If You Need Her
by Scribe Figaro
SESSION FOUR: BREATHE WITH ME
"Life is a mystery
Everyone must stand alone
I hear you call my name
And it feels like . . . home."
Madonna, "Like a Prayer"
"Chichi-ue! Chichi-ue!"
The violent waves of the unleashed Kazaana ripped at the young boy's clothes, yet he ran into the hell-winds without reason or fear, and would have been drawn in himself but for Mushin's arms around his body.
"No, Miroku! Go no farther, lest you be drawn in as well!"
"Let me go, Oushou-sama!" he cried, clawing at the monk's arm, his eyes wide and mad like a cornered animal. He loved his father, his only family, and would rather die than be alone.
And yet, even as Miroku tried to sink his teeth into the monk's arm to break his grip, it was done. With a rending crash, his father's Kazaana was drawn into itself and the winds abated, leaving a wide crater in the field before them.
Miroku fell to his knees, dimly aware of Mushin grabbing his right wrist tightly and wrapping a rosary around it, one very similar to his father's. And as the boy cried his first tears as an orphan, an odd sensation came over him: the feeling of a young woman before him, pale, naked, indescribably beautiful. The apparition placed a hand on his cheek, and her warmth was reassuring, not drying the tears, but lessening their sting, and as she leaned toward him and whispered words soft and reassuring into his ear, he realized that this moment too shall pass, as all moments do, and that he would be happy again.
Miroku opened his eyes, seeing no one, but still he felt the hands on his shoulders, could smell the perfume, and as he looked down to the crater that was his father's grave, could feel a soft kiss on his forehead.
"Remember this," the voice said. "Remember that terrible things are always followed by wonderful things. Know this, and be at peace."
The presence faded away at that instant, but the warmth did not leave him, and as Miroku wiped the last tears from his eyes he found much of his sadness gone, replaced with the grim determination once receives upon setting out upon a difficult journey.
He turned to Mushin, who stared at the boy with neither love nor hate, but a kind understanding and realization that the boy he had helped raise had just then been thrown into manhood.
"I am done with the Classics," Miroku said. "I am done with the I Ching and the codes of conduct. Teach me how to fight, Oshou-sama." He raised his fist in the air, and his face betrayed the pain as the Kazaana began to tear at the flesh and assert its place on his palm. "Teach me all you know so that Naraku's curse ends with me."
- - -
There was nothing, nothing but blackness, and then there was death, the smell, the taste, the dirt in her face, her mouth, her nostrils caked with it, the worms that crawled over her flesh, the crushing weight of earth over her chest.
Kohaku. Father.
We are dead.
The dirt yielded, very slightly, as she pushed against it. She was buried; her grave was shallow. She need only claw at the weight above and it would break, and she would taste air and sky.
But she was alone now. A taiji-ya did not fight alone. Even if she lived, it would be only to avenge her clan. Then she must kill herself, like a samurai, and thus her honor would be preserved.
But she was no samurai; the bushido held no sway over her. Better to die now. Much easier.
And even as she resigned herself to this, and made the ache of suffocation in her breast quiet itself, she felt strong hands at her shoulders, shaking her, and a loud voice, a man's voice, cool and soothing, yet also strong, and deep, and urgent. The voice persuaded her, assured her that her brother still lived, that she must fight the darkness and reclaim her life, for Kohaku's sake. It urged her to fight on, to turn her sadness into rage, to make that rage her weapon, her ally. The voice urged her to fight on, for she would not wait long before she again knew family, and knew love.
But Sango did not want these things. She wanted her own family. She was not a huntress. She was a scared little girl who wanted her father. She was Sango, with a scraped knee that hurt and hurt and never stopped hurting. She was Sango, who loved her little brother. She was Sango, who played gently with Kirara's paws and wondered idly if she would ever see a truly scary youkai, the type that was powerful enough to change his appearance and look almost human.
And then, only seconds from slipping back to the void, she felt the warmth over her, a body lying atop her own, a male body, his naked chest pressed against hers, his hands at her shoulders, squeezing, then moving down, down.
She gasped, unable to comprehend how here, as she lay dying, she would be visited by a ghost of a sukebe, who would embrace her and then grab her bottom! But in gasping her mouth opened, and she felt the ghostly lips upon hers, warm lips, and she could taste him, taste his breath, and that breath filled her lungs, filled her with strength.
She felt his hair brush her face, felt his mouth move to her ear, and the voice was again strong and urgent.
"You are not a little girl, Sango. You are a woman. And more than that: you are a youkai taiji-ya!"
I am a taiji-ya.
She pushed against the dirt.
"Arise, Sango, and claim your destiny!"
I will claim what is mine!
Sango broke free of the grave, and though she could barely move, could only cough and gag at the filth in her throat, woe be unto any man or youkai or hanyou that attempted to detain her from her vengeance.
- - -
Sango dodged Inuyasha, but he was too fast for her, and she had greatly underestimated his skill. Her eyes were twisted in rage and hate and pain, but when Inuyasha swiped the mask off her face and exposed her to the smoke of her own smoke bombs, Miroku saw her face fully and thought she was the must beautiful thing he had ever seen.
- - -
The swirl of clouds surrounded them. Sango leaned against his shoulder, and Miroku's arm was protectively around her.
How many memories had they shared? Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. She had viewed his entire lifetime, and he hers. How much time had passed? She didn't know, but surely it was a lifetime or more. She was exhausted, could feel the sweat of both exertion and fear on her skin.
"What more can be left?" she asked softly.
"I'm not sure," Miroku answered. "I think I remember everything now. The feeling of apprehension before, of lost memories – all gone. I remember you, my friends, my father, my past. I can't imagine what more there can be."
"Houshi-sama," she whispered, gesturing to his left hand.
From nowhere his shakujou appeared, fitting comfortably in his hand. And yet it was not his shakujou, for it lacked the six rings and was encrusted with jewels, and the sharp ornament atop it was a gilt blade, making the weapon not a staff but an oddly-balanced yet exquisite spear.
Wordlessly, he turned the spear point-down and stirred it into the mist below their feet.
Sand appeared beneath them, and the mists began to swirl about the sandbar on which they now stood. Now the mists disappeared completely, and above was the blue-grey sky, and all around was ocean, boundless ocean, and the seas were perfectly calm.
The sandbar grew and the seas receded, and then grass sprang forth, trees grew about them, and in a matter of seconds they stood on a beachhead on the boundary of a lush forest.
Miroku and Sango turned this way and that, eyes and mouths wide at the miracle about them, transfixed by the beauty of this island.
Then they turned back to each other.
She stared at him, disturbed by the way he looked at her, for he was Miroku and he was not Miroku, and the curiosity in his demeanor that he usually kept so closely guarded was quite clear in his face.
He leaned close, and she suddenly became increasingly aware of their nudity, and her breath caught as he extended one hand to cup her face.
"Izanami," he addressed her, brushing gentle fingers on her cheek.
Her hand covered his, and it was Sango's voice and yet not Sango's voice that replied to him.
"Izanagi," she sighed.
- - -
There was something different. Something in the air. She couldn't say for certain – perhaps the sun shone clearer, the flowers grew brighter, the wind blew more gently.
Whatever it was, she knew the entire world still breathed its sigh of relief, even though it had been nearly two weeks since Naraku was wiped entirely from the earth, and the Shikon no Tama was purified, the war inside the jewel ended, and the final blow cast by Midoriko-dono was cast, a strike powerful enough to destroy the jewel and all the evil that sought to corrupt it.
"We are home, Ane-ue."
She turned to her brother, who held a look of nervous apprehension. He knew what had happened in the village, and though she had spent so many days talking to him, holding him, reviving the pure soul that had been all but trampled into the dust by Naraku's control, his resolve tended to waver.
"I should warn you for what you are about to see, Kohaku." The young taiji-ya nervously brushed a hand through her bangs. "There are graves, dozens of them, and as you can see the front gates broken, so are many of the homes. But we will rebuild them, Kohaku, and soon the word will spread that there is a new village chief, and this place will again be sought after by those who wish to learn our fighting techniques." She smiled, bringing a hand to her brother's shoulder. "The people will come, and they will live here. We will not be alone for long."
He nodded.
Together the passed the gate.
"But the two of us, Ane-ue? Is that enough?"
Sango winced, remembering the man who had stayed by her side every moment, who had taken his share of injuries from Naraku, and hers as well. The man who bled for her, nearly died for her, and who, unnoticed, had slipped away like a spirit when the task they pursued together was done.
She had been so occupied with her brother that it had taken her nearly a week to notice him missing. Only then did she ask Kaede where the monk had gone, and only then did the woman assure her that Houshi-sama was well, and left in good spirits some days before, no doubt with business to attend to regarding the death of Naraku. After all, it was his family that was the most dedicated to destroying the creature, so it was not unlikely there was some ceremony Miroku must perform to announce his victory to his ancestors.
Still, she had forgotten her betrothed, allowed him to wait patiently in the shadows as she held her brother and spoke to him of their past, allowed herself to forget him for a time. Such insult could not be excused. She should have introduced him immediately to Kohaku, as the man that would become his brother.
"The two of us will be enough, Kohaku."
Sango shook her head sadly.
We'll just have to be.
The graves were as she last saw them, though spring and summer had left its mark, and many of the mounds were sprouting thick grass. The corpses of youkai were long since carried away, but the broken homes were no different.
Except for one.
"Ane-ue?" Kohaku whispered.
One single hut was unlike all the others – that of the village chief.
Her home.
Their home.
"Nan da yo?" she breathed.
The roof was patched. The broken posts that supported it were replaced. The walls that were once gouged with tooth and claw were entirely repaired.
A breeze lifted her hair, bringing to her nose the scent of boiling rice and burning incense, the latter of which tinged with a variety of smells that identified one man and no other.
She grinned with excitement, suppressing a childish giggle, but just barely.
She dashed to the entryway, stopping short on the genkan, and her heart nearly burst from her chest as she saw him kneeling before the smoldering fire-pit, a pile of carpentry tools beside him, his arms and legs glistening with sweat, his hair unbound, his body naked save a loincloth.
His eyes rose to her, and they spoke of both surprise and excitement. He hadn't expected her to return so soon, and the pieces of lumber and piles of dust around him made it clear his work was yet to be finished.
"Sango," he said, standing. She had never seen him so undressed before, and yet he showed no discomfort whatsoever.
"I apologize for my appearance. I had hoped your journey would take a few more days, but I am glad to see you again. And you, Kohaku, I hope you are well."
Kohaku nodded.
Sango was blushing now.
"Kohaku," she said, "Houshi-sama and I must discuss some things. Will you leave us alone for a few hours?"
Kohaku blushed. "Ane-ue?"
"Kohaku."
"Mm!" He bowed quickly and turned, the sound of his footfalls on the packed dirt soft but hurried.
Sango tugged at the cord that hung above her head, allowing the flap of tamati to roll down and cover the entryway behind her.
"Sango?" His voice was apprehensive. He most likely felt he was nearing the sort of behavior that would lead to being struck with Hiraikotsu.
He was not far off.
She unstrapped the weapon from her back, laying it beside the doorway. Beside it she left her traveling pack and her sandals.
She stepped onto the raised flooring, avoiding the few broken boards here and there, and approached him.
"Houshi-sama," she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Miroku," she whispered, correcting herself. "My husband."
He smiled, bringing a hand to her cheek. "Sango. My beloved, my wife."
He sighed, smiling deeply.
"My only."
She moaned quietly against his touch, kissing the thumb that dragged across her lips.
"Tell me the tradition in your village for marriage, and I will see it done this very day."
"Ours is a simple tradition," Sango said quietly. "First the man must seek approval of the father of his bride-to-be." She closed her eyes, but not even thought of her father's death could taint this moment. "You gained that long ago, the moment you entered this village and ensured the burial rites of all my people, without any reason at all save your kindness and pity."
Miroku shook his head. "It was my duty to do so."
"It is a duty few monks would see to these days."
"Sadly, that is true, Sango." His hand slid behind her neck, pulling her closer. She obliged, pressing her body against his, laying her hands complacently on his naked chest.
"And next?"
"The husband to be must build a home for his woman, and she must approve of it."
"And does she approve?"
"She does."
His hands took an assertive position at her waist, holding her to him, and she wondered vaguely how long he could avoid the temptation to move lower.
"And after that," she said, "there is one last thing."
"And what is that?"
"He must promise to be her husband, to keep her well and safe, and to love no other. And she must call him husband, and swear to love him and seek no other man."
"It seems these things are done."
"So they are. And so I pity you."
"Nani?"
She grinned, eyes sparkling with something devilish.
"A female taiji-ya is to be feared both on the battlefield and on the matrimonial bed, Houshi-sama. Or did you not know that?"
With a gasp of surprise, he felt his legs hooked out from under him, and he landed heavily on the futon behind them.
- - -
The fire-pit was forgotten, and its untended ashes grew cold, the afternoon sun made its way across the sky, and the rays of gold caught the dust that pirouetted lazily throughout the room.
She was hot, and even now, as he felt the bedding beneath his back soaked with sweat, her light breath against his neck burned him, burned him like the marks on his back where her fingernails clawed him, burned like the muscles that ached from trying to satisfy her, from forcing him to positions and levels of endurance never before asked of him, burned like her body which took him in and did not let go until she was brought to that place, and throughout it all she held his face, kept her eyes upon him, and smiled when passion met resilience, and he cried her name with his face against her neck when he spent himself.
Now she was beside him.
Now she would always be beside him.
His wife.
His love.
His all.
He sighed, studying the roof again, lamenting this moment, the moment of realization.
Feeling his discontent, or perhaps simply his breathing, she opened one eye, tilting her head slightly to move her bangs out of the way.
"Hm?" she asked.
He reached over to her, pressed a hand to her face, and she closed her eyes as he playfully traced the bridge of her nose with his thumb.
Opening her eyes again, she smiled, though somewhat grimly.
"You realized it too, didn't you?"
"Sango?"
"This place. It isn't real. I could tell by the way you looked at the roof. You tried to remember working on it, and you couldn't, could you?"
He nodded slowly.
"It was the same with me and Kohaku," she said. "Just a few moments ago, I tried to remember talking to him, and I simply couldn't recall anything before today. Because it didn't happen, did it?"
"We are still in the Ametsuchi no Reisen, it seems," Miroku said. "The ritual of Izanagi and Izanami is complete."
"Then I must be pregnant. We will return to the world, and Naraku will still live, and I will be pregnant."
His hand brushed against her belly.
"The gods would not give us a burden that we could not bear, Sango."
"You're not worried, Houshi-sama?"
His eyes shone, but there was worry behind them.
"When we awake, things will be different. Things that happen in the spirit realm do not always transfer directly to the world in which we reside."
Her fingers traced a line across his chest, hand settling against his neck.
"Do you fear that I would not love you when we awake, Houshi-sama?"
He smiled, and he answered with his arms, drawing her toward him, and he answered with his lips, tasting her mouth again as if it were the first time, or the last time, and he did not close his eyes because he loved to see her blush, and behind her was the thatched roof that Miroku had never repaired, the sun passing through holes bigger than his open hands, and the wisps of clouds were frozen in time, and the sky was low.
But not quite low enough to touch.
Not even hardly.