Work Text:
Miroku had never much cared for autumn. As a child he had liked the colors, but disliked the harsh cold that followed. How little he knew then.
It was autumn when, carrying his father’s curse in his hand, Miroku left the temple to seek his fate. Only then, and in his travels afterward, did he come to truly appreciate the fleeting beauty of that changeable season: the chill in the air, the fading of the light, the whisper of the wind through ever more brittle leaves.
The inevitable decline of summer into winter’s desolation, echoing in his own cursed flesh.