A Wretched Endeavor by Midnight Song

Chase

The sun nearly blinds her. Three years and it is her first glimpse of light. It takes every reserve of strength she has to keep from looking up into it, as if just a glance can melt away all the pain and darkness. The guards leer at her as she passes and it takes another kind of strength she was not aware she still possessed, to not purify them until all that remains is a silvery gray dust. She will not offend the earth as such, and she will not invalidate the sacrifices made to free her. 

Without a word, she returns the candle and keys and, doing the best she can to imitate a limp as she had been instructed to, heads away. In minutes she is winded. She hasn’t exerted this much raw physical energy in such a long time that she can feel the muscles in her legs trembling, threatening to give way, threatening to give her away.

Her breath is coming in a rasping swell of hot air, fogging puffs of it that break apart as soon as she walks, or stumbles, through them.  Despite the cold rushing into her skin through the soft kimono, sweat is pooling in the small of her back and ruining the cotton.

She can’t keep track of how long it takes to get to the village, and there is no counting the number of stares and dirty looks thrown her way. For a moment, it makes her wonder if they know, but that is impossible. These are just humans, these villagers; they don’t possess the extra senses youkai are known for. By the time she has passed through, she can feel a thousand imaginary daggers sticking out of her back and they are nearly as crippling as her screaming muscles.

It happens when she is just under the cover of the forest. Aside from the guards, she has not been near a youkai in such a long time, especially such a powerful one, that she is caught off guard. Her right foot tangles in a root and brings her down and she is so surprised at the sense of demon that her own power explodes out around her in protection.

She has given herself away as surely as she has signed her own death warrant. She can’t stand it, can’t stand the thought of giving up now, of going back to that dingy little cell in the ground, where not even the rain can touch her. Reserves of strength she was not aware of force her first to her hands and knees, and then to her feet and then she is stumbling through the forest with such crashing intensity, nature’s creatures quickly go silent. 

She can feel one of the guards again. After years of dealing with them, their energy patterns are imprinted in her memory. They will chase her, and they will kill her.

By running, she has broken her word. She feels no regret, for this taste of freedom has made her desperate for that same idea, and that desperation has made her strong, if nothing else. Her powers feel rusty as she calls on them but they flare up around her body in protection, as they channel into her hands as weapons. She will kill in order to live, even if she is sent even deeper into the pits of hell for her crimes. 

Hyper aware, the sound of feet pounding into the ground so close behind her urges her to go faster, to breath harder, be smarter. Just as suddenly as the sound becomes clear though, it is gone, leaving only a stunned whoosh of breath. She is safe, if only for a moment and there is no blood on her hands.

Too tired, too weary and too cagey to question this godsend, she forces herself to carry on. She may not have to fight, but she is still too close to her prison to ever feel safe. Up ahead, the path is clear and sunlight filters down, spurring her forth as if what waits on the other side of the trees is salvation.

Even though she is no longer trapped in the ground, her hearing is still exponentially stronger than it had been three years ago; it is the only reason she takes notice of the utter silence of the woods, the almost serene sense of waiting as a she bursts out of the woods.

The sun is brighter, forcing her eyes to squint as she adjusts. She wants nothing more than to bask in the warmth of it kissing her skin, in the knowledge that she will never again face the cell in the ground. She will die before she returns.

He is there. The sheer presence of his youkai is overwhelming and the only reason she has been able to deny its presence, his presence, is because she still cannot quite believe that she is no longer captive.  She knows he is waiting, and with his infinite spheres of patience, he will continue until she gives him what he wants.

She turns. “Sesshoumaru-sama.” He is the same as ever: perfectly perfect. Tall and lusciously pale, his clothing billows around him and she is captivated. His eyes, liquid gold emotion made hidden by the stern set of his jaw, the narrow angle of his brows; he is still striking. “What are you doing here?"

He studies her, and his mind is racing. The years in prison have emaciated her; she is too thin by far. He can see the keen cusp of her cheekbones, the sharp edges of her jaw. Her eyes have sunk into her skull and her skin, once lushly tan from the sun, has taken on the pallor of a long dead corpse. Every angle of her body stands out starkly in the baggy clothing of the borrowed kimono and even with the distance between them, he can see the trembling of her muscles. 

After a moment of considering her question, he disregards it. “Priestess. Come.” 

Never in a million years has it occurred to Kagome that the great and fearsome demon Lord would consent to help her, especially with all of the history between them. She is responsible for his pain as much as her own. “Why are you doing this?” 

Again he discounts her words and motions to the dragon that stands behind him. “Come. They will give chase when it is discovered you are no longer in you cell. They will not find you.” 

In a daze, she approaches him. He towers over her and inanely, she wonders just how tall he really is. She knows he is powerful, and a great legend in her home lands. She knows there is warmth beneath the icy exterior, and compassion where most others see cruelty. She knows he should hate her for she has done. What she does not know is why he is doing this. By all rights, he should hate her. It is all so confusing, and she is so tired, her muscles screaming for relief, that she doesn’t quite realize how light headed she has become. It isn’t until dots dance before her eyes that she knows she’s going to faint.

Sesshoumaru catches her and frowns. The look of her is only a hint of how much she has lost; she weighs less than a child not yet past their tenth summer. Gently, he lifts hers and moves to set her in the dragon's saddle, but cannot bring himself to let her go. 

Ch. fin

o.O.o

Word Count: 1,256

a/n - Whelp, here we go again. These first four chapters have undergone a lot of editing and I've deleted a few chapters too. All of my other stories are on hold right now, as this is the only one I've got any inspiration for currently. I'll return to the others eventually. I hope also that I can have your patience and support as I start this story over and feel out where I was going with it and where I want to go with it now. I look forward to reviews and suggestions. ^_^