STRICKEN
by Scribe Figaro
Chapter Two: Care
IV.
"Kagome-sama!"
The young girl jolted when she heard her name called. She recognized Miroku-sama's voice, but he sounded – well, angry. Or desperate. She couldn't tell, but she ran to the door of Kaede-baachan's hut and poked her head out.
Miroku-sama was carrying Sango-chan. Just a look at her was almost enough to make Kagome cry. She looked to have a very bad head wound, and she must have gotten sick somewhere. Both her sandals were gone. Miroku looked exhausted, as if he'd been carrying her for a long time.
"Bring her inside!" she cried, running to her backpack to get out her medical supplies.
He was right behind her, laying Sango carefully on a futon as she began to pick out bandages and medicines from her first aid kit.
"She was hit hard in the head," Miroku said. "She's been in and out for a few minutes now. She might be in a coma. Kagome-sama, you can cure that, right?"
Kagome was already taking a look at her injuries. Quickly, she ran her hands up and down Sango's body to check for broken bones, bleeding, or any other less-than-obvious injury. It seemed she had a few cuts, but it was the welt on her forehead that frightened her. If it was a skull fracture – well, that was something that needed CT scans, or neurosurgery. In a hospital at home, maybe a doctor could do something. But here, she had no tools or skills to help with such dire injury.
She bit her lip. "Iie . . . there's nothing to do but wait."
Miroku looked incredulous. "In your time, they have no medicines for this sort of injury?"
"They. . . they have doctors, special doctors, that can help you when you hurt your head. But there's no way to get her to one of those people, and there are no medicines I could bring her that would help."
"Then bring her to the bone-eater's well. Bring Sango to your great doctors."
"Miroku-sama, you know that it doesn't work that way. Only Inuyasha and I can use the well."
His right hand grasped Kagome's collar, pulling her face to his. His eyes flashed a desperation that could not be far from madness. "Then try, goddamn you."
Kagome leaned back, stunned.
Miroku caught himself, and quick as a flash his countenance returned to his normal, detached self. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should go outside so that you can change Sango-sama's clothes. Do you have a clean kimono for her?"
"I'm not sure," she muttered. She seemed in shock still, but determined to take care of her friend. She turned away from Sango, going toward the corner of the hut for some supplies. She poured a bucket of water into a basin beside the fire to warm it, then began to search for some clean rags and blankets.
When she turned around, Miroku was wearing only his inner kimono. His black robe and purple kesa were neatly folded beside the sleeping Sango.
"Give her these. They're old, but they're warm."
Kagome nodded wordlessly, her eyes wavering with tears that did not fall until after Miroku had crossed the threshold and gone out of view.
V.
Miroku was regretful about scaring Kagome as he did, but there was really no other way. He shook his head as he approached the well.
"Resorting to your old tricks again, Miroku," he muttered to himself.
He leaned over the edge of the well as he produced a small bottle of Shikon shards from his pocket, surreptitiously stolen from around Kagome's neck.
"Well, here goes nothing."
The bottle clenched in one fist, he leapt over the edge and fell.
There was no flash, no time-stream, nothing that sounded remotely like how Inuyasha and Kagome had described.
Miroku, kneeling at the bottom of the well, his knees and ankles already aching, pounded at the dirt before him until his knuckles began to bleed, cursing the well, cursing Kagome, and cursing all the false hopes she brought to his world.
VI.
"Miroku-sama."
The houshi ceased his low chanting as the young miko's voice gently roused him from his meditation. Sango's hand, soft and unresponsive, remained held between his own.
He turned to the young girl, who held the bucket of river-water in both hands, a towel over one shoulder.
He had fed Sango the thin rice-paste several hours ago, the small and tasteless dinner that he fed to her each night. He had drawn the sleeping girl into his lap, dipped his fingers in the offensively childish meal, pressed them to her lips, past her lips, let the half-bite dissolve on her tongue, and done so again and again. Feeding her enough food to keep her well and alive took nearly an hour. The medicines he ground into them – strong ginger, bitter roots, the very best Chinese medicines he could find – made his fingers numb. He did not believe Kagome would allow him to feed her mouth-to-mouth, and because of this, her kimono was often soaked even though he brought the bowl of tea so carefully to her mouth and poured it down her throat so slowly and so very patiently. This was acceptable, though, because the tea was warm and soothing, and even pouring it on her chest would have a good effect.
After the tea, he would lie her down again, bring the blankets to her neck, place her hand between his, and chant the Chinese pleas for good health and good digestion.
Hours later, just before sunset, he would leave so that Kagome could bathe the taiji-ya.
So he did now, placing Sango's hand on her stomach, pushing himself wearily to his feet, brushing the beads over his right hand in a nervous gesture.
"Miroku-sama, you needn't leave."
The young girl placed the bucket on the floor. Her eyes avoided his, transfixed on the ripples across the water's surface.
"After so many days, after seeing how well you've taken care of her – watching her, feeding her, talking to her, keeping her warm and comfortable – I see no right to force you away. I refuse to believe you'd take advantage of her."
Miroku tried to lock eyes with Kagome, but her bangs obscured her face. He turned to Sango instead, clasping his hands together.
"While I appreciate your trust, I'm afraid it isn't that simple. This is women's work, and I have no right to see and touch such things. Sango has done nothing to deserve such a violation."
Kagome dipped fingers in the water, either to test the temperature or to resume the ripples that fascinated her so.
"Women's work, yes, but what woman can continue doing this? Though there are many villagers, wives and maids alike, that are capable of caring for Sango-chan, could they show her the sort of care that you and I do? Don't you think they'd feel burdened after a few weeks? A few months? Years? How many people do you think I can trust enough to give Sango-chan to them, and know that she would not for a moment be in improper care?"
"I wouldn't pretend to know, Kagome-sama."
"I trust myself to take care of her. I trust Kaede-baachan. And I trust you."
Miroku opened his mouth, ready to argue at some point, but acquiesced.
"I am honored you hold me in such regard. But why not you, or Kaede-sama?"
"Kaede-bachaan may give us her hospitality, but this would be too cruel. She has responsibilities to this village first."
"I know."
"And you ask why I can't do this? You know the answer, don't you?"
"I fear it."
"Surely your sense it as strongly as I do. Surely you know what it means, Miroku-sama."
He nodded.
"The flight of jaki to the north has stopped its advance, and it has become stronger. Naraku has made a new home, and it is nearly complete." He grimaced. "Once that is done, he will surely attack this place with great force."
"Inuyasha and I will go. We will strike him, and I feel that we can trust Kouga-kun to help. You must stay here and protect Sango-chan."
"I can't abandon you, Kagome-sama."
"You'll have to abandon someone, Miroku-sama. And I'll save you the burden of making that choice: I demand you stay at Sango-chan's side."
He smiled despite himself. Even then he knew that he was talking to a girl that would soon march to her death to save her friends. Perhaps she knew it too.
"I cannot refuse an order from the lovely and beautiful Kagome-sama."
VII.
Their traveling bags were prepared. Inuyasha rested against a tree as he waited for Kagome to say her good-byes.
The young miko approached Miroku, who stood stalwart, though his heart was heavy.
She hesitated, and then lightly pressed against him, reaching arms around his neck, kissing his cheek in a brief and chaste kiss.
"I leave Sango-chan to you," she whispered through her tears. "Take care of my friend. Protect her, save her, keep her well. I have never asked so much from anyone before, but I beg you, Miroku-sama. I beg you to care for her as you always have. Love her as you always have. I don't care what happens to me so long as you promise me this."
She released him, blushing, leaning away, but he caught her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him.
"I promise, Kagome-sama. I promise upon your heart, upon your heart so kind that your name will be sung for ten times ten generations, that I will bring her to life."
She nodded, turning to Kaede. As they spoke softly, Miroku walked to Inuyasha, kneeling beside the hanyou and speaking low so that Kagome could not hear him.
"Any advice for me, Inuyasha?"
Inuyasha snorted.
"If Naraku comes here, leave this place with Sango as soon as you can. Go anywhere safe. That old bitch can take care of the village by herself, so don't worry about the villagers. Besides, Naraku won't try to do much damage if he knows you're gone."
"Funny, I wasn't aware you would advocate running away."
"Running away is for weaklings," Inuyasha said. "And Sango is weak. When you're fighting for someone else, their lives come before dignity, before honor, before everything. Don't forget that, bouzu."
Miroku nodded. There was a brief moment of silence.
"Inuyasha, I ask you one thing."
"What's that?"
"The night before you fight Naraku, when you make your last camp at the edge of his domain, make love to Kagome. Make her yours."
Inuyasha narrowed his eyes.
"Such perverted thoughts at such a serious time?"
"This is very serious, Inuyasha."
Inuyasha stared, eyes wide with incredulity.
"You think we're going to die, don't you?"
Miroku stood expressionless.
Inuyasha growled.
"Well, you're just fucking wrong. We're going to kill that bastard."
He turned, stomping off.
Kagome bowed to Kaede and followed.
Miroku never saw them again.
VIII.
"It's past sunset, Sango. Time for your bath."
Miroku kneeled beside the woman, pulling aside the blankets, unfastening her yukata, and with firm but gentle hands behind her back and head, pulled her to a sitting position.
He looked over her with eyes that did not see breasts and buttocks and soft flesh to caress, but skin and irritation and bedsores, atrophied limbs and poor circulation, a body that was not cold but held no warmth, no reaction to his touch. A living doll she was to him, beautiful and stunning and heart-rendingly painful to bear.
Truly, Miroku, in all his wild years, had done no crime to deserve such terrible punishment.
"It's getting cooler this time of year, so I warmed the water for you," he whispered, pressing a damp cloth to her back.
He no longer hesitated when he undressed her. Before, at least for the first few months, he was afraid, impossible though it was, that she would lash out at him. This hesitation grew into a slow and deliberate reverence for Sango. Her body was a temple to him, and he would not defile it with an uncouth gaze or wayward caress. He would care for this temple, keeping it clean and healthy and alive, and ensure that it was at all times ready for Sango's return.
"Because I saw you shiver before, when I gave you your bath. I hated to give you such discomfort, Sango, but I was glad to see you react to cold. It is a good sign you are getting better."
He washed her, washed the sick and the filth from her porcelain skin, commenting quietly on every action, so that she would never go more than a moment without hearing a kind voice, and when he was done he dried her and dressed her in a clean yukata, picked her up and placed her gently on her side so that he could change the blankets on which she slept.
"This futon is much softer than the one before, don't you think?"
He left her on her side, arraying her arms and legs in a fetal position. He would roll her from one side to another several times over the night, as he did every night.
He leaned over her, brushed the bangs from her forehead, and kissed her lightly near the scar that had healed and all but disappeared nearly two years ago. The mark of the foul strike that fell her and made her this way.
"Good night, my love," he whispered in her ear. "Good night, and awake."
Author's Note: This is perhaps the first story I've done in a long time where I'm actually nervous of what sort of reactions I'm getting. I suppose this is in the nature of a dark fic, as I wanted all along to take a rather common occurrence in the series and expand on it. It sort of rambles, and there's more than my fair share of out-of-character-ness, but I've kept this story to myself for a year now and I can't imagine improving it much further. In any case, I hope you think it was worth reading.
Two more chapters left.
-Scribe