– Weak –

She is a waste of my time: a broken spirit who has offered me nothing but worthless human food and a mutilated smile. The sudden memory of another woman's smile washes away the broken shell lying before me. She, too, was an inconvenience. Her death should have pleased me. This brat's death should not affect me at all, but I cannot look at her without seeing a larger corpse surrounded by long black hair and blood.

She was disturbingly beautiful for a human woman. I suppose her beauty explains why my father consented to mate with her, despite the inherent weakness of her race. Young, talented in singing and painting, moving with a grace deeper than that taught by her numerous governesses and instructors...she was born noble. She was also, however, born a human. Her intoxicating scent was tinged with mortality. Though she was called "Lady," She would have been less than a servant in my house. Yet my father took the bitch to his bed, and there created my worthless half-breed brother.

The tiny body lying at my feet looks nothing like my Lady. Her hair and eyes and skin may be the same color, but the child is a filthy mass of skin, bones, and dried blood. The flies will come, drawn by the stink of death. They will use this inedible corpse as the birthing ground for their young. Such is the way of life.

My Lady's body served no such purpose. I melted her with my talons, leaving nothing but a patch of half-eaten earth. I was the last living being to touch her. I would have it no other way.

She was never conscious of my touch. In life, she stayed a respectable distance away from my person: close enough for a sense of intimacy, but always just more than an arm's distance away. I once found her alone in her garden, sleeping near a brook. The sound of the water must have been soothing to her; she was several months pregnant with the whelp. I allowed myself the charming degradation of touching her hair, the edge of her face, her cheek... She stirred, but never woke.

I took the Nothing-Woman, of course. It was a pointless exercise. Her use lay elsewhere; she served as a reminder of my shame, and she managed to make the bastard suffer. If seeing my Lady's face while using the mindless perversion of her body made me suffer, too, it was merely a sign of my weakness.

You are a weakness, my Lady. You ARE weakness

– My weakness –

Mine, and never my own.

And, should I save this battered child, she will become another weakness. If she lives, she will age. Tenseiga cannot stop time: only death. No matter how strong she will be at her prime, she will be a clumsy brat and a clumsy hag.

The idea of this girl accepting me as her lord, however...

Damn.

If the bitch had accepted me all those years ago, none of this would have happened. I would have filled my need and proven her inferiority; I could have killed her where she lay, a disgusting mess beneath me. I could have hunted down the blasted whelp. I could have blotted her out of my mind; who thinks about a human bitch who betrays her husband with his own son? But my Lady smiled at me – her smile, full of that damned pity – and told me that her heart and body were my father's alone. I may have knelt; I may have wept; I may have thought that I could forget her blood and serve her as I would serve no other; it doesn't matter. I was young. In youth, such emotions burn and fade like fireflies.

If this girl accepts me, will her adoration be fleeting? What would it mean to have her follow at my feet? Will she be irritating and stupid, like the servant I can't bring myself to get rid of, or will she become another tainted Lady? When I unsheathe Tenseiga and cut away the creatures of death, will she look at me not with pity, but with reverence?

IF. IF I unsheathe Tenseiga.

How ironic it was to receive Tenseiga after her death. What use do I have for a healing sword, when my Lady has long since melted away? The only remnant of her on this Earth is the bastard whelp's human form. He dares to share her face after failing to protect her; my lips curl back at the thought. And he was given the sword suited to revenge – something he seems unable to take – while I was given the sword suited to mercy – something which I refuse to have for the world which created and destroyed her.

The same world which created and destroyed this tiny girl...

It might be worth it, if only to test the sword's healing powers. It slips from its sheath like water, and I feel its power pulsing, the dull throb focusing on the stump of my left arm. My eyes refocus, and I see the creatures of death hovering over her body. Though she is dead, her soul must be in agony...

Tenseiga moves so quickly, so easily, that I wonder if another hand – or even the sword itself – guides mine. A human hand is so delicate, and yet only a hand tinged with that humanity can wield Tetsaiga. Strange, that... Perhaps this girl will one day be able to use the fang now wasted on the bastard. Perhaps she will find her tongue, and become someone worth talking to.

Perhaps she will grow to be disturbingly beautiful for a human woman, despite the inherent weakness of her race. Young, talented in singing and painting, moving with a grace deeper than that taught by her numerous governesses and instructors...after all, she is reborn noble. She will be called Lady, although she will be less than a servant in my house.

You will be a weakness, little Lady. You ARE weakness – my weakness – mine, and ever my own.

Humans. Damn the lot of them.

– fin –