By firecat925
Summary: Angsty little one shot; what would happen if Naraku died but the wind tunnel didn't disappear?
Disclaimer: I don't own it. You don't own it. Are we good? Good.
Ok, Oralindie here. If no one has figured it out yet, I upload all of FC's (Firecat) fics. Why? Because her computer is a pain and should burn. She wrote this one a loooong time ago, and I'm making her let me upload it (not that she has much choice...). So, sit back and relax, because FC's latestfic is headed your way!
Look away, look away don't spend your tears on nothin'
Find another man to treat you right
'Cause I'm running from the devil, but he got the jump on me
And you're dancing with a dead man tonight Oh, dance with me one more timeI'll be pushing up the daisies in a field of broken dreams
You're dancing with a dead man tonight.
-Dancing With a Dead Man, Lawnball, Those Darn Accordions
Miroku's POV
I slumped to the ground, staring blankly ahead in shock, my face splitting into an infectious grin. Beside him, Kagome squealed in delight and hugged her half-demon companion tightly, all inhibitions lost, and Sango embraced her sobbing little brother. It was over. We had won, finally. Naraku was dead. It was odd, to sit there and realize that I was free, that my father and grandfather had been avenged, that I…the wind tunnel. It was gone. I could marry now, have children without fear. I looked over at Sango. Her cheeks were flushed with happiness and tears as she embraced Kohaku tightly, holding him close, and I remembered proposing to her, and realized that there was nothing left to stop us. I imagined living out the rest of my days, living to be an old man, with grandchildren that I would be able to see, and spoil, with this wonderful, amazing, beautiful woman by my side, and I felt like letting out a great whoop of happiness. Everything was so surreal, almost dreamlike. It was almost impossible to believe that we had all survived, even come out unscathed, and Naraku was dead.
I looked down at my cursed hand, and steeled myself to pull off the beads. I didn't know why I was afraid, nothing would happen, nothing would be under the cloth but pale skin, but years of ingrained fear halted my movements, and years of ingrained fear positioned my hand well away from my body, in reflex, as I pulled off the beads. And was met with the sound of roaring wind.
What! What…how…but there was no mistake. The wind tunnel, my curse, was sucking air in, and little bits of grass, with a deliberate malice, as if to say, thought you could get rid of me this easily, did you? I hastily put the beads back on, and stared at my hand. I could feel it there, like a sentient being—I had probably been too wrapped up in premature happiness before to feel the tug. I looked around surreptitiously, in case Naraku was still alive, deceiving us, but there was no mistake. Kohaku was alive, and, from the looks of it, had most of his memories returned to him. Inuyasha was completely at ease, holding Kagome as if there was no other place in the world he would rather be, and I knew that, if Naraku had somehow survived, he would sense it. But there was nothing. Just my wind tunnel.
Years of phrases ran through my head, echoing and bouncing off each other. 'If you kill Naraku, they wind tunnel may disappear…', 'kill Naraku, then you can live…'—never once, I realized with a jolt, had Mushin, or anyone else, said, 'kill Naraku, and the wind tunnel will disappear'? It was all maybes, hopefullys, perhaps—nothing concrete, and the truth sank down on me like a stone. It was over, Naraku was dead, but I had not been cured. Naraku had truly cursed me effectively, I laughed bitterly in my head—even dead, pulverized into a thousand pieces, I couldn't be free of him. I could never be free. And any hopes that I had entertained, all those dreams of living out a long life with Sango by my side, living in secure happiness for once in my life, a dream that had fueled my fight from the beginning, had just been crushed. Pulverized just as surely as the one who had caused my nightmares.
"Houshi-sama!" I winced slightly at the horrible name—we were engaged, for god's sake, would it kill her to call me Miroku for once, to reassure me that I had indeed, by some fluke, won the heart of the goddess before me? I looked up, and saw Sango running towards me. "Houshi-sama, we did it! Your wind tunnel, it's gone!" Her gaze fell to my hand, and she looked confused to see the beads still upon it. Then, her gaze gentled, and she settled beside me, taking my cursed hand in hers, the hands that were calloused, strong, a warrior's hands, but still gentle. "It's alright, Houshi-sama. You can remove the beads now. Naraku is gone." She slipped her thumb under the rosary and began to slide it off the glove that contained the wind tunnel.
"No!" I grabbed her hand, stopping it from removing the rosary any further. "Sango, no, don't take it off."
She looked at me, confused. "Houshi-sama, what…?"
I took a deep breath, avoiding her warm brown eyes. I didn't want to do this, to burden her with the knowledge that Naraku's death had changed nothing, but I didn't have a choice. We were the ones truly affected—me because, well, the wind tunnel was on my hand, after all, and Sango because we were supposed to be engaged, to marry after Naraku had been defeated. But I was still a marked man, still cursed. She needed to know why I could never marry her now.
"Sango, I must tell you, you deserve to know, but, please, don't tell Inuyasha or Kagome. They have found a measure of happiness, let them keep it." My violet eyes looked into hers imploringly, and she nodded, still confused. I took a deep breath and continued. "I checked, just a moment ago, and my wind tunnel—it's not gone."
"What--!" Sango began, but I cut her. "Naraku is dead, I know that, but, after all, there was never any reassurance that Naraku's death would change anything. It was just a hope, a feeble hope. My only hope. But Naraku's death changed nothing. The wind tunnel is still there, and I have no doubt that, very soon, I will be pulled into the void within it."
Sango put a hand to her lips, her eyes beginning to brim with tears. "Oh, houshi-sama…what…what will you do?"
I shrugged awkwardly. "What can I do? This was my only chance…the only way. It didn't work."
Sango's POV
I stared at the man in front of me, disbelieving. This…all his hopes, dreams…gone. Mine, too. I would never, could never, admit it, but I loved him. Loved him, oh, so much, that my chest sometimes felt it would burst with the pain. The pain of unreturned love, the pain of watching him flirt with other women, the pain of his hand ruining all our chances of real, soulful intimacy…all of these, though, were eclipsed by the pain before me now. He was going to die. My houshi-sama, no, my Miroku was going to die. And it was inevitable, unstoppable…nothing could change it. Not my skills as a fighter, not my devotion, not my convictions…not even my adamant love for him, the love that had endured through everything, the love that had kept me going as my own family strove to kill me…no, not even that could stop Naraku's ultimate revenge. Had he laughed, I wondered suddenly. Had Naraku laughed softly to himself as he sat in his castle, watching Miroku give his heart and soul to defeat him, knowing that it was all for naught…
I let out a strangled gasp, and hunched forward over Miroku's cursed hand, gripping it like a lifeline through the turbulent waters threatening to engulf me. I felt Miroku tense, heard him say, "Sango? Sango, what is it? Are you all right?"
I looked up at him through tear-fogged vision. "Miroku…" I gasped out, and, as I watched his face, I knew that that one word, filled with all my agony, all my despair, had told him everything I didn't have any other words to say.
"Shh, it's all right…don't worry, Sango, I swear to you everything will be all right…" He pulled me closer to him, stroking my back with his one good hand. I wanted to believe him…oh, how desperately, how deeply I needed to believe his words…but they held no truth. There could be no 'all right' in our future now. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much we wanted it, there was no way out. No way to make the happy ending our souls longed for. We were trapped, as truly as an animal centered in the cross sights of a bow. No way for either of us to escape the cruel legacy Naraku had left as his requiem.
Normal POV
A week later.
Miroku crept out of the small inn he and Sango were staying at. There was no moon, and somewhere in Kagome's world, Inuyasha was in his human form. Behind him, Sango slept, peacefully, the worry lines on her face the last week no longer creasing her brow. Kohaku was with Sesshou-maru, surprisingly enough…somewhere along the way, the boy had fallen in puppy-love with Rin, the demon lord's tagalong. No one had the heart to part the two, and Sango thought it might be better for Kohaku to start anew, hard though it was for her. She had made Sesshou-maru promise to come along once in a while, so she could see her brother, and she would have to be content with that.
That, however, had nothing to do with why Miroku was creeping out into a deserted clearing, his face twisted in, though he would never admit it, fear, or why the gentle breeze was slowly whipping into a full-scale frenzy.
Time was up.
The hellhole in Miroku's hand had grown tired of waiting. This was its moment, its chance to free itself, consume its master, and by default itself, in its last stand of hurricane fury. Miroku had awoken earlier, sensing the change, feeling the hole in his palm grow more malevolent with every passing moment. From that moment on, his only thought had been to get away, get away from everyone, or rather Sango. He could not let Sango be hurt, could not let her die with him in the massive winds. His mind whirled, around and around, yet somehow only stayed centered on one topic—Sango. He could not think of anything but his beautiful tajiya.
Miroku sat in the middle of the clearing, and used his powers as a monk—for he did have them, and they were very useful, despite the fact that he didn't adhere to any of the monk's vows—to create a wall around him, a wall that contained the murderous wind, a wall that would save all but him from the destruction. That task done, he sat in the lotus position calmly, and waited, his face as composed as it always had been, for his end.
Sango. She was in his mind now, a whirling splash of black and red against a backdrop of death, her boomerang bone cutting through all that ventured too near. Her shy, blushing smile as they sat one day on the gentle green slope of a hill, as he grasped her hand and told her that there was no other woman he would rather have near him. Her shocked, incredulous face as he asked her, his heart beating wildly, with hope, with fear, if she would become his bride. Her soft, sad voice as she spoke of her brother. Her carefree laugh. She could not be called innocent by any normal definition of the world—she killed freely, without hesitation, she had witnessed horrible atrocities, she was tormented inside by what she had been through—yet, to him, she was innocent indeed—a beacon of hope shining, telling him that there was a chance for him to survive, find happiness. He would die for her in an instant, would willing give his life to protect her. So many times, she had been his only lifeline, the only reason he kept fighting instead of giving in to the despair, as his father and grandfather had done, each in their turn. But, in the end, even the thought of her face, even the strong, abiding pull of their love, could not save him, and as the winds pulled his very foundations apart, a small whisper escaped his disintegrating lips…Sango…
Sango almost flew through the trees, her eyes and ears strained to their limit. Miroku...gone…beside her, Kirara ran, but Sango had not even taken the time to mount the firecat.
She reached the clearing, and halted, her face contorted in a mask of horror. In front of her were the distinctive swirls of a holy barrier, and behind them, a vicious, hungry wind. "Miroku!" Sango screamed. She ran for the barrier, clawed at it, tears streaming unchecked down her face, but it held. Miroku's final act as a monk had done him proud. "Miroku…" she whispered more softly, almost inaudibly. She was trapped…helpless…useless. Her love was in there, in that wind, but she could do nothing to save him…nothing.
Suddenly, the barrier disappeared with a puff and a small dissipation of power. The wind swirled, tugging at her hair, but it was its last act of defiance, and there was no substance to it. Nothing remained in the clearing, only trees prematurely stripped of their leaves and weaker branches, stray patches of grass that had escaped the mutilation…no Miroku. No monk, holding out his hand, smiling that roguish, confident smile. He was gone…gone…gone…Sango fell to her knees, letting a scream of anguish. "Noooooooooo! No…no…oh, god, god, no please no…" There was nothing. Nothing but silence.
Her hands shaking, Sango unsheathed her katana. Her last act…an act of defiance. Defiance against the fate that was so anxious, so eager to keep them apart. She turned her head towards her firecat. "Kirara, go to Kohaku. Tell him…let him know that I'm sorry…"
The cat rubbed its head against her arm, mewing anxiously. "It's alright, Kirara. Don't worry…everything will be fine now…"
Sango turned the katana slowly, ceremoniously, until the blade was inches from her stomach. Firmly, showing no sings of nervousness, she plunged the blade into her stomach, and fell, soundlessly, to the ground. She was dead.
Present Day
Sanga smiled at her friends, laughing together. "And then he said…" "No! Really?"
She scratched the collar of her school uniform, grimacing slightly. She hated being enclosed in the uniforms—she would much rather be on the soccer field, or practicing her karate, flying through the katas with an ease that she had been born with.
The classroom door opened, and there was a stilling of the schoolgirls' conversations. In walked their teacher, followed by…a boy? The boy had black hair in a small ponytail, and strange, yet beautiful violet eyes, and a cocky smile. He winked at one of the girls near Sanga, and she immediately turned brilliant red. Sanga scoffed. Really, he was just a boy…her warm brown eyes kept drifting to his violet ones, though, as the teacher introduced him as Miro Takahashi, transferring from another district, and said, "Here, sit by Sanga…Sanga, show him who you are, thank you…" Miro made his way over to her, sauntering—yes, sauntering, the arrogant twit—and smiled lazily at her as he slid into his seat. "Miro Takahasi. And you're Sanga?"
She blushed, and nodded, furious with herself. Honestly, he wasn't that handsome…but his eyes never left hers. She cleared her throat nervously. "Do you…do you want something?"
He shook his head as if waking from a dream. "No, that's fine." He turned to the front, then let out an almost unheard curse and wheeled in his seat to face her again. "Hey…Sanga…you want to do something sometime? Movies, or something?"
Why was she feeling so happy? Sanga didn't know, but nodded anyway, and her hand slipped into his under the table. Neither of them knew what was happening, knew why they were so attracted to each other, knew of the deep ties between them…yet, Sanga couldn't help murmuring, as she sat there, Miro's hand in hers,
"I feel like I've come home…"