A/N: Originally published on IB4Y.2 for their prompt "Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage," Anais Nin. Won first position.

Miroku awakened in the middle of the night. There was a strange feeling in his right arm. As if an icy liquid was inching through his veins, reaching for his loudly thumping heart. There was a dull, throbbing pain all over his body. Kagome's anaesthetics must have worn off. Slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes.

Moonlight was filtering through the window, washing his supine body in pearlescent glow. Sango was sleeping some way off, but she was jerking in her slumber as if she was having a nightmare. The stain of dried tears marred her pale cheek. Miroku wanted to raise a hand and caress that cheek, but his muscles protested loudly against the strain. He gave up the idea and lay in almost a paralytic half-awareness, as if he was being slowly sucked into a bottomless abyss.

Endless battles, each worse than the one before. And yet Naraku was nowhere near defeat. If anything, he was getting stronger by the hour, as was the wind tunnel in his hand. Between the two of them how much time did he really have? The monk sighed.

How many times would he force his body to go through this ordeal? As painful as it was to have the Kazaana open wider and wider, the treatment was more painful still. The medicines burned his throat like acid when they went down to neutralize the poison; then came the dizziness and nausea – sometimes it became so bad he had to clutch his head and scream silently. There were days when he would want nothing more than a chance to crumple down in a heap, put his head between his knees and lie motionless for hours in a dark corner of a room. But they were always on the move, and he couldn't bear to be the one holding them up and wasting their chance to defeat Naraku.

On nights like this, Miroku almost longed to give up and surrender to his fate. One horrible death wouldn't be half as bad as the punishments that he was subjecting himself to on a daily basis. His grandfather and father had lived in peace as their Kazaana grew, then one day they went out bravely to meet their fate. Surely, that would be the rational thing to do.

Or were they truly at peace? Miroku remembered a trace of anxiety forever darkening his father's handsome face. He used to be kind of jumpy, often looking at his back, like he was expecting to see the shadow of death. It must have been terrible waiting for demise, bullied by his own body which refused to support him, and knowing that there was nothing he could do about it.

Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage, Mushin had told him once. His life would probably be a short one, Miroku pondered, but at least he wouldn't cower in a corner waiting for the shadows to come and claim him. He would resolve to make the most of the time that was given to him – to push his limits and challenge his destiny. He would face each day with undaunted courage and write his autobiography with the fiery ink of rebellion. That would turn his unbearable existence into something to be proud of. A life of dignity and the death of a hero – if he managed that he would proudly sit in the company of his forefathers in heaven.

Slowly, excruciatingly, the monk forced himself into a sitting position, and coaxed another dose of the medicine past his throat.