Kagome is seventeen years old when she fathoms that the currency of this world is power. Everything else is facsimile. Ideals that may never have been more than impressions in the minds of intellectuals, night-dreamers plied with deadly opiates once upon a time.

She is working two jobs and has university entrance exams and Sōta is in primary school and her mother is useless – and she falls ill. One of her coworkers is kind enough to cover for her, as long as she takes his shifts for the next month. One of her classmates is kind enough to lend her his notes, as long as she does his assignments for the next month. One of her neighbors is kind enough to watch Sōta, as long as she babysits her kids for the next month. Their kindness tastes bitter – more bitter than the medication she has to swallow.

The law of supply and demand is an economic appliance of human interaction – and the only thing that matters. There is always a price that must be paid.

Smells of jasmine tea and cinnamon buns saturate the small space of the kitchen, thickly sweet and overlaying the tartness of unease. Inuyasha has curled himself into Kagome's lap, stealing glances at the strange visitors, mouth clamped shut, curious, wary. Kagome has welcomed the pair of old yōkai into her home with polite reservation after receiving their phone call two weeks ago, but she doesn't know what to expect, and so she has let Sesshōmaru make the introductions and speak on her behalf up until now.

They don't appear much threatening but they aren't like the elders of her race. There is something youthful and sprightly in the way they carry themselves that contradicts their age and the wrinkled folds of their skin. What bewilders her most is the fact that one of them is in his natural form. Kagome has never seen an anthropomorphic…flea. A flea that wears traditional clothing, talks with excessive fanfare, and stares longingly at the vein bulging on her neck each time she takes a lungful of air.

"Oh, Inuyasha-sama! What joy to finally meet!" The flea, tersely introduced as Myōga by Sesshōmaru, breaks out in a startling cry of delight, tears misting his eyes, leaping up and down on the kitchen table. "You look just like your father!"

Inuyasha perks up at the mention of his father, shifts in Kagome's lap, leaning forward, awe filling his eyes. Shyly, he seeks his brother's gaze, and when Sesshōmaru gives the barest nod, he finally opens his mouth.

"You knew papa?"

"Yes, of course!" Myōga puffs out his chest, smug, grinning, basking in the child's attention. "I, the great Myōga, was the general's most trusted advisor and fought many battles by his side." His leaping accelerates in a manic tempo. Arms outstretched, bouncing with glee, he jumps down and beckons Inuyasha to join him in the living room. "Come, come – I have many stories to tell you!"

It is Kagome's eyes Inuyasha now seeks, her approval. Smiling, she ruffles his hair, then lowers him to the floor, and the boy is sprinting after the flea. Eager, flushed with excitement, his initial wariness overcome by the need to know more of his father.

Kagome shakes her head, chuckling, the sound merging with another, grittier. Open laughter, full of gravel and amusement. Her gaze turns to its source, the other yōkai. Tōtōsai, she recalls.

"Just like his father indeed." Tōtōsai winks at her with a glint of mischief in his eye. "The general used to hide behind women's skirts all the time."

Kagome can't help her snicker. "Heh."

"Tōtōsai." Low, deep. Sesshōmaru's voice dominates the room, and the old yōkai near blanches.

Tōtōsai's laughter dries up into a cough at the admonishment. "It was but a jest! Forgive this senile old man, Sesshōmaru-sama." He scratches the hairless top of his head, visibly shrinking under Sesshōmaru's stare. "In fact, my memory fails me in my old age. The great Dog General had no interest in females. No interest at all!"

"Tōtōsai." Still low, still deep.

Tōtōsai shrinks further into his seat, barks another coughing laugh. "Well, that is not to say no interest…" Those glinting eyes focus on Kagome once more. Appraising, deviously narrow. "I'm sure he'd have loved to –" His sentence is cut off abrupt, sweat beading his brow. "Ach, my tongue betrays me again! Pay no mind to the ramblings of an old man, Sesshōmaru-sama." He clears his throat then stands awkwardly. "In fact, I will take my leave now that I have bequeathed the young lord with his heirloom."

Kagome frowns. Sesshōmaru hasn't even spoken this time – but something thickens the density of the air, crawls along the pathway of her spine, seeps in the wet flesh of her tongue. It feels…sentient. Power transmuted into nerve-sensation, condensed into pure essence. She shivers, curls her tongue inside her mouth, tingling with the aftertaste of its purity.

Tōtōsai's words sink in her mind, and she directs her gaze to the rusted piece of metal that lies innocuous on the kitchen table. It can be nothing but an heirloom now, if it has ever been a sword. Perhaps she can ask Sesshōmaru later.

She sighs softly, smiles at the brash-spoken yōkai. "You're welcome to visit again, Tōtōsai-san."

"Oh, no, no no no, I much prefer my caves, and I'm too old to adapt to the new ways." Tōtōsai waves a bony hand before his face then bows his head. "Sesshōmaru-sama." With that said and a last crooked smirk, he leaves.

When Kagome returns to the kitchen after she has escorted Tōtōsai to the door, Myōga's pompous retellings of Inu no Taishō's victories and Inuyasha's piping squeals are resounding off the walls in a mixed cacophony that promises a vicious migraine. If it's that bad for her then it must be ten times worse for Sesshōmaru's sensitive hearing. Kagome closes the kitchen door, muting a great hunk of the noise, and cleans the table. She starts the coffee pot, and while it is brewing, she washes the dishes.

Fifteen minutes later, there are two cups of steaming coffee on the table, two lit cigarettes, and silence waiting to be broken.

"So." Kagome stares at him, lips half-slanted in a cross between a smirk and a grin. "I take it your father was rather…fond of women?"

Her tone is mirthfully wry, but when he replies, his is one flat line of wryness devoid of mirth. And a grunt.

"Rather is an understatement."

Maybe it is a bit callous of her to make light humor of his father's transgressions given the circumstances. She is really too blunt for such subtle discussions and no manner of elocution will smooth the edges. A sigh whooshes out of her lungs. It is better to just outright ask – and so she does.

"Did he have many affairs?"

"Only one." He exhales one smoke-licked breath, the corners of his mouth lifting slowly. "He had never acted on these impulses before Izayoi, though he had come close many times."

Kagome observes that almost-smile. He is amused…but in a cynic, cruel expression of amusement, and underneath that, old-living wrath festers in his veins. She doesn't want to touch that. She doesn't know why she does.

"Are you angry at him for having an affair?"

"No." There is warning in his voice, and the way he's staring at her slashes through flesh and bone, but it is not a predator she sees. He is like a wounded beast lashing out after being hunted into a corner, and she feels the fangs, the claws, the hints of fear underneath the monstrous rage. Skin shredded to thin strips, streams of hot blood, protrusions gleaming bone-white. Pain. She can't tell who hurts the most.

Don't ask. Every molecule in her body screams at her to leave it be. Just don't. And yet…

"But you are angry at him. If not for having an affair then why?"

Kagome licks her wounds and savors the taste of her blood. She cuts herself on him and it feels good. Perhaps she is a masochist with a fetish for flesh-cutting eyes. Or perhaps she is as shrewd as he once has thought her to be. It will not be long before the fangs sink gum-deep into the writhing flesh and blood devours the bone until he is trapped inside her.

"How did he die?" It is a blood-choked whisper, an insidious incentive. Bite deeper. Deeper.

"Killed." His eyes are sharper but still not sharp enough. She needs more.

"Is that why you're ang–"

"No." There is no warning in his voice, and the way he's staring at her strokes the seething gashes. Tenderly, spitefully. "It was his damn fault for letting himself get killed."

She knows that this is the end, the killing strike, the last words she will speak.

"Why are you angry at him?"

He sinks those fangs deep inside her neck and tears her throat apart.

"Because he made me care for humans."

And as the blood heats and gorges itself on bone, she knows her why. He is as cut on her as she is on him and she wants him to feel the pain, the need, the fire, the madness. She wants him to let her love him. Even if it is a vicious kind of love fed on time bleeding out.

It is late spring and the sun is a fire-tongue of blood orange that laves every inch of exposed skin. Kagome lies sprawled on lush pillows inside the gazebo at the center of the garden and watches Inuyasha as he is chased around by something green and haughty and screeching. Sesshōmaru has called it Jaken and it is a rather strange lifeform with vitality that far exceeds its miniscule stature…and a whole lot of attitude. But Inuyasha seems to be enjoying himself and she can tell that the shōyōkai poses no danger. Sesshōmaru has claimed that Jaken has been serving his family for centuries with unfailing loyalty. She supposes the imp-like creature is akin to a reluctant babysitter and spares no further thought to the matter.

The garden she finds herself in is part of the estate Sesshōmaru and his mother dwell in the world of humans. A poor replica, he has said, of the garden in her sky fortress where she spends most of her time. She finds the term poor appallingly inapt, hard to believe by her standards, but then again, she is only human.

There are birches and maples and other trees with willowy bark that glimmers pearl-white as it siphons the sunlight. But it is the sakura trees that captivate her, the milk-wine of their blossoms, the fragrant notes released in the breeze with every ripple and delicate sway. Kagome breathes in the brightness, the floral essences, the ripeness of spring, and waits for Sesshōmaru's mother.

Silk susurrates, announces her presence, then spreads and arranges itself in regal patterns as she takes a seat beside Kagome. Her face is bare of illusion, youthful endlessness on perfect skin, maroon ink on lids and cheekbones and curled lips. Perhaps she is the illusion. Frost of passion, marrow of sapience, wind chime, cherry redness. She is beauty personified, an otherworldly sovereign, vessel for the ethereal.

Kagome wets her sapped lips, spine stiff and straight under this onslaught of excruciating grace.

"Taishō-san." The surname Sesshōmaru has chosen does not befit the nature of this woman. It aggrandizes power in blunt, masculine force, but it is the only form of address Kagome has. Politeness coils in her smile, smothers the lingering distaste Kagome holds for yōkai customs – customs that have seen a child orphaned of mother and tenderness. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Is it truly?" Amusement flashes in the gold of her eyes – canny glint and mockery. "No matter. Do call me Madoka. I care not for this human notion of surnames."

Kagome flinches, taken aback a little. Word games, she has expected, even prepared herself for despite her aversion to subterfuge, but not this equivocal frankness. Traps laid in open fields beneath her naked feet, poisons hidden in fresh grass. It is no wonder the woman prefers her given name. A circle has no weak points, no endings, no beginnings. No escape.

Inuyasha's antics draw their attention, child-laughter free falling, Jaken's squawks at his heels. Keen eyes follow the small figures, curiously watchful, with the stillness of a waiting snake, then Madoka hums behind the opulent feathers of her fan.

"He resembles his father more than Sesshōmaru."

Kagome inclines her neck, emulates the bell-like hum, missing half the comparison. "So I've been told."

"You have not seen murals of my late mate, have you?" Honey in her voice, and a drop of bitterness, not enough to ruin its mellifluence, to make it less than what it is. A slithery lure.

"I'm afraid not." Kagome keeps her expression neutral, vaguely interested, even though she knows each word is honeycombed with purpose.

"Would you like to?" Madoka smiles, sharpness peeking through, and it is boon, and bait. Guile and challenge enameled on the tips of her fangs.

"Yes, I'd love to." What else can she say? Kagome has been guided so artfully, and still…the where stays elusive. She can only smile back, showing even teeth and unfelt feeling.

"Perhaps later then."

A filament of something genuine threads itself into that fanged smile. Genuine but indecipherable. Kagome casts a shallow glance at her, and another more intent, but all that remains is its afterimage and bright-dark eyes. Satisfaction, she guesses, mutated into something inhuman. Her smile grows hard, one curve of titanium, and she offers sore gratitude for the offer.

"Madoka-san." The name rolls off metallic and sleek as it slides down the edge of a knife. Enough games. "I'm not versed in yōkai etiquette, and it's not my intention to be rude, but may I ask you a few questions?"

There is no need for such courtesy, not when hostility blackens her mien, but Kagome is reluctant to relinquish control, no matter how tenuous, how breakable it has become.

"Kagome, is it?" Laughter rises from the shadow of the name, shapes cursed meaning from its origins. "The name does not suit you."

I see you, little human. I see what you are and what you are not. I see your eyes, and they cannot bind that which is unseen. It only binds itself to you out of its own will, its own desire. Your eyes are shifting promises, and when they seek the void, so too it shall. Truths below the threshold of awareness, echoes out of space and time, their existence another culmination of a contract half-fulfilled. An inferno rages under her skin, eyes crying dark matter, and she is melting, and she is screaming. She is not made to see.

Somewhere deep in the haze, between fragments of now and then and burning wormwood – she comes awake. Kagome blinks once, and again, then swallows thickly. Her vocal cords feel raw, hallucinations carved inside her throat. "Pardon?"

"The blade cannot cut while it is sheathed." A smile again, more soft red-flesh, less feral, no intimidation in it. "So ask your questions, little human."

Ah. Kagome understands at last. Whatever has come has passed, and what will come is hers to divine. She has been tried, dealt her sentence, and left to resurrect herself inside its cooling embers. All she has is questions already given answer.

"Will you care for Inuyasha?" Fire on her tongue, fire in her eyes, worthless provocation. It is only for the sake of broken pride that she even dares to ask, and when Madoka humors her, another precious piece her price, she pretends it is still whole, unbroken.

"He is my mate's son. I will care for him as I have cared for my own son."

"I see." As the vowels elongate into fine points and drag across the silence, so does her victory. Steep-earned, just like those smiles. "Thank you, Madoka-san. That answers all of my questions."

It doesn't end there, of course. Sometimes, last words cannot choose between vanquisher and the vanquished. Sometimes, they belong to the one who has the cruelty to speak them.

"I suppose it is my turn now?" One rustle of feathers, and merciless precision. "Will you care for my son?"

Kagome can't decide which is more superfluous…the pause, or that lithe flick of her wrist? Yet the transition is somehow seamless, the intention exacerbated, compelling a reaction of equal fervor, easily obliged.

"I do care for him." It is too little when put into words, and too much to be shackled inside.

"It is he who does not care for himself, yes?" She laughs – her laughter is cold, numbs where it falls, then sizzles until it becomes an ice-burn. "But when the cage is empty, and he is trapped there alone, who will care for him then?"

Kagome can't blame the woman for loving her son, even if her love comes and goes with the blood moons. Madoka rises and links her arm with hers. Skin-heat disguises what prowls beneath – cold blood, an infernal taste for sacrifice, the ruthlessness of mother-instinct. Kagome still can't blame her.

"Come. I think it is time I showed you those murals."

She is standing before the mural that has no place in this time when Sesshōmaru comes for her. His gaze travels from girl to woman, lifeless to living, and back again. Rin stares out with dark-honey-eyes, swathed in innocence and brilliant color, sun-smiling, sun-glowing. Sesshōmaru remembers her under the sun, and then he remembers her under the moon…taken by death, taken with death.

"What was her name?"

She speaks softly, quietly, as if raising her voice will rob her of the things she wants, like all the women he has known. Sesshōmaru gives the name she seeks – because it is nothing compared to what she wants.

"Rin."

"She's pretty."

A tide brews under her skin, threatens to crest over her lips – he can hear its fury in the roaring of her pulse.

"Your…daughter?"

Daughter…for me…yes. "Yes."

Half-truth, half-curse. It is too late for Rin to speak for herself, and Sesshōmaru can never repeat the last words she has spoken.

"When did she…die?"

"Centuries ago. The first time, she was killed by wolves. We were at war with the ōkami of the Eastern clan and her village was on the battle grounds. It was decimated and only Rin survived. She cared for me when I was injured at the cost of her life. I brought her back and she chose to stay with me."

The tide ebbs, vaporized by the flame of its fury – he can hear it waning in her breathless gasp.

"And the second?"

Sesshōmaru remembers her under the fire, black scars burning, the smell of need-despair-waiting-loathing in the smoke.

"Because she loved me."

A/N: Happy New Year! It has been a long time, my loves. Life has been…difficult, and I'm still recovering. I hope you've all been well, and happy, and loved. :)))