Work Text:
Three days. That was his self-imposed allowance.
Always in the early autumn, when the leaves were beginning to turn crisp and change coats into bright yellow, deep red, vibrant orange, the colors of the wildflowers she had brought him in her youth and beyond. It was then that he took those three days. Jaken and Tsubaki knew the routine by now after many faithful centuries. They would attend to his matters in his absence, he had informed them when the Modern Era began to require more of him. He trusted them to be competent enough to do that much, at least.
Thus, when the fall wind blustered against the thick ruff of fur on his shoulder, he began his solitary pilgrimage.
Her grave was a day’s travel there, and a day’s travel back. The middle day was spent by her side; placing small flowers that had been pinched between deadly claws, recounting little stories of how his year had passed. It was rare there was anything of note, yet, through rain, through snow, through lonesome chill or oppressive heat, he would tell her.
This year brought with it unexpected tales to deliver to her, and for once, the Moonlit Lord felt the creep of anticipation for the journey slither beneath his steely skin. It was not much, he reasoned, but she appreciated the smallest of things.
In truth, he knew the act was foolish. His breath was wasted upon stone, flowers, and grave soil, and the bones of those buried far beneath it. Still, he spoke them, perhaps spoke more in that single day than he would speak for the rest of the year between. Every year, for centuries since her passing, he retained this solemn vigil of his ward’s final resting place. Of that small grave, worn by time until her name could scarcely be seen against the dark stone.
While Jaken knew well the destination of this yearly constitutional, Tsubaki did not. But the doe, Sesshoumaru was aware, was not as naive as she played at. The scent of freshly cut flowers and old, turned soil accompanied her lord when he returned. It left her with a decent guess of where his three-day travels lead him.
The sorrow of centuries weighed upon him, though he knew it was far past the period in which he should have moved on from the loss. He cared not for the judgment of others regarding his private grief, he always did what he pleased. And it pleased the mourning beast within him to carry out this duty; to quell its weeping heart for another year yet.
This was his ritual, and even in death,
she would be his until the day he drew his last breath.