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It is fall, and the leaves of the great tree are yellow and brown. They flutter to the forest floor in the breeze like flakes of gold, settling into a soft carpet, or onto silver hair, hanging there like a hair pin he still keeps on his person, tucked into the fabric of his sleeve, jangling there like a reminder. Of what? Perhaps the memory of a fangless smile calling him pretty, of big amber eyes longing to be wanted, of tiny frost bitten feet waiting for a word to scramble after him.
Sesshoumaru has no reason to visit the wretch now. Not anymore, since he heard the news. He is compelled just the same to witness its veracity with his own eyes. To see his pathetic half brother’s grave.
His brother, boyish still, barely beginning to grow into the bones of manhood, cheeks soft and round and slack in sleep, hangs cradled by the tree and vines, the abhorrent arrow that keeps him there a sharp jutting angle, cruel and harsh in the gentleness of fall light and gold leaves. They rain around them both, caught between silver ears like hair pins or halos or coronets. If Sesshoumaru deigns to remember, he can picture the flick of those ears: always perking when he comes around, always flattening when he makes to leave, artlessly giving away everything, every emotion bare to be picked at and bleached like bones left in sunlight. Now, he is still, serene, as easily a corpse as he could be sleeping.
“You are a fool. You lived like trash, and you've met your end like trash.”
But there is no sharp retort. There's no fiery gaze, the raising of hackles and baring of short fangs and raspy little child’s growl. There is just the stillness of sleep, and Sesshoumaru wonders if this isn't easier. If perhaps this is better for his aberration of a brother, suspended here between life and death, as he is suspended between human and demon, no longer wrenched back and forth between the two and reviled by all, caught weightless in that seat of hate.
But still, even if that is so, it was not some human priestess's right to act on a life he claimed long ago.
He takes one step forward, feet barely making a sound in the golden carpet of leaves. Then another, and another, until he stands right before his cursed brother. A breeze toys with the glaring red fabric of his fire rat robe. He’s never seen him this still, rarely come so close to him. He reaches up, braces himself, and closes his fingers around the arrow.
The residual spiritual power crackles like lightning under his touch, but he pulls hard. The arrow does not budge. The light from the curse glows on Inuyasha’s peaceful face, and Sesshoumaru’s grimly set mouth, jaw clenched hard as he pulls again. He’s forced to let go when the pain of the spell becomes too much. His palm comes away blistered, still crackling with a few sparks of spiritual energy.
The scene remains as it was; the sun dappling the golden forest floor, the breeze rustling the branches, raining down golden leaves on two silver haired figures. The quiet of a fall afternoon. Sesshoumaru’s expression settles into something serene and smooth as stone. It matches Inuyasha’s, peacefully sleeping beneath his curse, unaware of the seasons passing him by.
A fitting end for his aberration of a brother.