery quickly turned to longing…to feel his bare skin hot and smooth beneath her fingers, his body in hers, his whispering mouth at her neck.
He finished and approached; the scent of her desire called him from her hiding spot. His ageless beauty and compelling presence struck like a blow, and she felt small and plain. It reminded her of the first time she laid eyes upon him. "Sometimes you make me feel like a candle next to the sun."
Sesshoumaru liked the analogy, but not in the way she meant. He picked her up and kissed her mouth. "A candle lights the dark," he said simply and carried her to their bed.
Title: A Solitary Arrow
Genre: Angst, Drama, Introspection
Warnings: Imminent character death
Word Count: 300
Summary: Sesshoumaru reflects on his life with Kagome
He had always known this day would eventually come. She was only human, after all. But its inevitability did not make watching her age and fade any easier. In their fifty years together, the discrepancy in their life spans was rarely mentioned; it was an unfortunate fact…no amount of talking or tears would change it. They realized early on that simple acceptance was the only way to maintain happiness and, at times, sanity. Each day was a precious gift, never to be squandered, and treated as such by both.
And now she lay in his arms dying.
"Kagome, can you still hear me?" he asked. "Are you comfortable?"
She smiled up at him weakly and closed her eyes as he brushed an errant hair from her brow and cheek with gentle fingers. A long-practiced gesture, but now her hair, blanched with the passage of time, was as white as his. He recalled a winter morning years before, spent indolently in bed. She had laughed as she braided their hair together in a single plait, silver and ebon woven and transformed into glittering grey, then cut it loose and fashioned it into a bracelet. He hadn't looked at the keepsake in years, but knew it was safely tucked in the bottom of a chest with other treasured family relics—a signet ring, oft-read letters, orchid petals, several pairs of tiny shoes.
A long, solitary life awaited him, but truthfully he had no interest in a new mate. No one could possibly come close to replacing her, and he wouldn't try. Memories would become his constant companion; they would have to suffice.
Their lives were like two arrows shot together, flying straight and steady, and it was his destiny, now a curse, that his arrow was meant to travel farther than hers.
Title: Garden of Stone
Genre: Drama, Introspection
Warnings: Character Death
Word Count: 200
Summary: A small rock, carved with a name and a word, was his destination.
Winter, like a guest who abused hospitality, had finally exhausted her stay and took leave, and with her absence came a noticeable ripening of the air. After long, bleak months whose cold dryness hurt the lungs to draw breath, a green, welcome damp rose from the ground, making the air heavy with life.
Sesshoumaru walked through the cemetery, winding a well-worn path through stones, some ancient, some new. He often came to this place to sit and think of her, though this time of year always brought on a strange, anticipated melancholy. So many memories he treasured, but the best were connected to spring.
Years ago, in his grief after losing her, he had wanted to build a grand monument, a tribute fitting the woman who had shared her life with him, blessed him with children, taught him that true power does not always wear a warrior's face. But in the end he knew that spectacle was not who she was.
A small rock, carved with a name and a word, was his destination.
Under the shade of a large gingko, it was still surrounded by slow-melting snow. He brushed the rough surface clean and traced the symbols.