Disclaimer: I do hereby disclaim all rights and responsibilities for the characters in this sunrise scene… especially for the understanding one. A nod of recognition is bent towards Rumiko Takahashi for her creative prowess.
Chapter 3
Hiding
Sango spent that first night locked up in the workshop, refusing help or company while she supposedly performed maintenance on her weapons. In truth, she huddled in a musty corner, listening to the storm rage on her behalf. The wind moaned through the sagging building, lashing against its sides until rainwater wept down the walls. All she wanted to do was cry until there were no more tears… but she knew she'd have to face Miroku tomorrow. I will not stand before Houshi-sama with red-rimmed eyes and tearstained cheeks. A few hot tears slipped past Sango's guard, bitter ones that offered no release.
She woke with a start, her heart rushing to a gallop when she didn't immediately recognize her surroundings. Oh… I'm home. Not that the shambles of the dingy shed offered much welcome. Judging by the pale light filtering between the slats, it was very early; she shivered miserably, sorely missing Kirara's warmth. Rising stiffly to her feet, Sango stretched and rolled her shoulders, groaning a complaint as she tried to ease the knots she'd earned from her awkward sleeping position.
Already, her mind was leaping ahead to the day's tasks. I'll do what I can to tend the graves; though, it'll be a muddy mess after last night. With a resigned sigh, she scuffed across the gritty floor; however, a sound from outside stopped her in her tracks. Light and cheerful, the jangle of Miroku's shakujou betrayed his approach. He's up and about. Sango held her breath as the monk paused in front of the workshop, but he didn't come any closer and soon passed by. She tiptoed forward and pressed against the rough wood of the door, listening. What's he planning to do on that end of the compound? That's where I need to be.
It began soft and slow, building naturally to a steady tempo—not so loud as to be showy, but certainly not ashamed to be heard. Miroku's song startled Sango, and she slipped outside, following its solemn drone. Sunshine spilled over the rain-washed eastern wall, lighting up the droplets that clung to the thousands of flowers nodding upon the low mounds. Miroku stood before her father's grave, chanting a sunrise prayer. Hearing his familiar voice raised in this simple service for her family—for her—gently broke Sango's stubborn heart. Tears welled up and overflowed, trickling down her cheeks without a fight. No sobs wracked her frame; no cries tore her throat. She lifted a hand to incredulously touch her wet face. Bitterness had become a balm.
She wept silently, eyes closed against the sun's dazzle, listening and letting go. Finally, the last note was prolonged, and the empty village faded back into silence. Sango knew he was coming, could hear the ringing of his staff, and desperately wished for a place to hide. Once again, Miroku understood what was required without having to be asked. With gentle hands, he pulled her close so she could hide her face against his chest.
End Note: This drabble was written for the Live Journal community mirsanficart and their Miroku x Sango Summer Challenge. They issued a 4-part drabble challenge, with entries due each week in June. The prompt for Week 3 was Sun. 500 words. Posted on June 21, 2009.