Tamaji, expert demon slayer from Birejji no Taijiya, the village of the demon slayers, was less than expertly slaying kudzu. The majority of the village slayers had departed to exterminate a swarm of rat youkai in a village over the next mountain. Without him. And, as a delightful bonus, he had developed blisters in portions of his anatomy he hadn't been previously aware could get them.
Altogether he had to admit that the whole debacle could have worse.
Tamaji was fifteen, a true slayer from a long line of his ilk, having long ago proven his worth as a warrior and demon slayer. His skill with the katana and various poisons was respected even by the more seasoned Taijiya, his instincts for battle improving daily. He hadn't proved anything in regards to his emotions, however. At least, not anything good.
Lately Tamaji had gotten into fights with the other village boys, using the slightest excuse to start a confrontation. It wasn't that he disliked his fellow slayers; he loved his village and its inhabitants. He wasn't angry, either, at himself or those he fought with.
If he had to pin it down, he'd have to say it was his father. His father was fine leader for the demon-slayers, both in peace and in battle. He was equally skilled at calculating the amount of seed in the town's grainstores as finding and exploiting a demon's weakness. At times he was a bit distant, but that was condonable. No, Tamaji had no complaints about his father's leadership. His complaints were in regards to his father's parental skills.
Tamaji's father had never been very skilled at differentiating between his son and one of the many warriors he commanded. When the two returned to their hut in the evening, Tamaji practiced his katas, and his father read papers. Not a fond word or a gesture passed between them. Ever.
No matter how wonderful he was at anything he attempted, he would never be congratulated. He had never been embarassed by his father like his friends, simply because his father never noticed him enough at home to spin a tale from. It was almost like they were two complete strangers who happened to share living space and facial features.
He wasn't sure when this had begun, but it had been this way for as far back as memory stretched. Tamaji never had any complaints about his situation, exactly, for his father did nothing to complain to others about. Nothing at all.
But he would not disgrace himself by attempting to explain such a complicated emotion to his father or the elders, so he simply stood in silence when questioned about his latest fight. Truth to tell, even he'd been embarssed by the affair: he had spewed obscenities at a visiting monk by the name of Miatsu in the middle of the monk's meditation. The man had taken it rather well, had simply laughed at him and told him to find some better oaths.
The council of elders had viewed the incident much more harshly than Miatsu had. So much so, in fact, that they had no idea what to do with him. Thus, while his father and the elders were deciding the specifics of his punishment, he had been sent out to the village borders to dig up invading kudzu. By hand. He was not to return until he had "rid himself of childish sensibilities". Tamaji was of the opinion that it was the most degrading chore they could think of on short term notice.
It would rain soon, he could smell it. Probably within a few minutes, and quite heavily judging by the ominous cast of the clouds overhead.
He wouldn't be able to weed very well in a storm. He would, however, if he was fast, be able to track a lone wolf he'd seen a few times throughout the forest. The elder's won't even notice I'm gone if I return before it rains.
If he was right, judging by the size of the tracks, the wolf he was after was a beta female. If he could find the lair, he could do a rough headcount.
He wasn't worried about the wolf pack's predation- he was more concerned about what might come after the wolves. Wolf demons had laired in this mountain in the past, and they might have wolves scouting out the village for them. That wouldn't be a good thing: when wolf demon numbers rose in the area, human populations tended to go down.
It's not like I'll get a harsher punishment for this. Fully convinced by the power of his own argumant, Tamaji set off for the lake, where he'd last seen the wolf.
Several minutes later, like the skirl of battledrums, thunder cracked overhead. Simultaneously a deluge of water dropped from above, soaking him to the skin within moments. Shimatta. I'll have to go back.
The precussion of the rain made enough conversation during the walk to keep him company. More than enough, in fact.
In mid-step Tamaji froze, all thoughts of wolves and elders vanished. A familiar musk, slightly dulled by the rain, was on this tree. A demon bear. And blood. The youkai could be a mother with cubs or, even worse, a mated pair. If he didn't scout it out he'd never know, the village might be caught unawares. Already the scent was being washed away. This was the only opportunity to find out.
Luckily every slayer was required to carry a weapon with them whenever leaving the village, in case of emergency. He himself favored the katana, and had taken it with him. That's one thing to thank father for.
Moving in a crab-like crouch to examine tracks, Tamaji slowly advanced, sacrificing speed for accuracy. He couldn't afford to make a mistake with this. As he moved further from the village, the demon's scent grew stronger, enough so that even his human nose could easily detect it. The bear was close by.
The smell seemed to be coming from the clearing up ahead. Moving at a fraction of his normal speed, Tamagi peeked into the clearing. The demon wasn't there, though the stench of blood was. The demon had attacked something, if not fed here, then left.
The clearing itself was decimated. Trees and foliage had been upturned and shredded and dirt had been churned by enormous feet to a thick, blood-soaked mud. Lying in a heap among the sea of swirling red mud, obviously the demon's prey, in a stained and tattered yukata, curled around a small cloth bundle. The woman was more covered with blood than rainwater, and more covered by that than the sad remnants of her yukata. Great tears had been raked through her kimono and the flesh beneath it, almost vivisecting her in several places. A scrap of blue cotten, undoubtedly torn from her yukata, had gotten caught in one of the tears through her arm and was quickly turning the deep shade of purple peculiar to sunsets.
Without hesitation the demon slayer darted out from cover and ran to the woman, kneeling at her side. The woman's bright yukata had made her look older than she truly was- she couldn't have been more than a few months his elder.
Careful of her wounds, Kamaji grasped the girl by the shoulders and gave her a brisk shake. "Can you hear me? Wake up!" She might as well have been a lifelike statue for all her movement. She was still alive, though; her chest visibly rose and fell.
She needs help. Carefully the slayer snaked his arms beneath her legs and about her shoulders. If he caused the girl pain, she made no sound. Moving slowly and carefully Tamanji rose to his heels and thence to his feet. Almost immidiately a sticky warmth seeped into his clothes, but he didn't care.
Moving cautiously at first, in case he caused his burden harm, the slayer set off down the path. Before he'd gone more a few feet, the smooth rhythm of his steps faltered as a hoarse muttering drifted to his ears over the pounding of water. He'd thought the woman was dead to the world. Is she in pain?
Concerned, he glanced downward. Feverish brown eyes locked on his as a steady murmer, almost a chant, poured from bloodied lips like a mantra. "-stop, stop, stop..."
Obediantally Tamaji halted. "What is it? Do your wounds pain you?"
A slender hand twitched backwards. A pivot on his heels brought her goal into his eyesight: the soggy bundle of cloth.
"You want it?" The woman's head jerked in a slight, but emphatic, nod. She wanted it.
The last thing he wanted to do now was agitate the poor woman. For all he knew, the stress would do what her wounds had not, and finish her off.
Resignedly Tamaji slogged back to the bundle. Without a thought, Tamanji nudged it with a foot to see if it seemed heavy. If it was, he'd have to leave it behind. What he was expecting was a pile of spare kimono, perhaps rations. He did not expect the bundle to nudge back.
Shifting the girl slightly, Tamaji kneeled in the mud and gingerly a corner of the cloth with two fingers, peeling it back with a sharp tug. A tiny fist, curled in the cloth, rose with it. "Wha-?"
Curious now, he lifted away the remaining cloth. A tiny double of the injured girl lay in the shredded blanket, dampened with pink rainwater and mud. A baby. It's a baby. The sudden exposure to the elements must have woken the child, as big brown eyes flew open with an almost audible snap. Wriggling and kicking, the baby gave a mewling whimper.
"Sango." Startled, Tamaji's eyes darted to the girl's face. The girl's lips, which had acquired the same tinge as her kimono, had moved.
"What?"
"Her name..." Dark lashes fluttered like a dancing butterfly.
Oh. The baby.
"Take care... my child..."
"Hey! Stay awake, damnit!"
P)P)PP
This is more of an experiment that anything else. I've noticed that Sango's mother was never mentioned, and decided to remedy that. For obvious reasons this is also about Sango's father. Sango and Kohaku will grow up throughout this fic as time goes by in it. If you like this (for whatever reason) drop me a review and tell me so, and I'll punch out another.