Disclaimer: If I owned Inuyasha, it wouldn't have ended, so there.
Author's Note: Finally got this chapter out. Wow. I finished this entire chapter, was about to update it, and then realized I hated it. So, I took it all the way back to the drawing board. This chapter sapped a lot of creative energy from me.
I think I need a nap.
Typo-o's may be present as I was in a hurry to finish this.
Translations:
Ee (eh)- A feminine affirmative response
Gi (gee): A simple Japanese shirt. For reference, there's Kikyo's white shirt.
Hakama (hah-kah-mah): These are pants traditionally worn by the men of Japan. See Kikyo's red pants.
Hentai (hen- tie): a pervert
Joden and Gedan (ju-den) (geh-dan): two of the basic stances of kendo (sword arts). Jodan is sword lifted overhead and Gedan is low-level, downward, sweeping block.
Shakujou (shah-ku-joh): Miroku's golden staff with the rings
Chapter 3, Stolen and Scarlet
Once her bath was finished, Sango slipped into a fresh traveling kimono and stormed out of the bath room, past a physically abused Miroku. She lifted her nose to him and then placed herself on a cushion before the table. On the low-lying table was tea for the morning, along with fruits and some sweets.
For awhile, Miroku just watched her daintily sip her tea, rubbing the not-so-cute red hand print on his cheek. Then he joined her. The only noises that filled the air between were those heinous ones that always happen when you try to impress someone with how well you can drink your tea. Several times, Miroku tried to strike up a conversation, but only half-heartedly. Sango replied out of courtesy, and then let the matter slide.
"What will you do now?" Miroku wondered aloud, gazing off into the snow-covered hill that stretched beyond the open shoji. The air was chilly, but their kimono and the lingering steam of the bath kept cold from prickling their skin. Little clouds of condensation slipped from their mouths.
Sango was watching a winter bird shake snow from its feathers, so for a while she did not answer. Finally, she slammed her cup down on the table, causing its scalding hot contents to splash dangerously. The bird took to frenzied flight. "I'm going to get revenge on the monster who destroyed my life and left me living in shame!" Sango declared, her face flashed with the passion of her decisiveness.
Miroku closed his eyes. He let a deep breath fill his body, then stream out. When he once again released the amethyst lanterns, he looked directly at Sango. She shrunk back under the intense question in his eyes. Miroku hated to ask it, but he had to knowHe had to know that his brother's death wasn't in vain. "Did you love him: the one the monster destroyed?"
Sango blinked and for a minute, Miroku was afraid that his brother's name would be shamed. He did not want to know the answer if that was it. But just then, a wistful smile crossed Sango's lips, smothering all his fears in its profound beauty. "Oh, yes" she whispered. A ragged sigh betrayed the secrecy of her tears. "He saw me for what I was, and he loved me despite of it."
Miroku frowned. "Hmm?" he questioned softly. As Kyoden's brother, he had every right to ask the question, but as the houshi she thought he was, Miroku was stepping on dangerous ground.
Sango blushed softly. "It was something that would have left me an outcast from society; I've never told anyone but Kyoden." Her tone of voice was apologetic, but she needn't be so to a houshi. Miroku hoped she didn't suspect him.
Miroku watched as Sango rose, obviously considering the conversation over, and saw a feline-like grace he had missed before. He noted muscles a hime could not possibly have. Scars peeked out from beneath the folds of her kimono. He detected deftness and dexterity in her dark orbs. " You're a warrior," he breathed, surprised by his own findings.
Sango spun around, her mouth open and gaping. "How did you-"
Miroku shrugged, cutting short her already weak strain of words. "It's not hard once you notice the small things."
Sango scowled. "No one's noticed before, not even Kyoden. How could you have guessed?"
Miroku shrugged again, causing Sango to get irritated. "You have scars. Princesses aren't supposed to have scars. You also have sword blisters on your hands. Maybe I'm just more observant than anyone else. And, to take it a step further, the reason you are shamed by the disaster at your home is because- as a warrior- you could do nothing to stop it, am I right?"
Sango's brows knit together and she looked at the ground. "Yes," she whispered.
"And you want to destroy this monster to regain your family honor and inflict vengeance for the stripping of that honor?" Miroku ventured warily, watching the hime to check for any tears. He did not want to make her cry.
Sango turned to him, a fierce resolve in her mahogany eyes. "Yes."
A warm, boyish smile crossed Miroku's face. "Then I'm coming with you."
A breeze passed through the shoji, passing between the roguishly handsome Miroku, who was still grinning, and a stunned Sango. The rings on Miroku's shakujou jingled merrily. Miroku and Sango turned toward the noise, Miroku's smile spreading as he observed the scene. "Buddha agrees," he commented, taking his shakujou firmly in his hands.
Sango beamed.
So, it was only an hour later that the two of them were walking along on the highway. Sango was wearing a traveling kimono, her finer kimono rolled up with her hair piece and other possessions in a pack slung over her shoulders. She paced ahead of the burden less Miroku, who was massaging yet another slap mark on his cheek.
The two of them were traveling in the No-Man's land again. They were headed to the Kawate kingdom, Sango to find any salvaged weapons she could use, Miroku to find information on the attackers, and both to bury loved ones.
"You know, houshi-sama," Sango said, her face still flushed, "you don't act very much like a devote follower of Buddha."
"How so?" Miroku asked, trotting up to hear her better. He held his free hand within his robe to muffle the shivering of the coins in his purse. His purse was heavy with a princely allowance, while a true houshi was restricted by religion from carrying a cent. If Sango caught him, his disguise would be blown. This façade was a reprieve from having to carry the weight of a prince's responsibility. In this form, Miroku could be whom he chose: a free man unconcerned with etiquette and honor. Something about the way Sango carried herself- in that easy, carefree manner- would not let him give away his true identity.
"Well, you're the biggest hentai I've ever met," Sango growled.
Miroku sighed inwardly. Her anger meant she did not suspectyet. He released his coinage and draped the hand over his forehead in a mock faint pose. "Houshi-desu!" he stated.
Sango was going to say more, but just then something was thrown through the air. It landed at her feet. She gasped, seeing too late the inky-black gas that floated up from the cylindrical object. She covered her mouth quickly, but her lungs had already been infected. And the poison was fast.
Miroku watched as Sango staggered back and, before Miroku could stop her, tripped over a root that was sticking up from the road. Miroku's stomach twisted and a sinking feeling came from within him as he watched Sango fall. She landed hard on her back and did not get back up.
Miroku turned just in time to see a fist being hurtled toward his face. With a cry of alarm, Miroku ducked and jumped away several feet to survey his opponent.
The man who stood before him was tall, easily six feet. In his right hand was clutched a katana. His clothes consisted of a hakama and gi. No armor was present. A wakizashi hung at his side. A black shroud masked his whole faceincluding his eyes.
The antagonist sprung forward, aiming his katana at Miroku's side, but Miroku easily redirected the blow with his shakujou. The metal rings jingled together ominously as the swordsman whirled around, bringing his katana. Miroku pulled back just in time, and lost only a few hairs.
Miroku frowned. He was unaccustomed to this sort of fighting. True, he had been tutored in the use of rods, such as his shakujou, but he never used it against a human in true combat. Moreover, his houshi robes were a strange hindrance in a fight with a man. With a youkai, Miroku was perfectly mobile with shakujou and robes, but human speed and attacks were different. Everything was calculated; there was no blood lust to subjugate human reason.
Miroku dodged another blow and landed beside. He cursed softly. There was no way for him to take advantage of the swordsman's weaknesses! The sword was meant to fight against another of its kind. In this situation, with so much skill at the swordsman's disposal, Miroku could not take the offensive.
The swordsman lunged, and a sudden idea hit Miroku. With deftness, he rolled forward. He reached up, half blinded by the snow his roll had kicked up, and closed his hand around the object of his desire. Springing up, he unsheathed the wakizashi he had stolen and turned to face his opponent.
The swordsman chuckled. "You intend to fight me with a wakizashi? Are you mad? I'll rip you apart! You were better off with your staff, houshi."
"We'll see," said Miroku with a smug grin. He moved into an elaborate fighting stance, derived from the basic form of Jodan. The swordsman, as Miroku had hoped, took the Gedan position to counter his stance. Then, Miroku rushed him.
But the instant Miroku found the opening he had been waiting for, a strong kick hit Miroku in the lower back and sent him sprawling, snowflakes scattering as Miroku struck the road face-first.
Miroku tried to move, but he found that the kick had been calculated to leave him paralyzed. Words would not come to his lips. He cursed mentally and then settled himself to listening to the words of the unseen bandits.
"Good kick," commented the swordsman. He heard the sheathing of the katana, felt the wakizashi lifted from his hands, and heard that also being sheathed. Then, he noted the keen sound of a strong cord being twisted and knew the bandits were binding Sango's hands and feet.
"Thanks, aniki," said a younger man. "I knocked him clean unconscious."
"Yeah. Good job." Then Miroku heard the sound of a boot against flesh and Sango moaned painfully. Anger bubbled up inside Miroku. "She's got a bad wound here, but she'll fetch a pretty penny once she's cleaned up and handed over to the boss."
Miroku jerked in defiance. "NO!" he screamed wordlessly. He had made a promise, and he intended to keep it. He wouldn't let them sell Sango into slavery, no matter what. He struggled with rage and frustration against his unresponsive body.
And because Miroku could not stop them, they marched away unchallenged, carrying Sango on their horse. Shortly after they left, exhaustion devoured Miroku's consciousness and he fell into a deep and fitful sleep.
When he awoke, it was midday and the shadows hung under the base of the trees, hardly visible. His clothes were soaked through with snow and he was chilled. But the sun had warmed his back enough that his muscles had loosened up some. He stood, knowing there wasn't a moment to lose, and began to track.
It was true that Kyoden had been a better tracker than Miroku, but that did not make Miroku bad it made Kyoden unfathomable. Miroku's eyes found Sango's kidnappers' trail at a glance. One had rather large feet and was a very tall man: the one Miroku had fought. The other set was of a small and light man: the one who had kicked Miroku in the back. And then there were the horse's tracks. The trail was deep, which meant the horse had been traveling at a paced speed. This caused Miroku to scowl; anything other than a walk would be dangerous to Sango's health. Since the nearby branches had been shaken of their snow, the boy had come and gone from the trees. The older man had been sure to leave an obvious trail through the pines, coaxing Miroku to follow. Despite his desire to avenge his humiliation, Sango was not with either of the men. Miroku began to follow the horse's trail.
The trail wound through the forest, off the beaten trail, through sunset, into nightfall, and ended at a brothel. Miroku growled. It wasn't slavery the bandits had sold Sango to, it was worse! To sell a noble woman's body was pure treachery, and Miroku would see to it that the men received their just punishment. With a cry of frustration, Miroku kicked open the door and entered the whorehouse.
A man of huge girth and fine clothes stepped up to impede upon Miroku's progress. "Where do you think you're going, sir?" the man said with a sharp glare.
Miroku almost barked at the man, but restrained himself just in time. He looked at himself and realized that his costume had been stripped of the items that would identify him as a houshi. He checked and found his wallet was still in place in the folds of his robe. He extracted the purse and held it up for the man to see. "You are the owner of this establishment?"
"That I am," said the man, eyeing the heavy purse.
Miroku tugged on the drawstring and dumped a rich sum into his palm. "I am looking for a companion to ward off the chill of a lonely winter night."
The man smiled deviously and extended his palm to accept the coins. "Well, then we shall make sure you are lonely no longer, my friend." He slipped the coins into his own wallet and then clapped his hands loudly.
From the lines of shoji appeared eight beautiful, pale-skinned maidens. Dark, perfumed hair fell across their bosoms and framed their made-up faces. Finely printed satin kimono hung loosely around their petit bodies.
"These are all the whores we have available at the moment. You may take your pick of any. They'll see to it that you have a hot bath, a change of clothes, and somepleasure," the man said, lifting his eyebrows.
Miroku nodded, surveying the girls. The one at the end regarded him with a cunning and knowing sharpness in her icy crystal-colored eyes, while all the others gazed at him as if through a fog. This one was keen though, and -Miroku felt- dangerous. Her dark hair glinted red into the light, and her black kimono was decorated with fiery phoenixes peeking out from behind ornate white fans. Miroku decided, and pointed directly toward her. "I'll take that one."
The man looked surprised, in an amused way. "Ah, Scarlet." He dismissed the other girls with a wave of his hand and they shrunk back into their rooms with quiet reproach at not having been chosen. The afore-mentioned woman stepped forward to accept her charge.
"Sir, this is Scarlet. Scarlet this is" the man looked puzzled and turned to Miroku. "I'm sorry, sir, but I've quite forgotten to ask your name!"
"Miroku," the houshi introduced himself.
Scarlet's icy eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and then a smile crossed her rouged lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miroku-sama," her voice was rich, deep, mysterious, and beautiful. Miroku thought it suited her nicely. She took his callused hand in her silky fingers and led him into her room.
The entire room was decorated splendidly. The bed was covered in crimson satin covers, with pillows stacked high. Red curtains masked the walls and ceiling. The light came dimly from a red paper lantern. Everywhere, splendor hung in the color of the whore's namesake. Scarlet led him through the room and into the bathroom.
It too, was rather elaborate. She helped him remove his clothes and then aided him in getting into the heated waters. Then, she proceeded to massage perfumes and soaps into his body, minding the wounds.
"Miroku-sama," she breathed on his neck, giving him goosebumps. "Were you in battle recently?" She ran her fingers across the bruise on Miroku's lower back.
"Yes," Miroku answered, closing his eyes comfortably. "Have you heard of any battles around here recently?"
"Ee," she assured him in her soft and deep voice. "A bandit arrived here this afternoon, gloating about the success of a battle along the highway. They brought a girl with them. A lovely little thing."
Miroku opened his eyes and his body stiffened. "A girl?"
Scarlet pushed her breasts against his back. "Yes, Miroku-sama, a girl. Younger than I, she was. She had brown hair and poor clothes. The others say she had a nasty cut on her side."
"Do you know where they took her?" Miroku asked, trying desperately to hold his attention on the subject. Scarlet was clever; maybe he had bite off more than he could rightly chew. Already, he could feel himself loosing control over his body.
"To the cellars," Scarlet answered, placing a kiss upon Miroku's shoulder.
"Scarlet, I-"
But Miroku never got to finish what he was going to say, for just then, Scarlet grabbed a bottle of perfume and brought it down across the back of Miroku's head. She was surprisingly strong; Miroku never had a chance. His head spun violently and the water rushed up toward him. Then, he was overpowered by dizziness and was unconscious in seconds.