InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Metamorphosis 2: Legacies ❯ Sensei? ( Chapter 8 )

Leaning in the doorway, Sango winced as Kuro tripped over his feet.  Marisaiko hopped back, but shoved him down in the process as the rebounding chakram barely missed his head.  She wasn't sure whether to think that he was incredibly tenacious when he pushed himself off of the ground and back to his feet—or incredibly stupid.  Then again, maybe 'optimistic' was a better way to look at it.

"S-Sorry!" he blurted as he hopped up off the ground, sparing a moment to dust himself off quickly before reaching for the bokken he'd fumbled and dropped just before Marisaiko had unleashed her weapons.  He grunted as he hit the ground again, only this time, Marisaiko hadn't yet made a move to attack him, either.

'Stupid,' she thought with an inward sigh.  'Definitely stupid . . .'

"Not going well, is it?"

Letting out a deep breath, Sango didn't turn toward the sound of that voice—the one she knew better than she knew herself.  "Maybe we should suggest that she use something a little less dangerous," she ventured.

Even as she said it, though, Marisaiko resheathed the chakram on her belt and reached for a wooden bokken, instead.  Kuro yelped and threw his hands up over his head when she flicked it against the length of the one he'd dropped for a second time, neatly flipping it up into the air for him to catch.  It bounced off his raised arms and clattered helplessly, harmlessly, to the ground for the third time in as many minutes.

"Well, it's just . . . just the first day," Miroku offered, though he sounded rather dubious.

"It could . . . could get . . . better . . ." Sango ventured, then sighed and slowly shook her head.  "Maybe . . ."

Miroku chuckled as he drew up beside her.  "No wonder why InuYasha refused to train him.  That one wouldn't stand a chance, even in practice."

Wincing as the poor young man hit the ground again, Sango shook her head, too.  "Do you think we should stop them?"

Slipping his arms around Sango's waist, he sighed softly as he gently rubbed his cheek against hers.  "He really seems to want to learn," he surmised.  "They say that perseverance pays off."

"There's a difference between perseverance and sheer foolishness," she countered.

Miroku sighed.  "He'll do better once he works out his nerves."

Sango still wasn't sure she agreed, and to be honest, Miroku didn't really sound that optimistic, either, but she pushed away from the doorframe, sparing a moment to rise up on tiptoe to kiss her husband's cheek before slipping out of his arms and back inside.

"Where are you going?" he called after her.

She turned just long enough to peer over her shoulder at him as a rueful little smile turned up the corners of her lips.  "I'm going to put together an herb sachet and a salve," she said.  "Something tells me that he's going to want a good, long soak after this session."

Miroku chuckled.  "My wife is as wise as she is beautiful."

"So you've said, houshi-sama.  So you've said."

"We'd get there a lot faster if you'd let me carry you," Jirou pointed out for, what had to be, the umpteen-millionth time since they'd started out this morning.

Kiri shot him a dark look.  "I can walk," she said.

Then again, he was making a little progress.  Given that she refused to say anything to him for the first few hours after he woke her up around mid-morning, it had to be something.  It was safe to say that she was pretty irritated with him, especially when he'd insisted that she stay awake, well into the night—at least, until he was reassured that she didn't have a concussion, after all.  Of course, by then, any good will that he'd managed to perpetuate when he'd swooped in and saved the day for her was all but gone.

Even so, it had to mean something that she hadn't suggested that the two of them part ways again, and he hadn't bothered to suggest that they return to the taijya village, either.  He had a feeling that it wouldn't have made any difference, anyway.

He sighed.  "So, are you going to tell me where we're going?"

"Nowhere," she replied.  "Anywhere . . ."

Her second statement was more of a mutter that he may not have actually heard, had he not been hanyou, to start with.  He frowned at the cryptic tone in her voice.  "That's pretty vague.  Is this how you make all your decisions?"

She shrugged.  "It's worked for me so far."

They walked a little farther as Jirou scowled.  The air was thick, heavy, promising a storm that had been brewing for days, but hadn't broken yet.  His thoughts weren't too far off of that.  For as much as he'd rambled on the night before in his efforts to keep her awake and talking, he couldn't rightfully say that he'd learned much about her, either.

She held her secrets closer than anyone he'd ever met before, and yet, he'd seen glimpses of it, too, hadn't he?  The sadness in the depths of her gaze that she hadn't been able to completely hide . . .

"Your, uh, family," she said, breaking through his reverie in a soft, almost halting, tone.  "You're all really close, aren't you?"

"Yeah," he replied with an offhanded little shrug.  "Sometimes, I think we're closer than we should be."

He could feel her gaze on him, even though he didn't look to confirm it.  "You shouldn’t be?" she echoed.  "Why?"

Letting out a deep breath, he crossed his arms over his chest under the copious sleeves of the black haori.  "I don't mean that," he said.  "I . . . I love them, sure.  I just . . ." He made a face.  "It's . . . Eh, I can't explain it."

"Sometimes," she ventured, her voice still barely more than a whisper, halting, failing, almost to the point that he had to wonder if she realized she was speaking out loud.  "Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like, if my mother hadn't died . . . I wonder where we would have ended up?  I wonder . . . I wonder if she would have been like . . . like your mother . . .?"

He chuckled.  "I don't think there's anyone quite like my mother," he told her.  "At least, that's what Papa says, and I guess he'd know."

That sad expression flickered over her features again, lingering a little longer than usual this time, and Jirou regretted his statement.

"I bet she'd have been just as great, though maybe in a wholly different kind of way," he went on, trying to soften the statement he'd already made.  "Do you . . .?  Do you remember anything about her?"

She stopped suddenly and plopped down on a fallen tree trunk, shoulders slumping, chin ducking low, and she seemed to almost shrink into herself.  "I remember . . . She used to carry me when I'd whine that I was tired," she said.  "I was . . . four?  Five . . .?"  Shaking her head, she smiled sadly.  "Too big to be carried, anyway.  Then she got this cart, and she pulled me in it, even when there wasn't a road."

"It's what a mother does," he allowed, sitting beside her, pausing a moment to listen to the sound of the birds.  "How old were you when she died?"

Kiri didn't answer right away.  Jirou was beginning to think that she wasn't going to when she sighed.  "Guess I was about seven.  Maybe I was six."

He digested that for a minute, frowning to himself as he considered what she'd said.  To have lost her mother that young?  Just what kind of hell did that play on her mind . . .? "Who took care of you then?"

"No one," she said, that pragmatic tone back in place again.  "No one wanted a foreigner's child."

He opened his mouth to say that it wasn't possible, that a child that young didn't have the ability to care for herself, but a voice whispered in the back of his mind: the gentle reminder that his own father hadn't been much older than that, if he even was that old, when Izayoi had died, leaving InuYasha all alone, too.  He was hanyou, though, which made him stronger, tougher.  Looking at Kiri?  So small, so delicate, and so very, very alone . . . Just how in the world had she managed . . .?

'By stealing, by hiding, by running,' the voice in his head told him.

He winced inwardly.  Somehow, that put everything in perspective, didn't it?  Why she'd steal from a shrine, why she'd risk discovery to take a rabbit from their campsite, and the irritation that had accompanied those things before was somehow gone.

"Do you want to come home with me?" he asked, purposefully injecting enough nonchalance in his tone to cover up the emotion behind his words.  There was no real rhyme or reason behind it, but the idea of leaving her alone, of walking away, knowing that there was no one out there, waiting for her . . . It bothered him.  "Mama's always more than happy to take care of people, you know?  She'd love having you there."

For one wild moment, he could see the way her eyes lit up, only to be quelled a split-second later as she offered him a curt shrug and a soft grunt in reply.  "I don't really need anyone to take care of me," she assured him haughtily.

"Okay, I just thought it'd be kind of a distraction for Mama, you know."

"Distraction?" she echoed, shaking her head just a little.  "What do you mean by that?"

Jirou shrugged.  "You ever hear the stories?" he countered.  "The ones about the miko and the hanyou that defeated Naraku years ago?"

She looked thoughtful for a moment, but sighed and shook her head once in a curt kind of jerk, almost like she hated to admit that she didn't know the tales.  "Uh, no . . ."

"Then you're about the only one who hasn't," he admitted with a wry grin.  "Mama and Papa hunted down Naraku.  Back when Mama first came to—to the village, she accidentally shattered the Shikon no Tama, a sacred jewel that was said to be the physical embodiment of an ancient warrior miko and the souls of thousands of youkai.  Anyway, Mama was born with the jewel inside her body, and when it was torn out, all these youkai tried to steal it—wanted to use it to make themselves more powerful—and when a carrion crow stole it, she attached the severed foot to an arrow, the arrow struck the jewel and shattered it.  Then they spent months, trying to hunt down the shards."

"So, where does this 'Naraku' come into the picture?"

He shrugged.  "Naraku wanted to jewel more than anyone, and he was far more crafty than the others were, too.  Then Papa found out that Naraku had killed its previous protector, which wouldn't have been that big a deal, except that she was his first love.  Naraku had tricked them both, and in the end, Kikyou had pinned Papa to Goshinboku with her sacred arrow for fifty years.  Mama freed him."  He chuckled softly.  "Anyway, they, along with Marisaiko's parents and a kitsune named Shippou—you haven't met him yet—hunted down Naraku and, ultimately, destroyed him."

She digested that in silence.

Jirou sighed, his gaze slowly shifting over the surrounding forest, not really looking for anything in particular.  No, just . . . looking.  "Well, there was a lot more to it than that, but that's the gist of it, anyway."

Kiri nodded.  "Okay, but how would I distract her?"

This time, Jirou chuckled.  "Well, Mama tends to get bored sometimes, and Papa swears that she volunteers their help, since 'help' usually involves Papa's brawn, just because she has nothing better to do.  Not really true, no . . . I mean, Mama just loves to help people.  So she'd be helping you, and that would make her happy."

Sending her a sidelong glance, Jirou was somewhat relieved to see that, while Kiri still had that stubborn frown on her face, he could also tell that she actually was considering his words.  Suddenly, though, she bit her lip and quickly gave her head a little shake.  "I . . . I shouldn't stay around here," she finally said, her voice dropping again.

Scowl deepening as he watched her, as he took in the way she glanced around, eyes constantly moving, as though she expected someone or something to leap out at her, Jirou shook his head.  "Are you . . . in some kind of trouble?" he asked in what he could only hope was a nonchalant tone of voice.

Her eyes darted to him, an almost startled expression surfacing on her face before she managed to blank it once more, before she shifted her gaze away again.  "Nope," she replied, and if he hadn't caught her look just a moment before, he might well have believed her.  Too bad he also knew damn well that she wasn't going to tell him exactly what kind of trouble she might be in . . .

"So, you just shouldn't stay around here," he remarked instead.

She sighed, but it was more of a simple lifting of her shoulders than a truly audible exhalation.  "Yeah, that's right."

He sighed, too.  "Then tell me where you're going," he prompted.

"I don't . . . don't know," she stated, but this time, she sounded weary, as though she was simply tired, maybe not in a physical sense, more like her mind was just overwhelmed by her own thoughts.  "It's not like I have anywhere I have to be," she went on with a little shrug.  "Just something I have to do, is all . . ."

He considered her statement for a long moment.  Something about the expression on her face, the determined glint that entered her gaze . . . He wasn't entirely sure what to make of her cryptic statement, but the tone of her voice . . . "What kind of 'something'?" he asked in what he hoped was a casual sort of tone.

"Just . . . something," she replied.  "Thanks for the offer, Jirou-kun, but—"

"I could help you," he cut in, unsure why he was saying any such thing, especially when he really didn't have a clue what the 'something' was, in the first place.  "I mean, as long as it isn't anything bad, anyway."

She wrinkled her nose and opened her mouth, probably to tell him exactly what she thought of his off-handed comment.  Abruptly, though, she snapped her mouth closed and then choked out a laugh.  He blinked at the rather pleasant sound.  Roughened a little, almost like she didn't rightfully know how to truly laugh, it was still an entirely welcome.  Adding a heightened brightness to her eyes, a sparkle that brought to mind the light, shimmering on the surface of the water . . . Jirou blinked, stared for a moment, and then, he smiled, too . . .

"All right.  I think that's enough for one day."

Grimacing at the dryness in the young taijya's voice, Kuro couldn't contain the groan that slipped out of him as he flopped over onto his back, letting his hands fall wide at his sides, and he winced as the struggled to control his labored breathing.  "Th-Thank you . . . sensei," he managed, but only after several long moments.

She rolled her eyes as she rounded on him after replacing the bokken on the nearby rack mounted to the side of the hut that she called 'home'.  Planting her hands on her hips, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and slowly shook her head.  "I told you, don't call me that," she muttered, slowly shaking her head.

Kuro made a face, pushing himself upright before rolling onto his knees, hands on his thighs as he ducked his head in a bow.  "But you're training me, and—"

This time, she sighed.  "I'll be honest, Kuro-san, I don't know if this is a good idea.  I mean, you're just not very . . ."

He grimaced again, chin snapping up, though he remained still otherwise.  "No, please!" he blurted, unable to help himself.  "I'll do better tomorrow; I promise!"

She didn't look like she believed him, and he supposed he couldn't really blame her for that.  In the course of the few hours that they'd been training, he had to admit that he wasn't able to actually do anything that might have even remotely impressed her, and he sighed.  "Please, sensei," he murmured, squeezing his eyes closed as he shot forward, his forehead nearly touching the hard-packed ground.

"Don't do that," she grumbled, letting her arms drop to her sides for a moment before crossing them over her chest instead.  "And just 'Marisaiko' or even 'Mari' is fine."

"Please!" he begged once more as he bent a little bit farther.  This time, his forehead did touch the ground.

"Why?" she asked instead.  She didn't sound entirely exasperated, and Kuro figured that was worth something, at least.  "Why do you want to learn so badly?  Surely there are other things you can do.  Not everyone is cut out for this, anyway."

"I just . . . I have to!" he insisted without raising his head.

"I take it the two of you are done for the day?"

Marisaiko didn't answer her father right away.

Miroku glanced from Kuro to his daughter then back again as a thoughtful frown surfaced on his features.  "Mari, why don't you go help your mother with dinner?" he suggested gently.

She didn't answer him, but Kuro opened his eyes in time to see her feet as the taijya walked away.

Miroku sighed.  "Sit up," he said softly, his feet coming a step, two steps, closer.  "Please."

Reluctantly, Kuro complied, scowling at the ground, stubbornly refusing to meet the man's gaze as he hunkered down in front of him.

It felt like an eternity before the ex-monk spoke.  In reality, it was probably only a few seconds, but there was something about the intensity of his stare that made Kuro want to fidget despite his resolve not to do so.

"You're cursed, aren't you?" Miroku finally asked.

Kuro's eyes shot up to meet his, just in time to see the light of apparent understanding dawn on him.  The same violet eyes as his daughter, Miroku seemed like he was considering things, as though he were trying to decide something before he spoke again.  "Of course you are," he finally went on, nodding slowly, as though everything made perfect sense to him.  "Will you tell me how it happened?"

"Y-You can tell?" Kuro asked before he could stop himself.

Miroku chuckled, but it was not unkind.  "No one alive can be as clumsy as you are," he stated flatly.  "I'm not trying to be harsh, but . . ."

Kuro heaved a sigh.  "My father is at war with a neighboring daimyo," he admitted.  "Their fathers were, as well, and even their fathers' fathers . . . There was an old man who fancied himself a seer who told my father's enemy that he had visions that my father's oldest son would win the war and bring about his ruin, so he found an old miko who professed to having the ability to cast curses, and he paid her to curse me."  Kuro made a face and slowly shook his head.  "She wasn't very good at it, I guess, because I didn't die—I was no more than a babe at the time, and I don't remember it, of course—but they said that the she maintained that the curse would kill me before my third birthday.  I didn't die, but . . ."

"But you ended up like you are now," Miroku concluded.

Kuro nodded.  "And it should have been simple to hunt her down and make her lift the curse—my father tried to do that—but the miko disappeared, and no one has seen or heard tale of her since."  Sitting up a little straighter, Kuro couldn’t help the stubborn little scowl that shot to the fore.  "My father tried to have me trained for a time, but after awhile, no one would agree to help me . . ."

Miroku digested that.  "And you need to find her to get her to lift the curse yourself."

"Y-Yes . . . But how did you know?" he couldn't help asking.

Miroku chuckled again.  "Well, I know something about curses myself," he admitted.  "My family bore a curse for a very long time.  I had a hole carved into my hand, as did my father and his father before him.  That hole—the kazaana—sucked in anything in its path if I didn't keep it covered and sealed with prayer beads.  It grew worse and worse slowly.  My grandfather and my father were both sucked into that cursed hole in their own hands . . . InuYasha, Kagome, and Sango and me . . . We hunted down the being that had cursed my grandfather and defeated him before the kazaana was able to suck me into it, too."

Neither said anything for a few moments.  Miroku seemed to be deep in thought.  Suddenly, though, he nodded once and stood, offering a hand to help Kuro to his feet, too.  "Come on," he said as he gave Kuro's hand a light tug.

"Where are we going?"

The ex-monk led the way toward a dirt path that disappeared in a cluster of trees that hid a small stream from view.  "You look like you could use a good soak," Miroku tossed casually over his shoulder.  "Sango made a salve for you since she figured you'd be pretty sore.  After that, I'll see if there's anything I can do to at least lessen the curse.  I can't promise it'll work, but it can't hurt to try . . ."