The dark eyes scanned the clearing. Eyes so brown, they were black in the moonlight. Shimmering pools that seemed to be able to look not just at you, but through you. Seeing all your faults, flaws, laughter, joy - seeing all your spirit, your soul. Eyes that could see your very being, all that you were, are, and could be. Eyes that held the knowledge of the universe, the wisdom of the world, and the smarts to know the difference in the two. Thick eyelashes framed these eyes, making them beautiful. These eyes, they do not belong to an elderly women, who has seen pain, known pain, understood the ups and down of life. These eyes did not belong to a higher being, who helped to bring the world together. Nor do they belong to any adult, no. These eyes belong to a young women, one who didn't belong in this world. A young women who was unsure as to where she belonged, long having lost site of where she was to be.
A young women, torn inside, who owned those all knowing eyes, looked at the scene before her. She could be of no help here, useless, and she hated it; but nothing could be done here to accomplish anything, except bury the dead, a job she wished didn't have to be done, but it had to, because they were dead. Those who had fought along side her, helped her when she needed it most, or were just plain there... they were no more. Gone. As lost as yesterday, never to return.
No. She shouldn't use that analogy. Here she was, living in a yesterday to where she was suppose to be. For her, yesterday's were possibly, just... not as others thought it should be. She did not get to repeat the yesterday's of her life, but rather, create new yesterday's in the past.
She shook her head. She was letting her mind wonder, and she could not do that. Not know, when there were things to be done, and quickly. Who knew when a hungry demon would come by. She could not risk that.
She set to work.
Villagers came, gather to watch as this young women, alone, slaved away at the hard ground, her shovel digging into the cold ground and bringing up the dirt and rocks with it. She showed no emotion, nothing for what she was doing. She only paused to wipe sweat from her brow, not stopping to eat or rest.
It didn't take long until the villagers joined in, helping her dig the graves for the hero's of the this time, her past.
A grave dug for Shippou, her would-be son. He was so brave in that battle, so strong. It wasn't enough, not near enough for what they were fighting. He was the first to go.
Miroku was next. They laid him to rest in the cold ground, his staff with him. She unclenched his once cursed hand, allowing it to show. No wind tunnel was within it now, they had made sure of that. The young women ran her hand over the smooth palm that was now free. She bowed her head, biding him a good rest, and climbed from the grave to finish the others.
Laid to rest next to Miroku, was Sango, her boomerang going with her. It was that weapon that Sango would be remembered by, and that weapon that held her village's heritage. It only seemed fitting that it be buried with her.
Last to be laid to rest, Inuyasha. She had took great care in him, fixing his Fire Rat robe, so that it would last just a bit longer. His sword, Tessigua, was laid with him. He was the only one who could wield it, keep it working. It was best to let it go with him, rather than keep it. Burying it would allow its legendary last kill to live on forever, never to be forgotten, just like the hanyou who wielded it.
The young women finally backed away, after all her hard work, and looked at the spot where her friends lay, gone. Three days work. And it was worth it.
They were gone in body and mind, but not spirit. They would forever be remembered.
She would make sure of that. It was all she could do for them.
And with that last thought, she turned to Kaede, her brown eyes shimmering again with that knowledge of knowledge.
"We must write what happened. And we must make sure everyone knows it is true."