Ressurection of a Monk
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InuYasha › Yaoi - Male/Male › Sesshōmaru/Miroku
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
6,728
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
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Currently Reading:
1
Category:
InuYasha › Yaoi - Male/Male › Sesshōmaru/Miroku
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
6,728
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
I do not own InuYasha, nor make money from this story.
Chapter 3
© Salome Wilde, 2008
Resurrection of a Monk
Chapter 3
Miroku knew he should remain silent and enjoy the pleasure of the ride. He truly did not care where they were going, so determined was he to live in this moment of servitude and sensation. Lord Sesshomaru’s hair was around him and his strength was transporting them through the heavens. An image of his hand reaching down to stroke his master’s hip came suddenly to him, but he resisted it with blushing shame. He could never do such a thing to his demon lord. To village girls who might bear his child, certainly. In a flash, he remembered his penchant for firm young female flesh, the numerous slaps he had received and—in secret—relished, and the few who eagerly took him up on his offers. His desire to serve Lord Sesshomaru was unlike such base acts. So then, why did he long to touch the yokai’s body?
To distract himself, he risked speech. His lips at his master’s slender, pointed ear, he spoke with soft reverence: “Sesshomaru-sama, how badly was I wounded when you came upon me?”
Sesshomaru scoffed at the pointless question. Oh, how these humans did enjoy their unnecessary speech. “You were dead, monk,” he replied.
Miroku opened his mouth to speak again, and then closed it.
The weight of the monk was little, but his presence pressed upon Sesshomaru. He kept his energies focused on the likely location of his hanyo brother and sniffed the air for him frequently. Catching scent of the monk’s nervous, fragile state instead—which rose after having broken the news to him that he had not just been returned to health but resurrected from the dead—he cursed his father under his breath once again for bequeathing that worthless regenerative sword while Inuyasha got the powerful fighting weapon. If he had had Tetsusaiga and not Tenseiga in his hand when he saw the dead monk’s body, he would have had a more fittingly dismissive response. And he would not now have a dependent human clinging to his back.
Fortunately, it was not difficult to find the odd group of jewel shard-seekers. Sesshomaru hovered over a hollow where the small band sat around a fire. He smelled his brother instantly, a sickly sweet aura both too familiar and yet too different from his own to bear without a cloying revulsion. The odor made him want to rake flesh with his poisoned claws. The reaction was so damned instantaneous, so deep and uncontrolled. He loathed the way it drove him, overriding his ability to retain his self-possessed demeanor. He had reason to hate his hanyo brother, but this was not hate. It was too chemical, too irrational, too visceral. His body tensed and he growled deep in his throat.
Miroku startled. What was happening? Why had the demon’s body become so tense as he paused in the air here? All he saw below was a small group of seated figures. A strange group, indeed, but he sensed no threat from their quiet presence in the dark. Into the sharp-tipped ear before him, he questioned, “Sesshomaru-sama, what is it? Is there danger? Who are those people? Please, let me take on the enemy for you.”
Sesshomaru snarled. His chatter was worse than Rin’s. That accursed monk now thought to be his champion? He fumed and bristled at fuming simultaneously. Between Inuyasha’s repellant scent and the monk’s clinging need, he felt thoroughly suffocated. With uncharacteristic abruptness, he dropped to earth on a crag that overhung the little dale and shook the monk from his back. Miroku landed in a heap and blinked up at Sesshomaru with wide, child-hurt eyes. “Look,” Sesshomaru commanded, pointing down. He wanted those eyes off of him. “Those are your companions, monk. Do you recognize them?”
Miroku turned his gaze and looked where his master pointed. He saw a ring of seated figures: a slender black-clad woman with a pet of some sort in her arms, likely a cat; another woman in an absurdly short green loincloth; a young fox demon; and a more mysterious being, a red-clad male with hair as long and white as Sesshomaru’s yet wilder—and were those furred ears sticking out? He tried hard to focus on the figures, to see them clearly and to remember them. The woman in black might be the one he had seen in the fleeting vision he’d had earlier; was she the one Lord Sesshomaru’s daughter had called “Sango”? Or was she “Kagome”? Or neither? His “companions,” the demon lord had called them. He wished he knew them, for having companions sounded comforting. But it was Lord Sesshomaru who was his sustenance now. Now and, he hoped, forever. He faced his master. “Forgive me, Sesshomaru-sama, but I do not know them,” he said. His heart pounding, he spoke again: “May we leave this place now, my Lord?”
Without conscious thought, Sesshomaru reached out and backhanded Miroku across the mouth. The stunned monk looked even more childlike then, bringing a hand to his jaw and bowing his head. He trembled, and Sesshomaru knew it was not the blow that shook him. Turning away, Sesshomaru resolved to leave the pathetic creature where he sat. Let him find his way back to those who actually wanted his fawning company, who would know and care for him even if he never regained his memory. Let them remove the taint Sesshomaru had brought upon himself by resurrecting the monk. As yet, he raised his eyes to the moon and stepped forward to take to the air, the sound of the monk’s soft voice reached him.
“Please, Sesshomaru-sama,” he said.
Sesshomaru halted. Against his best judgment and with fury in his soul at his own action, he halted. The voice came again.
“Please, do not abandon me, my lord. I have no right to ask anything of you, the god who brought me back from the dead. But if you must go, master, please, at least tell me why you did it.”
Sesshomaru faced his accuser. Why had he done it? Was there an answer for himself, let alone this absurdly weak child-man? No. There was nothing to say. If only these humans would recognize the inadequacies of speech and just be silent. But this monk was not going to be still. “Let it be enough that you are alive, monk,” he blazed. “Return to those who desire your company. Whether you regain your memory or not, I do not want you.”
“Is my service so unwelcome, Sesshomaru-sama? I ask nothing but to serve you…”
“Be silent, monk. Do not deliberately misunderstand me to quell your own fears. Your destiny lies with others.”
Miroku was desperate. His heart raced wildly. He clambered to a kneeling position and brought his forehead to his folded hands on the earth before him. From within this meek position, he raised his face enough to speak and begged, “You are right, Sesshomaru-sama. I am weak and unworthy of your service in such a state. But please, great demon god, stay with me this one night. At sunrise, I will go to the people below as you command. I give my word. You need never see me again. But while the night lasts, most noble lord and master, will you please stay by my side?”
Sesshomaru let the words wash over him. Just words. Foolish words. Excessive and pointless as spoken words always were. They ended soon enough. There. The monk had had his say. The words were past. Now he could leave. In mere seconds, he could fly and put his rash action and all that had followed it behind him. Forever.
Yet he did not. As if his body controlled his mind and not the reverse, Sesshomaru found himself turning and looking down at the monk’s humble posture. There was something so right about it. He must not break the spell and beauty of it. He let his legs fold beneath him and came to sit, crosslegged, before his supplicant. “Rest, monk,” he murmured. “Daylight will come soon.”
Resurrection of a Monk
Chapter 3
Miroku knew he should remain silent and enjoy the pleasure of the ride. He truly did not care where they were going, so determined was he to live in this moment of servitude and sensation. Lord Sesshomaru’s hair was around him and his strength was transporting them through the heavens. An image of his hand reaching down to stroke his master’s hip came suddenly to him, but he resisted it with blushing shame. He could never do such a thing to his demon lord. To village girls who might bear his child, certainly. In a flash, he remembered his penchant for firm young female flesh, the numerous slaps he had received and—in secret—relished, and the few who eagerly took him up on his offers. His desire to serve Lord Sesshomaru was unlike such base acts. So then, why did he long to touch the yokai’s body?
To distract himself, he risked speech. His lips at his master’s slender, pointed ear, he spoke with soft reverence: “Sesshomaru-sama, how badly was I wounded when you came upon me?”
Sesshomaru scoffed at the pointless question. Oh, how these humans did enjoy their unnecessary speech. “You were dead, monk,” he replied.
Miroku opened his mouth to speak again, and then closed it.
The weight of the monk was little, but his presence pressed upon Sesshomaru. He kept his energies focused on the likely location of his hanyo brother and sniffed the air for him frequently. Catching scent of the monk’s nervous, fragile state instead—which rose after having broken the news to him that he had not just been returned to health but resurrected from the dead—he cursed his father under his breath once again for bequeathing that worthless regenerative sword while Inuyasha got the powerful fighting weapon. If he had had Tetsusaiga and not Tenseiga in his hand when he saw the dead monk’s body, he would have had a more fittingly dismissive response. And he would not now have a dependent human clinging to his back.
Fortunately, it was not difficult to find the odd group of jewel shard-seekers. Sesshomaru hovered over a hollow where the small band sat around a fire. He smelled his brother instantly, a sickly sweet aura both too familiar and yet too different from his own to bear without a cloying revulsion. The odor made him want to rake flesh with his poisoned claws. The reaction was so damned instantaneous, so deep and uncontrolled. He loathed the way it drove him, overriding his ability to retain his self-possessed demeanor. He had reason to hate his hanyo brother, but this was not hate. It was too chemical, too irrational, too visceral. His body tensed and he growled deep in his throat.
Miroku startled. What was happening? Why had the demon’s body become so tense as he paused in the air here? All he saw below was a small group of seated figures. A strange group, indeed, but he sensed no threat from their quiet presence in the dark. Into the sharp-tipped ear before him, he questioned, “Sesshomaru-sama, what is it? Is there danger? Who are those people? Please, let me take on the enemy for you.”
Sesshomaru snarled. His chatter was worse than Rin’s. That accursed monk now thought to be his champion? He fumed and bristled at fuming simultaneously. Between Inuyasha’s repellant scent and the monk’s clinging need, he felt thoroughly suffocated. With uncharacteristic abruptness, he dropped to earth on a crag that overhung the little dale and shook the monk from his back. Miroku landed in a heap and blinked up at Sesshomaru with wide, child-hurt eyes. “Look,” Sesshomaru commanded, pointing down. He wanted those eyes off of him. “Those are your companions, monk. Do you recognize them?”
Miroku turned his gaze and looked where his master pointed. He saw a ring of seated figures: a slender black-clad woman with a pet of some sort in her arms, likely a cat; another woman in an absurdly short green loincloth; a young fox demon; and a more mysterious being, a red-clad male with hair as long and white as Sesshomaru’s yet wilder—and were those furred ears sticking out? He tried hard to focus on the figures, to see them clearly and to remember them. The woman in black might be the one he had seen in the fleeting vision he’d had earlier; was she the one Lord Sesshomaru’s daughter had called “Sango”? Or was she “Kagome”? Or neither? His “companions,” the demon lord had called them. He wished he knew them, for having companions sounded comforting. But it was Lord Sesshomaru who was his sustenance now. Now and, he hoped, forever. He faced his master. “Forgive me, Sesshomaru-sama, but I do not know them,” he said. His heart pounding, he spoke again: “May we leave this place now, my Lord?”
Without conscious thought, Sesshomaru reached out and backhanded Miroku across the mouth. The stunned monk looked even more childlike then, bringing a hand to his jaw and bowing his head. He trembled, and Sesshomaru knew it was not the blow that shook him. Turning away, Sesshomaru resolved to leave the pathetic creature where he sat. Let him find his way back to those who actually wanted his fawning company, who would know and care for him even if he never regained his memory. Let them remove the taint Sesshomaru had brought upon himself by resurrecting the monk. As yet, he raised his eyes to the moon and stepped forward to take to the air, the sound of the monk’s soft voice reached him.
“Please, Sesshomaru-sama,” he said.
Sesshomaru halted. Against his best judgment and with fury in his soul at his own action, he halted. The voice came again.
“Please, do not abandon me, my lord. I have no right to ask anything of you, the god who brought me back from the dead. But if you must go, master, please, at least tell me why you did it.”
Sesshomaru faced his accuser. Why had he done it? Was there an answer for himself, let alone this absurdly weak child-man? No. There was nothing to say. If only these humans would recognize the inadequacies of speech and just be silent. But this monk was not going to be still. “Let it be enough that you are alive, monk,” he blazed. “Return to those who desire your company. Whether you regain your memory or not, I do not want you.”
“Is my service so unwelcome, Sesshomaru-sama? I ask nothing but to serve you…”
“Be silent, monk. Do not deliberately misunderstand me to quell your own fears. Your destiny lies with others.”
Miroku was desperate. His heart raced wildly. He clambered to a kneeling position and brought his forehead to his folded hands on the earth before him. From within this meek position, he raised his face enough to speak and begged, “You are right, Sesshomaru-sama. I am weak and unworthy of your service in such a state. But please, great demon god, stay with me this one night. At sunrise, I will go to the people below as you command. I give my word. You need never see me again. But while the night lasts, most noble lord and master, will you please stay by my side?”
Sesshomaru let the words wash over him. Just words. Foolish words. Excessive and pointless as spoken words always were. They ended soon enough. There. The monk had had his say. The words were past. Now he could leave. In mere seconds, he could fly and put his rash action and all that had followed it behind him. Forever.
Yet he did not. As if his body controlled his mind and not the reverse, Sesshomaru found himself turning and looking down at the monk’s humble posture. There was something so right about it. He must not break the spell and beauty of it. He let his legs fold beneath him and came to sit, crosslegged, before his supplicant. “Rest, monk,” he murmured. “Daylight will come soon.”