By Scribe of Figaro
SANGO'S SORROW: PART V
"I can see it in your eyes.
There is something
Something you want to tell me.
I see it in your eyes.
There is something
That you hide from me."
- Lasgo, "Something"
Miroku stood in a vast field of brilliant lavender flowers, his hands to his sides and his robes straight and motionless. The sky above him seemed too low, as if he could reach up and feel the barrier that separated this world from what lay beyond.
In fact, he probably could.
Clouds did not form above his head, but the white swirling void that moved rhythmically above this field like butter in a churn had at least passing resemblance to clouds.
The field went on forever in all directions – should he run one way, the ground behind him would disappear as the ground before him came into existence. There were no hills, no trees, no rocks. Only him, the grass, and the flowers that littered the ground.
He would not be alone for long. The Enemy will find his way here soon enough.
He turned to his side, seeing movement in the corner of his eye. The wildflowers around him, though pleasing to the eye, were not there to serve that purpose. Each one was a node, a thought, a piece of him, and the pattern they wrought in this place was a manifestation of the order in his own mind. This entire world was a construct, a figurative battleground. Miroku created this place in his mind as a last refuge against enemies such as Asesu, a final line of defense between a mind-controlling spirit and the sanctity of Miroku's free will.
The flowers began to move. He turned, watching the patterns they wove. As they bobbed in what seemed to be wind, Miroku could track Asesu's movements, could see which thoughts and memories Asesu was searching through. The creature was looking for a weakness, for a fear, anything that would allow him an edge. But those thoughts were deep, hidden in dark recesses not even a ghost as skilled as Asesu could see.
A group of flowers began to bend outwards, in a circle about as wide as a man's outstretched arms, and a column of dust and dirt and grass began to rise from it. In a flash the whirlwind dissipated, revealing the form within.
Miroku found himself staring at his mirror image.
The imposter Miroku smiled.
Miroku smiled back.
Asesu, the imposter, looked nonchalantly at his own shakujou. "I'm not sure how you did this, Houshi-sama, but it's of no consequence. I've more experience in these matters than you can possibly conceive."
"No houshi has ever challenged you this way, in meditation?" Miroku asked. "How depressing that you've run into such poorly-trained spiritual men."
Asesu's eyes burned at him. "I didn't say that. I ran into a Shinto priest once who trapped me in meditation, as you have. Battled me in a game of chu shogi, if you can believe it. I won, of course, and destroyed his mind. Afterward, I murdered his children and raped his wife to death."
Miroku made no response. He would not allow himself to be riled.
"You have thus far annoyed me much more than that," said Asesu. "Would you like to know exactly what I have planned for your precious Sango?"
"I have no doubt you're quite creative," Miroku replied flatly.
"I will ruin her, inside and out. I will smash her face in, break her legs, and defile her with sharpened sticks and filth. She will beg me for death."
Miroku clenched his teeth. If he lost control here, if he let his anger rule him, as it would rule Inuyasha in such a situation, all hope would be lost. He set up this stage on which he could fight Asesu, and thus both of them were constrained to the rules of combat. He required total concentration, or else Asesu could break free of his constraints, could adjust this world to his advantage and wipe Miroku's will away in an instant.
He must not listen to Asesu's threats, else they would very likely be carried out.
Quick as a flash Miroku threw an ofuda, striking his doppelganger in the chest. The sacred parchment did not have the power to exorcise him, as the parchment was as much a figment of Miroku's imagination as the grass, or the sky, or the figures of Miroku and Asesu themselves. But it was still a weapon, and once in contact with an evil heart it would hurt quite badly.
Asesu roared in pain as purifying energy flew about him. He gripped the seal with his left hand and tore it free. The ofuda disappeared in blue fire.
Miroku stretched out his hand and beckoned Asesu to come forward.
Asesu came at him waving his shakujou above his head.
Their battle had begun.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Sighing with impatience, Sango took the dry cloth from Miroku's forehead, wetted it with water from a bamboo flask, wrung it out, and replaced it.
Shippou had done well in finding them this shelter, a rock-littered hill not fall from the road on which they had approached the village. There was a deep recess here protected by an outcropping of rock, and here they had laid Miroku over Kagome's blankets. They had taken turns watching him, and none had strayed far since they arrived, but Sango found it difficult to spend even a moment away from the houshi. Already the sun had risen and fallen since he had collapsed, and the fever he developed in the afternoon was becoming worse.
She had hoped Miroku was well, that he was meditating, waging war – and winning – against Asesu. But the way his face contorted, the way his muscles tensed beneath the blankets she pulled over him when he shivered – she couldn't help but think he was living through nightmare after nightmare, that at the same time his body was wasting away due to the injuries he had sustained by her hand, and that sooner or later he would awake, and she would see the soulless eyes of her brother in Miroku's face, feel his hands on her throat, and she would be forced into deciding whether to kill him or die herself.
She did not believe she had strength in her to raise a blade to Miroku.
She leaned over him, pulling aside the blanket and the folds of his robe to check his injury. It was beginning to heal, but the bandages were red with the blood that continued to ooze from his wound. She would need to redress it soon.
Her heart leapt up to her throat as she felt the all-too-familiar sensation of a hand expertly maneuvering beneath one of the armor plates of her taiji-ya uniform and caressing her comparatively unprotected bottom.
She turned her head toward him, her eyes wide with surprise. Half-lidded eyes met hers, weary and pained but with a satisfaction that bordered on playfulness.
She hit him, of course – she had to, didn't she? – but her blow was weak, fueled not by the anger of him groping her, but by the frustration and fear of having to watch him lie there and engage in a battle she could not assist, by the knowledge it was her blade that felled him and, unless his fever broke soon, may eventually kill him.
"Sango," he whispered hoarsely, the corners of his mouth upturned. His hand slid away, touched the mark on his cheek.
"Houshi-sama. Asesu is -?"
"Weakened. He has hidden himself, preparing for his next attempt to control me."
He coughed dryly. Sango uncorked a bamboo canteen and held it before him. He took it in one hand, let her place her arm behind his shoulder to sit him up, and drank deeply.
"Arigotou," he said, handing the bottle back to her and lying down. He looked at the craggy rock overhanging them, and turned his head to the starry sky outside.
"It's still dark," he remarked.
"Only because you missed the sun entirely. You've been unconscious a full day and part of the night."
He frowned at this.
"I apologize. I didn't realize I was hindering our mission so badly."
"We've been waylaid before. Besides, what else could you have done?"
He said nothing.
"Are you in pain, Houshi-sama? I can get Kagome's medicines if you want."
"There's no need."
He flexed his hand, the hand with the Kazaana, and she could tell he was thinking deeply.
"Sango," he said. "If I wanted to tell you something, something very important, would you be willing to listen to it, to the very end?"
"I suppose, Houshi-sama, that would depend on what exactly you meant to tell me."
He smiled. "A wise answer, as always, from Sango-sama."
He turned, looking away from her, to the stars. He waited a moment, took her silence as a gesture of affirmation, and began to speak slowly and thoughtfully.
"It's always been just me, traveling alone. Well, myself and Hachi, but mostly me. I've always lived on borrowed time - Naraku killed me, killed every male in my line, but the houriki of our family keeps the Kazaana at bay, and like samurai, we are determined, and even with our heads cut off, we can exact revenge. Like vengeful ghosts we come at Naraku, and like ghosts we fade and become nothing when unsuccessful.
"You have to understand this, Sango - gomen nasai, you don't have to . . ." he paused, collecting his thoughts. "I was brought up as a monk so that I could have the power to control the Kazaana - without my houriki it would be unsealed and would have killed me as a child. It was my mission to do two things: first, to find a woman and make me a son, staying with her only long enough to ensure he was brought to a monastery and cared for when born, so he would be prepared if and when my curse passed to him. My only other purpose was to defeat Naraku. I held no illusions: with each generation the Kazaana becomes stronger, overwhelms a man's houriki faster, and consumes him sooner. Even without the injuries I've sustained to it through Naraku's damned bees and other minions, it is unlikely I would have ever lived beyond the age of twenty-five.
"When one is young - I suppose I still am young, though thanks to my curse I feel I have far fewer years ahead of me than behind - one finds it very easy to drown his worries in drink and women. It requires less patience than meditation, in any case. When one has little time left to do a very serious thing, one becomes greedy and is willing to lie, and cheat, and steal, simply because he believes earning money would require too much time. This is how I became this sort of person.
"I'm a bad houshi, Sango. I know this. You don't trust me very much, and I do not deserve to be trusted. But I've found myself changing lately. When I began to travel with Inuyasha, Kagome, and Shippou - you may laugh at this, Sango, but they were the first real, true friends I've ever had. I began to behave myself, or tried at least, because I began to worry about how I appeared to them.
"And then, then you came to us, Sango. You were unlike any girl I've ever met, and still are. And sometime in our travels - I know not when - I began to realize I worried less and less about the Kazaana. I still was aware of it, of the brief time I had left, but I began to find more comfort in your words, in being near you, than in all the tea-houses and brothels I've ever attended. So long I had viewed my curse with mute despair, or with quiet resilience. I did not consider my life worth much. Being with you gave me something to look forward to in the mornings, something to dream about at night, and while you make my life so much richer just by staying with us, you also make the pain I feel at knowing the brief time I have left so much sharper."
Wordlessly, Sango reached forward and took Miroku's hands in her own.
"Several times at night I've felt the pain in my hand, and worried that the seal would break while I was asleep or otherwise unaware, and claim all of us before I had chance to get myself a safe distance from you and the others. But each time I awake at night and wander, or think so seriously of running away fast enough that none of you could follow me, I think to myself: what if, by some bad luck, despite her amazing skill and cunning, Sango someday found herself in a situation where she was in mortal danger?
"I want to be beside you then. When all but hope is lost, I will risk my life to save you, I will sacrifice it willingly, without hesitation or regret, and if I do not die then I will do the same thing again and again.
"I'm a cheat and a lecher, and I can't change that, at least not as easily or as quickly as I'd like. In even my dreams I am unfit to be your husband, I fear at times I am too untrustworthy to be your friend, but though it is unfit for me to give my life to you and live together with you, I would give it to you as sacrifice, my blood to save yours. It's a cheap gift, as I have perhaps two or three years remaining anyway, but it's the most I can give you."
He turned back to her – perhaps he would have found it impossible baring himself like that to her face – and saw the tears on her blushing cheeks.
"H – Houshi-sama," she whispered. "I . . . I can't believe . . . that you feel this way."
His hand slid free of hers, touched her cheek. His thumb brushed against her lips.
"I think you do believe me, that you've known how I've felt about you for a long time. I think you know me better than I know myself."
She smiled weakly. "You may be right, but I also fear that Houshi-sama would not tell me his true feelings, unless . . . unless he thought he were going to die."
Miroku's jaw hung open, ready to argue, but he closed his mouth.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Houshi-sama. . ."
"I want you to bind my hands and feet. If I lose, it will give you some time to stop him."
He heard her voice waver with the tears she tried to hide from him.
"Houshi-sama, please don't die."
"You need to promise, Sango. Promise me you won't hesitate. If Asesu defeats me, I can still hold him captive, for a few moments. Cut me down then, immediately, and I will carry him with me to hell. You and the others will be safe as long as – "
He was silenced with her lips, her hands on his face, her fingers lacing themselves into his hair.
"Sango," he murmured against her mouth. He reached upwards, rested his hands tentatively on her sides, until she grabbed one wrist and planted a hand firmly on her bottom.
She leaned back, tears streaming down her face, the shoulders of his robes bunched up in her fists.
"Please live for me. It was my fault you were hurt. My fault that you're sick now."
"It makes no difference, Sango. I have my wits about me, and I need nothing else now. I will not die from your sword. Even if I did, it was not your hand that wielded it. There is nothing for you to feel guilty about."
"There's still a chance," she prompted. "There's still a chance, isn't there? That you will survive, and be with us again?"
He nodded. Asesu was strong, and though he was weakened and in retreat, Miroku knew his second onslaught on his mind would be far more effective. Miroku did not believe he stood much chance; in fact, his entire plan was more or less what he had told Sango: destroy Asesu's spirit along with his own. If possible, he would do so in meditation, and die in his sleep rather than by Sango's hesitant blade.
Leaving his meditation to speak with her was dangerous enough, damn near foolhardy, for if Asesu returned from the depths of Miroku's mind while Miroku was conscious, the creature would be able to construct his own fight for dominance. Asesu had fought him to a stalemate in a construct of his own design; being forced into a challenge in which Asesu had written every rule against him would be suicide. But it was a risk Miroku was willing to take, for he believed it was the last chance he would ever have to see Sango.
But, there was still a chance, wasn't there?
"Hai," he added. "A chance."
"Then," she said, "I'm tempted to give you incentive to come back to me."
He smiled at this.
"More incentive than this?" he asked, caressing her soft bottom. He couldn't quite believe that she had allowed him to touch her there, even given the circumstances. Nor could he believe he was so deep in thought for the past minute that he had pretty much let his hand lay there like a dead fish as they spoke.
"Hai. More than that."
"Sango, there is only one thing I would ask of you."
"Anything."
His hand trailed up her back, and as he pressed his palm behind her head he pulled her face down to his. Her eyes were wide, her breaths short and fast on his lips.
"All I want, all I ever wanted from you, is to hear my name."
She closed her eyes, and the tears dripped on his face.
"Mi . . ." she sniffed, caught her breath. "Miro . . .ku."
His lips searched out hers, hungrily, and he felt her shift position and lie down beside him. When he released her, she pressed her face to his chest and wrapped her arms around him, mindful not to disturb his wound.
Miroku kept an arm around Sango's shoulders, telling himself that he would push her away in a minute and remind her to tie him up and keep her distance from him, but a minute became two, two became five, and the feeling of Sango's breath on his throat, her hands gripping his robes, her chest pressing rhythmically against his side, and the warm, soft weight of a sleeping young woman beside him was something that the fear of death held no providence over.
He dully noted the hanyou, miko, neko-youkai, and kitsune, watching them wide-eyed and blushing from a thick pile of brush not far from the cave entrance, before falling asleep.
Author's note:
When I began this story, I believed it would be set somewhere between the disappearance of Naraku and the appearance of the Shichinin-tai, which would place this just before Chapter 234 of the manga or before Episode 102 of the anime, for you sticklers such as myself. I hope the interactions between Miroku and Sango are appropriate at that time in the series.
Also, is anyone actually listening to the songs I'm excerpting? They're very good!
-Scribe
Chapter posted July 7, 2003