If You Need Her
By Scribe Figaro
SESSION THREE: REUNITED
"You fell down, of course
And then you got up, of course
And started over
Forgot my name, of course
Then you started to remember."
- The White Stripes, "Same Boy You've Always Known"
Miroku was already out of breath. Leaning against a tree with one hand, he held the other to his gut to suppress the ache there.
He did not see Sango. He had not noticed when she had stopped to pick up a heavy stick for a makeshift weapon. He did not notice her double-back on him, or watch him from the bushes. He did not hear her when she, having lost her patience, approached him from behind with the heavy branch at her side.
He heard her voice.
"Don't move."
He of course did not heed that – it was mere reflex that made him turn to her. He had a split-second to see her face again, to take in the chestnut eyes with coral eyeshadow, the raven hair, the lips drawn thin with anger, before she broke the two-inch length of sapling over his forehead and knocked him to the ground.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The young woman in the pink and white yukata, her hands on her hips, stood over the prone man in the dark robes. The heavy branch that had dispatched him to an uneasy rest lay at her feet in pieces. The man had not moved since he collapsed a moment ago, and the red patch above his right eye where she had struck him bled slowly into his hairline and toward his ear, but the slow movement of his chest indicated he was still alive.
He looks like him. He really looks like him.
But it's impossible. He died. I saw the body. I buried him. I buried him a week ago.
But here he lies.
He's a puppet. Another puppet sent by Naraku to torture me. First my brother, now Houshi-sama. He would smile, greet me, caress my bottom, and snap my neck, all at once.
Still . . .
No. It's not him. Nothing comes back from the other world. Nothing whole, at least. Nothing good. Kikyou was resurrected, but she remains a clay doll, cold and uncaring, unable to forgive Inuyasha for the betrayal despite her equal part in Naraku's manipulation, unable to forgive herself for the feelings she must have had toward Inuyasha to allow the betrayal to take place, and holding somewhere in her heart – I am sure – the desire to drag Inuyasha to hell.
And Kohaku.
Kohaku was resurrected, but he is controlled by the tainted shard in his back and his own broken memories. He is not my brother; despite the assurances of the others I can't believe it. They did not know Kohaku; they don't understand. Even if he returns to me for good, he would be a different person. Without his memories of me he can not regard me as his sister anymore; with his memories he would live every day reliving the agony of killing Father and the others in his mind. Damn me for encouraging Father to train him! Damn me for following the ways of my village when I knew Kohaku never desired the life of a youkai taiji-ya. Damn me for not protecting him when he needed me most.
And what to do with the false Houshi-sama? Would you free him, as you tried to free Kohaku from the clutches of your enemy by your sword? Surely you can't beat Houshi-sama to death here.
I have my glaive on my wrist. I can draw it out, cut his throat in an instant. I can take care of him myself.
She meant to kill him as she kneeled beside him. But something stopped her, and against her intentions her hands went to his face, cupping his cheeks.
No puppet of Naraku would feel this warm.
She bit her lips, holding the tears back.
It would do no harm to wait. He can't hurt me, so long as I keep my guard up.
Fingers trailed down his neck, through the worn black fabric of his robe and the tattered remains of his kesa. She felt something within the folds of her robe, and unable to stop herself she drew out a roll of the brilliant white paper that Kagome had brought to Shippou from her time. Fingers trembling, she unrolled the parchment, confirming that it was the same picture that the kitsune had drawn and set beside Miroku's grave.
Is it possible, Kami-sama, is it possible for a man to come back from hell, pick up his funeral offerings, and return them to his family? Would my enemy be so thorough to carry such trinkets?
She didn't see him open his eyes, only the hand that shot up to grip her left wrist. Without thought, she flicked her wrist to release the curved blade hidden beneath the sleeve of her yukata and brought it to his neck.
He paused, watching her, but only for an instant. She must have looked frightening to him – her teeth clenched, her eyes bleary from tears, her entire body shaking from tension as she held the sharp convex edge of her blade against the delicate flesh of his neck – but he seemed to have the inhibitions of a drunkard, aware of her body but not his own. Her Houshi-sama.
Even as she held the blade to his throat, he drew her left hand to his lips and kissed the palm gently, drawing a long breath against it, his fingers gently intertwining with hers.
He stared at her, mouth open. Never in her life had Sango seen such desire, such passion, such ineffable want. He came to her from the other world, across chasms she could never fathom. His eyes spoke to her: I have been a wandering ghost until this very moment; death holds no providence over he whose love for Sango continues beyond this world. Touch me and make me alive, kiss me and make me breathe, marry me and make me a legacy, love me and make me whole. She wondered if her father had ever looked at her mother this way, if any man had ever looked at a woman in such a way.
"Houshi-sama," she said, her throat so dry she could not hear her own voice. She pulled her right arm away, turning her wrist so that the blade mounted upon it clicked loose and fell to the grass.
Still holding her hand, still staring in her eyes, he sat up.
She couldn't meet his gaze any longer – she would be hypnotized, were she not already. Her arms wrapped around him, gripping his robes tightly, crushing her chest against his, trying to feel him with as much of her body as she could. She felt his hands on her back, doing the same. In her mind she still expected treachery; in her heart she knew that even if this was a trick and he planned to stab her in the back this instant, she would not regret this moment.
"Sango," he growled against her ear. "Sango, I need to tell you –"
"Iie!" she shouted, digging her fingernails into his back. Don't ruin this, don't speak. Just be. Be here, with me. Forever. Whatever you do, don't you dare let me go.
Below the cosmic slow-dance of the stars, two figures held each other. They moved no more than the trees and grass around them; between them stood feelings so brilliant and so timeless that the new moon above very nearly fled from the sky in a fit of envy.