The Odd Paths of Destiny
He thought of her eyes, looking at him for the first time, a silent, dirty child who lived on the fringes of her village, dressed in rags, bearing gifts for the wounded being she had found. Her smile was miraculous.
Something, even then, had clicked in the back of his mind, something in her smile, her scent, the way her eyes lit up when she saw him had reached out to him even in his self-pity and misery.
No longer a child, she poured him sake, her hands older, graceful, beautiful in the way she handled the jug, and in the soft glowing fabric that flowed as she moved.
He picked up the cup and sipped, watching her through half-lidded eyes, how her hair, no longer the chopped off tangle of a neglected waif, hung down in a lustrous dark cascade, how her body, still small, had shed the childish form of when he first met her. She was no waif.
He put his cup down and leaned forward, and took her hand in his. So petite . . . the fineness and smallness of it resting in his much larger hand stirred something deep in him, the need to protect, to cherish.
For a moment she stared at her hand laying there in his, then he closed his hand, large, strong, tipped with claws, around it, as if to say, ‘here you will always be safe.’
She looked up into his intense golden eyes, eyes touched with many things he could not say aloud, but she always, from the first, knew how to read. It was the same look, the same smile, she gave him the first time their eyes met, and their souls joined in some subtle, unfathomable way, and without knowing it, he became hers.
“Rin,” Sesshoumaru said.
“My lord?” she asked.
“Time for bed,” he said.
Her smile was miraculous, and as they stood to move into their sleeping chamber, he silently pondered for a moment, the odd paths of destiny. That is he pondered it until she dropped her robes.