Author's Note: For kmoaton, whose valuable feedback and comments on the previous chapter resulted in this.

The walk to the village was mostly silent: now and then, Sango winced as her arm and stomach throbbed. The demon's claws had managed to cut through the armour plate there, leaving deep gashes from which the bleeding had by now slowed to a trickle, much to Miroku's relief. The shrill whine of panic in the monk's ears was beginning to ease.

His grip on her tightened; Miroku simply could not imagine what would have happened if her lost her. Not now, after everything they had gone through.

"Miroku…"

He shushed her. "Don't talk. We're reaching the village soon."

Burning eyes cut into his stalling techniques, tearing them down. "You saw… what happened just now."

The monk hardened his jaw. "Now is not the time – "

"Kohaku – I have to talk to him – " Sango winced in pain. Her fiancé said nothing but quickened his pace. They were out of the wood now; even as he walked, villagers were gawking openly at them. They must have looked the sight – filthy, exhausted, covered in blood, a firecat limping at their heels.

"Houshi-sama! Sango-san!" Ryota was there, his face a mask of white worry. His grandfather was coming towards them in a fast shuffle, white brows knitted into a knot over the bridge of his nose.

"Help Sango. She's badly hurt," managed Miroku. The younger man shouted for the healers, taking Sango into his arms and into a nearby hut. The monk made to follow but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"You're hurt as well, Houshi-sama," grunted the old man. "Get those wounds seen to before you look after your woman, or you'll kill your damned fool self. Wait – where's the boy?"

"At the river, cleaning himself. He wasn't injured."

The old man's eyes narrowed. "With his sister hurt that bad?"

Miroku chose not to respond, letting the women chivvy him away to have his arm and other injuries seen to. The moment they released him, he left for Sango's bedside with a quick word of thanks.

Her wounds were already cleaned and dressed; the healer pronounced them no danger to her life despite their severity, attributing it to her robust constitution. She was conscious and he saw her eyes flick to him when he came in. Kirara, her paw similarly dressed, was curled up at her feet, sound asleep.

"Miroku…"

"I'm here, Sango." He sat at the edge of the futon, taking her hand in his uninjured one. "How are you feeling?"

"I've had worse," she said shortly. "Kohaku…"

"… he's not back yet." There was an uncertainty in her eyes that he had not seen in months.

"Did you see his eyes?"

Miroku looked back into her face; it was veiled and taut, the woman retreating back into her pain. A sight he found heartbreakingly familiar.

"Sango, you should be resting – "

"His eyes, they were blank. Like when he was under Naraku's control." The slayer spoke in a tone devoid of inflection, though there was a definite quiver with the final words. "It's my fault; I shouldn't have let him come." Sango's wide brown eyes drifted to his bandaged arm: tears welled up in their corners. "I'm sorry, Miroku."

The monk dabbed at her face with his knuckle. "Shh. It's alright."

"He could have killed you."

"He didn't."

"Kohaku… he looked so happy during the fight. Like he was… enjoying it."

Miroku was torn: he wanted Sango to stop talking about her brother as though he was a monster but he could not deny the hellish transformation of Kohaku.

The boy had killed – no, butchered – the demon cruelly. Rather than dispatching it effectively by going for the throat like Sango would have done, Kohaku had hacked away at its body, making numerous shallow wounds not deep enough to kill. The demon had bled to death, its frenzied attacks becoming helpless flailing – Miroku shuddered at the memory7, sickened. He had seen Kohaku laugh – seen him lick the bear demon's blood away from his face where it had splattered, sadistic animal-like joy flaring in the dulled eyes –

The young man had even attacked him in his bloodlust. All in front of Sango. Miroku had hoped to save her from any further heartbreak: she had suffered enough in her short life.

It seemed his silent promise, made so very long ago to protect her always was coming to naught.

"Are you sure of that? Kohaku was fighting to protect you, after that demon bear's claws brought you down."

She stared back blankly. "Don't lie to me, Miroku."

The monk sighed. "Sango, you're exhausted from the battle and you lost a lot of blood – you don't know what you're saying. Please get some rest. We'll talk when you've woken up, alright?" He bent down and kissed her forehead, smoothing her sweat-stained hair from her forehead.

Miroku needed to calm himself, go outside and meditate, perhaps: regain his inner peace. Buddha knew he needed it before he could confront Kohaku. Before pushing aside the door hanging, he turned his head to check on her: she lay staring unblinkingly at the ceiling.

"Sango," he said in mock-fury, shaking his head and forcing a smile to his face. "What did I say?"

Receiving no reply, he crossed the room in a few strides, lying down on the futon beside her and taking her into his arms, mindful of her injuries. Burying his face in her hair, Miroku alternately murmured words of comfort and caressed her face and body, pouring his concern into her wounded soul, pretending not to notice the bitter tears that wet them both.

"I have to talk to him," Sango managed eventually.

"Later," he whispered, his breath making soft beats on her cheek. "After this, Sango. Sleep."

Miroku waited until the sorrowful brown eyes had closed and Sango's breathing become slow and regular before he gently disentangled her fingers from the front of his robes, slipping outside into the sunshine.

Ryota was hovering anxiously outside for him. "Houshi-sama," he gasped. "Is Sango-san alright?"

"She's fine," answered the monk, touched by the young man's concern. "She needs to rest a little, that's all."

"Oh." Ryota's shoulders sagged in relief. Miroku noticed there were dark smears of blood all over the front of his clothes.

"Ryota-san, your clothes – "

He lifted his arms to examine himself and smiled sheepishly. "I was worried about Sango-san – I guess I forgot to change my clothes."

Ryota was about to leave when he stopped as though struck by a sudden thought. "Houshi-sama, if you like, I have some spare clothes for you too. Perhaps you'd like to have those robes of yours washed?"

Miroku smiled and shook his head. "Please don't trouble yourself – "

"I insist. You and Sango-san nearly got yourselves killed destroying the demon, it's the least we can do for you."

"... Thank you, Ryota-san. That would be very much appreciated," said the monk finally. It was hard to say no to the young man's cheerful, honest face.

He beamed. "Then please, this way, Houshi-sama."

None of them noticed the dark figure behind the hut dart out of sight; once it was sure they were gone, it slipped inside.

It was dark when she woke, but she did not notice it at first: she felt the absence of warmth beside her more keenly.

Miroku had been there – he had soothed her to sleep. He was gone now.

She had half-expected to wake and find him beside her – he was injured himself and needed rest almost as much as she did, no matter what he said. Her first instinct was to feel angry: he had probably left her to find a woman for his entertainment while she recovered. The thought was quickly quashed. She felt immediately guilty for even thinking that. Miroku had changed – they both had changed. He was no longer the open lecher of before who shamelessly declared his eternal love to any and every maiden; she was no longer the jealous woman who would suffer in silence as her feelings killed her from the inside out. The relationship had changed for the better.

Sango stirred slightly, trying to get comfortable; her muscles were stiff and they were beginning to ache. Damn this darkness – I can't see a single thing. Her blanket had slipped down in the middle of her fidgeting and she felt the night chill. One hand tentatively reached out, patting the mat blindly in search of it.

A faint rustling: the slayer stiffened as suddenly, warmth enveloped her body. Someone had pulled the blanket back over her body, tucking it under her chin.

"Miroku?"

No reply – the hands ghosted over the outline of her limbs, making sure she was completely covered. Sango took his silence as assent.

She strained her ears; she could hear footsteps heading for the door, growing more distant.

"Wait. Stay with me, please. I don't want to be alone."

They stopped and hesitantly grew louder. The futon beside her depressed, taking the weight of a man. A hand fumbled for hers, grasping it loosely until she tightened her grip on it.

Sango frowned. Something was wrong; she did not recall Miroku's hands feeling this way. The hand in hers was large and muscular, but something about it felt different.

"Kohaku!" she gasped. Hearing his name, the youth stiffened and tried to pull his hand out of hers but she clamped it tightly.

"Ane-ue!" choked out the boy in a strangled voice, his terror apparent. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have – I'm going."

"Wait, don't go!"

He ignored her, desperately struggling to free himself from her iron grip. Sango gasped in pain as her exertions wrenched at her wounds. Kohaku stopped moving upon hearing her cry out.

"I hurt you – I'm sorry!" The boy slid, boneless, to his knees, head bowed, body shaking. Despite the relentless throb of her arm and midsection, Sango's free hand found his hair and tousled it fondly.

"…Why can't I do anything right? Without hurting anyone?" Kohaku whispered brokenly. Hot tears wet her cheeks; Sango's heart bled for her once-lost brother – or maybe still was.

"Shh… it's not your fault. It never was." She easily drew him into a half-embrace, holding the sobbing young man to her.

Miroku watched from the doorway silently before disappearing back into the night from which he had just come.

Despite the insistence of both Ryota and Miroku, Sango insisted on going home the very next day.

"I don't want to be a burden, Ryota-san," she explained as she sat up in bed, putting together her things in their carrying cloths.

"Sango, your injuries are quite serious, they haven't closed up yet. You'll worsen them if you travel now." Miroku looked quite stern with the usual twinkle gone from his violet-grey eyes.

Kohaku sat morosely beside the hearth, not meeting anyone's eye. Miroku had not said anything when he showed up at the hut the night before, merely offering the boy a bowl of rice and a welcoming smile. The younger slayer had picked at the food before drifting off into a troubled sleep at his sister's bedside, leaving Miroku to watch over the both of them.

Kirara growled against Sango's ankle, nudging her mistress back down obstinately whenever she tried to rise.

"Looks like Kirara agrees with us," smirked the monk. "Give in, Sango." The demon slayer gave a growl of her own – and shook her head in grim resignation.

"I suppose I don't have much of a choice." Grudgingly, she put down the Hiraikotsu and lay back down.

Miroku beamed. "So glad you're listening to reason, my dear."

She huffed in reply, wincing slightly as she moved her arm.

The monk glanced over. "Yes. That reminds me, it's time to change your bandages." He picked up the wooden pail in the corner and walked out.

Kohaku looked up when Miroku returned, medical supplies in hand and slowly got up to leave. Sango shot her fiance a pleading look; he sighed and inclined his head slightly.

"No, Kohaku," came his sister's gentle voice; his heart leapt. "You can stay. I need help with these bandages."

"Houshi-sama – "

" – has other business to attend to," Miroku finished. He caressed Sango's face and bent down to kiss her cheek, whispering "Good luck," in her ear.

When the monk's footsteps had receded into the distance, the slayer sat up, patting the futon next to her."You were the first one to help patch me up after training. I'd like you to help me."

He furrowed his brow, searching for memories that he already knew were not there; she noticed his confusion and flushed scarlet.

"I – I'm sorry – I forgot – " she stuttered. Kohaku flashed her what he hoped was a disarming smile and knelt beside her, pulling the ttray of medical supplies closer to him.

"It doesn't matter." He gently tugged at the collar of her loose kosode; she hastened to pull it down for him. "You can tell me all about them."

All coherent thought fled the young man's mind: Sango was not wearing anything under it, not even her usual breast bindings. "They were torn and bloodstained, so I think the healer threw them away," she said, as though reading his mind. "But it's okay, you're my little brother."

I wish I wasn't.

Cautious calloused fingertips grazed the exposed skin of her stomach; they glided down reluctantly to the neat knot under Sango's left armpit. Kohaku fumbled with it for a moment until it fell away, letting him unwind the bandages: he was careful to ease them away from the raw flesh where the blood had dried. He repeated the process with infinite care for the set of bandages over her arm.

Finally, she was exposed before his eyes, his beautiful war goddess. He tried to keep his eyes averted, hiding any sign of burgeoning unbrotherly interest, focusing on the light tint decorating Sango's face or the roll of fresh bandages in his hands.

Kohaku wadded the old wrappings into a ball; they were stiff with dried blood – a tinge of guilt brought the colour into his cheeks.

"Ane-ue – about last night…"

"You have nothing to be sorry for," she told him softly but firmly. "I shouldn't have reacted that violently as I did; I startled you."

Deciding silence was his best option, the young man busied himself with the dressings. Anticipating the cleaning the wounds to be the most difficult task – he was contending with the fine temptation of his sister's assets and the equal difficulty of not touching them – Kohaku dropped his gaze to the wooden planks of the floor.

"Kohaku, you can look, you know."

His face went a deeper, more spectacular shade of red; he sneaked a peek upwards, pulling his head so he saw nothing but her face.

It was a darker crimson than he would have thought possible but the similarity between brother and sister ended there. Her eyes – his eyes too, he recalled – burned obstinately.

When she spoke, though, her voice was softness personified. "I know I haven't been a good sister to you all this time – I couldn't protect you from Naraku – and even since Haha-ue died. I'm sorry. I should have taken better care of you especially now – you're all I have left, you and Kirara…"

"Ane-ue…" His hands trembled; he wished he could say her name. Anything to make her feel better.

"About last night…" Sango appeared to falter but pressed on. "I saw for the first time – truly – what had happened to you – the sweet, gentle boy who loved to laugh, because I failed."

Please don't say I'm a monster. "It's not your fault – "

Tears welled up in her eyes and she dabbed at them, unmindful of her own semi-nudity and her injuries. Kohaku was struck dumb: so beautiful, so broken, so tainted, so strong.

"I just want us to go back the way we were before; you used to tell me everything," she finally got out. "I can't stand seeing us so awkward around each other..."

Kohakue took several deep breaths, steadying himself. "Ane-ue, let me dress your wounds, please." He longed to touch her but restrained himself, concentrating on the gashes that marred her otherwise perfect torso. The rag he was using to clean away the dried blood skimmed over the ugly cuts lightly as he focused on his task.

Finally, he gathered the loose ends of cloth together at her back but stopped, transfixed. In the middle of her back was a diamond-shaped scar; from the colour of it, he knew it had been deep and life-threatening. What made it so compelling was its shape…

"Kohaku?"

The boy traced the edges of the healed lump of flesh with a trembling finger. "This wound…" Jagged memory gnawed at his mind: he knew this.

He had given it to her…

It was hidden from his shocked view in a split-second as Sango pulled her kosode back around her body. "Thank you for changing my bandages," she whispered. "I'm tired – I'd like to sleep."

"But the bandages haven't been secured – "

"I'll do it myself!" Sango fumbled with the ends, tying them into a rough knot, her back to him all the while. "Please, just go. It's nothing."

Head reeling, he got up and left, the warm afternoon air rejuvenating him like a balm. There was no mistaking it – only his kusari-gama could have made that wound. Flashes of memory – his sister's screams, wet warmth of fresh tears cleansing the blood on his face, the horror and disbelief in her eyes as she turned to him – appeared in his mind's eye, only to vanish a split-second later.

"So Naraku killed them all except for you and I?"

A flicker passed over her face – he could have sworn it was hesitation. "Yes," she said firmly.

Sango, his older sister Sango: she could not have lied to him… could she?

Miroku hummed to himself as he carried the tray of food: it had been a good day – albeit one without lechery whatsoever, something he still found surprising. The monk had already found the only woman who he wanted to bear his child and spend the rest of his life with. As the hut drew into his field of vision, his mood sobered. Miroku was hoping the alone time he had given his fiancee and her brother had turned out fruitful.

"Sango? Are you asleep?"

His worst fears were confirmed as he stepped into the darkened hut. Even without Inuyasha's keen senses, the monk knew she was crying, buried underneath the blanket as she was.

Setting the tray to one side, he slid into the bed with her, stroking her hair. "Shhh, Sango, what's wrong?" A choked sob; she turned over and accepted him gratefully, clinging to him as though she would never let go.

From experience, he knew he was not going to get a quick answer from her; Miroku was secretly thankful. He had missed holding her in his arms, the night they had spent together while on the road seemingly so long ago. He heaved a sigh; he was seeing too much of the sorrowful woman he had met years ago, the one who was alone in the world.

The monk dropped a kiss into her tangled locks, brushing away her tears with his lips. Listening to Sango cry had always been a harrowing experience for him: Miroku felt for her, having seen her suffering and he wanted to share it with her. Anything to see her happy.

I thought she would be happy now that Kohaku's back but it seems as though I'm wrong. Things have just gotten worse, much worse…

He quashed the errant thought, feeling guilty for having even entertained it in the first place. What would she do, having the two most important men in her lives fighting? It would break her heart – what fragments were remaining of it, that is. Miroku loved his hurting, broken slayer more than anything else to think of putting her through something as harrowing as that.

His instincts – both spiritual and gut – told him there was something not quite right with Kohaku: an observation he had kept under wraps, seeing how happy Sango was with his return. He could not say for certain what it was; all Miroku knew was that the boy Kohaku was not the same boy he had been – possibly not quite human in the normal sense of the word.

"It's alright," he muttered, feeling Sango shiver, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. "It's going to be alright, Sango, I'm here."

The battle with the bear demon had only confirmed Miroku's suspicions – doubly so when the boy had turned on him. For the briefest of instants, the monk had seen something red flash in Kohaku's eyes, a clue that something else lurked behind them. From Sango's many stories about her gentle little brother, the demonic individual seething with bloodlust could hardly be the young man Kohaku would have been under normal circumstances.

His grip on the woman cradled in his arms tightened. He had protected her all this while since the day she had joined them, the blood-soaked warrior woman with eyes and will of steel, through the death of their common enemy. He would continue to protect her with everything he had.

Even from the only family she had left.