Facing death is hard. This is an indisputable fact. Facing death is hard, balls-to-the-walls hard, rip-out-my-heart, gut-wrenching, I'd-rather-burn-in-hell hard.
For Miroku, this was now reality. This was not something he could hide from any longer, this was not something he could keep pretending didn't happen. Death existed, there was no denying it, there was no ignoring, there was no overcoming it. You died. One is born, one lives, and one dies. Then you're left behind to rot for all eternity in a shallow grave, or if you have friends merciful enough, your corpse is burned. For Miroku, not even that pleasure he had.
Oh, he tried, he tried so hard. He didn't want to go down like this. Three generations, he wanted to be the one who finally came out on top, not the bottom bitch to mister Naraku once again. The wind tunnel though… that little gem was the destruction of all of his plans.
He could hear the damn thing everywhere he went now; it never shut up. Many a times he was just about ready to blow, to yell out his hand and freak everyone out. They were already freaked; Naraku had a nearly complete Shikon jewel and all they had was one measly shard and the promise that Kohaku and his shard were safe with Kikyo. They didn't need the added stressor of his hand.
Already Sango had asked him once, "what was that sound?" as she sat beside him around the campfire. He brushed it off, said he didn't hear anything and the subject was dropped as he covertly pushed his cursed hand into the folds of his robes.
He had what, a week, maybe if whatever higher being was on his side, a month? Then he was gone, nothing, not a trace, not even a child to his name. This curse would take down his family line, leave him with a saddened semi-widow and not a thing more.
The wind would swallow him. Unlike Kagura's claims, the wind would not set him free. Instead, the wind would be the demon to defeat the monk.