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I stand in the shadowed doorway, watching helplessly as he folds his clothing and tucks them in his rucksack. With every item he packs I feel him pulling further away. My heart aches for him, wishing he could see himself as I see him- strong, loyal, fierce, powerful- a fighter and a father. My lover. My friend. My constant source of strength in my weakest moments. Have I not tried to be the same for him?
My husband pasuses in his packing, becoming unusually still, as he preternaturally senses my presence. I know this stillness, his mannerisms have become familiar and comforting to me. This is a defensive and determined stillness, and my heart cracks. I keep my arms crossed and wait in the silence. My throat tightens.
“I have to go, Sango.” His voice is low. A prayer. A plea. My husband does not turn around. I nod, saying nothing. Swirling emotions build a knot in my stomach. I feel tears wanting to sting my eyes, yet I am resolved. I will not shed them. He sighs, his shoulders falling. I know the weight of what he feels. His pain is mine, and mine his. Would this break us?
“Will you say nothing,” he asks. I shudder in a breath.
“What would you have me say,” I ask. My voice is raw, but gentle. There is no accusation in my words. My husband turns his head towards me slightly, his features sharpening in the glow from the lantern flame.
We both wait, the silence and the moment heavy between us. I feel his walls going up, and my heart cracks a little more.
Before I am aware, I am moving towards him. I need to hold him. For him to hold me before this chasm grows deeper. I lay my head on his back, my cheek resting between his shoulder blades. I wrap my arms around his waist, and fight the urge to crush him close to me. To pull him in and never let go. I listen to his breath, slow and deep filling his lungs, his heart pumping proud and strong in his chest.
Comforting sounds.
Powerful sounds.
He exhales a small sigh, full of emotions I cannot identify. He rubs my arms, holding me in place. He leans backwards into me, and I squeeze him a little tighter hoping to fold him into me to soothe his pain. I smile softly as I feel all the tension he carries slowly, reluctantly melt away. I try with all my heart to pour all the words that are unspoken between us into this embrace.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, the world around us suspended in this moment in time. He sighs deeply, his emotions shattering, as he turns in my arms to look at me for the first time. I raise my face to his. He bends to rest his forehead to mine, our noses touching gently in the glow of the night. We breathe each other in. Comfortable. Familiar. Home.
“I have to go,” Miroku whispers. I sigh.
“No, you don’t,” I breathe. His arms loosen around me, preparing to pull away. The aroma of sandalwood incense and fresh air, the smell of him, floods my senses. I cannot understand why he believes he needs to do this. He has built a wall around his heart, keeping me out. Nothing I could say, have said before, can get through to him now. All I can do is hold him, be held by him, and watch him go. Yet the emotions rippling inside of me feel hot and sharp. I hold him tighter.
“Sango–” he starts, yet I interrupt him with a shake of my head.
“I don’t understand,” I say. I pull back enough to look into his deep blue eyes. I cup his face in my hands, my gaze following the fine lines that etch his still youthful face. I brush my thumbs along his cheeks. His eyes are closed off from me. “Why can’t I be enough for you,” I ask, searching his face for the answer.
There is nothing. His face is a mask. Pain cuts to my heart.
Nodding to keep my tears at bay, I say, “If you are determined to go, I won’t stand in your way.” I slide my fingers from his face, allowing my arms to go limp at my sides. It is a lie and he knows it. His eyes soften ever so slightly as he searches my gaze.
“I hate feeling so powerless, Sango.” My heart tightens.
It is the same fear we have encountered from the beginning. I know it is a sore spot on his pride, that he wishes to be the protector and provider. Although I know Miroku is all of this and more, I am also more than capable and willing to step into this role when need arises. The curse in his hand- the windtunnel- had been his primary weapon and defense. Now that it is gone, the familial curse that placed it there finally purged from him, Miroku has felt like less than enough. I have been proud of his determination and defiance to turn such an awful burden into an effective and powerful weapon. Still, Miroku lost a part of himself with the lifting of the curse all those years ago. A part of himself that left him feeling vulnerable and dependent, feelings I know he abhors in himself. It cuts me so deeply that I could not, and can not, help him to fill and heal that wound on his heart. That letting me protect him as he protects me, fighting side by side, is not enough for him.
So I sigh, and take his hands in mine, knowing the moments we have remaining between us are few. I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want either of us to hurt anymore. I have no more words to offer him comfort and support. What I feel is still too raw and deep to give it voice. I hate that he resents that I am capable of fighting and defending our family. Yet, he is resolved to go. I hate that all I can do now is stay and wait until he comes back to me.
If he comes back to me…
I mentally shake myself as I feel Miroku’s lips press into the top of my head. I loosen my hold on him. I need to move away, give the tangled thoughts space to breathe before they blossom into anger. I turn and begin laying out the items he has selected to bring. A weak distraction.
I am surprised by what I see laying out. I smile sadly to myself, seeing the small shell and shiny green rock our daughters gifted to him in their childhood. They always made sure that their father had a gift to come home to. I place them reverently on top of the spare robes he selected to bring. I shift my attention to the frayed yellow and red patch of fabric, the last remaining shred from our son’s baby blanket. I didn’t even know he had this. I lift the delicate fabric, gently sweeping the soft textile along my fingertips. That's when I notice what is hidden under this scrap of memory.
I frown as a loop of dark glass prayer beads winks up at me in the lantern light. These beads were blessed with a powerful sealing magic. They were what sealed away the deadly vortex of his windtunnel. Setting our son’s patch of blanket aside, I pick up the rope of beads. A poisonous concoction of hurt, sorrow, and anger churn inside me. The beads clack cheerily against one another, and the memories that sound evokes causes tears to well angrily in my eyes.
“Sango, I–”
“You kept them.” My voice is surprisingly flat. I feel him shift uncomfortably behind me. Defensive.
“Yes,” he responds plainly. I swallow and bite down a bitter laugh. At least he is honest… this time.
“Then why did you lie to me,” I ask, the hurt that had been dancing beneath the surface now bubbling up. “Why did you tell me you’d gotten rid of them?” I can’t bring myself to look at him, not yet.
“Because I am a fool and a coward,” Miroku responds. His voice is harsh. Cutting. My own temper spikes, but before I can respond, my husband continues, “Because I am weak.” His voice breaks on the last word and something in me cracks. The tears pour from my eyes as I turn to face the man I love.
His usually placid, pleasant face is twisted with shame and anger. I have never seen him like this. He is standing tensed, ready for a fight, fists clenching at his sides. My husband looks at once angry and defensive, bitter and broken. I feel the edge of my own anger dissolve even as heartache surges forth. His wound is at the surface now, and I feel so helpless. Why?
“You are a damn fool,” I sob angrily, even as I take his face in my hands and kiss him hard. I didn’t know what else to do. I could have slapped him. I have slapped him many times before, my palm familiar with the perfect arch that soundly connects to his cheek. Instead, I cling to him, desperately pressing my mouth to his as if I am saving him from drowning. Or is he saving me? I’m not sure at this moment, and I certainly don’t care. He gives me nothing. Anger and recklessness flares. I stubbornly hold the connection, letting my hand snake into his hair to pull him in deeper. I will not back down from him. I feel warm tears melt into my own. Tears he has never shed before. I hold him tighter, knowing his wall is about to break.
With a grunt of frustration, his hands are in my hair, on my ass, pulling me into him. I moan as he opens up to me. A language beyond words.
We each yield to one another, giving what the other needs, greedily taking what is offered. Tongues dance and breath comes in hot gasps. His teeth pull on my lip, as I tug on his hair. We are consumed in letting our emotions speak with our bodies in a way that our words fail. Anger. Hurt. Shame. Guilt. Frustration. Love. It is all pouring out in this kiss. It is rough and raw and we need this. We need each other. Painfully.
Finally, when all the emotions have drained out of us, and our movements descend from desperation back to human need, I break from him. I pull back enough to take his face in my hands again. Miroku shudders out a whimpering breath. Tears stain both our faces. His hands are clutching my hips painfully, as if I were his last lifeline. My hands hold fistfulls of his robes.
“You are not a weak man, my love,” I say, my voice trembling with emotion. “And it kills me that you cannot see that about yourself. And it hurts that you resent me for protecting you in battle. For protecting what we built together.” Miroku closes his eyes, and shakes his head even as he presses it to mine.
“Hisui almost died today,” the grief gushes out of him. “Our son almost died because I chose to run away.” I shake my head now, tears still wetting my cheeks.
“Hisui is alright,” I assure my husband. “Our son will recover.” I smooth my hands over every part of Miroku I can touch, trying and failing to reassure him with my touch.
“He called me a coward,” he growls. This news startles me into stillness. Our son is not known for using harsh words towards anyone. He is so much like his father in that regard. That our son landed a blow right where Miroku is wounded the deepest worries me. “I told him that the demon was too powerful, that we needed to run for backup. He pulled away from me and told me not to be a coward.” Miroku’s voice brakes again. Understanding dawns within me. “Then before I could stop him,” he continued, voice heavy, “Hisui ran back to the demon. Then there was blood. It all happened too fast.” He swallows hard and I feel him release his hold on me. I stay with him as he lowers himself to the bench beside us. “If it weren’t for Kohaku’s timely appearance…”
“Don’t,” I plead, kneeling at my husband’s feet. “Don’t think of the worst that could have happened. It didn’t. Don’t blame yourself for our son’s foolish mistake. Or judge yourself against another. You made the right call.” I hear my words rush out of me, and I cannot stop them. “Not every battle is worth the fight. It is something Hisui will need to learn.” Miroku sighs and sinks in on himself. I hold his hands in mine, trying to squeeze hope back into him. “Hisui will be well. His wounds were not as bad as some we’ve had.” I pause, trying to search my husband’s face for any sign that my words are comforting him. I know my efforts are in vain. “You are both well, and that's all that I care about,” I finish, knowing my words are landing on deaf ears.
“I never wanted anyone I love to suffer because of me,” Miroku confesses. “To be hurt because of my lack. I made a promise to you, Sango, the day we wed that I would make it so you wouldn’t have to fight so hard. I’ve seen all that you suffered, and I didn’t want to be more of a burden on you then I feel I already have. I failed to keep my promise. And now my son has seen me for who I am.” The ache in my heart deepens, scorches my throat. Miroku limply stokes one thumb over my fingers.
Old wounds indeed. I see the direction this is going and I hate it. When I speak, I force my voice to be gentle.
“You cannot protect us from everything in this world, Miroku,” I say. The script is well used. “We need you–rely on you–”
“Sango, I don’t have the extensive combat skills you and your brother, and now our children, have,” he sighs. I feel his resolve regrouping. I feel his wall rebuild. I don’t want him to shut me out again. “I am more a hindrance than a help, and you know it. Worse, our son knows it. And my spiritual powers have always been careless at the best of moments. I am not a virtuous man, Sango.” My heart twists knowing that we are circling back on an argument we’ve met many times over the years. And we are both tired.
“But you are a good man, my love.” I bring his fingers to my face and press kisses into his palms. I rest my face in the hand that was once cursed. “Please know that.”
The silence and pain we hold together is too heavy. It is true we have both been through so much, suffered so much. Survived so much. Could there ever be a time when we will both find peace?
Breaking the tense moment, we sigh in unison. Equally surprised, we catch each other's eyes. A small smile dances on his bruised lips, the ghost of a dimple appearing on his cheek. I feel myself smile in return. We gaze at each other for a long moment, missing the days of laughter and love. Finally, Miroku squeezes my hands in return. I cling to him.
I know now would be the moment where I list all the amazing things he has done and accomplished. Miroku will then poke holes or make excuses for each one. Then either we’ll both get mad and shout or I’ll start crying. If I get mad, one of us will leave to cool off, usually me. Sometimes Miroku. We’ll come together after a time and apologize to one another. Make promises to change or do better, but never actually working on the problem. Life will go on, and the cycle will continue. Only I fear this time could be the breaking point for the both of us. Miroku needs time and space to heal. I know in my heart that I have to let him go. I know what I must do, and I hate it even more.
I inhale deeply again before asking, “How long will you be gone?”
I can see the surprise flicker in my husband’s blue eyes.
“One thousand days,” he answers. There is a strange note in his voice.
“So long?” My smile is sad and my eyes flick away for a moment. Since we met, we’ve rarely been away from one another for longer than a few days. We have spent the better part of two decades living, fighting, loving, side by side. I clamp down the worry in my heart, and choose to trust instead.
“Sango–” I stop him with a shake of my head. I know he needs to go. And I understand why now. It was always about his own hurt. We cannot grow as one until he heals his heart.
“Go, Miroku,” I whisper, looking into his eyes, missing the mischievous sparkle in them. I strengthen my resolve to match his own. “Go. Heal the wound on your heart.” I untangle the prayer beads I am still holding. I take the length and place it carefully, reverently over Miroku’s head, smoothing them around his neck. He watches me, surprise and relief warring in his eyes. I cup his face in my hands. “Go, so you can come back to me.”
“I love you, Sango.” He pulls me up to him as he stands. He takes my mouth with his again, reverently this time. His lips, whisper-soft on mine. “You’re not angry,” he asks. I shake my head.
“You don’t resent me,” I ask. My voice sounds younger, timid.
“No, my dearest Sango. I could never resent you for being exactly who you are.” I wrap myself around him, placing my head on his shoulder. I feel his chin rest on my head. “You are perfect.” His hand strokes my hair. “I am awed by you. How powerful, how strong you are. I only want to be able to continue fighting at your side.” I smile into his chest.
“I wouldn’t have anyone else.” We pull each other a little closer. “Will you leave in the night, or wait until morning.” He sighs again.
“Honestly, my dear Sango,” Miroku says, “I was going to leave tonight.”
“Slip out in the cover of darkness,” I ask, making my voice as light as I can.
“I didn’t want to fight with you.”
“I only want to fight with you. Beside you.”
I put my chin on his chest, looking up into his face. The years have been kinder to him than many his age. There is no silver in his hair, no deep wrinkles in his face. He still has strong angles and youthful color. Only the faint crows feet at the edge of his eyes that crinkle when he smiles are the only markers of the passage of time. He gazes down at my face with tender affection, and I wonder if he is surveying my face the way I did his, looking for the years we’ve weathered in my features.
“Here I am all these years later,” he says, “still being surprised by you.” I can't keep the smile from my lips.
“So, are you still sneaking out in the dead of night,” I ask. I playfully poke him in his ribs.
“I could be convinced to stay until daybreak,” he responds, his voice growing husky. “If someone gave me a good reason.” I pull out of his arms, taking his hands in mine.
“Take me to your bed, then, husband.” I intended to lead Miroku to our bed, seductively pulling him with me. My husband, however, sweeps me off of my feet and proceeds to carry me across the room to our bedding. I hum and snuggle into the cave of his chest, loving the feel of his muscles working under my limbs.
Effortlessly, Miroku kneels and lowers me to the bed we share. I lay back and allow his hands to roam. I know it is what he likes, to explore me, to unwrap me and savor the exploration. I gaze deep into the blue depths of his eyes, and lazily lift my arms above my head. His eyes never leave my face as his hands make familiar and deft work of the ties of my robes. Layer by layer, he peels back my robe to expose the skin of my upper body. His long fingers graze deliciously across my skin, beginning the journey just below my navel and up to my lips. My flesh warms at his touch, lips parting as my breathing quickens. I want this mouth on mine, on me. He caresses my breasts and I arch into his touch.
“Miroku,” I breathe, my body responding to every little touch. So familiar. He smiles wickedly, knowing that, of the two of us, I am the impatient one when it comes to carnal gratification. He bends to me, his lips a whisper away from mine. I lift up to meet and he pulls back. I grin. It’s our game, this teasing slowness of his that winds me up with expertise and years of trust. Decades of love.
“I intend to taste all of you, Sango,” he kisses the lobe of my right ear. “My wife.” He presses his lips to my neck on the other side. He returns to look into my eyes, tenderness and lust glittering from their depth. “The enchantress that changed my life.”
Finally his lips meet mine and we feast on one another. His hands roam my body, fingers daringly delving lower to the juncture of my thighs. My hands tangle into his hair, the tie that usually holds his locks in a short tail, bursing, freeing the soft strands. I break the kiss and moan as his clever fingers slip inside me. He sits back to watch my face as I cling to the heavy sleeves of his robes. I have the fleeting thought that it is unfair that he is not undressed. The thought vanishes when my husband curls the first of his fingers, applying exquisite pressure to the spot inside me that brings me to the brink of ecstasy. Sweat starts to bead on my body, my hips moving in rhythm to Miroku’s petting.
He glides in quickly, then pulls his fingers back, excruciatingly slow, stroking the sensitive channel while his broad thumb rotates on my bud. I am wet and nearing release, my thighs trembling as I grind harder against his touch. His other hand is teasing my nipples and kneading my breasts. My breath is coming in short gasping breaths and a purr of delight ripples out. My husband groans, kissing me hotly before trailing a wet trail of lips and tongue across my body. His mouth travels down to meet the business of his hands.
His thumb is replaced by his mouth, and I clamp my thighs around his head. I feel the cool smooth metal from his earrings on my sensitive inner thigh, the temperature a contrast from the lustful heat shocks me. I rake my hands in his hair again, keeping him firmly in place.
His mouth is masterful. Tongue licking and flicking in harmony with his fingers. The muscles of my lower stomach clench and I lift my hips greedily. Just when my eyes begin to water from the divine agony, Miroku clamps his mouth over my bud and sucks hard. With a primal cry, I explode against his mouth, all the muscles of my body shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure and release crash over my senses. Miroku drinks it up, ministering to me even as I float back down.
When my convulsions cease, I let my legs fall back to reveal my husband, his eyes dark with satisfaction and hunger for his own release. I rise to meet him, reaching my impatient hands to the knots of his robes. His chin and mouth are still slick with my release. I don’t care. Our mouths meet, tongues hungrily probing deeper into each other. Teeth pull at lips.
Our hands knock into each other, fingers tangling as we both aggressively tear at the stubborn ties of Miroku’s clothes. We break the kiss, frustrated at this barrier between our skin, and look to the task at hand. In a blessedly brief amount of time, the robe parts. I scrape my nails up my husband’s chest and over his shoulders, pushing the fabric down his arms as he shrugs them off. Once free of the robe, Miroku grabs me by the back of the neck and pulls me to him, mouth searching for mine. Taking a fistful of my hair he pulls my head back gently. He is always gentle, even in the heat of passion. He leaves my lips to graze lips and tongue and teeth down the column of my neck to my collarbone.
I straddle his lap, feeling his bulging manhood straining against the laces of his breeches. I rub myself impatiently against him, loving the friction. My breasts are crushed to his chest as I hold him tightly. My nipples tingle and harden against his chest. His large hands grip my ass, massaging roughly. His mouth finds my breasts, sucking each nipple in turn. I sigh as I throw my head back, thrusting my breasts towards his face. I grind harder against Miroku’s erection, and my husband hisses out a breath.
“I need you inside me, Miroku,” I demand. “Now.”
I push back from him and let my fingers tug the laces. In one fluid motion, I have pulled the tie free and his cock springs forth, standing tall to meet me. I push Miroku back roughly. He lays down and reaches for me. I need to taste my husband first. My mouth waters for him.
I waste no time in clamping my hot mouth around his girth and letting my tongue milk him. I feel him goan deep in his chest, as he sweeps my long hair away from my face. I suck him hard, feeling and seeing the muscles in his belly and thighs tremble before me. I explore his fruit, cupping them gently in my hands, feeling them contract as I allow my fingertips to play.
I can taste the first of his seed in my mouth. I feel Miroku grip my shoulders and push me away from him.
“I need you, Sango.”
“Then take me.”
Miroku growls and I am on my back, arms pinned above my head. I arch beneath the solid wall of my husband. I open my legs to him. We both sigh deeply as he slides in all the way to the hilt. I feel full and stretched. Divine.
Miroku stops here, the fringe of his dark hair plastered to his brow from sweat. His eyes glitter in the darkness. I want to squirm, to move with him. We hold each other’s gaze. My heart pounds against my chest.
Slowly, so slowly he begins to move. His thrusts are long and deep. Savoring. I begin to move with him, building back up to the state of bliss. This time we’ll climax together. I lace my fingers with his and squeeze.
Miroku pulls back and pumps in, slow and deep, grinding his hips to mine as he reaches his base. It stimulates my pleasure bud, and sends shivers to my toes. I lift my hips stroke for stroke, pushing myself into his gyration. My muscles begin clenching around him. Our breathing comes in short heavy pants.
“Miroku,” I gasp, “I need you deeper.” Without disturbing the rhythm of our lovemaking, Miroku lifts my legs over his shoulders, and positions himself over me. He moans as he drives in deliciously deeper, and I sob in delight. My knees are pushing back towards my shoulders as Miroku rests his forearms on either side of my head. I am completely open to him, and he plunges in deeper. I grip his back and shoulders, my nails biting into his broad muscular back.
I rock up with my hips spurring my husband to move faster. With a moan, he obliges, and his thrusts come harder and deeper. He feels so good inside me that I feel tears prick the corner of my eyes.
“More,” I pant. He rides me harder. Faster. I see him clench his jaw with effort. We are both slicked with sweat. “More!”
“Almost, love,” he growls. The slow beat is gone. Comfort has transformed into desperation as we both hurtle towards our breaking.
My thighs tremble and my stomach contracts. I wiggle my toes in expectation. I scream as I feel him slam down and still, the muscles of his ass clenching in time with the hot release of his seed. If he made a sound I was deaf to it. My own orgasm rocks through me, sending white lights dancing before my eyes. We both grind against one another once more, pumping every last pulse of our ecstasy from one another.
Miroku collapses on me, falling heavily against my chest. My arms fall away as my legs go limp around Miroku’s shoulders. We stay that way for a moment, chests heaving against one another. Slowly, I feel Miroku push himself up. And delicately remove my legs. He is still inside me, softer now. I want him to stay inside a moment longer. My breasts are crushed beneath the expanse of my husband’s chest.
Miroku gazes down at me, gently smoothing the slick damp hair away from my face.
“I love you, Sango.” He utters my name like a prayer. I let the tears slip from my eyes.
“I love you, Miroku.” My own voice is raw. Miroku kisses me gently, reverently, before shifting his weight from me. I sigh at the loss as he pulls himself out of me. I shiver as the cool night air hits my flushed and fevered skin. Goosebumps dance along my arms. My body is gloriously sore and deliciously used. I am spent for this round.
I roll to my side as Miroku snuggles in next to me. I slide my hands up to rest on his chest. He, in turn, slips his arm over my waist, his hand delicately stroking my ass. I smile lazily at him. We are content to hold one another in the quiet of the night, basking in the glow of our lovemaking.
I feel my eyelids become heavy and start to droop. I cuddle deeper into the cavern of my husband’s chest. I hear his breathing slow and deepen, his hand falling still along my skin. He is still but not asleep. This is a different stillness. I know he is deep in thought.
“Talk to me, Miroku,” I whisper. I feel his muscles flex as he shakes himself out of his reverie.
“I hope I’m worthy.” I open my sleepy eyes to see his face. There is a frown fixed on his lips, an unnatural sight. I pull in closer and wait for him to continue. “To complete the spiritual training.” It is my turn to frown.
“How could you not be,” I ask. A deep sigh is his only response. I prop myself up on an elbow to meet his eyes. “You are a good man, Miroku.”
“But am I a good monk, Sango?” We are silent. I don’t know what to say. I don’t understand the spiritual mysteries the way he does.
“Where will you do this training,” I ask.
“Master Mushin’s temple.” I nod. It is a perfectly suitable place for spiritual training, and it is Miroku’s childhood home. “Will you wait for me,” Miroku asks, his voice soft, pleading.
“Wait for you,” I ask, confused. “What do you mean?”
“Will you wait for me to return?”
“Of course I will,” I laugh. “Do you think I have another man lined up to take your place?” That makes him smile faintly.
“You could, you know,” he answers, giving my bottom a possessive squeeze. “You are a rare woman.”
“Oh, I know I could,” I kiss his chest. “But I choose you, for better or worse.”
“Then,” he hesitates, “will you wait for me?” His eyes search my face, and I frown.
“What are you truly asking,” I say.
“I need to know you will be safe. Please, love,” he kisses my hands. “Please say you’ll wait for me to battle at your side.” Understanding hits me.
“You want me to not slay demons until you complete your training,” I ask, my heart sinking to my stomach. His eyes search mine. I shake my head and sit up, bringing my knees to my chest. “Miroku, I–”
“I know I ask too much,” he says quickly, sitting up beside me. His fingers tip-toeing across the puckered scars of my back.
“Then why ask?” I don’t truly understand these feelings that are rushing up. Am I mad? Scared? Sad? All of them?
“Because… because,” Mirku huffs out a frustrated breath and rakes his fingers through his already tousled hair. I stare at him. This raw frustration is so different from the placid and reasonable man I love. He has never been at a loss for words. I wait, trying not to allow the swirling confused emotions inside me smother what he needs to say. Finally he continues.
“Because, I want to be beside you when you fight,” he says. “I don’t want you to be alone.” My heart pinches in my chest.
“I don’t know if I can do what you are asking of me,” I say, choosing each of my words carefully. I don’t want to argue with Miroku. “What about our home? Our children?” Miroku looks away even as his mind is still reeling.
“If it comes to protecting your lives,” he says after a moment of contemplation, “then of course you can defend yourself and the kids.”
“But,” I say, knowing there is more to what he is asking me.
“But I don’t want you going out to look for a fight.”
“I’m a demon slayer, Miroku.”
“I know, Sango,” he huffs. I wait and let him find the words through his frustration. I try to embody the vast amount of patience Miroku has always held for me. My husband inhales a slow deep breath. “I am asking that you not slay demons, not take on any missions, until I’ve come back to you.” His eyes meet mine again, and they are bright with desperation. He takes my hands in his and kisses my fingers. “Defend yourself if you must. Keep our family safe, but please wait for me before you seek out a battle again.”
I want to reject this with all my being. How could he ask this impossible demand of me? Being a demon slayer, fighting demons as a means of making a living is all I have ever known. How can I just stop? I prime myself to refuse him, then I look into his eyes.
I see the ghost of the child he was, scared, desperate, needing someone to be there for him. Someone who is solid. Someone he can depend on. Someone who he can come home to. This is not about me, I remind myself. It is not about him asking me to be less than what I am. It is about him having an equal partner in his discipline. Having someone who will journey with him in spirit and mind, even if we are apart. It is about being better partners for one another. And I realize he has been more afraid to ask this of me than of anything else in his life.
I feel all my resistance drain away. I sit up a little straighter and lean my naked body into his side.
“One thousand days,” I ask. Miroku opens his mouth to speak, and not finding the words, closes it again. He simply nods, the beads around his chest rattling softly. I eye them. “Alright,” I say. “One thousand days. You will go and train. I will stay and wait. I will only rise up to defend what we have built if it or our children’s lives are endangered. But Miroku,” I pause and take his face in my hands. “You had better return to me being the man I have always known you to be.” The smile that lights my husband’s face is magical. He kisses me deeply before wrapping his arms around me. I settle deeper into him.
“I promise, Songo, I will return as a better man. A better monk.”
“No,” I say. “I want you to come home knowing I love you exactly as you are, were, and ever will be. The one who will fight beside me always.” His arms pull me in tighter to his chest. We sigh in unison.
“One thousand days,” I whisper.
“One thousand days,” he responds.
It is a promise. And we will see it through, together.