The Taisho fire

Einaudi

Fascinating. There was strange magic at work between father and daughter. The discordance of their last encounter seeped into the music as Setsuna tried to overwhelm the piano. But Sesshōmaru wouldn't relent; his talent unleashed, not in volume, but in firmness as he framed the violin with tones that offered no escape. The piano would not be second hand, refusing to remain in the background.

Setsuna's face, lined with years of worry and the gift of mortality, was set into a deep frown. Sesshōmaru's, flawless and ethereal, showed nothing more than his usual blank mask. But Gwen knew better; both their yōki battled, in tune with the music, hoping to assert dominance. That the hanyō would be as stubborn as her sire wasn't a surprise; tenacity ran in the family.

Gwen watched, mesmerised by the dynamic, hoping to understand how yōkai relation worked. Sesshōmaru's scolding to Setsuna had been swift and precise, much like a katana tsuki. Lethal, but not brutal – more like an efficient strike that left an enemy incapacitated. Only a sentence, to rebuke her attempt at chasing Gwen away, when she, as well, had chosen to die.

To choose death. To shorten your life, voluntarily, left her bewildered. Gwen thought of Arwen's choice to welcome mortality out of love for Aragorn. What Tolkien had written, decades ago, was illustrated with the strange dynamic of father and daughter. Only then did she start to understand the bane of those that remained.

It went well beyond racism. Sesshōmaru's strife with InuYasha, and hanyō, in general, was not only born out of spite. Accepting to have half yōkai pups meant to embrace all those faults brought by humanity. A frailty, that every sound enemy would exploit. Diseases known to few, and unstable blood that could rear its head at any time, endangering their human parent. Translated to humanity, having a hanyō would be akin to accept a disabled child in the midst of a family. Not all parents felt up to the task, why shun them ?

Being a parent was hard enough, but to face a challenge of this magnitude was another story. As for the lifespan... for a moment, Gwen considered how heart wrenching losing a child was. How could you grow to accept to outlive your own descendants? It was unnatural, at best.

Gwen's eyes still observed from afar, father and daughter finding solace in each other. They were alike in their dedication; it was no wonder they clashed so violently. Being a yōkai sure came with a lot of pain, the perfect counterpart to power. Nothing was worth this amount of suffering to Gwen's human sensibilities.

It explained Sesshōmaru's coldness, and his thirst for control. Power meant safety. But, all in all, someone did not quite match in the land of yōkai. Tōga, even in his first incarnation, was rumoured to be a benevolent spirit, one that accepted and protected ningen's frailty. An exceptional being, wielding so much power he could have been mistaken for a god, yet sensitive to those weaker than him. What she would have given to be able to fly in his arms...

She could have loved him, in his natural form. But something was sure; human or not, he owned her heart, now and forever. Lost in her musings, Gwen did not realise the music had stopped. "You might as well make your appearance," Setsuna snapped. "I can smell you hoovering."

The young woman swallowed an automatic apology, deciding that meekness would not gain the twin's respect. Instead, she settled for the plain truth. "I didn't want to disturb such beautiful music."

"Well, you have."

Irked by the bite, Gwen strode on waxed wooden floor. "I have not. Whether you chose to interrupt your playing because someone listens is your choice, not mine."

Yōki blazed with fury, brushing her senses. A low growl rattled Gwen's bones and she turned, wide-eyed, to Sesshōmaru. Another explosion of yōki nearly brought her to her knees; the patriarch's pristine countenance shifted, if only for a second, to the feral beast that resided within. A moment later, all oppression was gone.