A/N: So...apparently, every time I think up something for Miroku, it becomes part of Winds! Which is not bad, but...means that he is not here. I must apologize to Sassybrat; I WILL do Miroku next, even if it kills me! Your reviews are always excellent, and I must thank you for them - I'm sorry to disappoint you since you were looking forward to Miroku, but...well....:( The muse doesn't always cooperate. Jusenkyo, I must also thank you for your review; hopefully you'll find this one up to snuff!

Anyway, for the moment, I present Sesshomaru's Mother in contemplation, for your reading pleasure.

As always, suggestions are welcome and reviews are appreciated! More soon!

XIII.

I have watched him from afar for years, for centuries; since the day I gave him birth, I have known that he was not truly my son, but his father's - and in its own way, that knowledge has been a scar, something searing that has eaten away at my heart.

I, too, am powerful, one of the strongest of the strong...but alone in my palace I sit in a gilded chair and my strength does not avail me to roll back the long years, the empty days that fill up my past now. Ah, my son – on those infrequent occasions when he comes to me the world holds itself apart, and I wonder if I am really even alive. Perhaps when the knowledge came to me that my mate was dead; perhaps it was then that I sank into a dream from which I have yet to awaken, from which there is no awakening.

Foolishness, my son would say, if I were unfortunate enough to reveal my weakness. Foolishness – and he is right, of course. How could he not be? It was I who taught him such things, I, not his father, who gave him a heart of stone. And the price...the price I pay is that now, I wish I had not said a word. Now, I wish I had stayed silent, so that he might come to me and comfort me in my loneliness.

Loneliness. It is a hard word to live in, but it remains...easy to say.

The years between the death of my mate and this day have passed and left no mark on me, have left me almost without memory. I do remember that we fought, he and I – over my coldness and over his heat; I do remember that by the end, it was habit, not feeling that moved us, and still we fought as violently as ever...until at last, we made loving war over his human... and the son he expected from her.

Many times, I have asked myself: if I had known what was to come, would I have been less vehement, sending him away from me that last time? Did I make a curse out of my last words to him, did I allow death its entrance? Do not come to me again, I said, and why is it that that is the only request I made of him that he ever honored?

I restrain myself to hold my breath in the moments when such thoughts come on me; it is not in me to weep, to shed tears, but the anger is almost too much to bear.

He died for her, his human woman, and I admit I did not expect that; he died for her - my mate, who had clung to life as fiercely, as savagely as I.

And the woman, his human woman? She did not even have the grace to live out her life! The Inu no Taisho poured out his blood for her, and still, she had the audacity to fade like the most fragile of spring blossoms! There were not ten years between his death and hers; I know she is damned for this, but it is not enough. I hope she is running in hell, that she has been running since the moment her eyes closed to this world. Otherwise I will find her, and when I do, they will hear her screams in heaven. He was my mate; but he died for her!

Even my son does not know this rage I harbor, but if he did I do not think he would understand. He, too, walks with a human; a girl, too young for fleshly lust, too young for elegant conversation...but she is his. For her, he walked in the darkest depths of hell...like his father, he sees the tragic flowering of their mortal lives, and wonders at it, and perhaps feels sorrow.

Like his father...except that he is not yet dead – and neither is she. I have warned him to take care, to watch that the burden of her life does not leak away from him while he is not paying attention...like his father.

The similarity between them is darkening to my eyes. On those rare occasions when my son visits me, the sight of him at the foot of my stairs is always a knife of memory; the pale, tall figure, white-robed, armored, hair blowing in the wind. It is only afterward that my vision clears, and I remember.

If I could, I would forget it all, but the bond of a mate is a bond for all time; even now, when it is shattered. Even now, when I can do nothing but live with the ragged ends of my regret.