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“If You Need Her”

by Scribe of Figaro

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Session Three:
Sango’s Sorrow

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      “I can see me loving nobody but you
For all my life.
When you’re with me, baby, the skies will be blue
For all my life.”
- The Turtles, “Happy Together”

      She smiled as she saw the expanse of homes before her, for they were nearing the first village in several days.  Yet another night of sleeping on the cold, hard ground was avoided.  Though she appreciated the sleeping bag that Kagome had supplied her, and though, as a taiji-ya, she was well-suited for uncomfortable encampments in dark and dreary places, this was not the same as saying she enjoyed them.  A good bath and good meal – or perhaps more than one – were the few benefits of their journey, and the absence of such simple pleasures as they traveled made them so much sweeter.

      She turned to her friends.  There was Kagome, the young girl who had all too quickly become her best friend.  They had nothing in common – she was from another world, another time.  She was cheerful and bright at times, sad at others, and often, usually due to Inuyasha, she became quite angry indeed.

      Well, perhaps they had a few things in common.

      Sango wished she had the freedom in her heart to bare her deeper emotions, to let people know how she felt.  These were her friends, and she had no need to hide herself, to be so withdrawn all the time, to keep silent the sadness and fear and rage that seemed to drive her on this journey.  She had cried on Kagome’s lap not long after meeting her, shedding the first tears for her brother, her father, her village, everyone she had ever known or cared for over her entire life.  It hurt to release those feelings, to have her rescuers, the people she betrayed to Naraku for the life of her brother.  Even then she knew Naraku was lying, knew there was no chance he would release Kohaku, but she could not resist the temptation to try.  Naraku controlled his body, perhaps even his soul, and with that he could control Sango’s heart.

      The tears shed for her loved ones on Kagome’s kimono were bitter with the frustration, with the anger, and with the pain of knowing that she too had been controlled by Naraku, first through the Shikon shard so that she would be made to kill Inuyaysa, then by her brother’s life so that she would steal Inuyasha’s precious sword, Tetsusaiga.

      She was a fool, a complete fool, for allowing herself to be led this way.  She had nearly taken the life of innocents, nearly handed them to Naraku.  And yet they rescued her from the trap she willingly marched into.  Though she never apologized to them, though she told them outright that she would probably betray them again, they welcomed her back with open arms.  Despite her attempts to kill them, despite her violation of their trust, they made her one of them, treated her as an equal, with compassion, and never, ever burdened her by so much as speaking of the pains she had caused them.

      She had found friendship in these people.  She, a young taiji-ya, a female one at that, had found a place among equals.  There was love there, or something like it.  But, though she could trust them with her life she still found it difficult to trust them with her feelings, and even in chattering, somewhat girly moments with Kagome – moments she thought she might have grown out of after the tragedies she had barely survived, moments where she remembered for a time that she really was a woman – her heart remained guarded.

      Still, friendship didn’t come anywhere near describing the bonds between them.  They argued, they fought, they got mad, but they were always, always there for each other.  They were like family.

      Perhaps they were a family.

      She turned from the girl to her right, now looking to the robed figure on her left.  Miroku, the corrupted houshi.

      She smiled lightly.  There was something strong between her and Miroku, though she couldn’t quite define it.  He lost his family to Naraku as she had.  He fought with grace and strength, as she did.  He carried a curse given to him by Naraku, limiting his time here on this world so long as Naraku lived.  Similarly, Naraku’s hold of her brother made her desperate to destroy the creature.

      But Miroku was strong, so much stronger than she.  She watched him fight, always.  He seemed to fear nothing.  He boldly marched into inevitable death, as she did, but never did he show fear and always did he succeed.

      There was one exception:  the oni’s head that disguised itself as a princess, that captured Miroku in her cave with her powerful jaki.  Sango had tried to rescue him, became captured as well, and through some luck Miroku was barely able to save both their lives.

      He told me he thought he was going to die.  It was the first time I had honestly seen him scared for his own life.  To be immobilized, to be rendered helpless in the face of danger, this must be close to his greatest fears.  So long as he was able to act, even against a far superior foe, I think he might never despair.

      I never told him so, but seeing tremble in fear after scaring off the demon scared me too.  And yet, in some primal way, I enjoyed seeing his fear.  Seeing his feelings bare, naked, sort of excited me.

      He too was quiet, was contemplative, was alone.  More alone than all of them, she thought, for while she could chatter and gossip with Kagome whenever she felt the need to, Miroku could find no such solace in Inuyasha.  Perhaps his training as a monk prepared him for such a life.  Perhaps his curse made it difficult for him to reach out to others anyway.  Perhaps he already considered himself as dead, living only on borrowed time.

      She longed for him sometimes, wanting to hug him, to reassure him.  Even when he smiled he seemed sad.  She sometimes thought of embracing him, of kissing him, of finding a home for herself in his arms.

      But such things could never be, for he was still a lecher, and though she didn’t doubt the sincerity of the kind words he often spoke to her, she could not give her heart to a man that would not be hers alone.

      He turned to her, noticing her stare.  She fought down a blush as his eyes, round and questioning and full of kindness, seemed to envelop her.

      “Ano. . . Houshi-sama,” she blurted out.  “It looks like we’re going to be sleeping in warm beds, tonight.  That is, if you’re going to run your honorable youkai exorcist routine.”

      It took her a while to recognize his manner of speaking, to truly know him, and she could tell when the sincerity drained from his voice, though few others could.

      He feigned hurt.

      “Sango, I assure you I would never use my abilities as a houshi for personal gains.  Such a thing would be unthinkable.”

      Sango rolled her eyes and thus did not see him move to grasp her hand between his own.

      “But Sango,” he stated gruffly, “know this:  If at any time your bed is too cold for you, say the word, and there will be no end to my efforts to warm you.”

      Her hand was swift as always, and he did not move from where he stood, rubbing his marked face cautiously.  His smile spoke to her, it was worth it, as she turned and followed the others.

      “Baka,” muttered Shippou from his perch on Kagome’s shoulder.

      Sango’s face was taut with anger, but only on the surface.

      At least he didn’t grab my ass this time.  Though I’m sure he will when he gets a chance.

      She sighed.

      Maybe he only said that to annoy me, because I insulted him.  Kagome told me the way he used to be before.  He doesn’t cheat or steal anymore.  He doesn’t seem to flirt with other women nearly as much these days.

      And there was the incident with Hachi, his tanuki retainer that impersonated him and destroyed his reputation in all those villages.  None of us believed his claims of innocence.  We abandoned him.  We were close to letting those villagers kill him for the crimes of his imposter.  He seemed to take it in stride, to joke about it afterwards.  But if it had been me, if everyone had turned against me like that, it would have broken me.  I would have cried, I would have run from these people.  I might even have killed myself to ease the pain of such abandonment.

      How dare I be bothered by a few wayward gropes and innuendos after showing him such cruelty?

      She shook her head.  She would apologize later.  She always planned to tell him later, to explain her feelings, to expose her heart to him, to let him take her or leave her.  So many thoughts led to these intentions, and rarely if ever did she have the courage to see them to their end.  So many times had moments between them come up, moments where she felt she could tell him everything, break into his heart, and make Mirkou hers.  But she always, always hesitated, and then he did something perverted, and in her anger she forgot the kind things he had done.

      So the cycle repeated.

      I’ll tell him tomorrow, she thought.  Tomorrow I will find him out, take the chance, and perhaps then he will love me.  Always tomorrow, never today.

      Our journey is long.  I have all the time in the world.

      She nearly bumped into Inuyasha, who had stopped short before her.

      “Oi, Miroku, you feel that?” the hanyou said.

      Miroku nodded.  “I’ve felt a very faint yoki for a little while now.  I can’t tell from where, but it’s pretty far.  Seems like a tora youkai.”

      “Bouzu no baka,” Inuyasha muttered.  “You can’t smell it at all, can you?”

      “Houshi,” said Miroku.

      “There’s blood and youki all over this damn village.  That tora ripped right through here four days ago and killed at least a half-score of humans.”

      Miroku’s voice became as steel.  “Then we will destroy it.”

      “I’ve fought tora youkai before,” said Sango.  “They tend to feed of small villages, usually once or twice a week.  Our best chance of finding it would be to stay at the village and wait for it to attack.  If we go out in search of it, there’s too great a chance for it to pass us by or escape and take more lives.”

      “A wise course of action,” said Miroku.  “Perhaps we can get ourselves room and board for a night, in exchange for its extermination.”  The same thought was on everyone’s mind, since they had done this so many times before, but it helped to have it stated aloud.  It satiated Kagome, who knew their reward was nearly nothing compared to the effort and danger of killing youkai; and it satiated Inuyasha, who could pretend they were hired hunters fighting only for reward.

      “Keh,” Inuyasha muttered.  “This better be quick.  We’re in a race with Naraku, so don’t forget.”

      Miroku poked him lightly in the back with his shakujou.  “And let’s not forget those of us without demon blood need a lot more rest than you.”

      “Of course,” Inuyasha replied.  

      Sango smiled wickedly.  Thought of battle invigorated her.

      I’ve been too concerned with Houshi-sama lately.  A good battle will clear my senses, give me some exercise, and help me focus on what’s important.

      The first person they saw was a young woman tending a small garden before her hut.  Miroku greeted her, asked for the home of the village chief, and kindly requested if she would bear his child.

      Sango growled.  As soon as he walked back to them she struck him atop the head with Hiraikotsu.

     

II.

      “And the sign said,
‘Long-haired freaky people
Need not apply.’”
- Five Man Electrical Band, “Signs Signs Everywhere a Sign”

      The group of youkai hunters – Inuyasha, Kagome, Miroku, Sango, Kirara, and Shippou – kneeled politely in the ancestral hall of the small village.  The village chief was before them, eyeing them suspiciously.

      Why wouldn’t he?  Their group consisted of a hanyou, two youkai, a simple village girl, and another girl whose revealing dress could easily cause her to be mistaken for a lady of the evening.  It’s quite good that in all their travels no one had ever made such a mistake, for the proper insult would surely lead Inuyasha to rip them to shreds.

      Perhaps Sango could have had authority if she had worn her taiji-ya outfit, but in villages such as these the fact she was a girl made it too easy for village chiefs to doubt her skill.  In her old village it was her father that spoke for her, for rare were men of power willing to make contracts with her or even listen to her.  It bothered her, but it was something she could deal with.  She could easily challenge the men that doubted her to combat, and she would probably prove herself that way if she were living on her own, but so long as she had these men to speak to her she would rather prove herself on the battlefield.

      Even were she a man she would not mind deferring speech to a comrade-in-arms.  Though a village chief’s daughter, taught a firm but polite way of speaking, and though she thought herself both quick and clever, she was not very good with words.  And all too often could someone enrage her – Miroku was best at that – and she would find a ferocity of speech that would quickly end any conversation she was trying to entertain.

      Besides, Miroku was the only person in their group whose appearance made sense here.    Perhaps that was the reason they let him talk most of the time, even though it took the chance of letting his lecherous behavior come out.  There were no girls here, luckily, so Sango wasn’t worried.

      Sango was startled from her thoughts as the village chief suddenly and loudly began speaking to them.  She hoped that she had not flinched or otherwise made a sign of weakness – her father, though always a gentle and forgiving man to her, would have been very disappointed in her losing face to someone already doubting her abilities.

      “You want to defeat this youkai,” the village elder said.  “And yet I see before me three more youkai.  It seems to me the best option available would be for me to throw you out.  Better to deal with a single youkai then all of you.”

      Miroku put up his hand defensively.  “Now, don’t worry about that.  These youkai have renounced their human-hating ways.  You may be surprised, but in these times they and humans can live together and fight alongside each other.”

      He turned, gesturing to Inuyasha, Shippou, and Kirara.  The absurdity of anyone fearing either the young kitsune or the kitten-sized Kirara on sight would have been more than enough for Sango to scoff, even laugh at the both arrogant and cowardly chief, and she tightened her fists ever so slightly on her lap as she reminded herself that such thoughts were the very reason Miroku spoke for them among strange or difficult audiences.

      Then again, perhaps the village chief was more clever than he appeared – could he somehow have known that Kirara was a transforming fire-youkai, and on her mistress’s need would transform to a saber-toothed firecat the size of a tiger, mauling and destroying anything that might try to harm Sango or her friends?  Could he have known how clever Shippou could be, and how his illusionary magic, though that of a child, was often enough to harm or seal men and youkai far stronger than himself?  So far as she heard from Kagome, even Inuyasha was powerless against the tricks he cast when they first met.

      Sango’s eyes flicked from Kirara’s endlessly curious expression to Shippou’s mildly annoyed gaze, then back to the village chief, sitting with his arms crossed and his jaw set.  

      I sincerely doubt it, Sango thought, resisting a smirk.

      Miroku continued.  “Those three have been our traveling companions for months now, and have proved their friendship and loyalty to us again and again.”  He turned back to the elder.  “I know you haven’t traveled the same roads as I have.  But if you cannot trust them, I would hope you at least trust me, a servant of Buddha, and let us help you.”

      He seemed to weigh these words.

      “Very well.  We’ll keep you here for the night if you please, and pay you what is fair.  But those youkai must stay outside the village.  I can’t allow them to stay in this place any longer.”

      “Teme,” Inuyasha muttered under his breath.

      Miroku nodded – assumedly at the village chief, who hopefully did not hear Inuyasha – and stood as the village chief got to his feet.  The others followed suit.

      “That won’t be necessary,” he said cheerfully.  “We’ll leave this village immediately to make preparations for the extermination.  We’ll claim our reward afterward, once the tora youkai is defeated.”

      As they left the village, Sango realized that nobody wished them good luck.

      III.

      “konna toki ni umaretsuita yo
da kedo nan to ka susundet’te
da kara nan to ka koko ni tatte
bokura wa kyou o okutte’ru”

      [We’ve arrived in these times.
But somehow things move on
So somehow we’re standing here
and we’re living through today.]
-Ayumi Hamasaki, “Evolution”

      They camped in the woods only a few kilometers from the edge of the village.  Inuyasha was still sulking about the treatment he received there, though in the quiet, machismo manner Sango tended to expect from him.

      He’s only recently befriended humans.  Being treated unfairly by them again probably brought up the terrors Kagome told me about.  The suffering he felt from the villagers he lived with as a child, those that never accepted him, she thought.

      She turned to Miroku, who was tending the fire.

      He was angry there in the village.  He hid it well, but hearing his friends spoken of so poorly really bothered him.  He’s accepted them just as I have.  He treats Inuyasha like a brother, and sometimes I can’t help but think he regards Shippou like a nephew.

      That thought ended abruptly as she sensed a powerful youki coming close.  It was not yet dusk.

      “He’s fast,” remarked Miroku, getting to his feet.  Inuyasha drew his sword.

      “Over there!” Sango shouted, brandishing Hiraikotsu.

      The tiger youkai tore though the trees, landing just before them.  The creature was easily ten times taller than a man, with orange and red fur striping along the length of its body.  Its claws tore into the ground, and its tail waved back and forth like a club.  Its red eyes burned bright, and the saliva dripping from its maw glistened in the orange glow of the setting sun.

      It roared, revealing its massive fangs, and went straight for Inuyasha.

      The hanyou dodged easily. Striking at its claws with Tetsusiaga, Inuyasha kept it from advancing, protecting Shippou and Kagome’s position far behind him.

      Sango threw her weapon.

      “Hiraikotsu!”

      The tora dodged, but failed to see the weapon on its return trip.  The boomerang slashed deep along its back before returning to the taiji-ya’s hand.

      The wound was not fatal, but stunned it enough for Inuyasha to release a Kaze no Kizu directly toward the monster.  

      The creature dodged again, and though a wave of the Kaze no Kizu tore at its side, it did not die.  Being injured seemed to fill it with desperation, allow it to tap into deeper resources of strength, and all present realized the youkai was suddenly moving much faster than before.

      The tora passed Inuyasha and advanced on Kagome, dodging the purifying arrow she shot at him.  But before it could reach her, Shippou blinded it with kitsune-bi.  The momentary distraction allowed Inuyasha to reach her, wrap an arm around her waist, and pull her and the kitsune clutching her shirt to safety, all less than a second before the ground they were standing was scored with three parallel clawmarks.

      Sango threw Hiraikotsu again, but at the last moment the youkai turned and swatted it away with a single claw.  Seeing her unarmed, it ran toward her.  She drew her short sword, but there was no chance she could block the creature’s advances with it – the thing’s paws were each as wide as her outspread arms, each protruding claw was half her height in length, and surely it had enough strength behind them to shatter her blade.

      Out of the corner of one eye she saw it swipe at her, but before the blow landed an o-fuda struck the creature in the face, stunning it.  The delay was just long enough for Kirara to rescue her mistress and carry her to the spot where Hiraikotsu was half-buried in the ground.

      Miroku smiled, glancing over his shoulder to ensure Sango was safe, then dodged the swing of the creature’s other claw.  He seemed to enjoy himself, avoiding the swipe of claws by mere inches by jumping side to side, keeping its attention just long enough for Kagome to strike it in the flank with another purity arrow.  The beast cried out, and finally its movements became sluggish with fatigue and injury.

      “Kagome-sama!” Miroku shouted.  “Can you sense any Shikon shards?”

      He likely already knew the answer, as the youkai was nowhere near strong enough to be carrying them.  When she confirmed his suspicion, he quickly unfastened the rosary at his wrist.

      “Kazaana!”

      The youkai was pulled into oblivion.

      “Yatta!” said Shippou.

      Miroku looked around curiously, the beads only loosely wrapped around his wrist, as if ready to open the Kazaana for another attack.

      “Is something wrong, Houshi-sama?” Sango asked, worriedly.  From her mount on Kirara’s back, she held her weapon ready to throw at an instant’s notice.

      “I – I’m not sure.  I had a sense of foreboding just before the youkai appeared, and yet . . . it hasn’t dissipated.”  He waited a moment, brows furrowed, then sealed the Kazaana completely.

      “I strongly suggest we stay here, and post a watch.  I have the feeling this isn’t over.”

      Inuyasha rolled his eyes.  “Where else would we go, bouzu?  It’s too late to travel now, and I sure as hell ain’t going back to that village.”

      “Of course, of course,” said Miroku.  “Let’s just be wary.”

     

IV.

      “The last that ever she saw him
Carried away by a moonlight shadow
He passed on worried and warning
Carried away by a moonlight shadow.”
-Missing Heart, “Moonlight Shadow (New Vocal Version)”

      I’ll tell him tomorrow.  The sun will be up soon, and I’ll tell him then.

      Sango sighed, realizing with a start she had been staring at Miroku for the better part of her watch.

      “Taiji-ya no baka,” she muttered.  “I’m barely paying attention at all.  No wonder he and Inuyasha post watch most of the time.”

      She yawned.  Hers was the last watch – she had relieved Miroku only an hour before, and her best guess was that the first light of dawn was not more than a few minutes away, despite the fact that her watch should have started at least three hours before first light.

      Houshi-sama was supposed to wake me two hours earlier.  Does he think I don’t realize he’s been letting me sleep so late?

      A cold breeze ran through her hair, a teasing wind that scattered her bangs across her forehead and childishly swung her high ponytail.  It was an unnatural wind, followed by a deep sense of apprehension.  Her senses immediately alerted, she slowly reached for the hilt of her short sword.

      Icy, invisible fingers clawed at her, cutting through the leather and youkai-hide of her taiji-ya uniform, cutting through her skin, and suddenly she felt something deep inside her, violating her, controlling her, making her body its own.

      The sensation itself was enough for her to freeze completely in a mixture of fear and revulsion.  Every muscle in her body tensed.  The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach became intense.  The embarrassment and disgust she felt when Miroku’s hands were upon her could did not compare to this, could never compare to this.  Her very spirit was being raped, her body seized by some sinister ghost, and so quickly did the fear run like icy fingers up and down her body

      What’s happening to me?

      She couldn’t speak, couldn’t call for help.  The hand that was reaching for her wakizashi froze in midair.  She could sense it now, a consciousness inside her, a voice in her mind that was quickly seizing control of her mental faculties.

      So this is how Kohaku feels . . .

      Her mind become foggy as the second voice became stronger, and its memories began to flood into her.

      I want the inu-hanyou.  But he is too powerful for me.  If I took him now, he would call out to the houshi and I would be exorcised.  But the taiji-ya is physically strong and mentally weak, and the neko-youkai would not hurt her.  So I will take her quickly, kill the houshi, the neko-youkai, the kitsune, and the miko.  The inu-hanyou will avenge the miko without thought, and with him alone it will take very little time to take over his body.  Then I will own him, a creature a thousand times stronger than that worthless tora-youkai.  I will be invincible then.

      To thank the inu-hanyou, I think my first act will be to destroy that village he hates with a single swing of that beautiful sword.

      It’s a ghost, thought Sango.  It’s the ghost that controlled the tora youkai, the presence that Houshi-sama felt after the youkai was destroyed.

      Sango did not believe she could feel more appalled, more angry than she already did; nevertheless she reached a new level of disgust and hatred when the thing addressed her.

      Hai.  I’ve become quite good at controlling youkai and humans, but as you can see it takes time for me to kill the mind of the thing I inhabit.  I’d appreciate you being silent while I – I should say ‘we’ – kill your companions.

      Sango steeled herself, found the inner strength necessary to speak to this creature that was invading her, and spoke to it in her mind.

      Get out.

      The creature seemed to laugh.

      I am Asesu, the thief of lives, the puppet-master of both humans and youkai.  Your body is merely the last of tens of thousands I have taken and destroyed for my own purposes.  You will not resist me.

      You are weak, she countered.  You steal the strength of others.  You are nothing.

      Sleep now, Sango.  Give yourself to me.  It will hurt so much if you keep resisting.

      You are nothing!  Sango shouted.  Worthless, useless parasite!

      Against her will, Sango’s arm drew the wakizashi, holding it horizontally before her, as if prepared to impale herself upon it.

      I don’t have time for your banter, taiji-ya.  But I have plenty of time to cut you up, if only for my own amusement.  Your pain doesn’t bother me.  Would you like to be silent, or should I simply skin you until you pass out from the pain?  Either way I’ll control you fully.

      K’so . . .

      What will it be, Sango?

      I need to stall.  I need to delay him.  If I can wake the others . . . Ah!

      With a flick of the wrist, Sango’s sword struck her left forearm.  Her gauntlet saved her from losing her arm, but the wakizashi cut partly through the material, drawing blood.

      I’m in your mind, teme.  You can’t hide your thoughts from me.

      She gritted her teeth.  Or tried.  She wasn’t certain of her movements, could only lightly feel her arms and legs.  Her vision too was dulled, and she could see only where the ghost pointed her own eyes.

      She had her hearing, though.  There was a rustle of clothing behind her.

      “Sango?”

      Houshi-sama!

      Houshi-sama.

      She tried to speak, but still had no control.  She felt herself being pulled deeper into her own mind, far from the controls of her own body.

      Miroku kneeled beside her.

      “Sango!  Your arm!”

      “Something startled me,” she said.  “My hand slipped.”

      Not my voice not my voice that’s not me!  Houshi-sama, please, use your o-fuda!

      Miroku took a white cloth from a pocket of his robe and wrapped it around her arm.

      “You’re tired,” he said.  “Get some sleep.  I’ll finish the watch.  The sun will be up soon, anyway.”

      Miroku finished the knot on the makeshift bandage and put a hand casually on her shoulder.

      “Go now.”

      Suddenly his hand gripped her tight.  His eyes widened.  Clearly, there was something in her face, something he could only see when she turned slightly to the hand on her shoulder and the left side of her face caught the last traces of the campfire.  Sango thought of the soulless eyes of her brother Kohaku.

      He knows.

      He knows.

      The blade of her wakizashi flashed bright in the starlight.  The grip on her shoulder weakened.  Blood dripped on Sango’s thigh.

      “How stupid . . . of me,” Miroku muttered.  His free hand reached into his robe, in the secret fold only inches above the widening dark spot on his chest.  An o-fuda was held in shaking fingers.

      “Houriki!” he shouted, a tight burst of breath from his pierced chest, as he pressed the paper to her forehead with his thumb.

      She had seen the crackle of energy emanate from his scrolls before, seen the writhing agony of their targets, but experiencing it firsthand was indescribable.  A shocking, burning, stinging sensation drilled through her temples, down her body, across her chest, and even made its way to fingers and toes in short, repetitive lancelets of suffering.

      However, Miroku’s spells were made to focus only on evil spirits, and Sango knew the injury dealt to her was only a fraction of what Asesu felt.  The agonized and desperate screams of that spirit echoing through her mind brought to her a satisfaction that made her own ordeal quite bearable.

      She felt a terrible rushing sensation, as if all the breath in her body was being stolen out, and suddenly she felt herself in control – tired, weakened, dizzy, but in a body that was hers alone.

      Miroku fell forward on the grass, bracing himself with one hand, staining the ground with a steady dripping of bright red blood.

      “Houshi-sama,” she whispered.  His o-fuda fluttered to her lap, its power spent and its sacred inscriptions faded away.

      “Houshi-sama!”

      The others were awakened now.  She could hear them move, shouting her name as she dropped her short sword and fell to her knees beside the houshi.

      She pressed her hands to the wound, but he pushed her away, violently, with his right hand.  She fell backwards in a gasp of both surprise and hurt.

      He hates me.  Kami-sama, I tried to kill him and he will never forgive me.

      That line of thought was immediately broken as she saw the shape before her.  She had thought Miroku was staring forward blankly, but his eyes were focused on the same thing she could now see, lying on her back beside him.

      It was Asesu, in what was not quite corporeal form.  The creature should have been invisible, but it instead hovered above them in a black cloud about the size of an ox, though of no shape she could possibly discern or describe.  Tendrils of its edges moved this way and that, here and there faces with hollow eyes and hollow mouths pushed their way out of the bulk of the black mass for an instant, then pulled back as the surrounding tumorous non-flesh enveloped it.

      Miroku’s spell had exorcised it, stunned it, and made it visible.

      Behind her she heard the familiar sound of Inuyasha unsheathing and transforming Tetsusaiga, and as she dug her fingers into the dirt to pull herself away from the beast that hovered above her, Inuyasha leaped above her and sliced it cleanly through.

      Inuyasha landed not far from them, striking the ground with one knee, and Sango could tell by the way the sword struck dirt that Inuyasha felt no resistance in his swing.

      Sango wasted no time getting to her feet, wrapping her arms below Miroku’s arms, knocking him off his feet, and dragging him along the grass, pulling far away from the form that loomed above.

      Asesu swirled and recombined itself to its former shape.  The faces seemed to stretch out farther, faster, and she could tell that this creature was dying – it could not live long outside a host, and the breath it took from her was rapidly growing stale in its smoke-like body.

      The faces began to turn to her, their hollow eyes pleading, their mouths twisted in hunger.  It advanced, closing the distance quickly.

      She stood before Miroku, fully prepared to take the creature inside her again.

      “Inuyasha!” she shouted.  “If I act strangely, attack me at once!”

      “What the hell are you talking about?” he shouted back, holding Tetsusaiga in a battle posture.

      “Do it!”

      He stared, mouth agape, and grunted affirmation.  He clearly didn’t understand just what she was going to do, but she would have to trust him to do the right thing if the ghost before them made her hurt her friends again.

      Asesu approached.  Sango stood her ground, her hands balled in fists at her waist, her jaw set, her eyes staring down the enemy that approached her.  She believed it was weak enough that she might be able to resist it this time, but that was hard to tell.  Whatever the case, she knew Miroku would stand no chance against it, unconscious and injured behind her, and the only chance she had to save him would be to take in Asesu, fight it in her own mind, and hope that Inuyasha would stop her from hurting Miroku further.

      She did not expect to feel Miroku fall heavily against her back, to feel his arms wrap around her own and pin them to her sides, to feel his hands linked together just below her breasts, to feel his breath heavy and desperate in her ear and his blood warm against her back, or to have him turn her around violently such that Asesu struck him instead of her.

      He’s lucky I’m still so weak, or I would have snapped Houshi-sama’s arms for sneaking up on me like that, Sango thought, but then realization of just what Miroku planned dawned on her and her eyes widened in terror.  This terror coupled with the sudden fear of falling as the heel of one boot caught on the shin guard of another, and suddenly she found herself splayed on the ground, missing a rock by mere centimeters that would surely have put out some teeth.  Miroku lay above her, heavy and unmoving.

      Sango gasped out a breath, her head a pounding mess, a bruise flowering on the right side of her forehead, Miroku’s grip on her slackening.  She pulled her left hand free, violently pushed the houshi off her back, and kneeled above him.

      It was hard to decide what angered her more:  that Miroku would tackle her like that, or that he would completely ignore her battle plan.

      “What the hell are you doing?” she shouted.

      He was grimacing , lying on his back, his hands clasped in what may have been prayer and his wound ignored.  But he seemed to smile, a little, in the corners of his mouth.  His eyes were dulled – not the blank stare of Kohaku, nor the piercing, dark blue gaze that she was so accustomed to receiving from him.  They were the blue-grey of the sky just before a winter storm.

      “You would have stood no chance, Sango.  He is . . . very strong.”

      She reached forward, clasping her hands over his wound, blood seeping between her fingers.  She shook her head.

      “I could’ve tried!  Why would you do such a stupid thing?”

      She made the mistake of looking into his eyes, faded as the youkai inside him fought for control, but still his eyes, and his mind behind them, and she understood the sadness within them, the desperation, the words not spoken between them – “Because I care for you, Sango” – and her eyes stung with the threat of tears.

      “Houshi-sama . . .”

      Already, Kagome, Inuyasha, and Shippou came to investigate, encircling Miroku with worried expressions.  Kirara approached and nuzzled her mistress’s leg.

      “There’s not much time,” Miroku said.  “I can hold this creature captive in my body, and I can fight it.  I think I may be able to defeat it.  You must be on your guard if I fail.”  His eyes shut tightly in another fit of pain.

      “On our guard?” Sango asked.  “What do you mean?  What are we going to do if you fail, and Asesu tries to hurt us?”  Thoughts of a maddened Miroku attacking her, swinging his shakujou with ruthless efficiency, coursed through her mind.  Sure, she could strike him when he misbehaved, but what would she choose if forced to decide between killing him and being killed by him?  Could she strike him down and be able to live with herself?

      Miroku said nothing – already he was unconscious.  Kagome leaned down and put two fingers on his neck and a hand before his mouth.

      “He’s breathing,” she said, “and his heart is still beating.  We should find some better shelter.  A cave or something.”

      “Kirara and I can go look,” said Shippou.  “Alright, Sango?”

      She nodded.  “Alright, Shippou.”

      Kagome turned to get her medical supplies.  Inuyasha sheathed his sword and began to pack up the camp.

      Sango looked behind her, to make sure their backs were turned to her, and leaned down to whisper in Miroku’s ear:

      “Fight hard, Houshi-sama.”

      V.

      “I can see it in your eyes.
There is something
Something you want to tell me.
I see it in your eyes.
There is something
That you hide from me.”
- Lasgo, “Something”

      Miroku stood in a vast field of brilliant lavender flowers, his hands to his sides and his robes straight and motionless.  The sky above him seemed too low, as if he could reach up and feel the barrier that separated this world from what lay beyond.

      In fact, he probably could.

      Clouds did not form above his head, but the white swirling void that moved rhythmically above this field like butter in a churn had at least passing resemblance to clouds.

      The field went on forever in all directions – should he run one way, the ground behind him would disappear as the ground before him came into existence.  There were no hills, no trees, no rocks.  Only him, the grass, and the flowers that littered the ground.

      He would not be alone for long.  The Enemy will find his way here soon enough.

      He turned to his side, seeing movement in the corner of his eye.  The wildflowers around him, though pleasing to the eye, were not there to serve that purpose.  Each one was a node, a thought, a piece of him, and the pattern they wrought in this place was a manifestation of the order in his own mind.  This entire world was a construct, a figurative battleground.  Miroku created this place in his mind as a last refuge against enemies such as Asesu, a final line of defense between a mind-controlling spirit and the sanctity of Miroku’s free will.

      The flowers began to move.  He turned, watching the patterns they wove.  As they bobbed in what seemed to be wind, Miroku could track Asesu’s movements, could see which thoughts and memories Asesu was searching through.  The creature was looking for a weakness, for a fear, anything that would allow him an edge.  But those thoughts were deep, hidden in dark recesses not even a ghost as skilled as Asesu could see.

      A group of flowers began to bend outwards, in a circle about as wide as a man’s outstretched arms, and a column of dust and dirt and grass began to rise from it.  In a flash the whirlwind dissipated, revealing the form within.

      Miroku found himself staring at his mirror image.

      The imposter Miroku smiled.

      Miroku smiled back.

      Asesu, the imposter, looked nonchalantly at his own shakujou.  “I’m not sure how you did this, Houshi-sama, but it’s of no consequence.  I’ve more experience in these matters than you can possibly conceive.”

      “No houshi has ever challenged you this way, in meditation?” Miroku asked.  “How depressing that you’ve run into such poorly-trained spiritual men.”

      Asesu’s eyes burned at him.  “I didn’t say that.  I ran into a Shinto priest once who trapped me in meditation, as you have.  Battled me in a game of chu shogi, if you can believe it.  I won, of course, and destroyed his mind.  Afterward, I murdered his children and raped his wife to death.”

      Miroku made no response.  He would not allow himself to be riled.

      “You have thus far annoyed me much more than that,” said Asesu.  “Would you like to know exactly what I have planned for your precious Sango?”

      “I have no doubt you’re quite creative,” Miroku replied flatly.

      “I will ruin her, inside and out.  I will smash her face in, break her legs, and defile her with sharpened sticks and filth.  She will beg me for death.”

      Miroku clenched his teeth.  If he lost control here, if he let his anger rule him, as it would rule Inuyasha in such a situation, all hope would be lost.  He set up this stage on which he could fight Asesu, and thus both of them were constrained to the rules of combat.  He required total concentration, or else Asesu could break free of his constraints, could adjust this world to his advantage and wipe Miroku’s will away in an instant.

      He must not listen to Asesu’s threats, else they would very likely be carried out.

      Quick as a flash Miroku threw an ofuda, striking his doppelganger in the chest.  The sacred parchment did not have the power to exorcise him, as the parchment was as much a figment of Miroku’s imagination as the grass, or the sky, or the figures of Miroku and Asesu themselves.  But it was still a weapon, and once in contact with an evil heart it would hurt quite badly.

      Asesu roared in pain as purifying energy flew about him.  He gripped the seal with his left hand and tore it free.  The ofuda disappeared in blue fire.

      Miroku stretched out his hand and beckoned Asesu to come forward.

      Asesu came at him waving his shakujou above his head.

      Their battle had begun.

      - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

      Sighing with impatience, Sango took the dry cloth from Miroku’s forehead, wetted it with water from a bamboo flask, wrung it out, and replaced it.

      Shippou had done well in finding them this shelter, a rock-littered hill not fall from the road on which they had approached the village.  There was a deep recess here protected by an outcropping of rock, and here they had laid Miroku over Kagome’s blankets.  They had taken turns watching him, and none had strayed far since they arrived, but Sango found it difficult to spend even a moment away from the houshi.  Already the sun had risen and fallen since he had collapsed, and the fever he developed in the afternoon was becoming worse.

      She had hoped Miroku was well, that he was meditating, waging war – and winning – against Asesu.  But the way his face contorted, the way his muscles tensed beneath the blankets she pulled over him when he shivered – she couldn’t help but think he was living through nightmare after nightmare, that at the same time his body was wasting away due to the injuries he had sustained by her hand, and that sooner or later he would awake, and she would see the soulless eyes of her brother in Miroku’s face, feel his hands on her throat, and she would be forced into deciding whether to kill him or die herself.

      She did not believe she had strength in her to raise a blade to Miroku.

      She leaned over him, pulling aside the blanket and the folds of his robe to check his injury.  It was beginning to heal, but the bandages were red with the blood that continued to ooze from his wound.  She would need to redress it soon.

      Her heart leapt up to her throat as she felt the all-too-familiar sensation of a hand expertly maneuvering beneath one of the armor plates of her taiji-ya uniform and caressing her comparatively unprotected bottom.

      She turned her head toward him, her eyes wide with surprise.  Half-lidded eyes met hers, weary and pained but with a satisfaction that bordered on playfulness.

      She hit him, of course – she had to, didn’t she? – but her blow was weak, fueled not by the anger of him groping her, but by the frustration and fear of having to watch him lie there and engage in a battle she could not assist, by the knowledge it was her blade that felled him and, unless his fever broke soon, may eventually kill him.

      “Sango,” he whispered hoarsely, the corners of his mouth upturned.  His hand slid away, touched the mark on his cheek.

      “Houshi-sama.  Asesu is -?”

      “Weakened.  He has hidden himself, preparing for his next attempt to control me.”

      He coughed dryly.  Sango uncorked a bamboo canteen and held it before him.  He took it in one hand, let her place her arm behind his shoulder to sit him up, and drank deeply.

      “Arigotou,” he said, handing the bottle back to her and lying down.  He looked at the craggy rock overhanging them, and turned his head to the starry sky outside.

      “It’s still dark,” he remarked.

      “Only because you missed the sun entirely.  You’ve been unconscious a full day and part of the night.”

      He frowned at this.

      “I apologize.  I didn’t realize I was hindering our mission so badly.”

      “We’ve been waylaid before.  Besides, what else could you have done?”

      He said nothing.

      “Are you in pain, Houshi-sama?  I can get Kagome’s medicines if you want.”

      “There’s no need.”

      He flexed his hand, the hand with the Kazaana, and she could tell he was thinking deeply.

      “Sango,” he said.  “If I wanted to tell you something, something very important, would you be willing to listen to it, to the very end?”

      “I suppose, Houshi-sama, that would depend on what exactly you meant to tell me.”

      He smiled.  “A wise answer, as always, from Sango-sama.”

      He turned, looking away from her, to the stars.  He waited a moment, took her silence as a gesture of affirmation, and began to speak slowly and thoughtfully.

      “It’s always been just me, traveling alone.  Well, myself and Hachi, but mostly me.  I’ve always lived on borrowed time - Naraku killed me, killed every male in my line, but the houriki of our family keeps the Kazaana at bay, and like samurai, we are determined, and even with our heads cut off, we can exact revenge.  Like vengeful ghosts we come at Naraku, and like ghosts we fade and become nothing when unsuccessful.

      “You have to understand this, Sango - gomen nasai, you don’t have to . . .” he paused, collecting his thoughts.  “I was brought up as a monk so that I could have the power to control the Kazaana - without my houriki it would be unsealed and would have killed me as a child.  It was my mission to do two things:  first, to find a woman and make me a son, staying with her only long enough to ensure he was brought to a monastery and cared for when born, so he would be prepared if and when my curse passed to him.  My only other purpose was to defeat Naraku.  I held no illusions:   with each generation the Kazaana becomes stronger, overwhelms a man’s houriki faster, and consumes him sooner.  Even without the injuries I’ve sustained to it through Naraku’s damned bees and other minions, it is unlikely I would have ever lived beyond the age of twenty-five.  

      “When one is young - I suppose I still am young, though thanks to my curse I feel I have far fewer years ahead of me than behind - one finds it very easy to drown his worries in drink and women.  It requires less patience than meditation, in any case.  When one has little time left to do a very serious thing, one becomes greedy and is willing to lie, and cheat, and steal, simply because he believes earning money would require too much time.  This is how I became this sort of person.

      “I’m a bad houshi, Sango.  I know this.  You don’t trust me very much, and I do not deserve to be trusted.  But I’ve found myself changing lately.  When I began to travel with Inuyasha, Kagome, and Shippou - you may laugh at this, Sango, but they were the first real, true friends I’ve ever had.  I began to behave myself, or tried at least, because I began to worry about how I appeared to them.

      “And then, then you came to us, Sango.  You were unlike any girl I’ve ever met, and still are.  And sometime in our travels - I know not when - I began to realize I worried less and less about the Kazaana.  I still was aware of it, of the brief time I had left, but I began to find more comfort in your words, in being near you, than in all the tea-houses and brothels I’ve ever attended.  So long I had viewed my curse with mute despair, or with quiet resilience.  I did not consider my life worth much.  Being with you gave me something to look forward to in the mornings, something to dream about at night, and while you make my life so much richer just by staying with us, you also make the pain I feel at knowing the brief time I have left so much sharper.”

      Wordlessly, Sango reached forward and took Miroku’s hands in her own.

      “Several times at night I’ve felt the pain in my hand, and worried that the seal would break while I was asleep or otherwise unaware, and claim all of us before I had chance to get myself a safe distance from you and the others.  But each time I awake at night and wander, or think so seriously of running away fast enough that none of you could follow me, I think to myself:  what if, by some bad luck, despite her amazing skill and cunning, Sango someday found herself in a situation where she was in mortal danger?  

      “I want to be beside you then.  When all but hope is lost, I will risk my life to save you, I will sacrifice it willingly, without hesitation or regret, and if I do not die then I will do the same thing again and again.

      “I’m a cheat and a lecher, and I can’t change that, at least not as easily or as quickly as I’d like.  In even my dreams I am unfit to be your husband, I fear at times I am too untrustworthy to be your friend, but though it is unfit for me to give my life to you and live together with you, I would give it to you as sacrifice, my blood to save yours.  It’s a cheap gift, as I have perhaps two or three years remaining anyway, but it’s the most I can give you.”

      He turned back to her – perhaps he would have found it impossible baring himself like that to her face – and saw the tears on her blushing cheeks.

      “H – Houshi-sama,” she whispered.  “I . . . I can’t believe . . . that you feel this way.”

      His hand slid free of hers, touched her cheek.  His thumb brushed against her lips.

      “I think you do believe me, that you’ve known how I’ve felt about you for a long time.  I think you know me better than I know myself.”

      She smiled weakly.  “You may be right, but I also fear that Houshi-sama would not tell me his true feelings, unless . . . unless he thought he were going to die.”

      Miroku’s jaw hung open, ready to argue, but he closed his mouth.

      “I’m sorry,” he said.

      “Houshi-sama. . .”

      “I want you to bind my hands and feet.  If I lose, it will give you some time to stop him.”

      He heard her voice waver with the tears she tried to hide from him.

      “Houshi-sama, please don’t die.”

      “You need to promise, Sango.  Promise me you won’t hesitate.  If Asesu defeats me, I can still hold him captive, for a few moments.  Cut me down then, immediately, and I will carry him with me to hell.  You and the others will be safe as long as – ”

      He was silenced with her lips, her hands on his face, her fingers lacing themselves into his hair.  

      “Sango,” he murmured against her mouth.  He reached upwards, rested his hands tentatively on her sides, until she grabbed one wrist and planted a hand firmly on her bottom.

      She leaned back, tears streaming down her face, the shoulders of his robes bunched up in her fists.

      “Please live for me.  It was my fault you were hurt.  My fault that you’re sick now.”

      “It makes no difference, Sango.  I have my wits about me, and I need nothing else now.  I will not die from your sword.  Even if I did, it was not your hand that wielded it.  There is nothing for you to feel guilty about.”

      “There’s still a chance,” she prompted.  “There’s still a chance, isn’t there?  That you will survive, and be with us again?”

      He nodded.  Asesu was strong, and though he was weakened and in retreat, Miroku knew his second onslaught on his mind would be far more effective.  Miroku did not believe he stood much chance; in fact, his entire plan was more or less what he had told Sango:  destroy Asesu’s spirit along with his own.  If possible, he would do so in meditation, and die in his sleep rather than by Sango’s hesitant blade.

      Leaving his meditation to speak with her was dangerous enough, damn near foolhardy, for if Asesu returned from the depths of Miroku’s mind while Miroku was conscious, the creature would be able to construct his own fight for dominance.  Asesu had fought him to a stalemate in a construct of his own design; being forced into a challenge in which Asesu had written every rule against him would be suicide.  But it was a risk Miroku was willing to take, for he believed it was the last chance he would ever have to see Sango.

      But, there was still a chance, wasn’t there?

      “Hai,” he added.  “A chance.”

      “Then,” she said, “I’m tempted to give you incentive to come back to me.”

      He smiled at this.

      “More incentive than this?” he asked, caressing her soft bottom.  He couldn’t quite believe that she had allowed him to touch her there, even given the circumstances.  Nor could he believe he was so deep in thought for the past minute that he had pretty much let his hand lay there like a dead fish as they spoke.

      “Hai.  More than that.”

      “Sango, there is only one thing I would ask of you.”

      “Anything.”

      His hand trailed up her back, and as he pressed his palm behind her head he pulled her face down to his.  Her eyes were wide, her breaths short and fast on his lips.

      “All I want, all I ever wanted from you, is to hear my name.”

      She closed her eyes, and the tears dripped on his face.

      “Mi . . .” she sniffed, caught her breath.  “Miro . . .ku.”

      His lips searched out hers, hungrily, and he felt her shift position and lie down beside him.  When he released her, she pressed her face to his chest and wrapped her arms around him, mindful not to disturb his wound.

      Miroku kept an arm around Sango’s shoulders, telling himself that he would push her away in a minute and remind her to tie him up and keep her distance from him, but a minute became two, two became five, and the feeling of Sango’s breath on his throat, her hands gripping his robes, her chest pressing rhythmically against his side, and the warm, soft weight of a sleeping young woman beside him was something that the fear of death held no providence over.

      He dully noted the hanyou, miko, neko-youkai, and kitsune, watching them wide-eyed and blushing from a thick pile of brush not far from the cave entrance, before falling asleep.

     

VI.

      “What have I become, my sweetest friend?
Everyone I know goes away in the end.”
- Nine Inch Nails, “Hurt”

      When next Miroku opened his eyes he found himself both surprised and pleased to feel rawhide laces over his wrists and ankles.  He was sure Asesu held the memories and skills of a number of escape artists, but at very least this would slow him down if he failed.  

      He seemed to be alone here.  Outside his shelter he could see it was still night, but the cloudy, starless sky was different than before.  There would be a storm soon.

      How long was I asleep?

      Miroku was unsure.  He could not sense Asesu anymore, but it was possible the ghost had gotten so deep into his memory that he could not be easily found.  Miroku closed his eyes, knowing a brief meditation would quickly alert him to what Asesu was doing.

      “Houshi-sama.”

      Miroku opened his eyes.  Sango was sitting beside him, still in her taiji-ya uniform.  Amazing that she could approach so quickly and so silently.

      “Sango, how long was I asleep?”

      “I’m sorry, Houshi-sama, I had hoped I would get back here before you awoke.”

      “Don’t apologize.  You take care of me far too well, and too often.”

      “Houshi-sama, when you speak like that, it almost makes me believe it’s still you.”

      The color drained from Miroku’s face.

      “Sango?  Nani?”

      “We decided, all of us.  Well, not Shippou and Kirara.  But the three of us decided.  Kagome was against this, but Inuyasha convinced her.  We couldn’t go through with it unless we all agreed.”

      Sango drew her sword.

      “Inuyasha wanted to spare me from doing this, but I couldn’t allow him.  I am a youkai taiji-ya, and I will be the one to exact vengeance on Miroku’s life.”

      “Sango, for the love of god, wait!”

      Miroku raised his bound hands in a reflexive attempt at defense, but Sango’s blade plunged unhindered into his chest.

      His unbandaged chest.

      You absolute son of a bitch!

      Miroku concentrated his will on parting the illusion put before him, and suddenly the craggy overhang, the rocks around him, and the brush and trees he had seen outside the cave were simply no longer there.  He could feel the blanket beneath him was now of soft grass and dirt.  Flowers grew around him in all directions.  The cloudy sky continued to swirl above him, but it was low, low enough to touch.

      The sword disappeared, though the wound did not, and a low fountain of blood began to flow from it.  Miroku’s hands were still bound, and now he could see the rawhide loops holding the rosary tight to his right hand, making it impossible to remove it and unseal the Kazaana.

      The figure beside him stood, and it did not wear Sango’s shin-guards and boots but the robes of a houshi, and as Miroku looked to him he could see his own face, and Asesu’s satisfied grin atop it.

      Miroku felt something warm and coppery rising in the back of his throat, and an unsettling numbness in his legs moving quickly up his body.

      “You were the first challenge I’ve had for well over a hundred years now,” Asesu chuckled, “and still you fell quite easily.  I suppose I would never have made a convincing impersonation of Sango using your memories, as you guarded them quite well, but I had all Sango’s memories at my disposal and found them quite useful.”

      “Yours was a terrible impersonation of her, and I was a fool to believe it even for a moment.”

      Miroku coughed wetly, turned his head to the side and spat dark blood.

      Asesu jammed his shakujou into Miroku’s gut in sadistic exasperation.  Miroku gagged.

      “In about ten seconds you’re going to be gone completely from this body, yet you won’t even let me gloat.”

      Miroku ignored him.  “Sango is a kind woman, a compassionate woman.  She would never raise her sword to me.”  He coughed again, his body wracked with pain.  “She would never raise her sword to anyone who asked for her mercy.”

      Miroku held his bound fists before his face.  A loop of the rosary around his right hand hung over his mouth.

      “And by my death, you will not lay a hand on her!”

      Asesu’s eyes widened, but he could not get a word out before Miroku bit into a bead of the rosary and wrenched his hands away from his mouth.  The string snapped.  A hail of beads littered the ground around his body.

      The Kazaana, unsealed permanently, immediately drew in the gauntlet and protective coverings on his right hand.  Asesu clawed at the ground but was sucked in with a fit of screams and agony, along with a shower of wildflowers.

      The wildflowers.  Miroku’s memories.  The reason he had not used the Kazaana against Asesu here.

      Each piece of this land I suck in will be another memory lost forever.  Now it is inevitable, for most of this land will be destroyed now.  Since I will die here, that is of no consequence.  When I am reincarnated, I will keep no memories.

      Still . . . I wish, how I wish, that I could remember Sango.

      Sango.

      My Sango.

      Miroku heard screaming, distantly realized it was coming from his own mouth, and was pulled into the void.

      Kami-sama, please, whatever your intentions are for me, let me remember her name!

      - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

      There was a river not far from where Miroku lay, and there Sango stood in the pre-dawn twilight, with her yukata and leggings rolled up past her knees and her taiji-ya catsuit in her hands, scrubbing it on the smooth rocks at the edge of the water.

      She was still blushing, and had been since she awoke beside the sleeping houshi and faced the gauntlet of Kagome, Shippou, and Inuyasha’s stares of surprise.  Even Kirara was looking at her mistress in a mocking and discernibly feline manner.  Sango had checked Miroku, found his fever no worse, dressed his wound again, and mumbled sheepishly to her friends that she was going to wash her clothes before Miroku awoke.

      When they came to this area the previous evening she had laid Miroku over the Kirara’s back and ridden in front of him, holding the firecat’s mane with one hand and a handful of Miroku’s robes with the other.  She had seen the river, a cool strip of rock-littered blue coming from the mountains far above.  It was about five minutes’ walk away from where they set up camp, and its cold, clean water filled their canteens and provided Inuyasha with several meals of ramen during the day – all eaten with a lack of satisfaction even Sango noticed, preoccupied as she was.

      Sango had planned to return to the waters to wash her taiji-ya uniform and bathe, but after undressing and testing the river with a foot, she quickly realized it was far too cold for the latter and pulled on her yukata, tying the ends into the sash to keep the kimono dry in the knee-deep water.

      She wasn’t quite sure what came over her in the past few hours.  Miroku’s revelations had startled her, and in the wake of his confessions she found herself unable to keep her self-imposed distance from the houshi.  He had revealed his hand; she had shown hers.  

      He gave her his feelings.  She gave him a free caress.

      He gave her his fears.  She gave him her comfort.

      He gave her honesty.  She gave him acceptance.

      He gave her intimacy.  She gave him . . . a promise.

      A promise.

      “More than that.”  More than a caress.

      Would you bear his child, if he asked?  Would you go through pregnancy for this man, take yourself from battle for months or years, and let him fight without you while you bore and raised the child that would continue his battle if he should die?  Could you do that?

      “I can’t,” she whispered.  “I can’t stay behind in Kaede’s village while you battle Naraku.  I can’t forfeit my mission to save Kohaku.”

      Her heart lightened, and she smiled. I shouldn’t worry.  I’m sure Houshi-sama knows of things men and women can do before they are ready to have a family.  I can imagine a few myself.

      The familiar howl of her firecat shook her back to reality.  Kirara landed beside her, shaking her head slowly as she did when she sensed urgency.  Shippou, eyes streaming with tears, clutched at the fur on the nape of her neck.

      “Miroku’s stopped breathing!”

      Sango’s fingernails drove into the material of her taiji-ya outfit as she ran to the pair of youkai.  She threw her wet uniform across Shippou, straddled Kirara behind him, and held on.

      “Kirara!  Quickly!” she shouted.

      She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t believe that this was happening.  She told herself she would be fine to leave Miroku for a few moments.  How selfish could she have been to take time to clean Miroku’s blood from her clothes while Miroku himself took his last breath?  How could she ever forgive herself if he died with all his friends around him but her?

      Kirara landed beside the overhang so quickly that Sango banged her head against Shippou’s who had already folded Sango’s clothes into a bundle.  Although she surely hurt him, he did not cry out.

      Sango kneeled opposite Kagome, who was already working over Miroku, using the medicine of her people.  Miroku’s face was ashen, and the dressing on his chest, which Sango had changed less than an hour ago, was already soaked through with blood.

      Kagome was pressing her fists against his chest slowly and rhythmically, paused a moment, leaned her ear to Miroku’s face to check his breathing, and then  – kissed him?

      Sango stared in shock as Kagome pinched Miroku’s nose and held her mouth over his.

      Suddenly, realization struck:  She was breathing for him, forcing air into his lungs.

      Miroku tried to do the same to me, shortly after we met, when I was nearly drowned by the false water god.  He was trying to save my life, and I just hit him.

      Kagome leaned back, pressed Miroku’s chest five more times, and then leaned back to search through her first aid kit.

      “Aspirin, bandages, gauze, penicillin . . . why didn’t I ever steal some fucking atropine?”

      Screaming, eyes shut with tears and rage, Kagome picked up the entire box and threw it over Sango’s head.  It struck the rock wall behind her with a metallic clang, knocking loose the lid and littering the inside of the cave with its contents.

      Sango could have strangled her for doing such a useless thing.

      “Keep doing it, whatever you’re doing,” Sango barked.

      “I can’t,” Kagome cried.  “I can’t keep him alive for more than a minute or two without the right drugs, and I don’t have anything strong enough!”

      Sango pointed at the hanyou that was standing nearby, who would have been feigning ambivalence except for the way he watched the scene out one eye and the manner in which one foot was trembling.

      “Then tell Inuyasha what medicines to get and he’ll look for them.  You and I will keep Houshi-sama breathing.”

      “Sango-chan, I don’t know what sort of plants…”

      Sango slapped Kagome across the face.

      “Then guess!”

      Kagome opened her eyes, staring at Sango in shock.  A trickle of blood dripped from the corner of her mouth.

      For a second, there was nothing – not a sound.  Sango’s open hand hung motionless before her, at the end of an arc that included Kagome’s cheek.

      “Oi, Sango,” Inuyasha shouted gruffly.  “You’re a youkai taiji-ya.  If you’re looking to get out some aggressions, you come to me.”

      Sango stared at Inuyasha, her face a cacophony of surprise and rage.

      “You know how good my sense of smell is,” Inuyasha said.  “It’s too late.”

      “Too late,” Sango whispered.  She got to her feet.

      “Too late!  Inuyasha, how long?”

      “Ah…”

      “How long has he been dead?”

      Sango dashed to where Inuyasha stood, grabbing at the collar of his coat.

      “He died a few minutes ago,” Inuyasha said flatly.

      “Before I got here?”

      Inuyasha stared back at her, but said nothing.

      “Did Houshi-sama die because I left him?”

      “He died in his sleep, Sango,” Inuyasha said, in perhaps the most compassionate tone she had ever heard from his mouth.  “He didn’t cry out for you, he didn’t struggle or scream.  He just passed on quietly, a minute after we sent Shippou to find you.  He would never have known if you were there or not.  You heard his last words earlier tonight, Sango.  He wanted nothing more from you, and I think you know it.”

      Sango slid to her knees, one hand holding a leg of Inuyasha’s hakama to keep from falling over.

      Slowly, wobbling on her feet, bracing herself on Inuyasha’s extended arm, Sango stood and walked to Miroku.

      Not Miroku anymore; it’s Miroku’s body.

      I killed him.  He’s dead and it’s all my fault.

      She hugged him, pressing her face to his shoulder, staining her chest and hair with his blood, begging his hand to reach up and caress her, for how often had she sat beside him while he was deathly ill and he had done the same thing as this?

      This time it’s different.

      “Houshi-sama,” she gasped.  She leaned close to his face and whispered in his ear, quiet enough that she hoped no one else could hear.

      “I’m so sorry.  Sorry for holding back from you, for hiding my feelings.  For caring for you – even loving you – and keeping it secret.  For losing patience with you.  For being jealous, when you flirted with other girls, and turning you down whenever you came to me instead.”

      “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before.  Please forgive me.”

      She thought of the many times she had been saved by him, of the times she had fought and been lax, and Miroku had pushed her free of the sharp claws of a youkai, or had opened up his Kazaana to a swarm of poison.  He had been hurt so badly so many times for her.  She knew this would happen some day.  She knew some day she would be leaning over him like this, holding him, and know the wound was too deep, the poison too strong, the strike too powerful.  One day she knew she would hold him and the blood would never stop flowing, and she would feel his last breath on her face.  Or not feel it at all.

      “I’ll give you a child,” she whispered, so softly she might have only been mouthing the words.  “I’d give you anything if you came back to me.  I need you, Miroku.  Don’t leave me.  Not now.”

      Kagome’s hand was on her shoulder now, but both it and her own body felt a world away.  Only vaguely did she hear Shippou crying Miroku’s name, or Inuyasha cursing under his breath, or feel Kirara rubbing her hand sympathetically.  

      “We need to bury him,” Sango said.  “A pyre would destroy the rosary and unleash the Kazaana.”  She touched his face with gentle fingers.  “He wanted to die this way, I think.  Not in a void, but with his friends around him.”  She brought her hand away, studying it.  “I don’t know how I know that.  He never told me, but . . .”  She bit her lip.  “I can’t believe I killed him.”

      “Sango-chan,” Kagome said.  

      “He told me he would fight Asesu, in his mind, and that he might sacrifice his life to stop him.  He died for us.  But . . . if I hadn’t hurt him . . . he might not have needed to.”

      “It’s alright, Sango-chan,” Kagome said.

      Sango leaned back from him, hands spread before her, again red with his blood.

      “I . . . I left my armor at the river.”

      “I can go get it,” Kagome said quietly.

      “No, I’ll go.  I’m wearing his blood again.  I need to wash.”

      “Then I’ll go with you.”

      “I didn’t mean to hit you, Kagome-chan.”

      “I know.  Don’t worry about it.”

      Sango nodded and, with Kagome’s help, stood and walked back to the river.  Kirara followed them, her nose and tails trailing the ground.

      - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

      Inuyasha watched them go.  Only after they had left his field of vision did he approach the houshi.

      “How dare you die on us,” he growled.

      Inuyasha kneeled beside the body, finding his youkai senses a curse as the scent of Miroku and death filled his nostrils.

      “Bastard.”

      He untied the knot on his kesa and slid it off from around his body, then unfolded it beside him.

      “I’ve buried a lot of humans since we teamed up, but I never expected you to be one of them.”

      He rolled Miroku atop his kesa and began to wrap him with some rawhide strips Sango had left near where she had been sitting.

      “And to say those things to Sango . . .how could you do that?  How dare you bring her so close to you and hurt her like this?”  He clenched his fists, his claws digging into his palms.  “You’re a human, so you know how fragile humans can be.  If you care for one, and you can’t be sure you’ll be able to live for her, then you should know well enough to keep your damned mouth shut!”

      Shippou, crying loud enough to have missed this monologue, had taken to the medical supplies Kagome had scattered and was putting them away in the dented-but-still-functional metal box.

      “Inyuasha,” he asked, “What are we going to do?”

      Inuyasha tied the last strap around Miroku and stood up.  “We bury him, have a funeral, and we go on our way.”

      “How can you be so cold, Inuyasha?  We can’t keep going now!”

      “What, should we just go back to Kaede and cry?  Will Naraku wait for us to come to him?  Or will he simply become more powerful and come after us himself?”

      Inuyasha kneeled down and, hesitating for a moment, placed a hand on Shippou’s head.

      “Look, we’ll slow down a little, give ourselves some time to lick our wounds.  But we’ll keep going, and soon we’ll be traveling as we used to be.  We’ll track down Naraku and defeat him.  We won’t forget Miroku, and we won’t let his sacrifice go to waste by giving up.  Understand?”

      Shippou nodded, closing Kagome’s first-aid box in his hands.  Inuyasha stood, looking around.

      “Will you be alright by yourself for a while?”

      Shippou nodded.  “I sort of want a few minutes to talk to him alone.”

      “Then you’ll have your time.  Kagome and Sango won’t be gone long.  I’ll see your foxfire if there’s any trouble.”

      Feet digging into the ground, Inuyasha ran off, leaving a thin trail of a dust cloud.

      Shippou leaned over the bundled Miroku with hands clasped.  But the thoughts in his head were jumbled, disjointed, and before he could think of anything to say his youkai ears faintly picked up the sound of cursing, screaming, the inhuman howls and bays of a sorrowful, vengeful inu-youkai, the crash of splintering wood, and the cacophony of the ageless trees tearing through their neighbors and crashing into the underbrush.

      Shippou smiled inwardly, despite his tears.

      I am not a lone youkai in my grief, for that is how Inuyasha cries.

      - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

      Kagome tried very hard not to stare at the pink trails that came from Sango’s yukata when she dipped it into the river, or the taiji-ya that sat in the shallows upstream with her knees pulled up to her chest.

      “Sango-chan,” she called out softly.  “Sango-chan, you’ll catch cold if you stay there.”

      Sango turned to her slowly.  Her eyes were still dry, though distant.  She stared at Kagome for a moment, as if she did not recognize her, then stood, pulled her long hair over one shoulder, and squeezed the water from it with her hands.

      Sango picked up the towels Kagome had brought her and dried herself, then stepped into her black uniform.  Her face betrayed no discomfort even as she pulled the damp clothing over her naked flesh and fastened it.  As if by habit, she pulled on the remainder of the uniform – her armor, her boots, her sash.  But as she reached into her bundle to pick up her short sword – the sword that was wiped clean of Miroku’s lifeblood only a day before – she recoiled as if burned.

      Sango made a fist and turned away, then sat on a rock several feet above the waterline and tied up her hair.  As she finished the knot, Kirara padded over to her and placed her head on Sango’s lap.  Sango absently brushed the neko-youkai between the ears.

      Kagome wrung out the yukata in her hands and shook it out.  She suppressed a smile.  Her detergent had worked; the bloodstains were gone.  One thing went right today.

      The pettiness of such a concern hit her like a truck, and as she folded the clothing in her arms it took all her willpower not to burst into tears.

      “Your yukata,” she said, her voice strained.  “It’s cleaned, good as new.  We should bring it back to camp to dry.”

      “Thank you, Kagome-chan.”

      Kagome pulled herself up to a rock, dried her feet with the crumpled towel Sango had left, and put on her shoes and socks.  She then picked up the bottle of detergent, her towels, and Sango’s yukata, leapt to the bank, and stuffed them into her already-bulging backpack.

      “Are you coming, Sango-chan?”

      “I’ll return soon.”

      “Is it safe to be here alone?”

      Sango nodded almost imperceptibly.  Still she continued facing east, across the river, to the coming sunrise.

      “Asesu is dead.  Had Miroku not succeeded, that thing would have taken over me a long time ago.”

      “And the other youkai in this area?”

      Sango scratched her neko-youkai beneath the chin, eliciting a satisfied purr.

      “Whenever I was weak, Kirara has protected me.  I’m safe with her.”

      Kagome turned.

      “Bring my wakizashi with you, Kagome-chan.”

      Kagome nodded, bent down to pick up the sword by its plain but functional wooden scabbard, and carried it with her.  She could read Sango’s intent in her voice:

      Bring my wakizashi with you, Kagome-chan, lest I join Houshi-sama this morning.

      Protect me from myself.  From my loneliness, my depression, my desperation.

      She walked slowly, wanting to stay near but knowing Sango would not allow it.  As she crossed into the trees she could hear Sango speaking, though she could not discern the words, and knew they were not intended for her.

      As Kagome left her friend, echoes of pained, tear-stricken words she shared with her brother Kohaku, relayed to her by Inuyasha not long ago, echoed in her mind:

      “I will kill you, and I will die too.  It’s the only way I can get you back from Naraku.”

      Sango-chan, Kagome thought, I know you aren’t afraid to take your life.  But please come back to us.  I could never forgive you if you didn’t.

      VII.

      “Didn’t know how much I love you.
Is this the final destination?
Somebody tell me what to do.
Didn’t know how much I love you.”
- Decay, “Didn’t Know”

      Sango stepped back from the widening hole in the earth of the meadow just outside the town, leaning on the small shovel Inuyasha had brought her.  It was bought, borrowed, or stolen from someone in the village.  She didn’t ask.

      It was warm out, a sunny morning that would no doubt give in to afternoon before they had left this place.  It should have been dark.  It should have been raining.

      It always rained during funerals.

      But the weather mocked her sorrow, her emptiness, and shone on in spite of their loss.

      After a moment’s hesitation, Sango unclasped the tunic of her taiji-ya outfit.  From a hidden pocket she produced a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from around her loosened collar.

      She had been digging for about two hours now.  Inuyasha had tried to help, but she wouldn’t allow him.  He and Miroku had buried her entire village, had ensured the souls of dozens of her friends and family a safe passage to the other world.

      She would bury Miroku.

      She turned to Inuyasha, and without a word each took one end of the bundle beside the open grave, the man wrapped tight in a purple kesa, and lowered it gently to the bottom of his final resting place.

      Inuyasha made a move to help her as she began to shovel the dirt in.  She made eye contact, nodded slowly, and Inuyasha began to scoop the dirt with his own claws in a vaguely dog-like manner.  The image was enough for Sango to smile wryly.

      As Sango plunged the shakujou into the freshly-made mound, Kagome and Shippou approached them.  Each of them held something behind their backs.  After searching Sango’s face for approval, they approached Miroku’s grave to make their offerings.

      Kagome kneeled down beside the mound with a tin lunchbox.  It was quite large, probably one of the meals she had planned to share with all of them.  Sango recognized gohan, sashimi, and norimaki.  Kagome placed the opened lunchbox at the foot of the mound and placed a pair of chopsticks across one corner.

      “I think . . . these were your favorites,” Kagome said quietly.

      Shippou was beside her now, and placed a picture next to Kagome’s food.  Sango had seen him drawing earlier, and she could tell this was one of his better pictures.  It showed Miroku with his hand uncursed, smiling and happy under the light of a warm sun.  Miroku in heaven.

      “That’s beautiful,” Sango said.  “You’re a great artist, Shippou.”

      Shippou shook his head.  “No, I’m not.  I drew this six times before I got this much.  I keep trying and trying, but nothing’s ever good enough. . .”  He started to cry as Kagome picked him up and hugged him.

      “I miss you, Miroku!” he shouted, clutching at Kagome’s shirt.

      “We all miss you, Miroku-sama,” Kagome said.

      Even Inuyasha seemed sad.  He stood far behind them, arms crossed, eyes sharp and alert, but Sango realized his silence and knew he was mourning his friend in his own quiet way.

      “Sango-chan,” Kagome said, standing.  “Do you want us to leave you alone for a while?”

      Sango shook her head.  “Why?  We were just friends, that’s all.”  She hesitated.  “It’s not like we were together, or . . .”  She wrung her hands, frustrated for her lack of words.

      “I understand,” Kagome said quietly.  “We’ll be waiting just over that hill,” she said, gesturing to the rise not far past the village.

      Sango met her eyes briefly.  Arigatou.

      She waited as Inuyasha, Kagome, and Shippou made their way across the village.  Perhaps they would ask for a reward from the town; perhaps not.

      Sango unfastened her ponytail and combed it briefly with her fingers, then took a small knife from her bag and cut a short length off.  She bound this tightly with a small piece of the white ribbon she normally tied her hair with, then wrapped it in her green apron.  She set this bundle at the foot of Miroku’s grave.

      “Houshi-sama,” she said, “it’s been your sport to grope me for so long, I thought it might be nice to leave you with this, since you’re so familiar with the feel of my apron.”  She smiled, feeling tears at the corners of her eyes, but held them back.  “I’m going to miss you a lot, Houshi-sama.  I’m not sure what I’m going to do next.  That is, I know I need to rescue Kohaku, and defeat Naraku.  But after that. . .”  She bit her lip.  “I mean, it wasn’t like I was relying on you.  They were just fantasies I guess.  But I had wanted so much to live with you, to bear your children, and be your wife.”

      She stood, brushing the dust from her knees.

      “I won’t ever forget you, Miroku.”

      She walked away with a sense of empiness, of the failure to complete something.

      We’ll return with a monk to bless the grave.  To make sure he goes to heaven.

---

Chapters originally written 27 April 2003, 13 June 2003, 7 July 2003, and 20 July 2003
Revised format and structure and resubmitted 20 July 2003

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