THERE WAS A SHIP
Scribe Figaro
Chapter Two
The Wedding Party
The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May'st hear the merry din
I.
I feel.
I feel . . . hate.
Houshi-sama.
Houshi-sama, who is cruel to me.
Houshi-sama, who pretends to love me.
Houshi-sama, who is a man, and who wants to hurt me, because I am a woman.
The ayashi driven down my throat, possessing me with its youki, does not control me.
It makes me free.
Free to do the one thing I have always desired, but had been too soft-hearted to do.
Houshi-sama.
I will kill you.
Not because the ayashi commands me.
But because I hate you.
II.
He came after me, with Kirara. I didn't mind Kirara's betrayal; it did not hurt me as he hurt me. Perhaps Houshi-sama was controlling her somehow.
Kirara might not have been acting of her own free will, as I am.
He dodged Hiraikotsu, and when the battle went to the surface of the lake, he disarmed me.
Or so he thought.
Iaido, the art of drawing the blade. He should have expected it, but Houshi-sama is stupid.
He bleeds, and as I see the red pool forming beneath the place his right arm sways, I feel excitement within me.
It is almost sexual.
I hurt him, and hurting him feels very, very good.
He speaks to me, mocks me. Compliments my skill, as if that might weaken my resolve.
I want to cut his hands off, so that he can never touch me again.
He wants his shakujou back, for he cannot fight me unarmed. I know his intent, but he slips by me regardless.
I am enraged.
He blocks my blows, and foolishly I lean too far into a strike. He is taller than me, and can easily take my balance now that I have allowed it. He takes the opportunity, driving my sword upward, taking me off my feet.
I fall, and in breaking my fall, I lose my sword.
He's now looming above me, and I am a woman splayed out before him.
I will not let him rape me.
He draws back his right hand into a fist, and now I realize his intent. I have too much fight left in me, and he knows that. He wants to break my will.
Punch a woman in the stomach a few times, make her hurt. Then she won't care what you do between her legs. Men know this. I know this too.
His fist descends, and I twist my wrist slightly, revealing the hidden blade on my forearm.
I love the look of surprise on his face as I cut him.
He backs away, in fear. I kick with one foot and roll away from him.
I probably should have gone for the throat. I could have, I suppose, but at that instant I looked into his face, and I thought that a lecher such as him should not look so handsome. It made it too easy for him.
I want to make his face ugly, to better reflect the person he is inside.
I want him to suffer.
Now he looks at me, and the cut on his cheek bleeds beautifully.
I hope it leaves a scar, one as ugly as the one on my back.
I think of the scar for a moment. Before that, I was a beautiful young woman. But the scar has marked me, and now I am ugly.
He knows this, and exploits it. He tries to woo me because he thinks the scar makes me desperate.
He smiles, I and I want to kill him.
I advance, and now I cut his left arm.
But not deep enough. He moves beside me, and grips my arm.
I try to twist free, but already his fist makes contact.
The son of a bitch punches me in the gut.
It hurts. It hurts so much I vomit.
The last thought I have, as the light grows dim, and something slimy shoots up my throat, is that I hope my womanhood grows teeth, jagged teeth of tempered steel.
I don't care if he disgraces me.
I just want him to suffer.
III.
There was the green grass below her, and the quiet stream beside, and the trees above, but these things she felt only vaguely, as they could not wrest her attention from the vividness of her own memory.
Every moment that passes is painful, as the thoughts bubble up from somewhere inside her. The entire event plays through in her mind, every moment, and she can recall the weight of her sword in her hands. She remembers the soft resonation she felt in her fingers, relayed to her through the grip of the sword, and through the blade. The way his skin parted beneath the blade, and the smell of his blood.
Her wakizashi, though only a sidearm, had always felt natural in her hands. Her father trained her well, trained her with rolled-up tamati mats about the size and texture of a man's limb.
Because she was the village-chief's daughter, she was given an exquisite sword, though her father did not allow her to have it until she had proven herself with lesser weapons. A samurai's sword required an expert's hand, so that in the middle of the cut, a fighter could adjust the way she drew the blade along the target. She could swing the sword like an axe, of course, and simply chop at an enemy, but this was amateurish. Doing so would dull the blade, and such cuts would never be very deep. An expert drew the blade along the cut, and did not chop, but sliced, like cutting meat.
When her sword blade struck his arm, she drew the blade in this way, and she felt the robe and skin and muscle give way, and had he not moved so quickly, the cut would have completed, and with little effort she would have sliced bone and sinew and his arm would have been lying on the ground between them.
Sango sucked in a breath and pressed her hands to her temples.
She would not throw up again.
She tortured herself this way, probing her mind, remembering each bit of what happened. She had been merciless. She had been cruel. Even a youkai, in begging for its life, would see mercy from her, but she gave Houshi-sama no such quarter, and he bled.
Never had a crime weighted so heavily on her conscience. The food Kagome gave her some hours ago had already left her, and her chest ached from her last bout of dry-heaving, but still she remembered, and still her body registered its disgust in housing a spirit so corrupt.
She thought of Kohaku, and wondered if he had moments of lucidity, and if he suffered as she did now, driven near to madness through obsession over horrible misdeeds.
He came after her. Houshi-sama came to save her, to protect her. He fought her, and in fighting her, he did not strike her except to free her from the ayashi. He could have escaped. He could have fallen back to get help from Inuyasha and Kagome. But he sought her out, and did not leave her, and very nearly died because of it.
Her guilt was incalculable. Beyond compensation. Beyond forgiveness. The ayashi in her stomach, and the betrayal of her body, that Houshi-sama knew, and that she knew he would forgive.
But the betrayal of her heart, the thrill she felt in striking him, the delight she felt at nearly killing him – these things tore at her, and with this knowledge, with this evidence of the corruption of her soul, she could not live to face him.
What if the urge struck her to do this again? What if this sensation- this feeling that strangling him, that stabbing him, that killing him, would bring her pleasure – what if this never went away?
How could she bear being near him, when she knew he would forgive her, and yet, some part of her heart was not sorry, and harbored the will to do this thing again, to relive the joy she felt in exacting true vengeance, bloody vengeance, from the man she loved and yet bore such hatred toward?
She did not know what to do. The brook beside her babbled softly, and though she kneeled quietly beside it, her soul remained in pieces.
She winced as she heard him approach. She did not face him.
He knelt beside her, and she turned her head away. If her eyes met his, if he saw the sorrow within her, she would not be able to bear it.
His hand touched her shoulder.
"Sango," he said, and the breathless way her name came from his lips made it difficult for her to breathe.
She bowed her head.
"Sango, why are you so upset?"
His hand brushed aside her hair, and his fingers traced gentle lines over her back.
"Is it because I hurt you?"
His fingers lazily drew a line up the sensitive part of her neck, just below her ear.
"Or is it because you think you have hurt me?"
"Please," she breathed. "Please don't touch me."
She felt him freeze, and instantly his hand left her.
"I apologize, I only meant to . . ."
"I mean," she said. "Don't touch me so gently. I can't bear it."
"Sango?"
"When you act foolishly, or grope me, I get so angry at you, and I strike you, and you bear it without complaint." She squeezed her hands where they lay on her lap. "And now, I have done a foolish thing, a very stupid thing, and I have hurt you."
She turned to him.
"And yet, you come to me, and if you are angry, you hide it too well for me to see. Why?"
"You were not in control of yourself, Sango. I am foolish at times, but not so foolish that I could fail to see the look in your eyes back then."
"Still, you were deceived," she said. "I knew what I was doing. I planned and executed every attack, every strike. I . . . I enjoyed it, Houshi-sama." She turned to him, eyes wide, hands pressed to the ground between them. "Do you understand? I enjoyed it!"
Miroku did a strange thing.
He smiled.
"Sango, do you think you are unique, in that you have hatred in your heart?"
"I know I have hate," she whispered. "But toward you – I did not think I could hate you so much. I . . . I do not deserve friendship with someone I am so cruel toward."
Miroku crossed his arms.
"So, because your friends will not punish you, you have decided to punish yourself, Sango."
"If I must. If you are too cowardly to show me my mistakes."
"Sango."
"Strike me," she said. "Like the foolish child I am. Like my father would, for being disobedient, and putting my friends in danger."
"Sango, stop this."
"Everytime I've slapped you, Houshi-sama. Think of those times, and be angry with me. Hit me, and show me I am not the only one who rewards her friends with violence."
"I refuse to take part in such idiocy."
"Idiocy? I see," Sango said, and now her sadness became something sly. "Only Sango resorts to striking people. You refuse, because you are better than me. You simply hide your feelings, and make everyone think you are a pacifist, and noble. But you are merely a coward, too fearful to let your feelings lead you to an action you might later regret. It's no wonder you can never find a woman, Houshi-sama, for women desire strength, and discipline, and a man they can respect."
Miroku's eyes narrowed.
Good. He is getting angry. He will lash out, and if he does hit me, he will not hurt me much. But he will be horrified, if he raises his hand to me.
He thinks he is so in control of himself. All the time I've known him, I've never seen him come undone. It infuriates me. I want to see him lose his reason, if only for a moment. I want to see him do something terrible to someone he cares for.
I want him to need my forgiveness, to beg me to forgive him.
He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and murmured something she could not hear.
An hour later, she would be composed, and ask him about his injuries.
Two minutes after that, they would be engaged to be married.
IV.
The river flowed.
The river listened.
In 1552, one year hence, the river will kill her.
In another 1552, the river will not kill her.
In 1571, she will kill Miroku's son here.
When the world ends, she will have a casual conversation with Naraku here.
In another 1552, the river will both kill her and not kill her.