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The forest was unusually silent. The remaining animal life that hadn't chosen to flee the area was still unsure if it was safe to venture forth from burrows and other hastily formed hiding spots. With the sharp, nauseating scent of miasma that still lingered in the air, Miroku was unsurprised.
He was also grateful for the quiet. Long after everyone in Kaede’s hut had fallen asleep, he had found that he was still restless. He had slipped out to find a spot to pray and meditate. If the others were able to sleep, he saw no sense in disturbing them.
His footsteps had started to take him in the direction of the well, when he thought better of it and turned in the opposite direction. For tonight, it was better to leave Inuyasha to his grief. Shippo was watching him from a distance, and Miroku knew the kitsune would warn them if Inuyasha attempted something foolish, such as trying to dig through the well to Kagome’s time.
Out of habit, his hands clenched around his prayer beads, only to be startled when he was met with the sensation of skin on skin. The moonlight was bright enough that he could make out his palm, and he traced the lines with the fingers of his opposite hand, still marvelling at the new experience.
It was one, if he were honest, that he never believed he would live long enough to discover.
The skin felt soft, unused. Completely different from his other hand. For nearly his entire life, his future had been in his palm. Or as much of a future as one could have, when your lifeline ended in a gaping void.
The loss of his father had almost been overshadowed by the certainty that the curse would someday take him, too. He had thrown himself into hunting down Naraku, and over the years, he had carefully constructed a cheerful facade to cover the dread of knowing that he was dying by inches.
Now that the curse was removed, it felt as if he had lost his life’s purpose as well. There was no clear direction, no end goal. At least, nothing beyond having to live with the choices he had made without believing he would have to live to face the consequences.
The muffled crack of a twig drew his attention, and one hand automatically reached for his staff. Catching sight of who it was, he let the cool metal slip through his fingers.
“I had hoped you would be able to get some sleep,” he said quietly, leaning back into the tree as Sango approached.
She shook her head, her unbound hair swaying about her shoulders. “I wanted to check on Kohaku again, and then I just couldn't fall back to sleep. I thought I would join you, if that’s alright?”
Some of the tension left Miroku’s body. He couldn't lie to himself; there had been a faint voice whispering in his ear that Sango may change her mind about becoming his wife now that the battle was over. He could hardly blame her. He knew some of his previous behaviors didn't exactly fit the image of devoted husband. But if she had deliberately sought him out…..maybe there was still hope.
Still, he was surprised that she had left Kohaku. She hadn't been able to take her eyes off of him once the fighting was over, as if she expected him to evaporate if she so much as glanced away.
“Of course. Is Kohaku sleeping well?”
Sango lowered herself to the ground beside him. “Surprisingly. I think it’s just because he's utterly exhausted.”
“But you're still worried about him,” Miroku said knowingly.
Her gaze dropped to her lap, where her fingers knotted themselves together. “I….I know that Kohaku isn't responsible for his earlier actions, and I can forgive him. I just don't believe he is able to see things the same way.”
Miroku was concerned about the boy as well. He had experienced things no one should—and certainly not at such a young age. He was also far too ready to throw his life away for actions that were not truly his.
“It will take time for him to heal, Sango. I don't imagine he will ever truly get over his experiences, but that doesn't mean that he won't have a good life.”
“I know. It’s just…..he has so much to carry. The awful things he was forced to do….” her voice shook, and she leaned into Miroku with a combination of exhaustion and need for comfort.
“True. That just means that we need to support him until he can do all of the amazing things he's capable of doing.”
Sango was quiet for a moment. “I don't think he’ll stay here for long,” she admitted, sadness coating every syllable.
“Maybe not, but we can make sure he knows he always has a hole to come back to when he needs it.”
Miroku’s assurance lifted some of the weight from Sango’s shoulders. Knowing that she wasn't the only one who cared for Kohaku was a relief; not just anyone would have forgiven him as easily as Miroku, and even fewer would welcome him into their home so freely.
Miroku placed his arm around her shoulders, expecting her to doze off. He was surprised when she leaned into him further.
“True. He’ll have to help me pass on our family’s traditions. I'm hoping at least one of the many children you've promised me will follow our ways.”
Her amused tone drew a laugh from him, and he was filled with an elation that surpassed even the moment when his curse had been lifted. The warmth of Sango’s shoulder was pressed against his palm, easily filling the hole that had been left. As they sat there together, with the sunrise moments away, he realized that not much had really changed.
His destiny was still in his grasp.
His future was still in his hand.
His curse had been replaced with a blessing.
And we wasn't letting go.