Finally, Sango's sobs died down somewhat. Miroku stirred slightly, his thumb smoothing her fringe back from her face.
"Sango?"
She looked up at him tearfully. "Miroku." The slayer nestled her head in the crook of his neck, breathing in his clean masculine scent. The faint scent of incense permeated the cloth, making his scent so distinguishable from the other men.
"What happened?" he asked gently.
"Kohaku – he knows." Miroku's mouth tightened; he drew Sango closer. "He knows… I lied to him."
The monk blinked in confusion, lowering his surprised gaze to hers. "You… lied?"
Sango shook her head, moisture beginning to well up again. "That day in the village – he asked me to tell him what happened the day he came under Naraku's control – I couldn't bring myself to tell him he attacked me and we were killed – " The words came thick and fast. "Just now, he saw the scar on my back – "
His mouth had become thinner and thinner as he listened to Sango: Miroku realized things had gotten from bad to worse. "Sango – you were only trying to spare him further pain…" he muttered. Considering the way Kohaku had reacted to the accidental slipping of his engagement to his sister, it was something Miroku himself would have done; regardless, he could not begin to imagine how the young man would handle finding out the truth this way.
"I shouldn't have kept the truth from him in the first place." The slayer turned her back to him. "It's all my fault."
The monk placed a firm hand on her uninjured shoulder, squeezing it. "You can't blame yourself for everything that happens."
He had said the wrong thing; Sango shook her head, her muscles stiffening in her agitation. "Why not? Houshi-sama, please stop saying all these things... It is my fault, I am to blame: it's as simple as that. Stop trying to make me feel better about myself…"
All at once, her body slumped; she almost seemed to be trying to curl in on herself. "Stop trying to make me forgive myself," she whispered almost to herself.
Miroku lowered his head, pulling himself up into his usual cross-legged position. "You've been too hard on yourself – I'm not exaggerating, Sango," he said coldly before the slayer could open her mouth to reply. "You're right – it was wrong of you to lie to Kohaku. But you did what any older sister would have done: protect his innocence the best you can from the cruel world. There is a difference between a lie and a white lie."
"Do you think Kohaku would have reacted any differently if you had first told him the truth – that he killed his own father and comrades? That he almost killed you that night and on so many other different occasions? That you spent so many sleepless nights blaming yourself for what happened that night? That when you did sleep, he was the subject of the nightmares that have followed you for the past year as we hunted Naraku?"
She had gone deathly white as she listened to Miroku, fists clenching in the blanket.
"Miroku… you don't understand. You can't."
"Why not?"
She lifted her head to look at him; the same spark he had seen many times when they were faced with daunting odds dancing in her brown eyes.
"You were never an older brother – you don't know what it's like to have someone to be responsible for at such a young age. I was more than that – I was both mother and sister to him."
Anger stirred in Miroku's gut. "Sango, that's not what I mean."
"I practically raised him – my father had no time to nurse a sickly baby," she told him. "I taught him everything he knows. I looked after him when he was sick. I showed him how a seed grows into a tree and told him why the sun rises in the east."
"We were so close; Kohaku used to tell me everything. But as we grew older, I put more of my time and effort into my training. He spent most of his time alone. But even then, when my father and I came home from a busy day of training, he'd prepare a meal and afterwards, he'd still share all his thoughts, hopes and dreams with me." Sango's voice faltered a little. "I barely listened, my head full of thoughts of fighting and weapons. I'd come to regard him as an annoyance."
"Whatever you're feeling now is just guilt from those times," interjected Miroku patiently.
"Perhaps. I was so excited when my father made Kohaku train along with us: we could do something together. I should have realized it was not the life for him. And yet I pushed all my doubts to one side. Until that night, we were summoned to the castle on Kohaku's first mission…."
Sango broke off; she lowered her chin to her knees, a pensive look in her eye.
He sighed heavily. "Sango, come here." She came obediently into his open arms and let him hold her.
"Stop punishing yourself." Fingers parted the long brown curtain of hair hanging over her shoulder and nestled in the soft fabric of her kimono. "Sometimes, things are just out of our hands and no matter how hard we try, there's nothing we can do to change them." Miroku belatedly realized her body was no longer molded to his; it was rigid with anger.
The slayer jerked her head from him, blazing with fury. "I'm not you, Houshi-sama!" she hissed. "I don't give up that easily; I will fight for my brother no matter what it takes. I will not lose him again."
Sango gasped and covered her mouth as Miroku turned white; the effect of her words was like a slap in his face. Making matters worse, she had let slip the unwanted title.
"Miroku – I…" she stuttered, reaching out a conciliatory hand.
Anger of his own simmered behind tempestuous violet eyes; he pulled his hand from hers. "… If that's the way you feel, Sango, then I… I will not stand in your way." He was treating her like one of his conquests, to be discarded after he had his way with them and it hurt; she wished he would shout at her, or slap her. Anything was better than this coldness.
"You're right; I give up easily. But only when I think something's not worth fighting for." Coolly, the monk pushed aside the door hanging and disappeared into the night. Sango let the tears come then.
Why do I always end up hurting the ones I love?
Kohaku was outside, seated in a low tree, watching the forest come to life at night; he gave a start as Miroku stormed out of the house.
His sister's man seemed to be the most level-headed person he had ever met. And yet... as he vanished into the dense vegetation, the young man noticed he was incandescent – even shaking with barely suppressed rage.
A wry smile briefly flashed over his face; apparently men of Buddha were not immune to the ways of the world.
Miroku walked until his legs refused to carry him any further, finding himself in a convenient clearing, dominated by a large maple.
His heart was still pounding; already he was feeling guilty for letting Sango's words get to him. She let herself get carried away when angry – he should know that after so many years – and said things she never meant.
But angry words tended to have an echo of truth in them.
So is that how she thinks of me?
The monk shook the unpleasant thoughts from his mind, taking deep breaths to calm himself. It was times like this – thankfully few and far in between – he was glad his spiritual training came in handy for purposes other than containing the Kazaana.
But it was gone now; he suddenly became aware of the prickling roughness of tree bark against his naked palm, reminding him of what he had lost – and what he had gained.
It did not bode well for his future with Sango if such little things were to incite such violent fights – especially over Kohaku. Despite his increasing misgivings, Miroku cared about the young man as though he was his own brother, and not just his wife-to-be's.
And that was what hurt him the most.
What if Kohaku was not truly himself? Could Miroku really bear to raise a blade against him – even if it was not the boy any more? He knew Sango could not.
They had gone through so much to liberate him from Naraku's hands; to extinguish him themselves was the final irony that would have, no doubt, amused the dark hanyou greatly. It angered Miroku all over again that althought the foul creature was dead and gone, they were still his puppets, jerking and dancing while entangled in his strings.
A wave of hopeless despair washed over the monk, reminiscent of that which he had felt while on his quest to break his curse; he lashed out at the tree trunk. Pain reverberated through his knuckles and up his arm.
At least he was feeling something.
Miroku pulled back his throbbing hand, examining the split skin would heal – as all physical wounds did – eventually. A scar would be left, marking the spot where blood had been shed, and little else.
What he would not do to have the emotional wounds close up in the same way.
He stood up, binding his hand with a rag taken from inside his robes. The monk had spent enough time wallowing in self-pity; it was time he became the tower of strength they needed him to be.
Kohaku hovered on the threshold of the hut, one hand fingering the hanging cloth in the doorway. The moon had risen and Miroku had yet to return from the forest; he wondered whether it was right for him to intrude...
… and replace him inside.
Sango's tears had subsided long ago; he guessed she was trying her best not to cry. She did not seem like the weepy sort which burst into tears at the smallest thing, yet anything concerning him could bring a moistness to her eyes.
A walking contradiction – perhaps that was why he found her so fascinating.
The young man made up his mind. Before he could change it, he pulled aside the door hanging and stepped in.
His sister was lying in her bed, her back to the doorway. She immediately sat up as his footsteps sounded on the packed dirt... and the hopeful light in her eyes died away somewhat as he looked into them.
"Kohaku," she said. "It's late. You should be asleep."
"I know, Ane-ue." He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he pretended to be busy with preparations for sleep; she appeared too distraught about her fight with Miroku to remember their previous awkward encounter.
Kohaku did not know whether to be relieved or disquieted.
He shuffled on his knees to where she sat, fingering the hem of her kimono anxiously. "Ane-ue, is everything alright? Why aren't you asleep yet? Where's Houshi-sama?"
She gave a start at the last question, her ceaseless fingers freezing around a worn thread.
"Hou – houshi-sama hasn't returned yet." Sango bent her head, her hair falling around her eyes.
I think he'll be back later."
Kohaku feigned deafness – her voice shook, close to tears – and nodded, the good obedient little brother asking after the well-being of his future brother-in-law. "... Ane-ue, did something... happen between you and Houshi-sama?"
The slayer brushed at the corners of her eyes. "We had a small misunderstanding, that's all. Don't worry about it." Firmly, she smoothed out his mat and patted it; her quiet way of indicating the conversation was closed.
The young man saw no help for it; he hugged her close and whispered his goodnights, savouring the lingering scent of jasmine in her hair before retiring.
Keeping very still, he waited it out together with her.
Kohaku felt Miroku coming before he actually heard footsteps outside the hut; he could not explain precisely why he could feel waves of energy surrounding a person. The young slayer kept it a secret from his sister and the monk.
A rustling of cloth; a tired-looking Miroku came in and slowly pulled off his sandals, taking his time to ease the straps off his feet.
"Miroku..."
His back was turned towards the interior of the house, meaning Kohaku was unable to see his reaction. But there was a slight tensing of the monk's body, and the hand undoing the sandal froze momentarily.
"Sango, I – I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things..."
There was a silence, and Miroku turned his head to investigate. Sango's head was bowed, her expression unreadable.
"Sango?"
"Why are you apologising, Miroku?" The slayer lifted her face to his. "It's not fair that you're making everything out to be your fault. But you apologising to me for things that I've said..."
He leaned forward, taking her hand in his.
"You were right to be angry with me."
Sango sniffled loudly.
"I've hurt you – I'm sorry."
Miroku rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand; she made a surprised sound at the blood-speckled rag binding his knuckles.
"Your hand – "
"You were right, Sango," he said as though she had never spoken. "I don't know what it's like to have a brother; what it feels like to care for someone." He traced abstract patterns over her skin. "My mother died giving birth to me - and I've been alone most of my life. Save for Mushin-sama and Hachi."
"I..."
He silenced her with a finger on her lips. "I would have loved to have a sibling. And now I do, through you."
Now completely distracted from Miroku's hand, Sango's eyes brightened with sudden understanding. "Miroku, you mean – "
"Of course." The monk glanced at a still Kohaku. "We will be family, once we are married."
A pretty blush rose into her cheeks. "Married." Sango wondered why the smallest and slightest word from him could elicit such a strong reaction in her.
Miroku chuckled suddenly, a low gentle sound.
"Yes, married, silly girl."
She buried her increasingly heated face into his shoulder partly out of embarrassment – partly to hide from him the joy spreading across her face. For so long she had dreamed of marriage and a family; only recently had Sango wanted those things with him.
Guilt gently nagged at her conscience – they had had an argument not that long ago – and she withdrew, suddenly too ashamed to face him.
"Don't change the subject." The monk raised an eyebrow at that. "I... wish I could take back those words I said earlier, Miroku. I didn't mean to say them... I'm sorry."
Miroku sighed. "It's still bothering you? I've forgotten it already." He tugged on the sleeve of her kimono, inviting her back into his embrace. "I know you, Sango. You definitely don't mean those things."
She stubbornly resisted him. Sango made to protest but eventually melted; his violet eyes were bright with conviction. Sighing, she let him take the last of her guilt away and leaned back against his chest.
"That doesn't change the fact that I hurt your feelings," the slayer insisted.
"Lovely Sango, if a little hurt could deter me from you, we wouldn't be here today."
His arms came up to embrace her, stroking the curve of her ass on their way up.
"... Pevert." But it was her pet name for him, and everything was right in their world.
His fingers – now they lacked the purple glove, they were always moving, exploring, making up for lost time – played relentlessly with her hair. "... So, you'll forgive yourself?"
Sango blew out an amused sigh that was part giggle. "Yes."
He chuckled and she joined in. After a minute or so she realised they were not alone and shushed him. "Kohaku's sleeping."
"So we should be." He waggled his eyebrows salaciously; Sango swatted at his chest and straightened her mat, a subtle invitation to join her.
Kohaku did not care to watch any more; he screwed up his eyes properly and tried to doze off. When the sounds had died away, something niggled at him and he opened them a fraction.
They looked like a perfectly happy couple, completely in love; Sango was asleep, her back was pressed against Miroku's front, her chest rising and falling in even motions; his hands were wrapped around her waist, holding her close. The monk's violet eyes were still open, barely visible over the top of her hair.
His eyes were deeply troubled.