By Hanyoukai
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Disclaimer: I don't own Inuyasha.
Author's Notes: Okay, my only excuse is that I wrote this while feverish. Flames are welcome (and deserved) this time.
Still needing Tylenol, damnit.
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In an unacknowledged speckle within the universe, a trampled field of bluebells sings to the winds waltzing above it.
Fumbling madly with the beads around his hand, Miroku feels the void growing, dilating wider and clearer, until it is a matter of moments before there exists first a tiny leak of suckling wind, seeking outlet from a raging tranquility.
The gently glowing vacuum, once enfolding one third of his tempered palm, now hisses malevolently, corroding at the edges of his hands. He closes his blue, blue eyes and feels the current swirling at his nape, grass and rocks flowing into his curse.
No escape, Naraku seems to chuckle inside of him, echoing hatred parallel faint, withering heartbeats, but he is wrong.
Kikyou, shaped of clay, dirt and a light sprinkle of sacred Goshinboku's subtle leaves, knows it too. She grapples and pulls beautifully at his purple robe, silent as a nightingale in lasting sorrow, and presses one daintily burning hand to his.
"There is no dignity in death," she recalls.
And so Miroku lives, if only for a little while longer.
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