Disclaimer: Rin, Sesshoumaru and all other characters from Inuyasha belong to Rumiko Takahashi and the other various entities involved with the production of the manga and anime. I do not profit from this piece, nor is any copyright infringement intended by it.


She was a wildflower.

The first flower of the spring, she sprung from the ground, breaking free from her snowy prison. A burst of color against an endless sea of white, she commanded his attention. He was injured, angry, and wholly unwelcoming of the little girl who forced herself into his world.

She sought to help him. He sought to make her leave.

As it turned out, she was more persistent than he was motivated, especially in his condition. Her incessant pestering grew less and less cumbersome, until it was ended entirely, silenced by the bays and howls of hungry wolves. Cold though she was as she lay there on that forest floor, her body broken beyond repair, her small form gave him pause.

With one stroke of an unwanted sword, spring arrived.

Her capricious nature brought newness to his world; a ray of light into the blackness of his wicked, uncaring soul. She was noisy. She was wild. She was almost untamable. It was fascinating to see such genuine nonchalance. It began to rub off on him, until the day he made a grave miscalculation and nearly lost her to his own recklessness. From that day on, her safety and well-being were paramount. He would never again endanger her in the pursuit his own agenda.

After some time, and much to her chagrin, he agreed to let her stay in the village of his brother, so he could ensure her safety and so she could learn of her kind. In that village, the little wildflower blossomed, growing more and more vibrant with every passing day.

He did not age as quickly as she; the hundreds of years separating their births rapidly growing less and less relevant. He saw the engaging woman she had become, and she . . . well, she had always been particularly fond of him. The strings binding their hearts grew tighter and more intertwined, until they finally became one.

In a haze of sweltering heat and blinding light, summer came and he learned what it was to love another beyond reason.

Fall crept into his world, so stealthy and secretive in its approach that he did not realize its arrival until it was upon them. His wildflower began to fade, her colors no longer as vivid as they had once been, but she still fought on, refusing to wither away. He kept her close, watchful of her increasingly delicate condition.

Winter came too soon.

The snow swirled wildly around that stone marker—the last remnant of the flower that had been. He could feel his world growing bitterly cold; the frost creeping into the corners of his heart again. This time, he would not let it take hold. In her last breath, she made him swear that he would be strong; that he would not allow himself to wither away as well, if only for the sake of those she left behind.

So he would.

He made his leave, black boots crunching against the snow. This winter would be long. It would be harsh; perhaps the harshest winter he had ever seen, but he would survive, as he always did. Spring would come return.

And perhaps with it, even his wildflower.