Title: The Road Not Taken
Author: Personification of Fluff
Rating: PG-13, to be on the safe side and for Miroku's lecherous behaviour
Disclaimer: I love Miroku-sama. I love him so much, I found my own pervert. So I don't own Miroku, I don't make money on fanfics (and with this being my 40th+ story, I am not ashamed to admit that I lament that fact), but I am more than proud to admit to having a Miroku-act-a-like.
Summary: In history, there is a certain field which does nothing but ask 'what if'? Like, 'What if the Berlin Wall had never been torn down', 'What if JFK had never been assassinated?' or 'What if the landing at Normandy had failed?'. Although it does come under some heavy critique from "real" historians, the 'what if' is a fun question to ask. Fan fics have used it quite well, and this is my foray into that particular genre of fanfiction. It's the canon setting, but for one difference.
What if, in the episode when Miroku is introduced Miroku follows the path pointed to him by his staff instead of shifting the shakujo to the left fork after hearing men talk about a beautiful woman? How would it have impacted his relationship with Sango? I present my view of it here, and I hope you all enjoy it.
As for the name of this fic, it comes from a great poet, Robert Frost. If you don't know Frost's work, go look them up. The name comes from one of his most famous poems (or at least the one I best know Frost for) of the same name. The last three lines are really inspirational to this fic: "Two roads diverged in a wood; and I--/I took the one less travelled by/And that has made all the difference".
Originally, I was waiting to hear back from my beta before I posted this, but that was months ago I sent her that. It was probably unfair of me to ask her to read it over and give me her thoughts, given the other workload on her plate. So now I am posting it. Please, be gentle. (les winks)
Enjoy!
The Road Not Taken
Part One
"This one is still alive!"
The demon slayer was leaning over the body of a young man. His was bloody, his clothes ripped and barely recognizable, but he was still breathing. It was shallow and raspy from between his dried and split lips, and more of the man's energy seemed to be diverted to keeping his right hand closed around the prayer beads encircling his fingers and wrist than on breathing. The women the demon slayer had spoken to leaned over him, a small frown creasing her otherwise pretty face.
"He looks like a monk," she noted, glancing at the remains of his clothes. She turned away from him, looking at the rest of the damage to the village. No one else they had found had survived. Those who hadn't been consumed completely by the demons that had attacked the village had been injured so badly they had bleed out, left to rot in the fields and their houses. "He must have been blessed by Buddha to have survived this massacre. Bandage him up. We'll take him home with us until he can recover."
She walked away, shaking her head in an attempt to relieve her pounding headache. In a moment an older man caught up alongside her. His arm slipped around her shoulders comfortingly. "I'm sorry that your first attempt to lead, Sango, is going this way."
"Thank you," Sango said quietly, glancing around. "I wish I had been here in time to have caught the demons who did this. But then my men might have died under my own command. I don't know which is worse: feeling bad that there's nothing to fight, or happy that none of my men died this way. Instead," she humphed, "there are innocent women and children are dead because their message for help arrived to late to do anything. At least if I had something to fight I could defeat it. I like things I can fight. What am I going to say to that man when he wakes up and finds out that the rest of his village is dead?"
The man paused thoughtfully. "Why not let your father deal with it? It's only your first command, Sango. Perhaps he may be more willing to accept it if he finds out from your father. You know many of the local other tribes have problems with the way we raise our women. You don't want to alienate him first off the bat. The monk must have been strong to survive the attack. He could be a powerful ally."
"Yes." Sango sighed, pushing her long ponytail over her shoulder. "We need all the allies we can get. We still haven't uncovered the reason for the increase in demon attacks the last few weeks. If he is a monk, then he may be able to help us." She slowly smiled at the grey-haired man, and, after a quick glance around, leaned into his arm and hugged him tightly. "Thank you, uncle."
She broke the contact before others could see her hug her uncle. Her hand gripped tightly to the rope of the large weapon slung over her shoulder, she walked away.
He dreamt, remembering. He remembered the scent of burning homes and the terrified screams of the villagers. He remembered the scent of blood heavy in the air and the smell the demons gave off, of rotting flesh and something alien to him, something all demons gave away. He remembered running from the inn where he was staying, flirting with the innkeeper's daughter, and trying to help them fight off the attacking demons.
He remembered grabbing the beads encircling his wrist and pulling, unleashing a torrent of winds. The villagers stood shocked and amazed as the demons were pulled into the wind, racing towards the monk, and then vanishing into nothingness. Miroku's legs had throbbed with the effort of standing, soon. He was wearing himself out. It took a lot of will and strength the remain in that pose, not letting his hand waver—when he had first gotten the kazaana, he had had nightmares about his fingers curling into it and pulling himself into it because he was too weak to even use the kazaana.
He held it for another three minutes before his energy left him. He had fallen to his knees then, his skin damp with sweat. Despite the number of demons he had swallowed, there were still far too many. He reached for the staff next to him in the dirt, holding the gilded weapon with a shaking hand. Miroku cursed himself for his weakness and prayed that he would survive to continue his family's mission. But even as he stood on weary knees to face the demon horde, he knew that he would not survive the battle.
The village was lost. He held his ground for less than two minutes, far too outnumbered. Had they been rushing at him one on one, he knew he could have lasted longer, but they were rushing at him in groups of three or four. The last thing he remembered was a hulking arm knocking into his chest and sending him flying through the air. He had crashed through the wall of an already dilapidated house and the ceiling landed on him. He had failed his family. He was dead.
And when he remembered all, he realized he could remember and he awoke, shooting up in bed so fast that his vision blurred and his stomach revolted in protest. He could see sunlight, but little else. He began to cough, fighting to keep down the contents of his stomach. Callused hands pressed a bowl into his hands before it was too late. Miroku wretched until his throat burned. The callused hands slowly pressed him back down into bed when he tried to stand up, the world still a glowing blur. A finger pressed against his lips when he tried to speak.
"Your wounds were infected." The voice was female. It was, he thought deliriously, an enchanting voice. Feminine, and soft and quiet, but husky at the same time. "Sleep, and rest until the fever passes. You're safe here, Houshi-sama..."
He tried to speak, but sleep was already pulling him under. He squeezed his right hand. He could feel holes in the cloth covering his hand, but the beads were still intact. He held it tightly, wondering if the woman knew how close to death she was sitting. They had rescued a ticking bomb from the wreckage of that village.
He had so many questions to ask, but his mouth would no longer work. Knowing that the kazaana was still bound, he willingly collapsed back into sleep.
Sango picked up the bucket on the ground, wrinkling her nose a little. Vomit was nothing new to her. She had inflicted more stomach wounds on demons than she could count, so what was a little vomit to her? It was a good sign. The monk was gaining consciousness. That was the first time that he had woken up since they had brought him back a week ago. Maybe now that he was awake the vomiting would stop and they could move him from liquids to soft foods.
"Sango! How is he?"
She turned down the hallway and motioned for her little brother to be quiet. Kohaku sheepishly covered his mouth with both hands and tip toed down the rest of the hallway.
"He woke up just now. He's fallen asleep again, but it's a sign that the fever his breaking."
"Good!" The freckled boy smiled, revealing a gap between his front teeth. "Dad has a guest—someone who says he wants to hire our services. He's asked you to go and join him in the conference room at your earliest convenience."
"Me?" Since Sango had gotten back, she'd done little but look after the monk. She had to admit that she felt some level of personal responsibility for him. It had been under her command that he had been brought back, and under her command the group had gone out to the village in the first place. She would look after him the way she would look after one of her own people.
Kohaku nodded. "He says that you might find it interesting and wants you to listen in on the conversation. I'm supposed to be there, too. I'll see you there, okay?"
"Sure," Sango said uncertainly.
After disposing of the container, she quickly freshened up, washing her hair and her body and dressing in fresh clothes. Although she wasn't vain, she was the daughter of the chief and she didn't want to embarrass her father. She dressed simply, pulling back her wet hair with a white ribbon. On the floor in her bedroom lay a small bag with a drawstring pouch. Sango opened it and dropped a shard into the palm of her hand. She pushed it around, feeling a tingle where it passed.
It was a shard of the shikon no tama, a jewel crafted in her village so long ago no one could quite recall when. Sango had discovered a shard of it when she had taken on a demon only a few days ago in a nearby village. She hadn't told her father about it yet. As she watched the sunlight catch the edge and dance along the shard in a silvery, blazing line, Sango dumped the shard back into the bag and sealed it tightly. Opening her yukata enough to slip her hand in, Sango slipped the bag into a hidden compartment sewn into the inside of her clothes. She didn't want to let it out of her sight.
Hurrying to the meeting, she arrived slightly flushed, bringing spots of color to her cheeks. Her father and her brother were kneeling around a low table, sipping cups of tea. The stranger sat across the table from them, also sipping tea. She eyed him as they entered, always wishing to be aware of her surroundings. He didn't appear to be much of a fighter. He was good-looking, with long black hair that curled into tight waves at the bottom and heavily lashed eyes. But the eyes were cold and hard. She watched as they narrowed at her when she entered, focussing on her chest. Then they softened a little as they eyed the rest of her body, his smirk turning appreciative.
Her father didn't acknowledge her presence or introduce her, nor offer her tea. It was not done out of disrespect. At seventeen years old, Sango was his shadow, going everywhere he did and copying everything he did. Her father simply didn't need to acknowledge her, as if needing to excuse her presence around the table. Sango didn't need an excuse to be there; she simply was.
"You were telling me about the demon you need killed," her father said, drawing the man's attention from Sango.
"Not actually a demon," the handsome man purred in a deep voice. "A hanyou. His name is Inuyasha. If you recall correctly, he was a demon who, fifty years ago, tried to steal the Shikon jewel from a priestess named Kikyou."
"Ah yes. I believe, however, that she was able to imprison him."
"You are correct. Recently the young priestess' spell was broken by a new priestess who became enamoured of the hanyou. Now Inuyasha is free. Already he tried to take the jewel, but it was shattered in the attempt. With the priestess at his side, Inuyasha now hunts down the shikon shards. You can imagine the danger this presents. Inuyasha is strong—wilful and stubborn—and he is aided by a gifted priestess. The more shards they collect, the stronger he will become. We must avert this disaster."
The chief breathed in deeply and reached out to take a sip of tea before he spoke again. "How would you plan on subduing this demon?"
The other man smiled and his gaze slowly returned to Sango. She was reminded of the way a snake moved when it was about to strike and had to repress a shudder when those eyes landed on her face, slipping down to her chest on occasion. Her back stiffened when she realized that they weren't looking at her chest, but at the hidden pocket where she was hiding the jewel shards.
"I have heard much about your daughter, Master Shiro. She is able to handle her own in battle. If the stories I have heard are true, I have no doubt that she could take care of the hanyou herself. It would be my pleasure to personally aid her in the attempt."
She noticed her father turning to her, his eyes asking her a silent question. Sango stared down at her hands as she debated. This... Inuyasha could indeed pose to be a problem, and she knew it would be the most logical to take care of it, but she didn't like the man. She didn't want to be alone with that man! And then there was the matter of the monk laying on the mat in the guest room of their house. The fever was just breaking. When she thought of him all she could remember was the color of his eyes. They were such a beautiful shade of blue.
Sango found herself shaking her head. She didn't want it. It reeked to her, and she had more important things to do than hunt down some hanyou.
"I'm afraid that my daughter declines your offer. Perhaps we may reach some other agreement."
The other man leaned back. "Perhaps we may..."
This time he did not dream. He fantasized. He was awake enough to know there was someone else in the room with him, but his eyes were too heavy to open. He fantasized that it was the girl who had spoken to him before. He fantasized that she was a princess, with long brown hair pulled up into a complicated knot that showed off the curve of a graceful, swan-like neck, and pretty, long-lashed brown eyes. But how could he then explain the callused fingers that touched him? So he made a more realistic fantasy.
He dreamt that he had been saved by a farmer's daughter—perhaps one of the village girls he had so often flirted with. Her fingers were soft and gentle despite the calluses. He dreamt she had long brown hair that he could run his hands through without fear of mussing up her hair, and he dreamt that she had brown eyes that were realistic and level rather than hopeful and lost. He dreamt she had a body tempered by hard work, the kind of woman who could give him a well-kept home and children—oh, children!
Before he even knew it, his eyes were opening, eager to see the woman who cared for him. Everything was too bright and he winced at the light, raising a hand to cover his face until the pain passed.
"Your eyes will adjust," that husky feminine voice promised him. "If you feel courageous enough, drink this." A cup was pressed into his hands.
Miroku realized that he was thirsty. He guzzled the drink down before he noticed that it was a sweet fruit juice laced with herbs. Female hands pulled his hands back to keep him from greedily drinking it all in one large gulp. When the juice struck his stomach, for a moment he felt it revolt, finding it far too sweet for his normal tastes, but then it settled.
"What was in it?" he asked, carefully sipping the rest as he sat up in his mat.
"Just herbs," came the reply. "They were meant to help increase your immune system in case the poison is still hiding in your body, as well as some bark-oil to help numb any pain you may be experiencing now that you're awake. You've been asleep for quite some time, Houshi-sama."
"Miroku." He set down the empty glass and sat up all the way. The clothes against his sculpted chest felt fuzzy—they were not his own.
His vision was returning. He could see that he was in a bed room, tastefully decorated. It was neither poor, nor rich. He wore clothes that were far too big for him—a father or a husband's perhaps? Glancing around, he could not find his shakujo near him. Had his old weapon not been found? His heart wrenched in panic as he glanced at his hand. Only the cloth that covered his palm and the beads were still present. The body of the glove was gone, and gauzy bandages still covered a large cut along the back of his forearm.
Then he saw the girl—the young woman, really. His fantasies had not done her justice. Miroku found himself staring, taking in her long hair as he fell softly over her shoulder, her tanned skin, her long-lashed eyes that were real and level and fierce, though just now the soft smile on her face eased the harsh lines and made her appear almost matronly. Her lips were soft and pink, full. He tried not to think about them to much, but his heart tightened when he saw a small, white scar at the corner of her bottom lip, marring the otherwise perfect curve of her mouth. He suddenly wished to kiss that scar better. As he stared at her, he saw others, almost hidden by the color of her skin. His eyes moved up to hers and he held them as long as he dared. It reminded him of staring into the eyes of a wild animal, wondering when the animal would spring.
"My name is Miroku."
Instantly, the face changed. It was a subtle change, but he could see her eyes harden slightly. It was not done out of hatred or offence, but defence. "Houshi-sama," she repeated.
"But I don't know who you are," the monk continued when she didn't introduce herself in return.
"My name is Sango."
This time it was his turn for his expression to change, belying the dance in the pit of his stomach hearing her name. Sango. What a beautiful name. "I meant that I don't know you. You're not a member of the village I was last in. Where am I? How did I get I get here?"
"Oh. Um... Houshi-sama, were you a member of the village you were last in?" He watched as her tense shoulders relaxed with relief when he shook his head no. "I regret to tell you this, Houshi-sama, but you and the messenger who was recuperating here are the only survivors from the demon-raid on the village. One of my men found you when we went to try and help fortify the village against the impending attack. However, we arrived too late. The village had already been decimated. We bandaged your wounds and brought you back here. You've been asleep since then. It was over a week ago. Your wounds had become infected, but you've finally managed to beat the sickness."
Miroku's face felt cold. "I... I'm the only one left?"
Sango nodded. She was about to speak when she suddenly felt his hands close gently around hers. She was startled to see him so close, and felt trapped by his eyes. He had such beautiful and expressive eyes. The pity she saw there was almost palpable it was so real. Those eyes, she thought, were dangerous eyes.
"I'm so sorry."
"Why are you apologizing to me?"
"Because." The man gave her hands a brief squeeze and then let them go. "You're the same woman who was with me before. I might not have been able to see you, but I recognized your voice. You worked so hard to save me, but it was all for naught. You've saved to save a man who is already dead." He sighed heavily and then seemed to perk up a little. "And you've given me a second chance. For that, Lady Sango, I will always be in your debt. Name anything and it is but yours."
Sango felt her face blushing. She fought to control it and was more than happy when the monk began to speak again. "You said that you and your men found me. Pardon my curiosity, but who are you and your men that... oh yes. The villagers had said something about asking the demon-slayer village for help. You are a taijiya, then?" She nodded. "I was not aware that women led the expedition."
"Normally they don't. Our women are trained in combat, yes, but they tend to remain behind while the men are out, for we need someone to defend our village, crops, and children if the men are away. However, my father is the leader of this village. My younger brother may be the one to take over his place when my father dies, but I am still the eldest and a descendant of Midoriko. It is my duty to lead. Even if I never get the chance, I need the practice to prepare myself for any eventuality."
He was staring at her appreciatively. "Midoriko... I have heard that name before."
"She was the priestess who originally made the shikon jewel." Miroku nodded, unprepared for her next words. "Jewel pieces which you, Houshi-sama, are carrying around."
He jumped in surprise. His bare hand flew to the shoulder where they were hidden. The skin was unbroken. They had not dug the shards he held out of his arm. He almost hated the soft smile on Sango's face at that second as she silently laughed at his reaction.
"I take it that you purified them yourself? You're lucky then. The demons that attacked you weren't incredibly smart or perceptive. Had they the ability to sense purified jewel shards, they would have attacked you and ripped you apart to get to them. Your village wasn't the first one to be attacked by these monsters. Many villages have reported a horde of demons encroaching upon their lands. Some times we were able to frighten the demons off by slaying enough of them. We've had to leave stations at the surviving villages in case they were attacked again. It has spread our resources rather thinly."
She paused. When he didn't say anything, she shifted her weight to a more comfortable position. "May I ask you something, Houshi-sama?"
"Certainly, Lady Sango."
Blushing fetchingly, Sango motioned to the beads on his hand. "The glove... the beads... I know of no tenants that call for one's hand to be bound. When you were sleeping... you wouldn't let go of it. You kept your hand clenched so tightly, sometimes I worried you would hurt yourself. You often times spoke when you were sleeping, and more than one time you spoke of your hand, as well as someone named... Naraku, and of a wind-tunnel..." She stopped mid-sentence, finding the way he stared at her unnerving. Yes, she thought. Those eyes were dangerous. "Never mind. It's inappropriate of me to ask. I am curious, though, and perhaps one day you will tell me."
"Perhaps," he agreed after a moment of hesitation. "But if I do, Lady Sango, then I'm afraid you would fall in love with me."
She shook her head. "I'm not nearly that easy or fickle, Houshi-sama. It would take more than a tale to make me love a man."
He smiled enigmatically. Sango avoided his gaze and got up, promising to go and fetch him some food while he was awake enough to eat. When she left, she headed straight outside for fresh air. The air in Miroku's bedroom had seemed hot and stuffy. Her cheeks wouldn't stop burning. Why had he smiled at her like that? The smile had disturbed her—but not badly. It hadn't been ferocious or dangerous—well, perhaps a little dangerous. The man she had seen earlier in the meeting room had an incredibly frightening smile. This had been nothing in comparison. Nothing.
But if there had been no reason behind that smile, then why wouldn't her heart beat slow down?
After she had gone, Miroku lay back down in bed, thinking about her. He didn't mean to think about her, but Sango kept invading his thoughts regardless.
He had dreamt of a princess and then or a simple farm girl. Sango was neither and yet, in a way, both. She was a person of importance in her village, obviously well-educated from the way she spoke. But she also had the tanned skin and strong body from physical work. She was at once a familiar, understandable figure, and also enticingly different, a combination he couldn't quite fathom.
The way she had at once blushed prettily, lowering her eyes demurely and yet keeping them locked on him was intense. His heart had stopped beating as soon as he had seen that expression. And he had seen her walk away—she had a backside he could look at all day.
Miroku had flirted with many women. He had flirted with princesses and paupers, farm girls and city girls, newly wedded woman and premenstrual woman. If it was female, Miroku had flirted with it, unless it was past the age of childbirth. That was truly his only stipulation, for he wanted a woman who could bear him a child. He had known attraction and fondness, tenderness and adoration—even love. There had been one young girl so entirely filled with hope and devotion that Miroku found some part of him loved her for those qualities, the way one may love a younger sister or a cousin. But the feelings that squeezed his heart and made it hard to breathe when he thought of Sango were different and it scared him. It scared him because he knew what the feeling was.
Love.
Not the kind he had felt for others. This was so much deeper he could feel it in the pit of his stomach, warm and comforting and sickening all at once. As soon as he had seen her, he knew he wanted her, even if he didn't know why. And as they had spoken he realized he was growing to respect her as well. When she blushed he wanted her to do it again. When she smiled he felt himself stand taller at being the object of her gaze. When she glared at him it made him want to hide and laugh and be chased—no woman ever chased him, but Sango would do it if he angered her enough.
He had a crush on Sango. God help him, he might even be in love her.
Miroku looked down at his gloved hand, fingering the smooth surface of the beads that bound his palm and wrist. He could feel himself being pulled into two. At once he wanted to love Sango, courting her the way she deserved and telling her all his secrets and then leaving her, coming back home maybe in a year triumphant and able to live the rest of his days with her, and the rest of him needed to push her away, to keep her from ever gaining more respect than what she had already stolen from him, lest both of them be hurt.
He sighed, curling up into a tight ball and staring at his hand.
Maybe he was getting too old. Choices had never seemed so hard. What was he going to do?
He remembered two weeks ago, when he had met a fork in the road. He had thrown down his staff and let Buddha lead him where he was destined to go. It had pointed to the right path. When other travellers had talked about a great beauty down the left road, Miroku nearly changed the staff, but he remained adamant. He may have wanted a child to continue his heritage, but stopping Naraku would give him all the time in the world to father and raise an heir. Given the choice between the left road, the beautiful woman, and the right path leading to Naraku and the bane of Miroku's life, he would take the right.
But for a painful moment, he wondered what would have happened if he had taken the left.
End of Part One
