InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Under Anothers Watchful Eye ❯ Such Is The Life Of A Monk ( Chapter 8 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha and company. Soul rights belong to Rumiko Takashi

Note: -*-*-*- Means we are seeing a dream. It will not be in italic.

Note: 'This is how it will be written if it is thought to ones self.'

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Miroku woke up on the futon of the hut, belonging to the princess whoms house had been residance to a demon. For a breif moment he had forgotten where he was. It was not so often that they were able to sleep in such a normal state. How long had it been? At least two months. He did not count Kaedas, because, more or less, it was like sleeping on the ground. She had no futons, nor any pillows. Just the floor and a warm fire, protecting them little from the blistering cold. But he was more than thankful that he had that much. He enjoyed the diffreance in topic when he stayed with Kaeda, and enjoyed her hospitality. What he enjoyed most how ever, was, how care free every one was when they were there. Kagome would be taught new, help full, things. Sango and Shippo would wander around, just looking at the people that surrounded them. InuYasha could usually be found lingering in a tree, close to Kagome no doubt. Even when she thinks he is not near, he was. It semed like the hanyou had spilt personalitys. One for Kagome, and one for Kikyo.

The monk sighed. It was still dark out. He had woken up for a reason. It was that damned dream agian. The dream.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

It was a sunny after noon. Slithers of light shone through the green leaves of the trees that surronded them in the forest. All his friends were present- Kagome, InuYasha, Kirara, Shippo and Sango. InuYasha walked in the head of the group, while Kagome, Sango and himself walked in the back. Shippo and Kirara strutted some where in the middle of InuYasha, and them. Every so often, the hanyou would look back to make sure that every one was at the same pace. Miroku stood closely to Sango, and listened as the two girls chatterd away aimlessly. The group drew to a stop, and they made camp.

The forest where they stayed was one of beauty. The trees were tall and majestic, at least a hunderad years of age. With each ripple it held, it had memorie and secrects of that only a tree could know. Kagome and InuYasha were at some place far off, Shippo and Kirara rested under the sahde of a tree, while Sango and him watched as the day turned to night. For some reason or another, he grabbed Sangos hand in his own, and she accepted it with a smile.

The monk looked at her in utter surprized, then wore a wide grin. This is what he wanted. This was what he had yearned for, to be accepted, not as a person, not as a friend, but as a lover. That is what he truely desired. And now he was haveing it, with the one he truely wanted most. Sango. His Sango.
He looked over his shoulder to see his two closest friends comming his way, hand in hand as they were. Every thing was so perfect. How did it get so perfect all of a sudden and he had not even realized it?

But as it says, all good things must come to an end. And his abrutly.

Miroku could feel his hand pulse. Slowly, he moved his right hand closer to his view. The flaps were now flying open, and his prayer beads were no where in sight. Every one took a step back, but to no use. In the blink of an eye, he had sucked up the only people he truely cared about into his own right hand, and slowly, he was starting to go in too.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Thats the part when he had awoken. Thats always when he awoken. Not close enough to killing himself, but near enough where he had slaughtered everyone that he cared about.

The fate of his right hand had led him down many different roads in his life. Some which he was thankful for, and others he was less happy about. Ever since he was a young child, he had been taught that his right hand was one to be feared. The high monk that had taken care of him after his fathers death told him he remembered the only time that his hand had been whole. He had been but a small baby, he opened and closed his tiny fist, and thrusting the sensitve flesh to create the portal of his small wind tunnel, prematurely. The high monk had been there, for, he had been there his whole life.

He remembered the day that his father had died. Once agian, the monk had been takeing care of him, for his father had fallen into a deep depression, for he knew the end was near. His mother had taken to his bed side, for she was the only one he would see. As a boy he was egar to please his father and constintly wanted to be near him. At odd times he would allow it, and he always put on a cheerful face for his sons sake. Miroku was the spitting image of his father, with the exception of his eyes. They were dark, and for a very long time he was envious of his fathers deep, green eyes. He had not seen such a color anywhere in his life, as that of his fathers deep pools. One day, it had been as any other, his father went out itno the clearing in the center of the feild.

He released the prayer bead, and his wind tunnel started to open. His mother was by his side, being the devoted wife she was, she was going to die with him. Miroku watched in horror, as he had been told that this was to be his fate one day. Screaming after them, his parents, his world, being sucked into nothingness. The monk ran after him, holding him tightly, never letting go. He always looked some what sourly at the monk on days where his own depression took over him. He would become angry that he had not let him try and save his beloved parents. Even as an adult, his child hood side kicked in, believeing that if he had ran to them, it would have stopped.

Ofcourse, some where deep down, Miroku knew that this was no more than heavy wishing, heavy thinking, and if he continued to do so, he could become wrapped up in the past, unable to move on. Much like his dear hanyou friend. And that was the last thing he wanted. But, yet agian, he knew how aweful it is to be stuck in some thing that can never be. That is the main reason he hunts for Naraku.

True enough, a large part of it was because he did not wish to suffer the same fate as his father and grandfather before him. If it was ment to be, it would happen, and if was not, he would die with honor. A small part of him also wanted it so that if he was to have children, they would not suffer the same way as he had. And his final reason- he wanted revenge for his parents death. If not for Naraku, then his whole life could have been different. He may not be a monk, nor a friend to these people that surronded him, fast asleep in their own worlds of love, hate and sorrow. He did not think himself high enough, nor anyone high enough to not be friends with some one because of their race, but befriending a demon was not something he expected to do in his life time.
For a moment he thought about how strange their group must look to everyone else. A half demon with a bad tempor, a human women who has the abiltys of a prestist, scouting the oddest clothes you will ever see, and more than likely, that half breed close to her side, watching her, and makeing conversation that only they could understand. A small kitsune by their side, prone to tears and uncontrolably cute, along with a two tailed cat demon, belonging to the demon slayer Sango. That in its own was strange enough. A demon slayer, with a demon for a pet, and a demons for friends. And last but not least, a monk clothed in a dark purple and adonred prayer beads upon his right hand. When unleashed, a hole could be seen, sucking in everything it its path into a void. Yes, they were a sight to see.

Miroku lifted up his right hand to look at the one of the many things that he had no control over. This was, prehaps, the biggest thing that he could not stop. He wished for many things in life, a lover, a better life, the demise of Naraku, his parents, controling his own life, his own future, his friends to be happy. A certian stubborn hanyou to just admit his feelings, and the complete Shikon No Tama.

What would he do with the jewel? He was but a monk, who did not wish to have the same type of power as that of demons and hanyous. No he wanted power over is life, his future and his past. That was prehaps most likely what he would wish for: To be able to go back in time, so that his parents death would not have come so early. But if he did wish for that, his father may never meet his mother. After all, he was travleing to find Naraku when he came across the beautiful women named Kaori. It was a one in a million shot that his father was to find a mate.

He had stayed in a village for a short time, for he was wounded after clearing a house of its demons. The young women Kaori was but 17, and unmarried. She was a beauty. Dark hair that came to her mid back, which was worn down, with her fore locks tied back, to be kept out of her face. Deep pools of dark brown for eyes and lips that were as red as blood. She was the daughter to one of the more wealthy familys in the village. Kaori had taken care of the hurt monk, feeding him soups and other things. She had the miko come to care for his wounds with herbs. She was kind enough to have given his father, Haru, shelter, her care, and companionship. One day, she had noticed the strange beads that his right hand was bound too.

He regretfuly told her the story that haunted his life. He had said that it was his mission to kill Naraku, and avenge his fathers death, else he should suffer the same fate. Tears sprung to the young womens eyes. Haru stood, and thanked her for her care and attention, but it was best that he be on his way. Slowly, she moved her head, tears still streaming, and begged him not to leave. Haru was indeed surprized, and explained that no matter how much he wanted to, that there was no way he could stay and indanger the citizens of this town. She then boldly said that she would go with him. He had never felt the way Kaori made him feel, loved, wanted, needed. He did not want to give that up. The two were married, and for a short time, hunted for Naraku.

When Kaori announced that she was to have a child, Haru took her to his old friend Mushin. In no time, everyone was familar with one another, and Haru set off to find Naraku on his own. He was lonely, and missed his wife and child dearly. He knew he had but little time left, and thought it best to live it out with his family and child hood friend. Unfortunatly, it had only cast him into a deep depression, and for a long time, he refused to see anyone but his wife.
She would bring him food and care for his body and soul. In many ways, it reminded him of his youth and how he had spent it with her careing for him. Once every week or so, he would take his son outside to see the day and spend time with him. He had never seen such reflection of himself. Headorned his mothers dark choclate eyes that almost seemed black. His hair was as raven as his own, and when he looked at his son, he couldnt help but smile.

One day, he had told young Miroku about his right hand.

"Do you see this, Miroku?"

"Yes father."

"Do you know what it is?"

"A hole." The child said honestly. Haru gave a small laugh at the childs simple minded answer. He looked at the small hand with matching prayer beads.

"Yes, it is called the wind tunnel. It was given to our family by a terrible demon named Naraku. He and your grandfather were bitter enemys, and he sent my fathers spell back at him. It is to be carried down to each child for as long as Naraku lives. We are able to suck anything into this 'hole' or a void. One day, it will suck me into it. And you will suffer the same fate if you do not slay Naraku before it is too late for you, like it is too late for me. Thats why you must carry on the family tradition, and if not you, then one day, our family will make Naraku meet his demise." He paused breifly.

"Do you understand what I am saying to you Miroku?"

"Yes father."

"Good."

It was memories like that that could send Miroku swirling into that deep depression that took so long to get out of. And thinking about it now, he was going to be in one for the rest of the day. Such is the life of a cursed one. Who knew that just by thinking over happy time, he could become sad? Certainly not him. It was so crazy that he even thought back about it, his mind snapped at himself. They are gone, and theres nothing you can do about it. His mind could be so brutal some times. But after all, we are our own worst enemy, are we not?

The monk looked at his hand once agian. He had no one. His father was lucky enough to find some one, so why shouldnt he? The answer is that he had. But every time he wanted to say some thing sweet, something... romantic, he said it through actions. And those actions landed him with a throbbing, red cheek.
Sango. He knew that she cared for him, he knew that she was jealous over him, protective and untrusting. That hurt.

Sure, he had given her more than enough reason that he was not to be trusted around women, for women were more of a passion than a hobby... He saw them as another chance to carry out his fathers dying wish, a chance to feel the sense of love, of approval. But he never got that feeling, sense, completion. His soul ached for it, and though he hid it well, he was lonely. Although his days were bright and happy, filled with laughter and companionship, it was his nights that left his heart swelling, bleeding, abused.

He had realized that it was love that had made him feel this way. He needed it, more than it needed him. He saw the difference in Kagomes eyes as her and InuYashas relationship grew more open, more, well, more of a relationship. He envied that. He wanted that. But it seemed fate had slapped him across the face, makeing it clear he was not to have it.

Miroku, not for the first time, damned the fates, but then, in the same breath, thanked them. If not for them, he might not be here, in a warm hut, surroned by his friends, and at the moment, the closest thing he had to a family. Yes, he thanked them. Maybe all the pain and the torment the had gone through as a child was to be repayed in these ways. The fates, to be damned, or to be praised? Miroku did both.

Finally decieding on going to sleep, he turned on his side. The futon was cold from neglect of his body heat. He shuddered as he let himself drift into unconsiousness, remembering that today, was the day.

It had been so long ago, and he had been so young. If the memory was not such a painful one, it would be surprizeing that Miroku would have remembered. But then agian, he remembered everything when it came to his parents. And for the rest of his life, he would remember the day they died.

The day was a clear one, the suns rays seemed to stretch on forever, and the morning dew still wet the Earth. Haru walked outside, never removeing his eyes from the orb of light that lit the Earth, makeing it day. He walked off into a distance, where the clearing was the greatest. Kaori ran after him, his head hung low. Miroku muttered in a low voice "Father? Mother?" as she ran by her only son, her only child. Miroku remembered the talk his father had given him the night before.

"Son?"

"Yes father?"

"You know.... You know that I love you, do you not?"

"I know father."

"Good. Remember that. Do you remember the talk we have had? About our hand?" He looked down at his own. Tugging on it every so often.

"Yes father. We must kill Naraku."

"Yes, and even if you dont, you will try your hardest, will you not?"

"Ofcourse father."

"Good. I am glad to hear this."

Now, the young boy, remembering his fathers words, and strange actions, understood all to well. His mother was by his fathers side, on her knees, begging him not to go, not to leave her. She braced herself on his legs, and tears were falling everywhere. Mushin stood, looking at the two with understanding. Haru fingered the thick prayer beads around his right hand, and after a final tug, his wind tunnel was opened for the last time. Miroku flatured, then cried out his fathers name, crying after him. Mushin raced after him, grabbing hold so that the boy himself would not be sucked up. He hugged him tightly from behind, as he closed his eyes and turned his head from watching his oldest and dearest friend die to such an unneeded cause.

He was now left alone with the crying child who, in all aspects, was an orphan. Such pity washed over him at that moment. Mushin did his best to raise the boy, and he taught him the ways of a monk. Although he tried, nothing could replace what Miroku had lost.

Today was the anniversary of his parents death. The anniversary of the day a young boys world fell apart. The anniversary that Mirokus world shattered into more peices than the Shikon No Tama. Looking at his right hand Miroku knew it was going to be one of those days.