The Feel of Her Hand
Summary—Just some random musings concerning my favorite InuYasha couple. Slightly fatalistic.
Disclaimer—I do not own Miroku. He belongs to Sango, if she'd admit it finally. On the flip side, I don't own Sango either—see above. Trust me, if I owned them, they would have been married for about a year by now.
Miroku's POV
I lean against a tree, staring into the fire, lost in my thoughts. More specifically, my thoughts of a certain lovely brown-haired tajiya. I was so close to her today—I held her hand for the first time. Even as I sit here, surrounded by my sleeping companions, I can feel how her hand felt, how utterly different it was from other women's—calloused instead of soft. I know that she mourns the loss of delicate white hands, lady's hands, but to me her hands are more beautiful than any others'. The calluses show her strength, her inner fire, her amazing uniqueness. Sango is so different than any other women I have known—she fights when other women hide, she stands her ground without hesitation as other women, and men even, run away. She has never had a traditional family, with her mother dying so early and everyone around her being warriors first and family and friends second, but she has deep, strong love within her—for her little brother who she still has hope for, for her dead family, for us, her friends. That is, I suppose why I love her so much, so all-consumingly. Enough to give my life for hers, in an instant. And enough to drive her away, day after day, because, as perplexed, maybe, I could almost dare to believe as hurt she is by my behavior, it is better than pledging her love to a man who has been marked by death. There is nothing more I would love than to rush up to her this very instant, take her hands again in mine and tell her how I feel, beg her to stay with me forever. But my forever is so much shorter than hers will be, I know. My time is running out, while she is just entering into herself, the strong, confidant, loving, shy, brave, gentle tajiya that I am in love with. I will not destroy her life in that way. I could not. Instead, I grope her, confuse her, show her a mask, so that when I die, she will mourn me for a while, and then move on with her life, and find the man of her dreams.
I almost destroyed my masquerade today. We had just finished fighting the dog demon that had used the body of the beautiful princess, and I had just consecrated her burial shrine, so that the princess's soul, now freed, would protect the village. Then Kagome came up to, and told me that Sango was sad, had been ever since we came back. I didn't know why. We were both fine, safe, and I had managed to avoid the princess-demon's grasp. I hope, in the part of my heart that keeps my away from Sango for her safety, that she will never find out why. For, I looked at the eyes of the princess, I'll admit it. The eyes that had ensnared all the other village men. But I did not feel love, or lust, when I looked into those eyes. Instead, there was only pity for the poor woman who died alone. My heart was already taken, and the eyes held no sway over my, because they were not Sango's eyes. The voice of the princess, honey smooth, slid past me, for it was not Sango's bittersweet sound, and her touch was too silky, the touch of a perfect woman, for it to ever be Sango's, who has lived a life as far apart from the one she should as I have.
When I went to talk to Sango, she was sitting on the hillside near the village, with her hair swaying in the slight breeze, and I felt my heart jump. And as we talked, she seemed so—defenseless, as if, for once, her walls of protection, from her mother and then her brother and father's deaths, were slipping away with the sun. I felt mine slipping with them, and I did not try to call them back. For one long moment, her hand was in mine, my eyes were looking into her clear, true-seeing gaze, and I had a brief thought—If I died now, I would be at ease. I would not care. I could go happily, at peace. I think that my thoughts were reflected in my eyes, because she blushed, and turned away, and I suddenly remembered the self-imposed order of things, and realized how close I was to letting go. And so I groped her, knowing that it would hurt her, and she slapped me, and I felt bittersweet satisfaction, knowing that everything was once again in place, and our walls were up and strong. But I also felt a deep sense of loss. What I felt on that hillside was partly the emotions I always feel when by her—peace, warmth, love, a sense that I am home, and a deep awe for her inner strength and fortitude. But on that hillside was also the first time I thought that, maybe, incredibly, if I had asked her to accept me, she would have done so. But I didn't, and so she didn't, and so I am sitting here, lost in my thoughts by the fire, remembering the feel of her hand.