“If You Need Her”
Session Four
Breathe With Me
“Breathe the pressure
Come play my game and I’ll test ya.”
—Prodigy, “Breathe With Me”
“Into the sea of waking dreams
I follow without pride
Nothing stands between us here
And I won’t be denied.”
—Sarah McLauchlan, “Possession”
The fallen leaves danced around them, mirroring the chaos and confusion in Sango’s mind as she sat beside him.
Kaede had eased her torment. The woman knew of a cure for Miroku’s illness, but it would not be so simple as some sort of tea or medicine. No, the old miko’s powers were not absolute, and making Miroku whole again would require a trial and a journey.
The old miko knew of an ascetic that lived within a few hours’ journey, a woman who knew well the boundary between this world and the next. Kaede assured them that if anyone was capable of regaining memories so lost as Miroku’s, this old woman would be.
They would begin their journey after a midday meal. She should have felt rushed, but delaying a few hours did not bother her. She missed him, missed him very dearly, and she appreciated the chance to spend some time with him, even if in silence. It was possible they would have some more youkai to fight before Miroku could be helped, and since his fighting abilities and houriki were forgotten along with his memories of his friends, it would be best to allow both of them rest before moving on to what could be a very perilous series of battles.
Meanwhile, she sat here with Miroku beside her. Despite his ailment, he retained his stoic mask. Ever-patient, ever-truthful, ever hers, her anchor, her rock, the one thing in this world she could trust unflinchingly. It was amazing how little his expression changed. He was so closed off from her, his thoughts locked down so tightly, that here, while he held no dreams to consider, no nightmares to obsess over, no enemies to hate, he kept the serene expression of a Buddha, a learned man who thinks lightly of serious matters and thinks seriously of trivialities.
Again he was hers, and the leaves fell.
“You can, if you want,” she blurted out, breaching the silence between them.
He turned slightly toward her. For the past few minutes he had been stealing glimpses at her, and appeared relieved he could study her face more freely.
“Caress it, I mean,” she said. Her lips tightened in a line, her cheeks blushed.
“My bottom.”
He chuckled lightly.
“I assure you that I would not betray my feelings for you with such an uncouth act.”
It amazed Sango that her immediate reaction to this was one of disappointment.
“Oh,” she said.
The utterance hung awkwardly in the air. Sango bit her bottom lip.
“May I . . . caress Sango elsewhere?”
Her eyes met his.
“Your hair,” he said.
She nodded, closing her eyes as she felt his hand stroke her head. She leaned toward him and felt his lips touch her forehead.
“When I awoke days ago, I thought that I was married. I thought that picture was drawn by our child, but now I realize it was Shippou’s.”
She let loose a sigh. “Yes,” she said. “Shippou is quite talented at drawing.”
His voice became deeper, more urging at her pointed evasion of his words.
“You have nothing to say to me when I tell you I thought we were married?”
“It would seem rude to dwell on such an honest mistake.”
His hands tightened on his shoulders. She pressed her cheek to his chest.
“What are we, Sango? Husband and wife?”
“No,” she said, her voice low and serious.
“Betrothed?”
“No.” Despite herself, she felt a twinge of disappointment with saying so.
“Friends?”
“More than that.”
He leaned back. Deprived of her shoulder to lean on, she again sat beside him, keeping his quizzical stare.
“What am I to you, Sango? After what I’ve been through, I beg you, give me an answer from your heart.”
His voice cracked slightly on that last word, though he otherwise maintained his composure. It hurt him to walk into a relationship blind like this. It hurt him to have feelings for a woman without knowing to what degree they were reciprocated, if at all. It hurt him to know he held no claim to her, that the ties between them were not marital or societal, and were perhaps invisible to all but their closest friends.
She tilted her head slightly and, without intending to, found her mouth turning upwards in the hint of a smile.
“You are my Houshi-sama.” And with that she felt her eyes water, for rarely did she have the courage to say something so true to anyone. She wanted him. She needed him. And what more, she had him.
Miroku smiled, his sudden worry evaporated. “Your Houshi-sama.” He chuckled. “Yes, that’s exactly how I feel.” He turned away from her, pretending to study the valley beneath them, but keeping watch at her out of the corner of his eye as she lay serenely on the grass.
Still, the leaves fell.
II.
“Did she make you cry
Make you break down
And shatter your illusions of love?
Is it over now?
Do you know how
To pick up the pieces and go home?”
—Stevie Nicks, “Gold Dust Woman”
The flames flickered across the face of the miko. The heat of the fire did not warm her skin, but it comforted her to pantomime the living.
Kikyou felt relaxed here, or something close to it. Satisfied with her progress in searching for Hakurei-zan. Conscious of the fact she followed the path of Inuyasha, Sesshoumaru, and Kouga. Amused that Naraku had created so many enemies in such a short time. Aware that they would fail to do any more than weaken and hurt the creature, as only the Shikon no Tama held the power to completely rid such a powerful youkai from the earth. And, most certainly, determined that she would be the one to ensure such an event came to pass.
At this time of the evening she would begin her prayers and personal reflection, but such acts would have to wait for this visitor to leave. It would be rude to ignore a guest. Even if it were nothing more than a flea-youkai.
She had no idea where it had come from, but she recognized it as the tiny creature that claimed himself as Inuyasha’s retainer. She was surprised and a bit suspicious of the politeness in which it carried itself before her, but she supposed a creature so small would have to depend on a lowly and honorable demeanor to survive long outside the presence of its master.
The flea, Myouga, told her of the creature that endangered Inuyasha and his friends, that killed the houshi who traveled with them. He told her of its power to live in men and youkai, to control them, to kill them and seek another.
Kikyou would not expect to hold audience to an insect, nor to listen with honest concern to its story, but Myouga clearly was one of the oldest and wisest youkai she had come across in recent memory, and his plea for her assistance in striking down such a legendary bakemono pulled at her need to fulfill her responsibilities—real or imagined—as a miko.
The flea, after having taken a brief break to drink something she dare not ask from a flask, continued his speech.
“You must understand that this thing, this evil, is something beyond you, beyond Inuyasha. Even beyond Naraku. Though he lacks the strength, the hoardes of youkai, that The Creature that was Onigumo had, his ability to traverse lives makes him far more dangerous.”
“If this is true,” Kikyou said, “then it is my duty to rid him from the earth. Even if it requires helping your master.”
Myoga nodded. “You are most generous, Kikyou-sama.”
“Tell me your plan.”
Myoga shifted his weight where he sat. Kikyou had the suspicion that a creature weighing as little as he did so only as a nervous habit, a mimicry of larger creatures.
“There was a Great Monk, Sen, who was a student of Buddha and studied this creature Asesu before he was Enlightened. He was one of the few to know anything about this creature.”
“And?”
“It was already known that Asesu could traverse lives, and that he could only leave a body after it was dead. When this occurs, no man, creature, or youkai could possibly resist him. No wall can stop him. And, once he has come into a new body, he asserts full control very quickly, unless the man is very wise, and is able to challenge Asesu. If he succeeds in this challenge, as very few men have done, he is ejected from the body and will simply select another. This was a most challenging problem, but eventually Sen came to the conclusion that he could trap Asesu.”
“If he had a good plan, I can’t help but ask why it hasn’t worked yet.”
“You are wise, Kikyou-sama. His plan did not work yet because it required a piece he did not have at his disposal. You see, if one defeats Asesu in his mind, he may force Asesu into a container. But Asesu will easily escape through the container—outside a body, he knows no wall or barrier. Unless, inside, there was a Life that Asesu would take in his desperation, a Life trapped in the bottle, which Asesu would be irrevocably attached to. But—and this is most important—for Asesu to be trapped forever, the Life must not be a creature that is capable of killing itself, of starving, of dying of old age. It must be a Thing Which Lives But Does Not Die.”
“A thing which lives . . . but does not die?”
“Your Souls, Kikyou-sama. Your souls are the key to this. They are irresistible bait to Asesu, and by sacrificing one you will seal his fate.
She pressed a hand gently to her chest, where her heart would be should she have been a living woman and not a golem, a vampiress surviving on the life of dead girls. It hurt her enough to insult these souls as she already did, to send her soul-stealers to capture them from the air and deliver them to her like a thief-baron, but to use one as a bait for some unholy animal struck her as deeply and viscerally wrong.
But what was she to worry about such trivial moralities, to let her hypocritical respect for the dead allow a life-stealing parasite like Asesu to continue his travels? She had seen the houshi’s grave days before, and had—almost by reflex—burned incense and afforded him prayer. She trusted this creature Myouga, and his desperation became her own.
With a hint of resignation, Kikyou nodded.
“Tell me what I must do.”
“I seem to recognize your face
Haunting, familiar yet I can’t seem to place it.”
—Pearl Jam, “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town”
They found no trial on this journey. No youkai, no highwaymen, no legion of samurai protecting the old woman. No tests to pass, no tricks to see through, nothing but the long path, the unassuming hut in the thicket, and the old, hobbling, sharp-eyed woman within.
Sango found herself not quite disappointed, but at unease. Her senses remained sharp, and like a sprinter who stays too long in a crouch, awaiting a call to start that never comes, her mind and body began to ache with apprehension.
The path was long, for Kaede instructed them to walk rather than ride Kirara, lest they miss their destination. Kaede’s directions were exact, and their day’s walk brought them to the old woman with their strength intact and their moods pleasant.
Kirara, for her part, was not bothered by her role of mascot rather than steed. She would find a comfortable spot on Sango’s shoulder, hiding beneath a cascade of hair. Then she would grow bored, jump to the ground, and forge the path ahead of them on soft and rapid paws. Then tired, she would move to Miroku, forming a similar place of rest on his shoulder, digging claws into his robe, and sleep for an hour or so. Once awakened, she would again go to her mistress.
Kirara followed this pattern exactly for the entire course of the journey, and now she regained her strength from the shallow bowl of fish broth the woman had presented the neko-youkai with.
Beside her were Sango and Miroku, both with cups of exotic-tasting tea. Before them was the fire, and beyond that the woman, whose name Sango still did not know, watched them silently with a smile that was both knowing and enigmatic, and set Sango at ease. Mostly.
When their silent meal was done, the old woman placed the cup beside here and spoke for the first time.
“Forgive me for testing your patience so, but it is my way to refresh visitors before speaking to them about serious matters.”
She stood, walked to where Miroku sat, and kneeled before him.
“Ah, Houshi-dono. I knew you would have no trouble reaching this place. You memory may be lost, but your heart is not.” She cupped his cheeks. “Yes, I see the wisdom in your eyes. You have many trials ahead, and you will pass them without regret.” She touched his hand. “The Kazaana holds no power in this place, and I expect you take both comfort and fear in this. Do you trust me, child?”
His eyes met hers.
“I do.”
Her wrinkled fingers pulled loose the rosary that sealed the Kazaana, but no hell-winds came. She smiled, as if she herself were surprised by this.
“Would Naraku only but know the limits of his power. Even his most infamous curse cannot withstand the good and pure places in this world. Look.”
She pulled off the gauntlet as well, and to Miroku’s surprise he saw his whole hand. The black circle over the palm was so faded that it merely darkened the skin beneath. Had he known no better, he would have thought the mark was nothing more than the evidence of a lump of coal he had grasped.
The woman placed the rosary and gauntlet before Miroku and moved on to Sango.
“Taiji-ya-san,” she breathed, bowing reverently. Sango returned the gesture.
“I know your face, but I lament that my visions do not do justice to your beauty. I can see why Houshi-dono has so much trouble behaving himself around you.”
Both Sango and Miroku blushed at this and looked away from each other nervously. Sango, however, had her face quickly caught in the woman’s hands.
“In your eyes I can see deeper, and the stronger affections Houshi-dono holds for you make more sense to me now. I apologize for not seeing it before — you are truly the descendent of Midoriko. She was not a huntress as you are, but held the same fire, the same passion for life.” She smiled. “And perhaps, the same passion for love, but she made her sacrifice long before anyone knew to which man her heart leaned, if any.”
“Midoriko was of my village,” Sango said, “and many stories of her were told when I was a child. But I am the last to know them, for I am the sole survivor of my clan.”
The woman smiled and clasped her hands.
“I wish I could tell you more, but at this time all I can comfort you with is my promise that Naraku failed. The Taiji-ya village is decimated but not destroyed, and the ghosts that haunt its walls will one day be drowned out by the laughs of children. Ten, or even twenty. And they will be only the first of many generations.”
“I hope I live to see that,” Sango whispered.
The woman backed away, and the smile she gave Sango was so reassuring and yet so sad that she found it hard to contain her tears.
“I know, dear. I know.”
“Was a bug.
Little bug.
Hardly there.”
—Randy Newman, “The Time of Your Life“
Inu-taisho, the great youkai lord of the Western Lands, took great pride in his castle. It was nowhere near large enough for a leader of his stature, but he was not one for spending long days in his home, so there was no gain to having a great manor except the possibility of a greater enticement to pillagers. This mattered little, though, since the castle was guarded by loyal members of the dog clan and many wolf-youkai rendered masterless by the continual civil upsets among the various wolf clans, and thus found an honorable existence as retainers of the dog clan.
And even if his retainers did abandon him—and many did, after Inu-taisho’s death, some even surviving long enough to find a place in Kouga’s clan some hundred or more years afterward—it would not matter still, for the lord was cursed with wanderlust, with questing for knowledge as well as power, seeking out allies both youkai and human, and as age began to claim him, siring an heir with both races.
It was near the end of Inu-taisho’s life that he called in his eldest and most loyal retainer, and at that time Kouga was no more than a cub many ri from Inu-taisho’s influence, and his beloved sons were separated and nearly as distant.
Sesshoumaru, on a long journey of his own, was scouting the furthest reaches of his father’s kingdom, ensuring order and obedience, traveling alone, as he saw none in his father’s allegiance with enough worth to be in the young lord’s presence. Inu-taisho had tried, once, to send him with his two most loyal samurai, but Sesshoumaru slew both over minor (if not imagined) breaches of etiquette within a matter of hours from the main gate. When news reached the castle, the wives and children of these retainers, so distraught and ashamed that their families had offended the young Sesshoumaru, killed themselves immediately.
Inu-taisho, saddened and angered at his son’s impudence, chastised him, removed his right to the lives of his people, and revoked his right to carry a sword—a right he would not reinstill until his death, upon which his servants would assist in Toutousai’s work and present Sesshoumaru with his birthright, Tenseiga.
The look on Sesshoumaru’s face when given the katana and realizing it cannot kill—most likely realized after Sesshoumaru, in typical disregard for life, attempted to behead the sword-bearer to test the blade and found it impossible—was something that quietly amused Inu-taisho in his final days.
Inu-taisho loved his firstborn, of course, but his unrepentantly haughty demeanor was one that begged for mocking, and it was most unfortunate only his father could get away with such a thing.
His other son was much younger, the hanyou his mother called “Inuyasha.” The name was woefully inappropriate, but his mother liked the name so much that he would never correct her.
She was a good woman, and lived well in the village Inu-taisho secured them, surviving very comfortably on the riches he provided. He visited at times, but those were exceptionally rare, as Sesshoumaru vowed to kill the bastard child that soiled his lineage, a vow that his father could not dissuade with either desperate plea or threat of banishment, torture, and death. Sesshoumaru was so convinced that his father was weakened by his fraternization with humans that he considered such threats madness, and would gladly risk both dishonor and death to wipe his family’s line clean of the disease of a half-breed.
Thus Inu-taisho found his firstborn unreachable on this and many other issues, and rather than choosing one son to protect and one to perish, he kept them separate and secret, and as each child grew strong outside his presence, their father grew weak.
Of course, this weakness was not well known, not yet. There were rumors, but there were always rumors of one sort or another. Inu-taisho was old, for sure, and like most youkai he was quite mortal. But rumors of decline, of death, of a coup that might wrest the kingdom from its aging Lord - such things were never so much as whispered in this place. And if such things were spoken, Inu-taisho would know, for his closest retainer, personal advisor, and oldest friend, had a tendency to see and hear without being seen and heard.
Myouga, the flea-youkai, who never carried a blade and yet outclassed any shinobi in terms of stealth, surveillance, and trickery, kneeled politely before the pelt-littered enclave that was Inu-taisho’s throne.
“My Lord,” he intoned, “I have come with haste as requested.”
Inu-taisho smiled. “I had no doubt you would. I apologize from calling you from your previous assignment so abruptly, but this matter is quite urgent.”
“No apology is necessary, my Lord. I serve at your pleasure always.”
Inu-taisho acknowledged this with a nod.
“I have been issued a challenge from a taiyoukai of the mountains, Ryuukotsusei. It is a challenge I must answer, and I expect I shall die in answering it.”
“My Lord,” Myouga replied. The words were no more than an acknowledgement, but beneath it was the implied plea that he not cast away his life, the plea Myouga would not dare speak aloud.
“You may speak at ease,” Inu-taisho said, a smile creeping across his lips. “There is no one here to witness you feign fealty to me.”
Myouga lept in the air, waving both pairs of arms in frustration. “My Lord, it is not an act!”
“The thousand years of bite marks may be hidden by my fur, but that does not mean I forget them, Myouga.”
Myouga sighed, defeated.
“In that case, I must ask you: why fight this youkai? The mountains hold no treasures, no decent land to farm or trade route to protect. A taiyoukai such as yourself receives so many challenges, and it would be foolish to entertain them regardless of gain or loss.”
Inu-taisho clasped his hands together, glad to see Myouga’s over-politeness shed. He was a wise creature, but it sometimes took effort to get him in a place where he would be willing to advise without tainting that advice with empty assurances and honorific nonsense.
“I am not the young pup I was when we were first met,” he said. “I am nearing my nine hundredth year, and already I feel my strength in decline. A creature such as I cannot abide old age, and if I must die in a pointless battle rather than see my rule usurped when my fangs are too dull to fight and my mind too dull to care—well, then I chose a glorious death.”
Myouga fought back a laugh despite his despair. “Your son is so much like you, my Lord.”
Inu-taisho smiled at this. “I suppose you are right.” The smile slowly faded. “There is another reason as well. The birthright of my children relies on my death, and I cannot think of a better youkai on which to sharpen my fangs than this Ryuukotsusei.”
“I suppose there is no point in me dissuading you from this,” Myouga muttered. “You are asking me to ensure Toutousai completes his work, then?”
“Such concerns needn’t be yours, my friend. My burial, the taking of my fangs, the forging of Tenseiga and Tessaiga, and their deliveries to my children—all arrangements are made. I have called you here to ask you something entirely different, though no less important.” He paused, hoping Myouga understood this. “Are you familiar with a bakemono known as Asesu?”
“The name does seem familiar, my Lord.”
“He is a demon without form, an evil spirit which possesses men and youkai and controls them utterly. In the next century or two, he will seek out my son, Inuyasha. I want you to set out this very day to collect all information you can on this creature, to devise a means to defeat him, and when the day comes, you must ensure Inuyasha’s survival.”
“My Lord, surely, he will have Tessaiga by then.”
“The sword and its strength will fail him—in fact, they will only harm him. Only wisdom and knowledge made of twice a man’s lifetime of study can defeat such a creature, and so I entrust to this task the wisest and most studious ally I have.”
“Then I will set out the moment you grant my leave, my Lord.”
“There is one last thing, Myouga, and this is most important. There will be a man, a man in black, and he will fall to Asesu. You must let him fall, regardless of who he may be to you at that time.”
Myouga narrowed his eyes.
“Such detail, my Lord. It is a strange request, and though I shall follow it to the letter, I am anxious to know how you came to know all this.”
“I suppose no answer will satisfy you, not even if I should tell you the things I cannot. I have a companion who holds talent with knowing things that have not yet come to pass. Her prophecies have never turned false, and I trust her when she tells me the danger of this creature, and the best means in which to defeat it.”
“And the man in black?”
“It is cryptic, I know, but you will understand when you need to understand it. ’Sacrifice the man in black, and he will be saved.’ I feel he may be your friend, so it may be difficult, but his death serves a great purpose, greater than Asesu could ever hope to be, and as reward for his sacrifice he will be reborn. This is all I am free to tell you.”
“I will do as you command, my Lord, but I ask you: has she told you of your battle in the mountains?”
“Wise beyond your many years, Myouga. Yes, she told me I will strike him down, and I will die of my wounds, and in my death I will help ensure a long life for my sons.”
Myouga nodded, trying to hide the hollowness in his voice as he bid his master farewell for the last time.
“It has been the greatest honor to serve you, my Lord.”
The memory was a fond one, the last Myouga saw of his former master, and the flea-youkai thought of it often. Perhaps his Lord thought he might forget if his wish was given at a less important time. Whatever the case, Myouga did not fail him, spending much of the next century split between studies at various monasteries and protector of his old Lord’s grave—not knowing, of course, that it was a false one—while taking time every few years to visit Inuyasha and make sure he was well.
Of course, thanks to Naraku, Myouga failed to protect his new master, and during the 50 years in which Inuyasha was sealed, Myouga abandoned his efforts and spent most of his time at Inu-toshi’s false grave.
But Inuyasha was revived, much to his joy, and in the year since then Myouga had been sure to recollect his writings on Asesu and prepare himself for the day in which he would fight Asesu.
Today was that day.
Indeed it hurt to let Miroku die, and Myouga made himself scarce when he realized what would occur, knowing only at the moment Miroku was first possessed that Asesu’s time had come, that Miroku was in fact the man who would be sacrificed, and that Myouga would have to leave him to his fate.
His plan was set the evening Miroku died, and before he was ever buried Myouga set forth to search for the soul-stealers of the miko. It took him days to find her, but the perseverance of a flea-youkai who had seen ages and empires rise and collapse was quite legendary, and he did not despair.
Now he sat here, in the thick of the mane of Kikyou’s horse, taking a well-deserved snack now and then, and he chuckled to himself as he wondered how Inuyasha would react when he realized that his savior was none other than his loyal servant Myouga. Gentle Myouga! Wise Myouga! He thought him cowardly, his master, but what was cowardly in running from battles a youkai cannot fight, while running directly to battles in which he can?
He was ready. Nearly two hundred years of preparation had made him the perfect warrior, the mind-warrior, who would defeat Asesu, and afterward, seal him. What a human could not do, a human with limited mind and so few years in which to fill it, Myouga would accomplish.
Today was the flea’s day.
She was glad now that she took such a fine steed. She had almost turned it down, for her pride made it difficult to accept the gift from a farmer whose children she nursed from fever. The man told her he had no need for a calvary horse, that a good ox was all he required, but a horse this fine would fetch a half-dozen oxen.
She surmised it belonged to a daimyo, and perhaps had seen fit to run after its master had fallen in battle, afterward wandering the countryside until it came across a farmer willing to let it partake of his crops.
As Kikyou reflected on such a possibility, she began to understand the farmer’s unwillingness to keep or sell the mount. Clearly it would have been the worst of things to do business with a death-horse. Such a creature would surely lead its next rider into to bad fortune.
If only the farmer knew how appropriate the steed was for a woman such as she.
As that thought washed over her, nearly drawing a smile over her enigmatic face, she realized that the flea was talking again.
“Kikyou-sama, we are very close. My master’s scent is only a few hours old on this road.”
A blast of pure dread struck them. The horse spooked, and only through the combined efforts of Myouga speaking into its ear and Kikyou rubbing its neck did the miko prevent herself from being thrown.
Only after that particular danger had passed did Kikyou address the far greater one.
“Inuyasha has beome a full youkai, hasn’t he?” she asked, her hands still tight on the reins.
“I’m afraid so, Kikyou-sama.”
Kikyou pulled the clay bottle from inside her kimono. With a gentle finger she beckoned a soul-stealer forward. The snakelike demon, already carrying a soul, deposited the tiny ball of life-energy into the bottle.
Kikyou kept the bottle in her left hand as she snapped the reins with her right. Myouga gripped tightly to the horse’s mane as she leaned forward. The horse raced down the path, nostrils flaring.
Her voice was determined, severe, and icy.
“I haven’t come all this way to fail.”
“I jumped into the river—what did I see?
Black-eyed fishes swam with me
A moon full of stars and astral cars
And all the things I used to see.”
—Radiohead, “Pyramid Song“
Sango’s eyes scanned the woods around them, checking the treeline for enemies, allowing her mind to adjust to this place, to feel its life-force, so that any interruption would be felt immediately, and the presence of any danger would be realized long before she heard or saw it. She was sure the same skill came quite easily to Miroku, though not at this time, with much of his mind lost in the spaces between life and death. But that problem would be solved, and solved this very day.
She looked at him, saddened by the frustration on his face, the embarrassment of knowing he was helpless, that only her efforts could repair the schism in his mind. For that was his condition, was it not? He was broken, hurt, a piece of his being snapped off and cast to the mists of death, the mists they would forge through together.
She turned to the pool, marveling at its shape, a circular arrangement of stones that gave way to short grass. The pool was dark, and she could not see its bottom, yet the water appeared clear, with mist clinging to its surface at spots.
She sensed strength here, and was certain that if Kagome were here, a girl so tuned to the spiritual realm, she would find this place breathtaking.
Even Sango, whose spiritual abilities were only those borne of necessity in seeking and fighting youkai, found this place immensely calming. There stood no barrier, no crackle of holy energy, no sparkle or lights. But she felt in her gut that there was something special in this place, that it was truly the barrier between worlds, a thin spot where the difference between things mortal and immortal became less clear.
You will continue this way past the gate of trees, into the grasslands beyond. There you will find the place where this world and the next blur together, the Ametsuchi no Reisen, the Miraculous Spring of Heaven and Earth. There you and Houshi-dono will purify yourselves, and there your journey will begin.
Houshi-dono’s spiritual energy is strong, and upon death his memories were sealed and cast to the spaces between this world and the place of deities. So amazing was this occurrence, and so impressed were the keepers of those places, that the memories were protected, and there they remain.
Houshi-dono was revived by the healing sword Tenseiga, and his soul returned to him, but his memories cannot return to their own accord—he must seek them out.
Your role, Taiji-ya-san, is the most important, for it is the combination of your spiritual energies that will allow you to pass through the barrier, and it is you who shall comfort him when his worst memories return to haunt him, for otherwise his despair would lead him to falter.
At the same time, Taiji-ya-san’s memories will return to her, the dark fears she had once forgotten will be relived, and Houshi-dono will do his part to comfort her.
“Sango?”
She turned to him. She saw his face pained, conflicted. He thought she was hesitating.
“Even now, we can turn back,” he said. “I am surprised and flattered you would go this far, but even now it is not too late. There may be other ways for me to regain my memories. Even if there are not, I can live without them. They are not worth discarding our friendship for.”
“No,” she said. “No, Houshi-sama. I owe it to you. Not the Houshi-sama who stands before me now, but the Houshi-sama who sacrificed his life for me. You are only part of that man. I will do all in my power to make you complete and return your life to you.”
“I would still care for you, and stay with you. I would teach myself the fighting skills I’ve forgotten. I would do whatever you ask of me.”
“I know you would, Houshi-sama.”
He smiled at this.
“Then,” he said, “I suppose you would want me to blindfold myself.”
She shook her head.
“Ahead of us is a sort of experience that would make men and wives balk. I can think of nothing more intimate than witnessing your life aside you, and you mine. The thought of us sharing a bath together seems something less than scandalous compared to that.”
“I would not wish to invade your privacy, Sango. I would not wish you to sacrifice your honor and dignity for something so trivial as curing an illness of mine.”
She set down Hiraikotsu with a thud and a sigh.
Unbuttoning her catsuit, she turned to him.
“You know, Houshi-sama,” she said, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I rather like you as a sukebe.” Absently, as if she were doing nothing more than scratching an itch, she pulled open her taiji-ya uniform. “Your mindless groping was far more tolerable than your mindless attempts to venerate me, and if I had to choose, I’d rather have you grabbing my ass than kissing my feet.”
He frowned at this, or tried to frown at the insult, but now the flap of her uniform hung over her chest, and clearly there was enough of the Miroku she knew standing before her that he found it impossible to argue with cleavage, so rather than apologizing or disagreeing, he simply nodded and unfastened the knot to his kesa.
She piled her armor beside her, at the edge of the pool, and atop that she folded the skintight suit she wore beneath. Almost as an afterthought, she unfastened her ponytail and let her hair down.
She turned.
Miroku was already undressed, and stood patiently with his back toward him. She blushed as she took in his form, studying the line of his back, the definition of his legs, and the curve of his bottom.
The desire to grope him came suddenly, but was quickly and quietly suppressed.
“You can turn around now, Houshi-sama.”
A pause. His right hand made a fist, and her eyes were drawn to the muscles that trembled beneath the skin of his forearm.
“I would rather not, Sango,” he said.
“Houshi-sama?”
“Forgive me, Sango, but though you may be comfortable with the situation, I am not.” He lifted his head, still turned away from her, but his voice lightened. “To see your unveiled beauty is a thing I hope to wait for, to keep a gift until the day—that is, if the day ever comes—that we shall know each other as man and woman. This day, my eyes are unworthy, and my mind is unprepared.”
She blushed, turning away, embarrassed.
“I am not accustomed to this,” she whispered. “To be the impure one. The lecherous one. If I had known, Houshi-sama, how it feels . . .” She shook her head, clasping a hand over her burning face, “ . . . to find my desire . . . not met, and turned away.”
His voice was strong, and she could see him turn ever-so-slightly to her, no doubt taking in her vague shape out the corner of one eye.
“Your desire is met, Sango, met and exceeded to levels you cannot imagine. So much so that I cannot possibly gaze upon you and control myself. I do not want to lose control. Not here. Not now.”
“Not now,” she echoed.
“But someday, if Sango wishes it.”
She smiled. “She does indeed.”
“Then we understand each other?” he asked.
“We do.”
With that she lowered herself into the pool and turned her eyes away, affording him the same dignity she did him. And she did understand—a forced intimacy was no intimacy at all; a marital consummation without surprise and novelty and excitement was something less real. She wanted all of him then, every last bit, and a taste beforehand would simply not do.
She turned to him after hearing the soft splash, and watched him watching her, the mists curled around them, the water up to their shoulders, his hair unbound like hers, obscuring his cheeks but not his eyes, and the blue orbs pierced her as he smiled enigmatically. Doubtlessly, she did the same.
The water was soothing and warm, smelling not of sulfur but of soft rain and endless summer, of earth and cloudless sky. The tiny waves they made went back and forth between them, rhythmic as a heartbeat.
She closed her eyes.
She wasn’t sure how much time passed—it seemed less than a second—but when she looked back to him, she found she was alone.
“Houshi-sama!”
She dove across the pool, but as she waved her arms back and forth through the waters where he had been, she realized he was gone.
She drew a breath and dove down, feet kicking furiously, and she could see the pool was a well, a terribly deep well, and there was a current drawing both of them deeper and deeper. She could see him now, eyes half-lidded, arms spread, one hand reaching out toward her.
Precious seconds passed. The distance began to close, but already she must have been dozens of feet below the water, and she waited with grim certainty for her eardrums to burst.
The breath in her chest grew stale, and though her body tried its best to wrest control, to turn back for air, she pushed herself still harder, letting small bursts of bubbles between pursed lips and clenched teeth. Death was painful, and drowning was among the worst ways to go about it, but she had been buried before, and she had buried Miroku before, and given the choice she would rather taste earth than taste the agony of losing him again.
Fish swam before her eyes, fish that looked and shone like stars, and when her lungs gave up hope for oxygen they settled for whatever was there. She sucked in water and the pain was exquisite, but it was fair payment for the sensation of his hand gripping hers, and as her fingers traced desperate paths over his wrist she realized this was indeed a good way to die, and she did not despair because she knew that love conquers death, not because it is stronger but because love simply does not care, and she knew Naraku did not understand and could never understand, and that ignorance would be his downfall.
All became dark, and Sango smiled.
“Addicted to love?
I’m addicted to fools.
I kill you once
And I kill you again
We’re starving and crude
Welcome my friend
To the little things that kill.”
—Bush, “Little Things“
Sesshoumaru stood defiantly, for he knew no other stance.
Damn him.
Sesshoumaru, Lord of the Western Lands, the last of the inu-youkai clan, the most feared and dreaded tai-youkai in all these domains, stood resolutely before the disgusting bastard child of the union between his beloved father and some human whore of no consequence. Hanyou he was, hanyou he was even now, despite outward appearances. His youkai blood fueled him temporarily, but it was a blood fever, a madness, and when he wandered off this battlefield he would still lack the intelligence to comprehend victory. Should he not recover from this condition, he would surely die as his hanyou body was torn apart by his own youki.
Inuyasha had taken his left arm in their first altercation with Tessaiga, and the missing limb was a constant reminder to him of the folly of underestimating his enemy, even a hanyou such as his brother. He remained an excellent swordsman with his right hand, and the sword cast of oni’s teeth, the demon-blade Toukijin that could slice an enemy with merely the force of air thrown from its tip, the only weapon that could possibly break Tetsusaiga, had served him well until this day.
This day, it failed him. The blood which poured from his empty right hand spilled from his fingers like a five-pointed fountain, forming a pool of dark brown mud in the dirt, made testament to that. His sword lay far beyond his reach, and in the confusion he had even been unable to locate the sound of its landing.
He had thought Toukijin could dissipate the Kaze no Kizu. Had it not been for Inuyasha’s youki fueling his swing, he may have been correct. But he had underestimated his brother yet again, and this time it had cost him his sword and the use of his other arm.
Experimentally, he made a fist. Grimaced. His hand was broken, that was certain. Perhaps his arm as well. Hard to tell. He was a youkai, though, and this would heal quickly. Perhaps a matter of hours.
Of course, he did not have hours. He had his brother not a hundred paces before him, reveling in the older youkai’s indignity. He had Rin, who lay beside him, across the kitsune and girl that once followed his brother.
He had Tenseiga, the healing sword.
He had enough strength in his arm to draw a blade, but there was no certainty as to how long he could weild it.
With Toujijin lost, Tenseiga is the only thing that can stand up to Tessaiga. The blade cannot cut, but it can surely block my brother’s sword, as it too is made of the fang of our father.
It is enough to parry Tessaiga, for all I need is to get close enough to Inuyasha to prevent him from striking Kaze no Kizu. In close combat it shouldn’t be difficult to disarm him, and without his weapon he is quite manageable, even in blood-rage.
Sesshoumaru drew the blade, the healing sword, and charged Inuyasha with the blade aside him, ready to swing upward and cleave Inuyasha hip to shoulder, knowing the Tessaiga would simply pass through if he connected, knowing his brother would block it regardless.
But as the distance closed, Sesshoumaru could see the youki flow around the Tessaiga and know he was preparing something different than before. Sesshoumaru felt the same oddly overwhelming sensation he felt when he first surveyed the final resting place of Ryuukotsusei.
“Bakuryuuha!” Inuyasha cried out, bringing the sword down. Sesshoumaru found himself marveling at the feeling of his own youki becoming strange, and realized that if he had only known the Kaze no Kizu was only a prelude to this, the true power of his brother’s precious sword, he would have put ten times the effort he had used in hunting for the weapon, the thing that should have been his birthright.
You stupid bastard-child Inuyasha! Look at your deeds and I dare you call me heartless. I kill for need. I kill for convenience. But never have I killed with anger, or with madness. Your youkai-rages make you a greater threat to your own friends than I ever was.
Damn you for distracting me.
Damn you for getting between me and the girl.
Damn you for letting Rin die.
Sesshoumaru brought Tenseiga above his head as Inuyasha brought Tessaiga down.
The Bakuryuuha struck Tenseiga with overwhelming force, yet Sesshoumaru’s hand remained steady. Waves of youki became deadly funnels, tearing apart the ground around them, but as each one struck Tenseiga it was drawn in, and in a matter of seconds the attack was totally absorbed by Tenseiga.
The healing sword throbbed, and in a terrific explosion the absorbed attack was released as healing energy, and Sesshoumaru found himself very nearly smiling—the closest he had come to smiling in recent memory, in any case—as things like stars, like spirits, like flowers and trees, fire and water, land and sea, all burst forth from Tessaiga in brilliant translucent shapes and colors that encompassed the entire forest.
The ground about his feet exploded in wildflowers, and Sesshoumaru had his first taste of his sword’s ultimate strength.
Kikyou stood at the edge of the woods, surveying the battle with calm, cold eyes. Both Inuyasha and Sesshoumaru seemed too occupied to notice her, but that would change very soon.
Raising her bow, she nocked the arrow Myouga had scribbled over with his tiny incantations. Her hama no ya would have worked well enough to seal Inuyasha, she thought, but it was possible that while in full youkai form her sealing arrows would either be ineffective or kill him outright. Further, Myouga seemed to suggest not all the spells infused on the arrow’s shaft were to paralyze Inuyasha—some might be preparation for the flea’s battle against Asesu.
Sesshoumaru rushed Inuyasha, and sensing her opportunity, she drew back the arrow.
The blades clashed, and Kikyou was frozen as wave after wave of healing energy flowed around her.
She felt her porcelain skin become soft. She felt the sensation of a warmth in her chest.
My heartbeat?
It had been fifty years since she had felt such a thing.
Fifty years ago, she was betrayed, the sacred jewel entrusted to her protection, the Shikon no Tama, stolen from her. Fifty years ago, the claw raked up her back and over her shoulder. Fifty years ago she stood with arrow aimed at Inuyasha, her thumb and forefinger pinching the tail so tightly her nails were broken, a flap of skin hanging loosely beneath her kimono like a third breast, the blood pouring down her chest and back, sticking her clothes to her flesh, running down one leg and staining her white tabi sock a dark red.
Fifty years ago, her heart became still, she called his name, let fly her arrow, and ensured his fall.
Fifty years ago, she was alive.
“Kikyou-sama!”
The flea-youkai on her shoulder urged her on, knowing this distraction would not last, and that soon Inuyasha would notice them.
Damned insect. You can’t understand. No one who lives can ever understand.
The aura around her faded, her skin was again cold, her heartbeat faded away. She died there, died beneath the same moon as before, and it was the same goddamned place, the same time, the same world, and she called his name with all the rage of a vengeful spirit, and as he turned to her, she struck him down.
The same hit, the same grunt, though what fell from his hand was not the Shikon no Tama but the suddenly untransformed Tessaiga, and he stared at her with something akin to astonishment, falling backward on the ground before Sesshoumaru’s feet.
Chapter written 3 February 2004
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