:1:Out of Mind:1:
"The rose and the thorn, and sorrow and gladness are linked together."
-Saadi
My feeling would never change, but…now she was gone, and this thought meant more to me that the impending destruction of the world."
-Roger Zelazney
---
Candles burned low, and the dim light swayed and flickered. Deep, wicked shadows began to sneak out from the corners, encroaching on the already-hesitant flames. It wasn't the most savory place, but the sake was warm and you didn't fear strangers in the middle of the night slitting your throat and running off with your purse. Few were still awake at that late hour – day and night mixing and spinning into one soft time when dew clung to the grass and the empty sky refused the sun a spot that the moon wouldn't fill that evening.
"I knew 'n angel onesh," he slurred. The innkeeper scoffed, looking down at his drunken patron. Messy black hair fell around a face the dark hid too well for recognition. His clothes were tattered, and his weapon was bloody and in need of cleaning.
"What angel would want anything to do with you?"
The man frowned, gesturing with his cup. The sake skittered dangerously along the brim before retreating back. Just like him.
"Broke," the man explained, his eyes unfocused. "All bust'd up 'nside an' I coulda fixed 'er but I didn't."
The sober man paused. If anyone was broken, it was this man. That was plain to see. Once great, obviously, now barefoot and drunken for reasons that the innkeeper neither knew nor cared about. After all, he paid for his drink and didn't cause too much ruckus so why should he care? But something about the sharpness of the drunkard's eyes compelled him. A servant was replacing the straggling candles with longer tapers, and he could see that their colour was not wholly natural, and despite his focus there was a curious fixture to them, as if they were trying to grasp an image beyond reach or comprehension. Maybe there was a grain of truth in this angel story. He sat down and refilled the man's empty cup.
"Tell me about this angel of yours," he invited.
The man gulped down his drink, and tossed his cup to the table. It shattered into a thousand tiny, irreparable fragments and he burst into laughter. Wasn't he like the cup? She had been right all along, his angel. His heavenly maiden. Right about everything.
"She'sss beaut'ful. All beat'ful. Evry 'air on 'er pretty lil 'ead ish perf'ct an' I ushed t' brush it for 'er when she let me. An' she 'ad a great ash. An' strong 'cept not really." He stopped, cocking his head to the side. God, she was wonderful. Why was it like this? Ah, yes. Because of
Don't think about it.
The innkeeper looked at him strangely, noticing for the first time the colour of his skin. Tanned, the way he would have expected from a traveler at this time of year. The muggy heat of fall had dried up everything, and now they simply waited for winter to roll around. The only problem was his right hand. Halfway down his forearm to the hand excluding the fingers his skin was several shades lighter than the rest. As if it had spent many years covered up, and release had been only recent.
"Not my fault she'sss broken," he said, his hands trembling as he tried to pour himself another cup of sake. "She made tha' demn all on 'er own."
"Demn?" the other man wondered aloud – and then it clicked. Demon. What demons, though? While he thought, the traveler went on.
"Hah! Demns. They're all th' same. Th' onesh she kill'd an' th' onesh she couldn' kill. Tha's how she did 't, killin' demns. Shouldna tried fer this'n. It's too big fer one angel."
He stood, and staggered. One hand groped for his staff – his bloody, deadly staff. He braced himself up on it, his voice rising with him.
" This'n, ish too big fer any'n. Ther'r so many of ush, an' we still can' get 'im. 'Cept then…whoosh!"
He swung one arm out, and very nearly toppled over. The innkeeper stood quickly, and put one of the traveler's arms over his shoulder.
"Come on, then, stranger. Sleep now and I'll hear all about your angel in the morning."
The man nodded, though whether from tiredness, drunken stupor or agreement it was impossible to tell. But quickly he was unconscious, and the other man called over his wife. Between the two of them, they dragged the drunken man to his room, and lay him on his side lest he choke on his own vomit. There was some fuss with opening the door, and another one slid open.
"Oh, shit," a young redhead swore, watching the innkeeper and his wife drag their unconscious charge into the other room. Green eyes darted from the empty sake bottle; just visible around the corner, to the blurry forms of the owners as they lay the man down behind the paper door. He pulled on a furry jacket, and slid his own door shut. His hair he re-tied with a strip of fabric, and when he heard the helpful duo leave the hall, he darted across that same hall and into the drunken man's room.
A cloth was wetted, and the young man began trying to cool the inebriated monk. When the houshi was violently ill, the redhead cleaned it up and returned to watch him for the night. It was the first time that Shippou would tidy up the other man's excess, but not the last.
"Ah, Miroku," he sighed when he sat down again after the third cleaning. "Is this really what you've come to?"
---
How far is one foot?
Terribly long, in this instance. It was the distance between Miroku and Sango at dinner. It was also the distance between each of them and the dinner pot, but they seemed to manage. So why was the foot between them so very different?
Because, of course, that single foot became a thousand in the presence of their companions. It was only after Kagome, Inuyasha, and Shippou had fallen asleep that the foot became less than an inch. Her head rested on his shoulder and his arm slid around her waist – but no lower – and they slept. They were always very careful to move apart again before their friends woke. Such was the nature of their relationship. A furtive attempt at happiness, so laughable as to be believable. Thus the need for secrecy.
After all, were a taijiya and a houshi any more plausible than a hanyou and a miko?
---
A woman's laughter.
The same woman's scream.
Callused hands holding his own.
Callused hands sharp against his cheek.
Touching his arm.
Soft lips, unsure against his.
Featherlight kisses over faces and necks.
Quietly bemused, smiling at him.
And the wind that consumed them both.
Miroku woke to the feeling of something damp on his forehead – he tore it off. He didn't bother to look around, but instead, swore violently. Everything was moving just a little too fast that morning. And why the hell was the sun so bright?
"Ugh..."
It was neither eloquent nor remotely coherent, yet it summed up how he felt that morning. From the feeling of nausea in his stomach, and the pain everywhere else, he surmised that he was hungover. Great. The only good thing that could be said about being hungover was that no matter how little you remembered of the night before, it always told you why.
"Miroku!" someone shouted, and the monk cringed. When his head had settled on a dull, throbbing pain as its torture of choice, he dared to crack one eye open again. Bad idea. But before he could close them again, he got a glimpse of his noisy companion's face.
"Shippou?" he muttered, confused. Maybe he was still dreaming. After all, it had been an old dream, the wind, so why not? It'd fit the pattern. When the noisome voice chirped an affirmation, he groaned. He had almost convinced himself that he was dreaming – a very realistic dream. Of all the people to find him…the last thing he wanted to do was speak to anyone they had known. Anyone who knew.
"How are you feeling?" the kitsune – who had never been drunk – asked. Miroku summoned a bit of strength and pointed somewhere in the vicinity of the window.
"Too bright," he grunted. Shippou scurried off to drape a bit of cloth over the window – it had been left there for just that purpose. Some things happened in these rooms that the outside world didn't need to know about, after all. When that was done, Miroku sat up and swore again; his head protested the movement. The kitsune squatted next to him and offered the cool cloth again – he grabbed it and dabbed at his forehead.
"Why are you here?" he asked, and coughed. Shippou shrugged.
"It's on the way…" the young man trailed off, hesitant. The houshi nodded, understanding. On the way to Kaede's. Kagome was due to visit any day now – of course Shippou would go. They were no more than a few hours from the village.
"I had just…um…appeared when they dragged you into this room."
"Appeared?"
"Yea. It's a long story."
The monk ruffled his old friend's hair affectionately. God, had he grown – he was almost two feet in height. Everything else was the same, though. Mischievous green eyes inspected his tattered clothing with concern, and a mop of red hair still fought the cloth that tied it up. He had grown up fast in the other man's absence.
"But what about you?" Shippou asked. "Why are you here? And why are you…er…"
Miroku sighed, and looked down at the cloth in his hands.
"I made a mistake. It's a long story."
"Well, you can tell me on the way! Kagome would be really happy if you came."
The monk smiled wryly.
"I bet she would be."
"Then we'll leave as soon as you bathe."
Miroku looked at the kitsune, startled.
"Now, I never sai –" he started, but Shippou was already on his way to inform the innkeeper of his plans. He sat there for a moment in stunned silence, before putting his head in his hands. He knew who else would be there to greet Kagome, and he dreaded the moment that was to come.
They were on the road before the sun had begun its descent from high noon. Shippou chattered at an old friend he hadn't seen for years, totally unaware of the fact that he wasn't paying attention. After all, how was he to know what had transpired between them?
He put an arm around her waist, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Her hair was smooth and damp from bathing, and she smelt of faint smoke and poultices. It had been a long day changing bandages and mixing herbs for wound inflicted during the last – very last! – battle. He, too, was a little wet. Miroku had spent the whole day scrubbing himself clean. They had insisted he deserved it, to take off that glove on his own, to wash the skin beneath it in peace and quiet. He partly obeyed Kagome's firm but affectionate command that he spend the day enjoying the wholeness of his hand.
Enjoying it was a little beyond him, at that moment. The rough fabric, sewn in the slapdash way of the man who has little experience with needle and thread, and the prayer beads around it were the sanctuary he carried with him. Just as some found peace in true meditation, and some in good deeds, he found his solace in the cloth and beads that held off his curse – and all other hurts as well. It was as much a part of him as his eyes or his mind.
Though, so was she.
He pulled her aside as she and Kagome went for herbs. The younger girl noticed, he knew, but would say nothing. She'd think it was terribly romantic. The tragic couple sharing a tender moment as he overcame the struggles that life placed before him, she would say to herself. In truth, it was cowardice that caused him to ask her to be there when he pulled away the glove. Both his mind and his gut knew that the kazaana was gone, that was not the problem. If it were, he would have done it alone rather than endanger her. What he feared was seeing his skin whole.
In his mind, the kazaana had become something of a rather good opponent. He admired and despised the hole in his hand, and respected the strength of it. Having lived with it so long, he had never expected to be rid of it. The reality he had been facing was one where he faced the same end as his father, and if by chance he had a son, that the boy would live and die under Naraku's curse as well. But now…the adversary and weapon he had carried in his right hand since his eighth year was gone. It was more than a little disconcerting.
Yet at the same time, he was excited. He now had a lifetime to spend with Sango. A lifetime to watch her grow, to learn about her, and to die next to her. A lifetime to rear children with her, to share a home and a bed and a life with the woman he loved so dearly. To laugh when she blushed, to argue, to make up, to agree and disagree and make a living and do everything that he had wanted to do with her. And to live until he died, now that would be truly wondrous. To not have his fate sealed by the mistake of his grandfather, but to carve his own path and create his own life. This would be the first thing he shared with her under this new life.
She smiled and took his hand – his right hand – in hers. She would be glad to be there, she told him. An endearing blush spread across her cheeks. He smiled back at her, rakish and charming and thankful – the smile that was for her and only her.
His fingers were steady as he slipped the beads off of his arm, and placed them in her hands. Kagome had returned before they even left – and now she, Shippo and Kaede tended to Inuyasha in the hut. They would be busy for a good while. Sesshoumaru had left almost immediately after the battle ended – but Kouga was still sniffing around. He wouldn't bother them, though, he was here for Kagome. So they sat in peace in the soft grass beside the river.
He unwrapped the cloth slowly, gently, as if he feared to touch the skin beneath it. And he did fear it, but he knew that it would be worthwhile. The folds slipped away with the soft shushing noise that cloth makes when it falls against itself. He placed them in her hands with the beads, and inspected the palm of his right hand.
No scar, no telltale mark. Nothing to say this had ever happened, except for the color of the skin. He supposed it would be that way for a long while, after all, it had been under that glove since he was a child. From the middle of the forearm to the hand excluding the fingers was deathly pale. He touched the spot where only days before a great chasm had opened into a somewhere he had never been given the chance to see. His hand twitched, the unsure brush of his fingers tickling the nerves untouched for more than a decade.
Houshi-sama, she breathed. His face broke into a smile, and he reached up with his new, whole hand and cupped her cheek. Doe-brown eyes widened at the touch, but after a moment she smiled as widely as he was and covered that hand with her own.
There it is, he told her.
There it is, she agreed.
And there it was. One of the last intimate moments that he would spend with her.
"Miroku!" Shippou called, reaching up to wave a hand in front of his face. Miroku shook his head, and was surprised to see that they were at Kaede's village already. The kitsune sighed.
"Hopeless…"
"Who is?" Miroku asked, still a little confused. Shippou laughed and tugged him forward towards the hut, telling him not to mind.
'Mind what?' the houshi though, puzzled.
Reuniting with Inuyasha was nothing out of the ordinary. The hanyou looked up, greeted Shippou as 'runt', did a double take, and greeted Miroku before returning to his lunch. Really, it was as if nothing had changed, except…the Inuyasha that the monk remembered would have been up in a flash, demanding to know why the hell he was here all of a sudden, where he had been all those years and just what was going on. The change was almost drastic, and Miroku wondered just how much he had missed. The sight of Shippou stealing the hanyou's fish, however, and the chase that ensued, reassured him that however much the two of them had changed, they were still the same pair he had known when he fought against Naraku.
When Kaede didn't enter after that, Miroku was perplexed. That much noise should have at least alerted her to the presence of her guests, and she would have normally come in to say hello by now. When he asked, Inuyasha looked at him sharply, and Shippou heaved a sigh. Something cold twinged in the base of his stomach, and he looked at the kitsune sadly.
"My apologies," he said quietly. "I take it this is your home now, Inuyasha?"
The hanyou nodded gruffly. Miroku felt a great pang of sadness in his heart, not only for Kaede, but also for the fact that he had not been here when it happened. He had not been here to say a prayer for the old miko, or to bless her funeral pyre. Years were both long and short, it seemed. They sat in an awkward silence for a few moments before a mewing noise alerted him that the worst moment had come.
Laughter is supposedly a joyous sound. It is supposed to be 'the best medicine', and 'the universal language' and all sorts of other wonderful things. A sound made when one finds happiness or humour in something, indicating a cheerful outlook.
But it's not. Laughter can strike a blow stronger than any man or beast. It can show derision, bitterness, wickedness, and spitefulness. It can be used as a weapon, and it breaks more hearts than it mends. The sound of Sango's laughter as she called for Kirara to wait up tore at Miroku's heart, and the merriment in her voice was bittersweet inside him.
So she was happy, good. But she was happy without him, not so good.
"Kirara," she scolded with a laugh, "You need to slow do–"
She looked around in search of the neko (who was happily greeting Shippou) and saw him.