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Golden eyes swept through the shadows, barely driven back by the feeble fire burning in the hearth. The weather had taken a turn for the worse, a mixture of rain and fog blown by a howling wind that obscured the road, leading the carriage that he and his valet were riding in to tumble off the road. Silver hair was streaked with dirt and drying blood, a scratch visibly healing along a silver triangular ear atop his head, a testament to his heritage. The man turned to view his valet, laid across the dusty couch, the man’s deep blue eyes closed against waves of pain.
They had been lucky, the young lord knew, to find shelter close to the site of their misfortune. The wind continued to groan, buffeting the house, the foundation creaking from the strain. Had the man been alone, he would have pushed on, but he refused to abandon his friend.
The silver-haired man could tell the manor they stood in had once been grand, yet signs of neglect and abandonment lay all about. A thin sheen of dust covered the room, the webs of hidden arachnid predators undisturbed in their corners. The paintings on the wall seemed dim in the flickering light as the fire sputtered and hissed, the flames consuming the meager supply of fuel. The man let out a sigh as one triangular ear flicked a web free and hid along his head. They would be lucky if the light held through the night, the wood long spoiled to decay.
“Inuyasha…” Golden eyes slid to the couch and the man that now struggled to sit up.
“Be still.” The rich tenor stopped the other man’s movements as he slid down amid a cloud of dust with a groan. Inuyasha listened as his valet’s breathing changed as he lost the battle to remain conscious.
The shadows loomed deeply as Inuyasha moved around the room, carefully surveying the surroundings. The paintings along the wall both horrified and fascinated him: a mixture of the macabre with the sublime. His eyes lingered on a painting of a woman clad in red and white oriental robes, a baby held in her lap, its face and limbs as white as her gown, its eyes glowing red. The walls were covered in the images, each with one glowing feature, an eye, a jewel, a sword.
All, that is, but one.
A cold chill ran down his spine as he turned to the windowed wall, and the single portrait that lay, perfectly framed between the panes. The frame was oval and delicately gilded, that alone an oddity in a room of harsh lines and angles. Inuyasha’s head tilted as he studied the image; he knew he had seen paintings more worthy of admiration and remembrance than the one that rested before him, yet he was helpless to prevent himself from moving closer, the light playing off the image, calling him, tugging at the edges of his mind.
A young woman sat serenely against the vibrant purples of the background around her. Her figure itself was painted in soft shades, her cheeks as pale as alabaster, almost glowing in the flickering light. Raven hair, a black so deep it seemed almost impossible to have captured with paint, poured down over a shoulder.
It was clear that the artist had taken his time with her face and form, the details almost lifelike, a contrast to the fast, sloppy strokes she lay against. The style puzzled Inuyasha; he had never seen such a mix, as if the painter had worked in reverse, then rushed to finish in a frantic frenzy, yet care was taken not to cover any part of the woman.
Deep red flowers crowned her head, the choice odd, almost out of sorts with the pale peach of her dress, the gentle gleam of pearls around her neck. As he looked closer, Inuyasha was surprised to realize they were spider lilies, painted with such precise care and precision over the portrait. It was obvious the artist had painted both her form and the flowers with love, which made the spider lilies, while masterfully incorporated, also more poignant.
But why would the artist be saying goodbye?
The woman was strangely familiar to him, her face reminding Inuyasha of his Kagome waiting for him at home; at first glance, he would have taken them for sisters, even though his wife had no siblings. The unknown woman’s brown eyes stared straight forward, looking not at her viewer, but beyond, no matter which angle Inuyasha tried. She appeared young, at the blush of growing into womanhood, but Inuyasha could not help but feel there was a touch of age to her, the small smile of one who had known too much.
Art by the amazing Nartista!
A pedestal rested below the image, Inuyasha’s sharp eyes taking in the leather binding of a book, nestled carefully on a silken pillow. As Inuyasha opened the journal, the faded scent of salt washed over his senses, the last remnants of the tears that had blurred the pages. The first page held a single word, lovingly scripted in perfect penmanship.
Kikyo.
Inuyasha turned the page as the scent of tears grew stronger.
To those who would read this, know that you are blessed to know of one of God’s most precious creatures on earth. Kikyo, my Kikyo, was of the rarest beauty, a gentle, glowing pearl in a world that could not see her worth. She deserved everything that life had to offer, and I wanted, so desperately, to provide it all for her.
I had met her as a child, petulant as young boys are at meeting a girl, yet she always lingered in my mind, a presence there, guiding me. When we met again, it was fate bringing my angel back to my side. Within a year she had joined her life with mine, pledging to stand beside me as I pledged to protect her.
Kikyo was… how does one describe a being of pure beauty and grace? She was the light to my darkness, drawing me out of my shell, yet… yet she had to share me. And I know now, too late, that she deserved so much more than me. Kikyo tried to keep me close, to draw me to her and the warmth of her love, her heart, yet I could not tear myself from my cruel and demanding mistress, the images and art that plagued my thoughts and tore my mind from where it should be. It is no excuse, yet I cannot help but feel that my paintings were parts of me, each torn from my soul, as dark and twisted as they were, pouring my anger and fear into each to keep it from Kikyo.
My happiest day was not my wedding day, much to my own shame, and it was a day that led to my greatest despair.
Kikyo, having learned over the three short years we were married that she did not, could not, have my whole heart and soul, embraced my obsession, offering herself to be my model, my muse, and how could I say no? The woman I loved choosing to understand, to share… oh how could I say no? And yet, I wish I had.
This image was so different from anything else I had created, prior works torn from despair, dark layers building as I struggled towards the light. Kikyo herself was my light, and I struggled to capture her. This… she… demanded perfection, both my Kikyo and her portrait. Oh, Kikyo would never say those words—she was too shy and humble for that—but she deserved no less.
Her face, the one I had seen a thousand times, the face that lay beside me as I woke in the morning, eluded me, frustrating me. And my dear, sweet Kikyo never flinched, never walked away; she smiled as she watched me, never moving without command.
She knew me—oh she knew me so well—knew that in the throes of passion I would see nothing but my art, not even her. How does one such as me deserve an angel on earth such as her? One who knew me, who understood me, supported me?
As I worked, Kikyo only grew more ethereal in my eyes, her skin, so soft and tempting, nearly glowing in the light. I found myself adding more and more white to the palette to capture her perfectly. Her dress began to loosen around her, the fabric beginning to swallow her, yet still she sat with a smile. “It is only stretching from the way I sit, my dearest,” she insisted, her whisper soothing me as little else could.
Oh, I was a man obsessed: obsessed with capturing her, her beauty, her essence, all that made her my Kikyo. My eyes would dart to her less and less, drawing from memory, lost in the detail of her eyes, the window to her soul, the feathered fringe of her lashes, the paling flush of her cheeks. I could not move on, could not complete the painting, till she was perfect. Whatever backdrop I added would pale in comparison to her beauty, so I paid it no mind. Day after day, I struggled with pencil and paint to capture her so beautifully, so perfectly.
I could not tell you how long passed as I was entrapped by my obsession, the merging of both of my loves. I knew no hunger as I worked, driven and sustained by the passion surging through me. At long last, the final stroke was placed, and there, the image of the beautiful, serene Kikyo lay before me.
Released from my daze, my eyes lifted, full of joy, to the one who held my heart so closely to her breast. Her eyes lay still, her lashes stark against the ivory of her face. As I stepped closer, she did not move, so lost to her slumber she was.
I knelt to take her hand, longing to feel the touch of her skin against mine after so long without, but instead of soft warmth, cold stiffness met my fingers. My hand rose, trembling, to her cheek, tears filling my eyes as I felt the marble of her skin, rather than the gentle give of life.
Kikyo… my beautiful, caring, perfect Kikyo was gone, her light in a place I could no longer follow.
Only now, now that it was too late, did I see the signs that my obsession had blinded me, too; the glow of her skin was not from her beauty, but from a growing pallor caused by shunning the sun. Her frame, once lush and curved with health, had withered away, hidden behind her dress. Kikyo had not said a word, supporting me in her way, not distracting me or pulling me away to care for herself.
And in finishing what I knew would be the crowning achievement of my art, I lost the one thing that gave it, gave everything, meaning.
Oh Kikyo, my Kikyo. The guilt and loneliness has torn me apart, there is no solace in art now, only devils and demons lurking in shadows. In slumber, the darkness pulses like a heart, the heart that I stilled; no, it was not my hand that killed my love, but I dealt the blow just the same.
There is nothing left for me now, nothing but memories and torment. Tomorrow I shall walk away, surrender myself to the darkness, follow the shade of my love and pray that God grant me mercy to see her once again, though I know the devil should take me for what I caused.
Guard her well; she is all that is good and right in this world.
Kikyo, I thought I could not live without my art, but I was wrong. The only thing that mattered was you, and I learned the lesson too late.
Your husband, who will love you for all time.
Naraku.
Inuyasha lowered the journal, his eyes lifting unbidden to the memory of the woman. Kikyo’s brown eyes, so like his wife’s, now seemed to be looking directly at him for the first time since he saw her portrait. A cold chill that had nothing to do with the storm still raging seemed to sweep through the room. Inuyasha knew all too well the cost of obsession, having nearly followed a similar path before falling for his Kagome. Reverently, he placed the book back on its pillow before stepping back, lost in his thoughts as he waited for morning.
The storm broke at the first brush of dawn, the sun struggling through the fading mist to show the path. Inuyasha stopped in the doorway as his valet continued slowly through the woods, his golden eyes trailing back to the oval portrait on the wall. Its position kept it in shadow, another testament to grief, yet there was a glow from Kikyo’s brown eyes, a trick of the light that almost looked like tears.
The image haunted Inuyasha as he paid for passage with the first carriage they found, the steady gait of the horses leading him back to his own salvation and home. As the carriage drew to a stop, his wife flew from their manor, her ebony hair streaming in waves down her back, the fear in her chocolate eyes giving way to relief. As his valet was helped from the carriage, Inuyasha sprang forward, his arms wrapping around Kagome as he pulled her close with a desperation he had not realized he felt, his body folding around hers as he buried his nose in her hair. He had not realized he had been shaking till he felt Kagome’s hands soothe down his back, his ears twitching at the sound of her voice, so light and loving, as he breathed her in.
“Inuyasha…” She got no further before his arms tightened, his claws closing around her clothes. He knew he would leave holes, something he tried to avoid, but he also knew Kagome would not chastise him for it. She knew the moment she had seen him that something had happened, that something had shaken her proud, stubborn hanyo.
She always knew.
It was several hours later that he was finally able to speak of it, to tell her why he clung to her with such fervor, why he had needed to just be there with her, holding her, forgetting the rest of the world. As Inuyasha had told his wife the tale, Kagome’s eyes had misted over, a shade of sadness warring with resignation in their chocolate depths. Kikyo had been her mother’s cousin: a shy, bright young woman who had faded from view after her marriage, the family unable to reach her or learn anything of what had happened in the decades since her marriage.
Kagome stayed close, knowing Inuyasha well enough to know he needed her without him ever asking. Inuyasha’s eyes closed as he held her against him, his mind racing with all that could have been lost if he hadn’t opened his heart to her, to listen and share his life with her. When he had met her he had only one thought, one obsession: to be more powerful than his brother. He had been ruthless in his methods, seeing nothing but the next acquisition, the next target, until Kagome had crossed his path. When he thought now of how he had treated her at first— another jewel to add to his collection, nothing more, nothing less, a doll to be put on a shelf... But Kagome had broken through his defenses, showing him there was more than power and reputation, that there was more to enjoy in life. When Inuyasha had actually opened his eyes… he had seen the toll that it had taken on Kagome, thankfully before it had been too late.
At the core, that is what shook Inuyasha: that he had very nearly followed in Naraku’s footsteps. He thanked God nightly for the chance to grow old with Kagome that had been denied to Naraku and Kikyo.
At Kagome’s urging, Inuyasha acquired the manor, paying to restore it to its former glory before converting it to an art gallery, a tribute to those who had loved and lost. His wife stood by his side, helping him choose new art to bring in to complete and complement the works of Naraku. She knew he needed this—they needed this—to pay respect to her lost family and as a reminder of the dangers of obsession.
Six months later, the gallery opened.
Inuyasha kept a hand on his wife’s elbow as he escorted her into what was now known as Kikyo’s Manor. Kagome clutched a small bouquet of spider lilies to pay tribute to her fallen family. With a small smile, she stepped away from Inuyasha to lay the bouquet against the pillow. She bowed her head, Inuyasha stepping beside her to encircle her waist, drawing her close to bury his nose against her hair.
Inuyasha’s eyes turned to the window, his gaze scanning the forest as the hair on the back of his neck rose. The shadows of the woods nearly hid the crimson gaze that watched their every move. The wind seemed to sigh a single word, the sound faint in Inuyasha’s ears as the crimson eyes faded from view.
“Kkkkkiiiiikkkkkyyyyyooooo...”