A/N: This is such a fully developed fandom, I hesitate to offer anything.
On the other hand, I confess a certain dissatisfaction with the general treatment of Miroku. Not that there haven't been many wonderful depictions of him; it's the general tenor that bugs me. And, of course, it seems anything concerning him must rise the highest of sexual ratings. That doesn't bother me, since I don't expect any great reading of this, although it may take a while to warrant it.
I know I shouldn't attempt to write fanfiction. I don't have the time and my muse may desert at any moment. Still, I am compelled to offer something regarding facing karma…
Chapter 1
He was too young.
That's what he told himself as he tossed off the remnants' of his father's and Mushin's bowls as the elder monks dozed on the steps, noting the burn that followed the unpleasant taste and its cleansing warmth as an aftermath.
Children shouldn't be cleaning up after their elders this way, or, at least, not so damned often. Every time his father returned to the temple was another excuse for Mushin to ordain an orgy. The alms box raided for the teahouse's demands.
He stepped gingerly over the geishas sprawled haphazardly, blocking his way.
But then, maybe he shouldn't be so angry with Mushin who was, it seemed, at least as fond of his father as he was himself.
Still, it bothered him. After all, his father was at the temple so seldom; Miroku had few opportunities to show his father his progress in calligraphy, his rendition of classic literature, theory, and theology – that such time should be wasted in drunken debauchery, leaving him wholly ignored, was an insult.
What was he to his father, anyway? Surely he was more than a tool to carry on the quest for family vengeance… wasn't he? When he was sober, the dark eyes of his father left him in no doubts of his affection. But it seemed that sobriety and his father were no better mated than Mushin and his status as a high monk.
The women clustered around his father's snoring figure, only one or two clasping themselves against Mushin's more rotund form. Miroku allowed himself the uncharitable thought that High Monk Mushin had agreed to train him out of a desire for the company that his wandering father inevitably brought upon his return to the mountain temple, even if that company required additional payment.
He knew he was too young to be so cynical, or so aware.
It didn't stop him from learning to discern the difference between good sake and bad.
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The constant pressure of frigid water pounding his head, shoulders, and legs as he sat in the lotus position beneath the falls reminded him of earlier days, when he had first learned to release his understanding of the spiritual energies seething within his consciousness.
It had happened early enough that, combined with his observations of his elders' iniquitous behavior, he had begun to suspect that power was not so much a matter of purity as of focus and discipline. Where Miroku failed in purity of thought he excelled in focus and curiosity. When sufficiently motivated, he could bring that missing discipline to his natural gifts to harness a surprising amount of spiritual power at a young age. And he learned at an abnormally early age that there were more subtle kinds of power as well.
The mere seconds it had taken to reabsorb his own spiritual past through the pounding fury of the falls cued his integrated awareness to a determined shifting of the balance between what he had always thought of as light and dark…
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Mushin had protested yet again when he'd opened the shoji to the late morning light. He'd been equally impervious to Miroku's pleas that the pilgrims had come a long way for a blessing from a true high monk, insisting that Miroku's blessing would do as much or more for them than anything he himself could bestow.
Given his familiarity with the high monk's current state of detoxification Miroku suspected that Mushin was in fact quite correct. Still, he felt guilty that these pilgrims had come so far for so little.
His creative childish brain conceived a massive deception, which he excused by means of "creative" interpretations of Buddha's servants' role in assisting the enlightenment of souls.
He'd felt immensely foolish attempting to manage walking on stilts, Mushin's sacred mantle covering his dark locks as he strained his voice to achieve the dulcet tones of prayer required for a convincing blessing. Even so, he'd poured every vestige of his own spiritual power into the words, an unconscious request for forgiveness winding its way among his chanting and the smoking incense.
His awkward bow and retreat into the depths of the temple had left the pilgrims confused, until he'd managed to shed Mushin's blessed kesa and circle round to lead them back onto the veranda, where a modest banquet awaited them. Funded, of course, by their own contributions to the temple's upkeep.
Given how often Miroku found himself repeating this subterfuge he was astonished by the temple's continued recognition as a hallowed site. Over time, he began to suspect that Mushin was more deserving of his status as a high monk than he believed. It never occurred to him that the spiritual powers of a mere child could have such an impact.
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