“If You Need Her”
Session Four
Reunion
“So hold me when I'm here
Right me when I'm wrong
Hold me when I'm scared
And love me when I'm gone.”
—3 Doors Down, “When I'm Gone”
Sango was alone.
She was sitting comfortably on yet another hillside of yet another village, her knees drawn up to her chest. Kirara had been with her, but Sango had become so lost in her thoughts that she had ceased petting her. The neko-youkai, clearly hungry, wandered off to search for food. Her mistress had not been feeding her regularly.
The days had passed by slowly, but each day blended into the next so that she couldn’t remember how long it had been. A few days, at least. A week, or two weeks, at most. They had traveled on slowly since Miroku’s death, managing 5 ri each day at best. Before, the group had been averaging nearly 20.
Then, there was the bird-youkai that leapt out at the group yesterday, or what Sango thought was yesterday. Sango hadn’t seen it, and her hesitation would have cost her life if Inuyasha had not crossed in front of her and parried its beak with Tetsusaiga.
Inuyasha shouted at her, but if it was his intention to make her aware of her weakness, of her constant state of distraction, it was a pointless endeavor. She knew it all too well; she just couldn’t help it.
Kagome was still protecting her—she quickly “osuwaried” Inuyasha, and told Sango that she would be alright, that she just needed more time to heal. It was hard enough to get here without Kagome’s interference, but the fact was, Kagome simply wasn’t helping.
Here, she could be alone again.
Here, her only company were the thoughts in her mind.
Here, she could think of him, and at times forget that he was dead.
It hurt sometimes, to forget, because it was followed by remembering. She wasn’t sure how many times she had turned to the side, called his name to acknowledge him, and found that Houshi-sama simply wasn’t there, and would never be there.
Sometimes she called him “Houshi-sama.” Sometimes she called him “Miroku.” Sometimes she came to her senses before saying anything, and her mouth would be parted, dry, staring at the empty spot beside her where she could have sworn she heard the jangle of his shakujou, the rustle of his heavy robes, the shuffling of his feet through the tall grass, the gentle sound of his breath catching as he realized she had seen him.
She thought of his robes, of how warm they felt when she had hugged him on his deathbed. How he had smelled, of soft rain and sweat and dirt and incense and inks and papers. How his eyes had drooped when the pain hit him, and how he pretended that the wound she gave him did not hurt and would not kill him. He might have been right about the latter, but not knowing one way or the other was no better than knowing for sure that it was her fault.
She missed her family and her friends in the village, but she had found peace with that. Houshi-sama was part of her new life. Her new life had friends and adventure and a baka houshi who flirted with her but wouldn’t ask her to bear his child because he knew she would. She had suffered a lifetime of tragedies, had lost everything to Naraku. She shed her blood, her brother’s blood, her father’s blood, and the blood of all her people. She was cleansed, the slate was wiped clean, and this was her new life.
Her new life was not supposed to have such tragedy.
Her first love was not supposed to suffer and die.
Her new life wasn’t supposed to involve sitting on a hillside, knowing that he was never going to come up behind her, greet her as she sat alone in her thoughts, and offer his company.
Biting her lips, Sango leaned forward, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes.
She had not cried for him yet.
She thought it might help to cry, but each time she thought she might, she just shook so hard it rattled her teeth. She might have whimpered once or twice, a pathetic sound she could not have believed she was capable of making. Never did she shed a tear.
Somewhere, Sango knew, there was a rainstorm, a storm so great that it tore the banners from ships and pushed waves of rain into homes and snuffed out cooking fires.
Somewhere, Heaven cried because Sango could not.
“In your house
I long to be
Room by room
Patiently
I'll wait for you there
Like a stone
I'll wait for you there
Alone.”
—Audioslave, “Like a Stone”
Kagome ran the conversation between herself and Sango through her mind again. She had given Sango an orange to coax a conversation out of her. The first real, back-and-forth conversation Sango had held with anyone since Miroku had died.
It was only for a few minutes, and already Sango had left her.
It’s just as it was before. She held herself together when she fought Inuyasha for revenge of her family. She held herself together when she was bedridden in the endless gravesite that was once her village. She held herself together when she found her brother under Naraku’s control, and when she decided to take Tetsusaiga to Naraku. But only when we had accepted her, had forgiven her of her transgressions, did she cry.
She’s strong. She might not shed a tear for Miroku. Some might call her callous, but I know her. She’s hurting, hurting more than any of us.
I’ve worked so hard to get them together, and now I see how stupid I was to ever try. I keep forgetting this is another time, a time with demons and ghosts and thieves, a time with disease and hunger and death. Death is everywhere. I forget these things, and I think that perhaps I can bring happiness to two people, two friends, two partners in combat, by encouraging them to be more. But I forgot how fleeting life is here, and the cruelty in me trying to make Sango love Miroku is unforgivable now.
Would she be so sad if Miroku was nothing more than a friend to her? Would she be endlessly staring off in the distance? Would her lips quaver so often in tears just barely held back?
She’s lost everything. Her family. Her home. Her village. And the man she might have loved. I can’t understand her now. I could never understand such loss, such terrible loss.
Kagome apologized for trying to play matchmaker with Sango-chan and Miroku-sama. And yet, what Sango had replied as she left the hut both warmed her and chilled her at once:
“I would have cared for him the same.”
Kagome shook her head, forcing the memories away. Now alone, she began to tidy up the small hut they had rented for the evening. The rice was already cooking, and surely Sango could have smelled it before she had left. Kagome would set aside a good portion for her.
“Inuyasha and Shippou should return soon,” she murmured. “I hope they bring some fish like they promised.”
She rummaged through her backpack, produced her algebra book, and curled up in a corner with the book on her lap.
She was quite thankful when she heard Inuyasha’s voice about ten minutes later.
“I told you that one’s mine!” the hanyou shouted.
“Inuyasha no baka!” shouted Shippou. “You just took it from me after I caught it!”
“Because you dropped it, stupid kid!”
The hanging cloth was thrown aside and Inuyasha entered, followed by an annoyed yet triumphantly strutting kitsune. Between them they carried at least a half-dozen small fish in their arms.
Both tossed their fish in piles beside the fire and started to impale them on sticks to cook.
Only at this time did Kagome look up and notice how dark Inuyasha’s hair was in the candlelight, as well as his lack of dog-ears.
He looked up to her, noticed her alarm, and shrugged.
“Sun set just as I was getting here. Nobody saw me.”
“You’re not worried?” Kagome asked.
“Why would I be? We’re in a safe village. I can’t smell youkai anywhere.” He paused. “At least, I couldn’t before I changed. Can’t really smell anything now.”
She smiled.
He’s so comfortable in his human form nowadays. He’s not bothered to be weak in front of us. He might even sleep this time.
“Make sure you leave some food for Sango. She might not return for a while.”
“Yeah, no problem,” he said.
After setting up four fish to cook, Inuyasha scooted away from the fire and stretched his arms.
“Kagome,” Shippou said, “Inuyasha and I went around town looking for a monk for Miroku. We found one family that was keeping a houshi for the night, but they said he had gone to the hot springs when we arrived, and we couldn’t find him there.”
Inuyasha was already helping himself to a portion of the rice. “He's just a poor traveling monk. They said we ought to pay him twice the going rate for a funeral ceremony, but damned if I know how much that is. Anyway, I think we’d be better off going a bit farther and finding a decent monk. Someone so desperate for money might just run off instead of blessing the grave for us.” He paused. “Plus, I think we can find someone of higher rank than that. Hell, I’d take even Mushin over the work of some poor traveling monk.”
The familiar jangle of a shakujou made them silent.
“Aw, hell,” Inuyasha mumbled. “Just be quiet, all of you, or he’ll stand outside all night waiting for money.”
Kagome was already sifting through her backpack for some sengoku jidai coins. She stood, glaring at Inuyasha.
“Miroku-sama was a houshi, too.”
She went outside, meeting the young man holding a worn clay bowl in front of him. His face was entirely obscured with a deep, bowl-shaped straw hat. At best she could see the thin line of his mouth, which smiled so very subtly at the clink of coins in his beggar’s bowl. He turned, and only then did she recognize the gait of the man, the smell of dirt on his clothes, the fact his shakujou was identical to that of someone she once knew.
“Miroku-sama,” she whispered. He gave no reaction.
“Houshi-sama!” she cried. He stopped mid-stride, turned ever so slightly toward her. He held the bowl out further, as if to allow her to reclaim her offering.
Slowly she approached him, within arm’s length now. He must have seen her clothes from beneath his hat, for he turned his head away, as if embarrassed. She took the opportunity to pull at the strap of his hat, sliding it off his head.
His eyes were closed. His face was clearly Miroku’s.
“Please forgive me for disturbing you,” he said. “But I am a simple houshi, and if your intent is to rob me I have nothing for you to take.”
“Look at me, Miroku-sama!”
He opened his eyes, dark blue and curious, and studied her.
“Miroku,” he said. “That . . . that is my name?”
“What happened to you, Miroku-sama?”
His eyes widened.
“You! You are the miko I was traveling with, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “Kagome! I’m Kagome!”
“Then Sango must be here! Where is she?”
“She’s near. Miroku-sama, what happened?”
She heard Inuyasha behind her now. She turned, seeing him just outside the hut, Tetsusaiga unsheathed in his hand. Untransformed, it could do little against youkai, but the dull blade was more than a match against nearly any human.
“What’s going on? What kind of trick is this?” Inuyasha asked.
“I’ve lost my memory,” Miroku replied. “I’ve been searching for Sango for several days. I had the feeling she came this way. Is she in here?”
Miroku made movement toward the hut, but the tip of the sword the other man held stood rigid in the air, only inches before the monk’s chest.
“Just a damn minute,” the man seethed. He took the opportunity to grab Kagome’s arm and pull her behind him. The katana remained leveled at his opponent.
“What are you? Naraku? Did Naraku reanimate you like he did Kohaku?”
He backed away. “Naraku? Kohaku?” He lowered his eyes in thought. “Maybe?”
Inuyasha growled.
“Inuyasha,” Kagome said, gripping the back of his hunting jacket, “He doesn’t have a Shikon shard. He’s not like Kohaku. And he doesn’t smell like a demon, does he?”
“Keh,” Inuyasha muttered. “How the hell should I know? I can’t smell anything at all.”
“Yes you can,” Kagome said. “You can still sense youkai. You’d smell one if it was standing right in front of you.”
“Youkai?” Miroku gasped. “You think I’m youkai?”
“You have a better explanation? You were a dead man last we saw you.” Inuyasha sneered. “We’ve been tricked before.”
Miroku shrugged. “I guess I don’t. I can’t explain what happened to me.” He looked up at them. “All I know is that I dug out of my own grave a few days ago, and the only thought in my mind was to find a girl named Sango. I felt—I still feel—that once I find her everything will be made right. Maybe she’ll unleash my memories.” He shook his head. “Or maybe she won’t. I don’t care, but I need to see her, and I need to see her now!”
On his last word he heard a gasp from somewhere nearby. He turned towards the woods behind the cabin, and when he did he saw quite clearly a young woman in a white and pink yukata staring at him. She looked afraid, or perhaps simply amazed.
When he saw her face he knew, he knew, he knew it was her. Sango. His Sango. Lovely Sango. Beautiful Sango.
She caught his stare and turned into the woods, running.
He was after her. The two people who had confronted him had no chance to react. He closed half the distance before the clay bowl he carried ever struck the ground.
“Damn,” Inuyasha muttered. He was about to run, but Kagome grabbed his shoulder.
“Don’t!” she pleaded. He turned to her, saw her eyes quaver.
Dammit, Kagome, don’t cry. I hate it when you do that.
“Don’t stop him,” she said. “He’s not going to hurt her. I’m sure of it.”
Inuyasha hesitated, then sheathed his sword with a grunt.
“I still don’t trust him,” he said. “We better follow them.”
“You fell down, of course
And then you got up, of course
And started over
Forgot my name, of course
Then you started to remember.”
—The White Stripes, “Same Boy You’ve Always Known”
Miroku was already out of breath. Leaning against a tree with one hand, he held the other to his gut to suppress the ache there.
He did not see Sango. He had not noticed when she had stopped to pick up a heavy stick for a makeshift weapon. He did not notice her double-back on him, or watch him from the bushes. He did not hear her when she, having lost her patience, approached him from behind with the heavy branch at her side.
He heard her voice.
“Don’t move.”
He of course did not heed that—it was mere reflex that made him turn to her. He had a split-second to see her face again, to take in the chestnut eyes with coral eyeshadow, the raven hair, the lips drawn thin with anger, before she broke the two-inch length of sapling over his forehead and knocked him to the ground.
The young woman in the pink and white yukata, her hands on her hips, stood over the prone man in the dark robes. The heavy branch that had dispatched him to an uneasy rest lay at her feet in pieces. The man had not moved since he collapsed a moment ago, and the red patch above his right eye where she had struck him bled slowly into his hairline and toward his ear, but the slow movement of his chest indicated he was still alive.
He looks like him. He really looks like him.
But it’s impossible. He died. I saw the body. I buried him. I buried him a week ago.
But here he lies.
He’s a puppet. Another puppet sent by Naraku to torture me. First my brother, now Houshi-sama. He would smile, greet me, caress my bottom, and snap my neck, all at once.
Still . . .
No. It’s not him. Nothing comes back from the other world. Nothing whole, at least. Nothing good. Kikyou was resurrected, but she remains a clay doll, cold and uncaring, unable to forgive Inuyasha for the betrayal despite her equal part in Naraku’s manipulation, unable to forgive herself for the feelings she must have had toward Inuyasha to allow the betrayal to take place, and holding somewhere in her heart—I am sure—the desire to drag Inuyasha to hell.
And Kohaku.
Kohaku was resurrected, but he is controlled by the tainted shard in his back and his own broken memories. He is not my brother; despite the assurances of the others I can’t believe it. They did not know Kohaku; they don’t understand. Even if he returns to me for good, he would be a different person. Without his memories of me he can not regard me as his sister anymore; with his memories he would live every day reliving the agony of killing Father and the others in his mind. Damn me for encouraging Father to train him! Damn me for following the ways of my village when I knew Kohaku never desired the life of a youkai taiji-ya. Damn me for not protecting him when he needed me most.
And what to do with the false Houshi-sama? Would you free him, as you tried to free Kohaku from the clutches of your enemy by your sword? Surely you can’t beat Houshi-sama to death here.
I have my glaive on my wrist. I can draw it out, cut his throat in an instant. I can take care of him myself.
She meant to kill him as she kneeled beside him. But something stopped her, and against her intentions her hands went to his face, cupping his cheeks.
No puppet of Naraku would feel this warm.
She bit her lips, holding the tears back.
It would do no harm to wait. He can’t hurt me, so long as I keep my guard up.
Fingers trailed down his neck, through the worn black fabric of his robe and the tattered remains of his kesa. She felt something within the folds of her robe, and unable to stop herself she drew out a roll of the brilliant white paper that Kagome had brought to Shippou from her time. Fingers trembling, she unrolled the parchment, confirming that it was the same picture that the kitsune had drawn and set beside Miroku’s grave.
Is it possible, Kami-sama, is it possible for a man to come back from hell, pick up his funeral offerings, and return them to his family? Would my enemy be so thorough to carry such trinkets?
She didn’t see him open his eyes, only the hand that shot up to grip her left wrist. Without thought, she flicked her wrist to release the curved blade hidden beneath the sleeve of her yukata and brought it to his neck.
He paused, watching her, but only for an instant. She must have looked frightening to him—her teeth clenched, her eyes bleary from tears, her entire body shaking from tension as she held the sharp convex edge of her blade against the delicate flesh of his neck—but he seemed to have the inhibitions of a drunkard, aware of her body but not his own. Her Houshi-sama.
Even as she held the blade to his throat, he drew her left hand to his lips and kissed the palm gently, drawing a long breath against it, his fingers gently intertwining with hers.
He stared at her, mouth open. Never in her life had Sango seen such desire, such passion, such ineffable want. He came to her from the other world, across chasms she could never fathom. His eyes spoke to her: I have been a wandering ghost until this very moment; death holds no providence over he whose love for Sango continues beyond this world. Touch me and make me alive, kiss me and make me breathe, marry me and make me a legacy, love me and make me whole. She wondered if her father had ever looked at her mother this way, if any man had ever looked at a woman in such a way.
“Houshi-sama,” she said, her throat so dry she could not hear her own voice. She pulled her right arm away, turning her wrist so that the blade mounted upon it clicked loose and fell to the grass.
Still holding her hand, still staring in her eyes, he sat up.
She couldn’t meet his gaze any longer—she would be hypnotized, were she not already. Her arms wrapped around him, gripping his robes tightly, crushing her chest against his, trying to feel him with as much of her body as she could. She felt his hands on her back, doing the same. In her mind she still expected treachery; in her heart she knew that even if this was a trick and he planned to stab her in the back this instant, she would not regret this moment.
“Sango,” he growled against her ear. “Sango, I need to tell you—”
“Iie!” she shouted, digging her fingernails into his back. Don’t ruin this, don’t speak. Just be. Be here, with me. Forever. Whatever you do, don’t you dare let me go.
Below the cosmic slow-dance of the stars, two figures held each other. They moved no more than the trees and grass around them; between them stood feelings so brilliant and so timeless that the new moon above very nearly fled from the sky in a fit of envy.
Chapter completed 28 August 2003
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