Title: Corrosion
Summary: Precious little monk.
Note: Miroku/Kikyou platonic. set pre-series, and post-series, and sometimes inbetween.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Dedication: For Numisma, 'cause she makes my head spin and all that jazz.
I.
It started deep within, pouring forth like water, clear and crystalline, but oh so very red.
It stretched and pulled over his body, clouding him darkness, and somewhere, he could feel it rotting through his core, twisting and pulling and threading through his very existence and -
It hurt.
He could feel the wind, bearing down on him. Could feel the rocks, flying up, ripping through cloth and flesh. Could feel his bones bending and breaking and -
Don't take me, not yet.
But the weight had already crushed him, and the pain was overwhelming. The ground was disappearing faster and faster and faster, and he could see their faces, pale with shock and fear. He could tell that their bodies were trembling and that tears were springing to their eyes because - You can't go! Not yet! - there was something wrong (always so wrong) about the way the beads had clattered to the ground, some of the tiny spheres shattering into pieces, like glass.
But he had been like glass, too, and none of them had realized, not until it was too late.
Well, most of them.
She had always been different, and he had been the first to realize it. At the time, it had caused a cold bitter laugh to well in his throat because... he couldn't really remember, not now.
He did know, though, that she would come -- I can not always protect you, little monk. But she would try, just like she always did and --
And yet...
Her hand was warm and soothing, but it set his skin on fire, as it wrapped around his tiny wrist, which was splitting and breaking and bleeding and dying. Then again, death always embraced death, and her eyes were empty and cold, and he knew that she was tired, too.
I can't take you with me.
Her eyes twinkled then, but her body was being crushed, too, and he knew that it was the end.
He had feared it, once, but not again. Never again.
He'll forgive me.
He shouldn't have had to, but the pillar of strength that he needed was there, so he drank it in greedily, reveling in the freezing absolution that she presented. It was sweet and kind, but there was fire bleeding from her eyes, making him want to pull away, making him want to rip her fingers from his wrist, and dangle the broken appendages in front of her face as she bled earth and mud and grass and --
It was a part of her, wasn't it?
She couldn't feel the pain, not like him, and for a moment, he wanted to crush her wrists, too. But she was wrapping the broken beads around his wrist, forcing him to hold onto her for just a little bit longer...
Oblivion, she said, has never tasted sweeter.
But when the darkness swallowed them whole, all he could remember was the deep, bitter resentment, welling angrily inside of him.
I won't ask you to apologize.
II.
He understood the leaves.
They whispered and chattered, but there was always something beautiful and majestic about it. Always something that was undoubtedly there that he just couldn't seem to wrap his tiny, childish mind around. His fingers were pudgy and short, but he had managed to pull himself through the branches - whose hands grabbed and pinched and tore at him, and stop... please stop. He couldn't understand, and yet somehow, he understood because they were all that he could hear. There was always Mushin-sama, but he was old and drunk and smelled like cherries, and it was something that caused his littly tummy to turn unpleasantly, because it was always so strong.
But the earth had been pretty today, and his dark little eyes had taken in everything, even though sometimes, there was nothing to really see, but there was always something to breathe and touch and taste and --
The leaves understood him, too.
But the branches and the trees hated him, because the leaves could speak as long as there was air and wind, and Mushin-sama had already told him that he was imbued with the air and the wind, and the ability to change it. So, really, what difference did it make if the branches hated him? He would still be the air, still have the wind, and still understand the leaves, so it didn't really matter anymore, that the other children hated him, or the trees and the grass and... and everything that didn't sometimes fall down dead... hated him as well.
Because he had the leaves, and the leaves had him, so he was never really lonely.
His little cheeks were red, and his hands were scraped and bleeding, but he leaned against the tree, and smiled at the leaves.
"Mushin-sama promised me a story."
The leaves waved at him, mocking him, but he pulled them closer, ignoring the way his hands stung at the contact.
"He promised that... a... a very pretty lady is going to be in it."
The leaves shifted, surprised, but immediately calmed down, pressing themselves against his tiny, pudgy face.
"Do you think... do you think it's about my -" he frowned then, as though unable to find the right words, but the leaves tickled his chin and he grinned. "Oh, it doesn't matter, really. I mean, there is going to be a pretty lady in it. Father liked pretty ladies, you know. When he was here, he said that grandfather liked pretty ladies as well."
The leaves giggled, and the boy couldn't help but blush.
"Shhh!" He exclaimed. "You have to promise not to tell, but... I like pretty ladies, too. And after I finally become a monk, I'm going to go and find the prettiest lady of all and she's going to bear my child so that I can carry on my legacy!"
The leaves tickled him, and absently, the boy scratched at his right hand, trying his best to ignore the way the cloth pressed against his skin, and the way the wooden beads around his wrist clanked together annoyingly. After a moment, the leaves silented, as though waiting for something. But his dark little eyes were staring out at nothing, and all he could feel was the way the beads shifted against the sheath on his arm. Could only imagine the way the wind and air erupted around him, whenever it was uncovered and... it wasn't that bad, but the branches were always hurting him, forcing him back, and he really, really didn't like it.
"Why does everything hate me?"
The leaves tittered impatiently, as though annoyed, but the tree pressed into his little back, and he could do nothing but frown.
His eyes screwed up tight, the tree shifted against him some more, but all he could do was concentrate on scratching his hand because everything was just so itchy, and felt like it was stretching and -
His dark eyes widened.
"The people in the villages get infections a lot," he whispered, his eyes focusing on the leaves around him. "I'm not going to get sick like them, am I?"
No, the leaves seemed to say, but infections can only be cured by death.
"Are you infected?" he asked. "After the summer, you must always get sick because you're always falling from the trees."
Everything that is impure must die.
He clutched the wooden beads tightly.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
The leaves laughed.
Don't be, they mocked him, you don't need our consent.
Something swelled painfully beneath his ribs, and his eyes darkened dangerously.
"Okay," he said simply.
Even after he had left the leaves, his right hand never stopped itching.
III.
Mushin-sama never was a good story teller.
Even after the great battle, even after hearing about the way her shoulder was cut open and oozing with blood -- even after he was told about the way the hanyou's body was pinned to the tree, sentenced to an eternal sleep, and after the priestess' body was burned along with the Shikon no Tama... even after all of it, he went to bed that night feeling oddly empty.
His right palm hadn't stopped itching, either. He knew that Mushin-sama had seen -- Mushin-sama saw everything according to the leaves near the temple but... well, Mushin-sama had been extremely red, his eyes unnaturally beady, and that weird cherry scent that hung around him seemed to have increased tenfold. Back near the village, all the women made degrading comments about Mushin-sama, and despite the fact that he was nothing like his keeper, all the women felt as though he was going to fall to the same fate as Mushin-sama.
Although, it probably had nothing to do with the fact that he was often seen whispering in the trees, and more with the fact that he had that weird string of wooden prayer beads wrapped around his cloth covered hand.
But he didn't understand their ire, either.
Restless, he pushed his blanket off of him and snatched up his hakama -- Mushin-sama would be too far gone to even know that he had disappeared, and despite the fact that what the temple leaves had told him was probably true, there was something worming it's way beneath his surface, aching and hurting and... there's too much life in me.
It coiled around him unpleasantly, burning his skin, and he felt something tugging at his ribs harshly.
It didn't make sense, not really, but it had frightened him, and he was already sliding the shoji door closed behind him.
Something tickled the edge of his mind, warning him, but already, his dark eyes were taking in everything, scanning the temple grounds. The shadows looked particularly joyful that night, flickering in and out of his vision, and the leaves were unnaturally loud -- too bright, they seemed to scream, you are much too bright -- and he was frightened, more frightened than he had ever really been, even when Mushin-sama had first told him that story about the demon that stole bad little children from their beds.
His pace quickened as the shadows swarmed around him, and a strange, purple mist continued to cling to him -- gods, why wouldn't the leaves stop screaming and the shadows stop moving and it had to be a nightmare, because when the stars came out, nothing was ever like this and -- the worm slithered through his ribs, forcing a deep, cutting heat to flow throughout his chest.
He stumbled, and the mist seemed to become even darker, more sinister, and his eyes were watering, his throat was burning and raw, and his lungs felt like they were on fire. His dark eyes stopped looking around -- he never, ever looked around when he was living a true nightmare, otherwise the demons really would kill him and --
Everything that is impure must die.
His hand was shaking as he gripped the prayer beads wrapped around hisright hand, and he barely noticed the tears running down his face.
"Mushin-sama?" he asked quietly, wishing he had stayed in the temple with his mentor. "I'm scared."
The leaves tittered joyously.
The itch on his hand started to burn unpleasantly, and he tried his hardest not to cry, but the tears were already streaming down his face, and he could feel the scream building up in his throat at the pain. But he wouldn't, couldn't, had promised his father that he would never cry, had told Mushin-sama that he wouldn't cry, because it was what his father had wanted, for him to be strong, and he was failing miserably and --
Inheritance.
The worm in his chest curled pleasantly around his ribs, grating it's sick, bone like body against his own, causing his bones to chip and break and -- his palm continued to burn, the beads started to melt, and through the cloth, he could feel his own, warm sticky blood spilling over his hand, staining the white cloth a pretty crimson red.
His stomach twisted unpleasantly, his eyes widened, and the strange purple mist gathered around him, along with the shadows, and the leaves jeered at him nastily, laughing and swaying and hissing and --
The pain erupted.
There's too much life in you, the leaves hissed a second later, and the beads melted off of his hand.
The world around him rocked precariously, and he could feel something shifting, something agonizing worming it's way up his arm, to his hand, and in the distance, he could hear him laughing cruelly.
The ground exploded.
And somewhere, through the harsh winds, through the pain in his little palm, through the burning of his ears and his chest and the cries of the leaves and the trees and... and everything, Miroku screamed.
I don't want to die, please, don't let me die.
It was the last time he ever cried.
IV.
She held him as he cried.
His little body was shaking, his clenched fist was dripping with blood, his hakama was drenched in sweat and -- something in her chest ached causing her to run her fingers over his damp, black bangs.
"Quiet, little monk," she whispered, watching as he shifted away from her.
"Mushin-sama lied," he murmured, betrayed. "He lied."
When the boy continued to sob, she merely shifted away, wishing she had never heard him scream.
The shadows around them shifted, and silently, she moved away.
At the temple, a pyre erupted in flames.
V.
He didn't know where they came from.
They were just resting there, waiting for him, and as he wiped his bloody little palm on the grass -- don't open, not now -- and pulled the purple cloth over his hand, something within him tittered happily. His eyelids felt heavy, and there was an apparent, nasty ache behind his eyes, but as he slipped the beads around his hand, all he could think of was how he had cried, even after he promised his father that he wouldn't.
He stared at the little casing, his eyes narrowed, but red, and he wondered why he couldn't hear the leaves.
His tiny palm was aching, too, but instead of focusing on it, he pushed the pain away and fingered the pretty little glass beads, loving the way they slid under his fingers. For a moment, he was reminded of the worm, and he could almost feel it coiling around his ribs, but then the pain faded, and all he could see was the earth, upturned, all around him.
His little brow furrowed, and his dark eyes took in everything -- the trees were missing, the leaves were gone, chunks of grass were missing and... he climbed out of the tiny crater, his eyes widening in atonishment.
Everything was burned.
He could still smell the pretty scent of fire and earth, melding together, and for a moment, he didn't really understand, but then he remembered the burning in his eyes and his throat and his palm splitting in half, spilling with blood and --
... Mushin-sama had lied.
He could feel the tears welling behind his eyes, could feel the sorrow building up inside of him, but then he remembered the story, remember what Mushin-sama had told him -- the priestess had been lied to, too -- and instead of sorrow, the righteous, indignant anger welled within him, and he left for the temple.
"Inheritance," Mushin-sama replied simply, looking at the purple cloth on his hand. "The pyre burned last night, Miroku."
"Mushin-sama --"
"Do you know who came?"
Miroku's heartbeat quickened. "Yes, Mushin-sama. She... she told me to stay quiet."
Mushin-sama nodded, his eyes still on the cloth wrapped around Miroku's wrist.
"What did you plead for?"
The little monk opened his mouth to speak, but when Mushin-sama placed his hand on his shoulder, Miroku couldn't help but close his mouth once again. He thought back to the blood, the pain, the purple mists that caused his lungs to burn, and the painful, aching darkness that had slithered undauntingly through his ribs, and he could feel the tears pricking in the back of his eyes. But he wouldn't cry, not again, and his fingers were curling around the glass prayer beads, fisting them, feeling the dull throb of pain dancing across his blackened palm.
"I wanted her to save me," he whispered quietly. "She was very pretty, Mushin-sama."
In the other room, the pyre continued to burn.
VI.
The crater had filled with water.
He had gone when there were shadows, purple mists, and that agonizing little worm coiled around his ribs once again. But all he could see was the pool of water, the mists, the shadows, and he knew that somewhere, she was watching him, keeping vigil like she always did and... he finally realized why.
But the leaves had remained dead, and although she wanted to hide in the trees, she couldn't because they were dead, too and --
He dipped his right hand into the pool of water, and watched her sit next to him. Her eyes were just as dark as his -- haunted by shadows and mists and filthy, painful little worms -- but there was a strange, sickening sort of comfort in knowing that she suffered, just as much as he did, and he was thankful for it.
"Monk," she started apathetically, only to turn her vicious gaze away from him, towards the rippling pool of water. "You're bleeding."
The crimson seeped from his hand, mixed with the beautiful, crystalline water, and for a moment, as her fingers wrapped around her wooden bow, he wanted to snap her pretty ivory fingers from her hand, wanted to watch as she bled. He wanted to watch as she felt just as much pain as he had, because it just wasn't fair that his filthy, disgusting curse still haunted him, even after everything had erupted behind him. But then again, she had always told him not to allow his bitter feelings to follow him into his personal hell, but she was there, burning as he burned, hating as he hated, feeling betrayed as the pyre continued to burn, and Mushin-sama's clay body rotted and broke apart because --
This was hell wasn't it? This was what his father had had to suffer through, when everything exploded around him. This was what his father had told him not to cry about, because really, who did want to go mad?
But it was driving him mad, and there was nothing he could do about it, because the pyre continued to burn, the earth around him remained black and burned and so very ugly...
He had understood the leaves, once, but now, all he could do was understand her, and it made something twist painfully within him.
"Kikyou-sama," he said quietly, "Mushin-sama told me your story."
She turned to him, and the fire bled from her eyes. His fingers paused, the blood in his body burned, and his lips quirked up in amusement.
"It does not concern me, little monk."
The poison that permeated the air accompanied the arrows that had pierced his heart, and he drank it in greedily. As his hand dipped back into the crystalline water, he knew that she had seen -- Kikyou-sama had seen everything, but she wasn't going to let him win, not yet. She wasn't going to save him, either, and the tiny quirk of amusement that he had felt only moments before diminished.
But then again, she had reached out to him, even when the flowers and the leaves were able to adorn her pretty hair -- (The good ones, not the bad ones that caused his hand to rot faster, and his eyes to become darker, nor his body to stretch and creak and sway to the rise and fall of the hated, blistering shadows) -- even when his fingers were short and chubby, and there was no such thing as Kagome. But he knew that somewhere, there was Inuyasha because whenever he looked at her, she bled fire, and no one was supposed to, not unless they were Kikyou-sama and --
"You're a fool," Kikyou-sama replied, and the fingers that he wanted to break only moments before gripped the beads around his wrist and tugged. "The taijiya continues to grieve."
Miroku's eyes darkened, and he turned towards the temple, watching as the pyre within continued to burn prettily.
"I can still hear him," Miroku said quietly. "He believes himself to have won."
A small smile graced Kikyou's lips.
The shadows and the mist shifted pleasantly around the two of them, and he could feel her fingers wrapping around his wrist, fingering the beads once again. But she wasn't looking at him, like she never did, and he could feel the worm tugging on his ribs once again.
"Kikyou-sama --"
"Keep quiet."
Miroku nodded, and turned away, waiting as she continued to drag her fingers over the cloth, over the beads, and for a moment, he was grateful for it. But then her fingers dug into his palm, and his body spasmed, and he could feel her pretty energy seeping into him -- purifying him -- and his eyes screwed shut, hating the way the worm snapped his ribs. Hating the way her fingers felt sharp and painful and -- I should have broken them. He wasn't supposed to feel regrets, but the heat from the pyre permeated the air, and the shadows began to dance around them, jovially, and he hated and hated and hated and hated because --
"Keep still, little monk."
She stopped when he cried.
Everything that is impure must die.
But you already have.
"You're very pretty, Kikyou-sama."
The pyre continued to burn.
VII.
The souls glittered in the sky.
He knew that Inuyasha had already left, had already gone to find the undead priestess, and he hadn't tried to stop him. He knew that he should have -- Shippou had told him that he needed to -- but all he could do was stand and watch as the souls continued to drop into the forest, his eyes dark and his hands tight around the shakujou.
"Houshi-sama?"
Miroku inclined his head, indicating that he had heard her, but all he could see were the glittering souls.
"Are those...?"
"Inuyasha has left to find Kikyou-sama."
Sango's eyes widened imperceptibly. "And Kagome-chan?"
Miroku turned.
Sango followed the movement, and he had seen it, the ways her eyes darkened at his dismissal, but he could feel the worm slithering through his ribs once again. He could feel the way his palm itched, and somewhere, he could almost feel his his throat and lungs begin to burn as the worm tugged again, taunting him.
Everything that is impure must die, the leaves whispered teasingly.
Even now, he had too much light. Even now, Miroku could hear the leaves hate him and taunt him and wish for his death, the way he had brought them theirs -- there's too much life in me -- but the shadows had been kinder, as had the mists, and he regretted that, too. Because there wasn't supposed to be Kagome, or Sango, or Shippou, or Kohaku because he was supposed to have already won and --
His fingers tightened around the pretty glass prayer beads, and he couldn't help but wonder whether she ever put flowers in her hair when she was younger.
But deep within the darkness, he heard himself scream.
I want to see Kikyou-sama, too.
(END)