Disclaimer: If I owned Inuyasha, I'd be filthy rich – and if I were filthy rich, I wouldn't need to go to college. And if that were so, why would I be fretting over Materials Science Engineering soooo much right about now? Moreover, I don't own the song used in this either. Slipknot does, believe it or not! It will be put in italics.

Claimer: This was inspired by every single fanfiction about Sango and Miroku out there that ends, albeit momentarily happy, with the looming of Miroku's death – namely, almost every single canon fic out there! This is my reply to you.

IF EVER THERE WERE A WAY…

Anything

Despite what was undoubtedly his best attempts to muffle the noise, gentle moans of pain still wafted out from the miko's hut. The five companions of the pained man, hovering worriedly outside the thin barrier, dealt with the situation in their own typical ways.

"Damn that monk! He just had to pick this time, didn't he?" Inuyasha snarled; despite his best attempt at ire, however, a hint of worry had slipped into his words. To belie the momentary slip, the hanyou crossed his arms and looked stubbornly away from the others. "We were so damn close to Naraku!"

"Inuyasha!" Kagome hissed, her voice laden with warning. Her brown eyes, which had only a moment before filled with concern, flamed with indignant contempt towards the half-dog-demons attitude.

"It's not like Miroku decided to get sick," Shippou defended the ailing monk – or, perhaps more accurately, agreed with his foster-mother. "If anyone can fix him, it's Kaede - and once he is better, we can go on!" Even Kirara, who was cuddled down with the young fox demon, mewed her agreement.

One member of the party failed to contribute to the ensuing half-hearted argument, and her silence suddenly became pointedly obvious. "Sango-chan?" Kagome murmured worriedly, the flame behind her eyes quickly giving way to a gentle ocean concern as she looked towards the silent demon-exterminator. The young miko looked expectantly at her best friend, obviously waiting for Sango to give her input.

Of course, she had been vaguely aware of their idle chatter, but the young slayer couldn't bring herself to participate in the trivial pittance; no, Sango's concentration was somewhere else entirely. Her deep brown eyes seemed to conveniently miss the five other pairs that now were staring at her, obviously waiting for some response; instead, Sango fixated on that one pair that wasn't there – that intelligent, wandering violet gaze that she had grown so used to these past months – these past years.

The silence was painfully awkward. "Sango-chan?" Kagome squeaked again, blatent concern washing over her features. It wasn't until the young miko moved to approach her that a reaction was finally stirred from the melancholy slayer.

"I just – I don't know! I just need to be alone!" Sango snapped, leaping abruptly to her feet to storm away from the hut.

Vaguely, she was aware of Inuyasha huffing, "What is her problem?" as she brushed past him. She imagined her other companion's looks of confusion at her abrupt departure – but she couldn't bring herself to care.

Every step away from the hut was progressively difficult to take. As Miroku's pained moans became more and more difficult to hear with distance, Sango couldn't help but to feel as if she were losing him – as if every step away she took from him was a growing chasm between them.

Despite Kagome-chan's usual chipper insistence, everything was not ok.

Everything was not ok. Not this time.

Shippou and Kagome were optimists at heart – they could gladly and willingly overlook the reality of any situation, ignoring the real probability of any given outcome. Even Inuyasha, in his own brash way, was optimistic. He was able to fight in any battle, no matter how tired, beaten, and downtrodden he might be, regardless of his own safety, regardless of the seeming odds.

Sango, though not nearly as brash as the tempered hanyou, was determined, if not optimistic. That isn't to say she wasn't hopeful – no, not at all. It was a faint glimmering hope on the far distant horizon that allowed her to rise every morning – it was that faint glimmer alone that had allowed her to rise from her own grave, in point of fact. Her entire family, her entire life had been stolen from her, and now her own beloved brother was a mere tool to be used against her by the one demon she hated the most in the world – Naraku. She had lived and continued to live through more than most ever had to deal with throughout their entire lives, all before she had even reached the tender age of twenty years. And yet still, the young warrior pressed on, with determination and hope if nothing else.

And then there was Miroku. To Sango, he was the most complex paradox of them all. Miroku was a cursed man; his wind tunnel, passed down and inherited from his grandfather to his father to him by Naraku, was as sure a declaration of death as any. The void in his hand grew larger with each use, a seeping void that slowly devoured more of his body by the day and would continue to do so until the one who placed the curse – Naraku – was killed. And even with that realization, Miroku was still greeted each day with cheerful optimism, a smile on his face, and playful banter and actions seemingly never far from his mind. The monk was not a stupid man – he was intelligent and reflective; he knew, better than any of them could, what, exactly, his future held in store for him, making his composure that much more remarkable.

Miroku's wind tunnel – perhaps his strongest weapon – would be the thing that claimed his life. His fate had been sealed the moment his father had died and passed on the curse. Sometimes Sango wondered if he had known and worried about his fate even before the untimely death of his father, or even before he was old enough to truly comprehend the finality of death.

Such musings had no pull on the truth of the matter, however: someday, the void would consume him.

Even when she tried to be optimistic, determined, and hopeful, the thought came unbidden to Sango, stabbing her heart in a bitter reminder: 'Someday' had come much too soon.

A violent sob wracked itself from Sango's body as the demon slayer abruptly ended her hasty retreat, collapsing none-too-gently to the ground in a heap. She clenched her jaw angrily and tried to blink away the burning tears that threatened to slip from her eyes, but was fast losing the battle. It took only a few moments for her valiant efforts to fall far short of the mark; grief choked her throat as another sob shook her – and another. And another.

"Why?" Sango moaned, slamming her fist into the ground, her eyes blurry with tears. "Oh Kami, please, I beg of you… I am not strong enough to bear this… please…"

Wish I was
Too dead to cry
My self-affliction fades
Stones to throw at my creator
Masochist to which I cater

Sango had always likened herself to a warrior. She had always been consumed with a need to do her best in life. She had always taken what life threw at her in stride; even after her entire village – her entire family – had been murdered before her very eyes, and even when she had been put into her early grave, she had refused to die. Would that she had – then she wouldn't be here, faced with the imminent, final blow on her already shattered soul…

Wish I died
Instead of lived
A zombie hides my face
Shell forgotten with its memories
Diaries left with cryptic entries

A burning desire to defeat Naraku was her primary purpose in life. Even though she had been left with nothing – absolutely nothing – she had persevered. Even in her darkest moments, when she had first come from the grave and had no one in the world, friends, family, or otherwise, she had leapt at that opportunity for vengeance in attacking Inuyasha.

It seemed like so long ago, but she couldn't deny that it had happened. Of course she had later realized that she had just been manipulated and used for his purposes, much in the similar way Kohaku had been – but by then, Inuyasha, Kagome, Shippou, and Miroku had taken her in. Even after she had tried to kill them, they took her in. Though not her blood-family, they were a family. They became the support mechanism that allowed Sango to move on. Thanks to them, Sango had slowly realized that it was possible to have a present and future, even if it wasn't as she had been intending.

Oh yes; getting back at Naraku had always played a forefront. For those first weeks, months even, that intention had been the only redeeming light at the end of the tunnel. The mere thought of sending the demon that had taken her everything straight to hell where he belonged had given her the strength necessary to take one step at a time. Sending Naraku to hell and releasing Kohaku from his manipulations was still important to her – but when had things begun to change?

Gradually – oh so very gradually – this ragtag band of unlikely heroes had grown on her. Kagome had quickly become her loving sister and best friend. Inuyasha, gradually, became the stubborn and brash older brother she had never had, and Shippou like a cheerful and playful younger one.

The thought never really left her mind; some shattered part of her soul whispered warningly, 'You've already lost everyone who means anything to you, and now you choose to associate with others marked by Naraku? It's dangerous to care for them.'

Perhaps more than anything – most certainly more than death – Sango feared losing even more than she already had. She teetered a very fine line in her long-lasting grief, never too far from being consumed by it. Her true family – her fellow taijiya – never strayed far from her mind, and the young slayer was certain that she could bear no more loss in her life. She was certain that the grief would be too much to bear; there was only so much a person could take and stay sane.

And still, here she was, traveling and caring for these people who could, at any moment, be ripped painfully from her life. What right did these people have to become so close to her? What right did they have to coerce their way into her hesitant heart?

More pointedly, what right did Miroku have to coerce himself into her hesitant life? Miroku, whose life had been forfeit since the moment he was born into the curse?

Of all of the people in the entire world, why did it have to be Miroku who had comprised the final member of the party? Of all the possible people seeking vengeance against Naraku, why did it have to be the monk? Sango had already lost too much in her life; the very last thing she needed was to care in any regard for someone whose life was already ending.

Moreover, the very last thing she needed was to love someone whose life was already ending. Sango had no business falling in love with Miroku.

But she had.

Wish I was
Too dead to care
If indeed I cared at all
Never had a voice to protest
So you fed me s-t to digest

Oh, how reluctantly she had fallen in love!

Of course it was unfair to portray Miroku as having deliberately seduced his way into her heart. The houshi, for all of his good humor, was much more intelligent than he cared to let on, Sango had slowly realized through her time of knowing him. He had known how very fragile she was – perhaps from the very beginning – and he had deliberately used his lecherous antics to keep her at bay.

She hadn't always been keen to his tactics. His antics had worked exceedingly well for months, or even for more than that first year. It seemed every time they started to have a moment, every time they began to get a little too close – or even every time she felt ready to be consumed by her melancholy – a naughty hand examining parts of her body it shouldn't be had always snatched away the fleeting moment, leaving in its wake anger instead, coupled with a red-handprint on the houshi's cheek.

It had taken a long time before the 'random lechery' began to seem less random, and an even longer time still before she had finally recognized the acting pattern.

Miroku – though admittedly a shameless flirt – wasn't the unforgivably impulsive lecher she (and everyone else) had assumed he was. No; Miroku was an intelligent, sensitive, kind, caring man. A man who realized that he, whose cruel fate was sealed, had no right to ask for the love of a woman who had already lost too much.

What cruel irony was it that this ultimate proof of compassion was what had finalized that grudgingly blooming love in her heart?

It hadn't happened instantaneously. No, it had been a slow dawning realization, a realization that had seeped into her unconscious and secretly thawed her self-fashioned wall of ice, setting free that fond warmness she had been fighting so hard to contain. Of course Sango still rewarded his wandering hands with swift retribution, but it had long ago become a simple matter of making the motions. Even as they continued their half-heartedly attempts to keep each other at arms length, both knew the jig was up. Gradually, Sango had become keen on Miroku's tactics – and just as gradually, Miroku had become keen on Sango's realization.

And so, it had happened. The young slayer had fallen hopelessly in love with the last person in the world she should have, and he with her.

What horrible, bitter irony, that she who had already lost everything had lived only to promptly secure a future of the same agonizing loss for herself.

Miroku's cursed kazaana was swallowing him whole – he had overextended the cursed hands one too many times, and now – now as his days were drawing to a close – Sango realized the extend of her feelings for him. She loved him. She loved him greatly, and even knowing that he was soon going to die she couldn't dampen the overwhelming torrent of emotions.

Even as the woman warrior cursed her traitorous heart and all the fates that had placed the houshi in her path, she knew it was all futile. What had happened had happened, and it was long past time to turn back. But as with everything else she had ever cherished, the love was tainted by Naraku. The pain from his curse had claimed Miroku, and now he lay in a hut receiving what little medical attention possible to forestay being whisked away; ever Naraku loomed, threatening to take that last thing that mattered to her.

"Gods-curse you Naraku! I'll send you to hell with my bare hands – I will kill you! You can't have him!" Sango screamed her defiant snarl, slamming her fist so hard into the rocks of the path that her knuckles tore and bled.

"I will do anything…" The words had slipped from her between shuddering sobs, and the moment they left her lips something within her recoiled, recalling and dwelling upon the words with a fierce fascination that she couldn't quite consciously understand.


And you don't need to bother
I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on
I won't let go 'till it bleeds

Slowly – very slowly – her sobs began to subside, leaving the young woman curled wonderingly on the ground. 'I would do anything,' she repeated with silent wonder, realizing the extent of truth in those simple words. With even more wonder, she realized that the words were not bourne from hate, but from love…

She would do anything for Miroku.

The realization stole the breath from her, leaving the slayer staring fixatedly at the rocks of the path on which she was sprawled.

"I will do anything," she repeated uncertainly, as if tasting the words, her mind working lethargically. Her brown eyes, only minutes before willed with anguish, flashed with steely resilience. "You won't have him." With a new resolve, the slayer picked herself up off the ground and stalked back towards the village.