On the veranda where Hirokin sat, the soft light of a host of hovering paper lanterns muted the distant glow of the stars. It was a warm night for the season. The damp, sultry air was breathy with the portent of a coming storm.

Long into the evening he and Sesshoumaru had conversed with one another, as they hadn’t in quite some time. Mostly, Hirokin had talked, regaling his friend and lord with such ‘clever’ stories and ‘pretty’ turns of phrase as Sesshoumaru had demanded. With keen interest, he had followed Hirokin’s fluid gestures and expressions, had listened to the lilting cadence of his voice.

Like a lute on a shelf, Hirokin considered himself more than ever, in Sesshoumaru’s eyes, as an instrument not without use, but primarily to be kept and admired. Hirokin felt he’d given his usual fine performance, at any rate; Sesshoumaru had seemed pleased enough with him. As the hour had grown late, Sesshoumaru’s gaze had grown heavy. Now with his head resting against Hirokin’s thigh, the demon lord slept, and Hirokin felt that he could finally relax himself.

Lifting singed fingertips from the rosary that glinted beneath Sesshoumaru’s collar, he touched his hand to the necklace encircling his own. Within it, he felt the faint hum of his mother’s magic, and it soothed him in turn. Often, the thought of her alone was enough to set his mind at ease.

In more ways than one, Hirokin differed from the majority of his kind, and the art of memory he possessed was a rare gift indeed. His own recollections, and those he’d gleaned from others, he could bend and reshape, erase or preserve as if etching them into stone. In this way, his memory of Haname, in all her divine loveliness and grace, was as vivid to him now as it had ever been.

For many long years, this memory of her was all that he’d had.

Until that day…

…

A stroke of blind luck was Hirokin’s best guess on the matter.

His father Ryuutarou was notoriously inept at giving gifts—and notorious for giving them unsolicited and in excess, in anticipation of securing favors of his own.

And so, on the day of Hirokin’s coming-of-age celebration, he’d had low expectations for whatever his father would present him. The gift Sesshoumaru had already given him—a haori of such fine silk that it flowed like cool water through his fingers—had seemed unlikely to be bested at any rate. He’d worn no other since, and had been wearing it of course on that day, when he’d returned to his ancestral home to observe his familial rites and take part in the grandiose festivities befitting a son of the great River Lord.

His elder brothers and younger sisters had presented him with the customary gifts—a short curved dagger which Hirokin would surely never use and a garish emerald sash which he would surely never wear. Still, Hirokin had accepted them with all due courtesy, and the same for the deluge of presents which his other relatives and hopefuls had showered upon him. At least a hundred times he had endured with a smile of cool politeness praises of his beauty and good breeding, each one ringing hollow to his ears. It was not that these they were empty praises. Yet they had struck Hirokin as lacking all the same—for of what credit was it to him that he should have a handsome face and a storied lineage?

Only a distant cousin of his, a girl a little younger than himself, who’d blushed and lowered her eyes and refused to address him at all until her mother had scolded her into speaking—and only then directing her gaze to the silvery purple serpent twined about her arm—had whispered that she ‘admired his courage.’

Hirokin had balked at this. “What?” he’d demanded, making the girl and her mother both flinch in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“…F-for leaving home,” she had stammered out, her dragon peeking apprehensively at Hirokin from behind her shoulder. “For choosing to live beyond the Lake.”

Hirokin had stared at her in reply. Greenish with mortification, her mother had been appalled.

Sharply, she’d pinched her daughter’s fanned ear, making the girl cry out. “Forgive her, Hirokin-sama. She is an impudent little fool, who says strange things without thinking.”

“Now, now, Asaki,” Ryuutarou had drawled from his throne nearby, his gaze dwelling upon the teary-eyed girl for what had seemed to Hirokin an overly long time, before sliding to him. “I can see my son has taken no offense.”

“Of course not,” Houseki had sneered from Hirokin’s other side. “My little brother has a penchant for strangeness, after all.”

With his most radiant smile, Hirokin had turned to him and replied, “‘Penchant’—that is a fine word, Ani-ue. I cannot recall you ever using it before. Have you been saving it for this special occasion of mine? If so, you flatter me greatly.”

Houseki had clenched his jaw, his cheeks flaring an ugly puce. Hiraitou had snickered, Hanako giggling along after him, while Ryuutarou had chortled drunkenly into his cup, and little Himamori had blinked around in confusion, not understanding the joke. Shyly, Hirokin’s young cousin had smiled up at him before her flustered mother had dragged her away.

Recovering himself a bit, the River Lord had waved cheerily toward his steward. “My gift to Hirokin—bring it out next!”

“Father,” Hiraitou had said sternly from his right, “there are others waiting yet.” Glancing sharply toward the line of nobles now shifting and muttering at Ryuutarou’s impropriety, he’d added, “Should not your gift be the last?”

“Bah, why should it be?” Ryuutarou had said peevishly as he’d held out his empty cup to be refilled. “Last time I cared to check, I was still lord of this place. What is proper is for me to decide.”

As Hiraitou had glared at such petulance, Hirokin had rolled his eyes. Above the rim of his cup, Ryuutarou had grinned with sheer indulgence as a small chest of mother-of-pearl had been brought forth through the parting crowd. Frowning in consternation, Hirokin had accepted the gift, which was by far the least extravagant he had ever seen his father give.

A faint shiver of blue light had emanated as Hirokin had cracked open the chest. At the sight of what had laid within it, his breath had caught in his throat.

“This…” he had murmured, swallowing dryly as his eyes had begun to sting. “This was Mother’s.”

Not daring to touch it out of reverence, he had trailed his gaze instead over the strand of red coral beads. Faceted and translucent, they had glittered like rubies against their bed of ivory silk.

…

The lantern lights went out with a wave. Far above and beyond the Western Palace, a blue star glinted in the wash of dark sky. The Sea Star, Haname had called it.

Her star, Hirokin referred to it now in his mind.

In pain and love, he recalled that fateful image of her, so noble and composed as she had been escorted to her death. While his father and brothers had stood grimly by, while his sister Hanako had wept and Himamori had wailed in her nurse’s arms, Hirokin had pushed past them all in a rage of despair. Small and quick enough, he had evaded the hands that had reached out too late to restrain him and had thrown himself into Haname’s path instead.

“Haha-ue!” he had cried as he’d seized her dress in his tiny fists. “Don’t go! Don’t let them take you! Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, please don’t go…”

How many such pleas he had uttered, Hirokin did not wish to recall. Yet through the sheen of his tears he had seen her stoic expression crumble. Swiftly, she had knelt and gathered him into her arms. Against his cheek, he had felt the press of her coral necklace, warm and bracing, as she had whispered to him, “I do this for you, my love. For your brothers and for your sisters and for all who are yet to come. Protect them, Hirokin. Watch over them always. Love them as you have loved me.”

These were his mother’s last words to him.

Hirokin never saw her again.

…

A sheen of tears had glazed his eyes then, as he’d lifted them to his father in wonder. “She was wearing this necklace…on that day. How did you…?”

“Never mind that, my son,” Ryuutarou had said with a flippant smile, beyond pleased at Hirokin’s awed reaction. “The important thing is that you have it now.”

Hirokin had not argued at this.

With trembling hands, he had lifted the necklace from the chest and draped it around his throat. So close to his heart, the coral had warmed to him, a familiar comfort. In it he had felt his mother’s power, her presence. Such a peace had transcended him at the sensation that only then had he realized the depth of turmoil her loss had cast him into.

Breaking past the surface of his grief, Hirokin had breathed deeply in, as if it were his first.

…

As though in a dream, he had returned to the Western Palace. The coral necklace had not left its place near his heart since, nor would it have ever.

Almost without thinking, his hand had strayed continually to it, to press it closer to him still. It would have been impossible for anyone not to have noticed how enamored Hirokin had been of his mother’s heirloom. Sesshoumaru, of course, had noticed it at once.

“Who gave that to you?” he’d demanded.

“My father,” Hirokin had murmured in reply. “This necklace belonged to my mother. It’s very precious to me.”

If he had known then what he did now, Hirokin might have seen the warning in the way Sesshoumaru’s expression had darkened at this. But he had been too adrift in his own blissful nostalgia to even begin to sense it, let alone guard himself against it.

Advancing upon him, Sesshoumaru had put forth his hand. “Let me see it.”

Only then, as Hirokin had eyed the glinting points of Sesshoumaru’s claws, had the first distant whispers of alarm begun to resound within him. Warily, he’d retreated a step, holding the necklace now as if to shield it.

“You have seen it,” Hirokin had said, rather lowly.

And this had been his second mistake. Sesshoumaru’s eyes had flashed in challenge.

“Give the necklace to me. Now.”

“No!” Hirokin had snapped, edging backward still. “Why should I? It’s mine. What could you possibly want with it, anyway?”

“Yours…” A thin smile had curved Sesshoumaru’s lips. In a flash, he’d closed the distance between them, the necklace wrenching taut around Hirokin’s nape as he’d seized it. “We’ll see about that…”

“Stop it!” Hirokin had cried, trying to tug the necklace back. “Sesshoumaru, stop!”

Sesshoumaru’s claws had jerked again. There had been a tinny sound, like breaking glass, and then the beads of coral had been flying free, striking the floor in a ruby hail. Hirokin had choked in horror, something within him seeming to break and fall as well. Dropping to his knees, he’d scrabbled for the beads, gathering them up and clutching them to his chest as he’d glared daggers at Sesshoumaru.

“You…”

After destroying the necklace, Sesshoumaru had stepped back, his expression smooth and implacable as stone. “It was an accident,” he’d said.

Hirokin’s eyes had seared as he’d leapt to his feet. “No, it wasn’t! You’re only saying that now because you’re ashamed of what you’ve done.” Youki had seethed around him, a churning riptide of blue. “You asshole…”

Sesshoumaru’s eyes had narrowed. “Are you going to strike at me, Hirokin?” Ivory claws had cracked as Sesshoumaru’s own virulent aura had swelled to fill the room. “Attack me if you dare.”

The idea of Hirokin landing a hit on Sesshoumaru had been laughable. Among their peers, Hirokin had been by far the poorest fighter; and Sesshoumaru, by far the best. Hirokin’s intellect had always been his greatest strength, and through his words he’d wielded it as prodigiously as Sesshoumaru with his claws and swords.

Straightening, Hirokin had smiled at him, sharp and cruel. “How jealous and spiteful you are, because my father cares for me and yours does not.”

It had been a certain coolness he had observed, in Touga’s manner toward Inukimi. Over the years Hirokin had come to realize what it had meant, if only by contrast: that Sesshoumaru’s father did not love his mother as Ryuutarou had loved Haname. And so the shadow of this coolness had extended to Inukimi’s son as well. Subtle though it had been, Sesshoumaru must have felt it, too—must have feared it, even—for the agony of Touga’s perceived indifference toward him had been reflected in the rueful clench of his fangs, the gutted bleakness in his glance.

And then, just as quickly as Hirokin’s blow had landed, Sesshoumaru had recovered in a blaze of blinding red wrath.

Hirokin’s cheekbone had smashed as his face had met the floor, shards of bone gouging straight into his eye. He’d screamed in pain as his vision had filled with blood, his tongue bitten and his upper lip busted through. Sesshoumaru’s fist had ground his head further into the splintering planks, the knee at his back making his spine creak and distend. In vain, Hirokin had summoned his youki to ease to the crippling pressure, but Sesshoumaru’s power had scorched through his own like so much mist.

“Take it back,” Sesshoumaru had snarled. Hirokin’s legs had gone numb as his spine had given a sickening crack. “Take back what you said, or I’ll fucking kill you.”

It had not been an empty threat. Already, Hirokin had felt close to death, the edges of his sight haloed in black. He’d had only enough strength left in him to rasp out a few words, though how his mangled tongue had even managed them had been a feat in itself.

“T-take…it back…I…t-take it…b-back…”

Hirokin had hissed as the force bearing down upon him had suddenly relented. His spine had realigned with a jolt that had made him dryly retch. His limbs had returned to life in a spasm of fiery torment. Still, he had not been able to control them yet, even to turn himself over. It had been Sesshoumaru who had peeled him up from the floor and set him lying flat upon his back.

Overwhelmed by greater anguishes, Hirokin had not noticed the piece of coral that had embedded itself in his chest. With his every heaving breath, it had chafed at him, gleaming red with his own blood. Crouching over him, Sesshoumaru had grasped the fragment in his claws.

“I forgive you, Hirokin,” he’d softly said, twisting the coral to make Hirokin cringe before plucking it out and casting it away. “Because I care for you, I trouble myself to correct you. I’m only punishing you for your own good, so that you will remember your place.” Still coppery and slitted, Sesshoumaru’s eyes had seemed to teem with red. “One day, I will be your lord. It would be best for you to think of me as such. All that you have, even the air in your lungs—none of it belongs to you. It belongs to me, and you should be grateful for every breath I grant you.”

Into the depression the coral had left in Hirokin’s flesh, Sesshoumaru had sunk the glowing green tip of a claw. Bloodily, Hirokin had gasped, his good eye spotting silver.

“Are you grateful,” Sesshoumaru had rumbled, singing Hirokin’s rib as he’d scraped it, “for this most precious gift?”

“Y-yes!” Hirokin had yelped, weeping tears of blood as his healing eye had dislodged the bone fragments piercing through it. “…Yes, my lord.”

In Hirokin’s blurred vision, Sesshoumaru had smiled down at him, and the terrible, savage beauty of the image had rendered him breathless once again. Tortuously slow, Sesshoumaru had withdrawn his finger from Hirokin’s scalding flesh. A pale fall of silken hair and downy fur had cascaded over him as Sesshoumaru had leaned down and slicked his tongue through the blood crusting Hirokin’s cheek.

Hirokin had shuddered in shock. Sesshoumaru’s warmth had seemed to bleed into him, to pool low and simmering in the pit of his stomach.

“Tell me again,” Sesshoumaru had said, his lips dragging wetly along Hirokin’s stinging skin. “Tell me how grateful you are.”

The warmth had pulsed within him, a dense and heady throb. Senseless with it, Hirokin had faintly writhed, his fingers clutching at Sesshoumaru’s sleeves.

“I’m so grateful to you…” Screwing both his eyes shut on the strange, exquisite new agony assailing him, Hirokin had groaned. “Sesshoumaru-sama…”

Skimming his tongue along the broken line of Hirokin’s jaw, Sesshoumaru had murmured, “…Say it again.”

Hirokin’s heartbeat had hammered, above and below. “Sesshoumaru-sama…”

Sesshoumaru’s youki had borne down on him, oppressive and all-consuming. Within Hirokin, the heated pressure inside him had steeped to a boil. He’d thought he was dying after all, and absurdly, he hadn’t cared.

“Again,” Sesshoumaru had growled against the vein pounding in Hirokin’s throat, and he’d exploded at last.

“…Sesshoumaru-sama!” Hirokin had cried out as the sensation had swept through him, emptying him of everything.

He’d returned to himself in the aftermath as though wrested from a dream. And as with so many of his dreams from back then, his stomach had been sticky and grimed—and not with blood.

Easing off of him, Sesshoumaru had risen and dashed a wrist across his bloodied lips. Like a god, he’d stared down upon Hirokin’s devastation in icy judgment.

“Clean up this mess that you’ve made,” Sesshoumaru had said coolly to him, then turned upon his heel and left Hirokin to it.

…

Thunder boomed to shake the heavens. Behind a billow of smoke-colored cloud, Haname’s Star dimmed and obscured.

Head still resting in Hirokin’s lap, Sesshoumaru stirred but did not wake. He must be exhausted, Hirokin knew, from the burden of constant restraint he imposed upon himself. Frowning, Hirokin combed his shimmering nails through Sesshoumaru’s bangs to straighten them, as a damp breath of wind sighed through the clinging silk of their clothes.

Hirokin had failed to honor his late mother’s wishes. Though he had done his level best to watch over and protect the family of his blood, he had not loved them—even before he’d learned the truth behind Haname’s death. In sacrificing herself for them, she had set a bar they could never measure up to in Hirokin’s eyes. He would always find them unworthy because of it.

It was not so much even their many faults he blamed them for, as for their thoughtlessness toward her. Apart from his father, not one of them ever spoke of her. Not one of them seemed to remember her at all.

This Hirokin could not abide.

The whole of his heart he’d devoted to Sesshoumaru instead. Yet would it have made any difference, Hirokin wondered, had he been able to divide it? Might he and his family have been happier if he had? Might he have befriended Houseki, chastened Hanako, guided Himamori?

Might he have been able to save Hiraitou?

Shaking his head, Hirokin put the thought from his mind, as only he could do. It was impossible to tell, and irrelevant, besides.

Sesshoumaru would never settle for anything less than absolute devotion.

---

Inuyasha © Rumiko Takahashi

Whew, to think that these past 3 Hirokin POV one-shots were supposed to be a single piece @_@ Anyway, thanks for indulging me 🙂 This is the last one of these, for a while at least <3