It was the smell of blood that woke him. Before that was the absent blackness of unconsciousness. What was he doing? What was going on? More importantly, why was he unconscious and why was it blood that made him come to?
Slowly, his memory returned. He must have hit his head. Reaching to rub his temple, his fingers were met with a gross liquid. Blood. It was everywhere. The red stuff stained the earth around him, his skin, and the majority of his clothing. Glancing down at his hand, he noticed his prayer beads that kept his wind tunnel sealed up were messed. Had he been using it? A strange, uncomfortable pulsation from the hand told him the only answer he needed to know. Yes, he was.
That's right. Naraku and his bugs…there was no other choice but for him to use it. Everyone was in danger as the insects along with other foul demons were coming in extreme quantities from either side. The poison from the bugs mixed with the exhaustion from the overexertion required to maintain the tunnel for so long forced him to pass out.
That did not explain the blood everywhere, though. He was certain it was a mix of many demons, but some of it also looked positively human. Did that mean Naraku went down? The majority of his group was injured, as well. Likely the excess of demons…
His group!
Finally sitting up, Miroku looked around at the desolated field he lay in. He heard his name and glanced over in the direction of the voice. Kagome looked relieved that Miroku had sat up. Shippo was next to him. He must have called to her, but he did not register. Oh, well, that did not matter. As Kagome approached, he noticed that her look of relief was also disrupted with one of remorse and pity. What a strange glance she gave him… Did something happen to InuYasha? He turned his gaze back to where the young woman came from. InuYasha was crouched, his sword at his side, nothing unusual and all was well. So why the look?
Where was Sango?
That could not have been the why behind the look, right? Right? Miroku could feel his lips mouthing the questions his brain sped through his mind. He could not hear his voice comprehend them. Worry suddenly struck his face, and he tried to stand. Weak and feeble, he fell to his knees where Kagome and Shippo met him, explaining that he should not move, yet. He was far too incapable, too injured. Wincing, Miroku shook his head, attempting to bring a voice to this questions.
Naraku no longer mattered. What could or could not have happened was the last thing on his mind. Where was Sango? Why was she not standing?
He heard his voice, but only his voice, as no one replied. Kagome frowned and looked away, her eyes misting and her lips trembling.
No.
Shippo, too, fell back into silence. No longer were their gazes ones of relief at his living, but remorse at Sango's absence and Miroku's panic.
No..no…
Miroku stood, again, stumbling, but managing. "Where's Sango?" he finally cried. InuYasha stood from where he crouched and turned, meeting Miroku's intense and frightened blue eyes with a flat, straight gaze before stepping aside with a muttered apology.
No!
Moving as fast as his broken body allowed him, Miroku hurried to Sango body. When he made it, he collapsed to his knees next to her, caressing her bloodied face. It was cold.
No, no…
Her entire form looked mangled. Her armor was torn, her skin was red, bruised, and hard. That softness and beauty was gone. Her power and strength was gone. Everything that he found familiar about her was gone.
Wake up…
Hiraikotsu was broken far away; she had nothing to defend her. This was how she died…
No…please no…
Alone with no one to defend her. Where was InuYasha? Kagome? Shippo, even? No…where was he? Why was he not there to protect her? Why did he have to get reckless, desperate, even, and use his damned wind tunnel on those demons? InuYasha could have wiped them out…he…
Small drops of water landed on Sango's face, making a minute trail through the blood and dirt that sullied the once lovely skin as it fell over the contour of her cheek. More followed, and more still. Tears. They say there is a sacredness in tears. That they are not the mark of weakness, sadness, or regret, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition…
and unspeakable love.
Forgive me, Sango.