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The Journey to the City of Endless Night	By : FarAwayEyes Category: InuYasha > Het - Male/Female > InuYasha/Kagome Views: 53191 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha, nor make money from this story.

Chapter List
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- 106
Disclaimer: I do not own either Inuyasha or the Belgariad/Malloreon series. Inuyasha belongs to Rumiko Takahashi/VIZ and the Belgariad/Malloreon belongs to David Eddings/DEL Rey. There is absolutely no profit being made from this story. It merely fulfills a curiosity of mine---and a desire to keep some really old friends around for as long as possible. Please do not sue.
Pardon the delay in this month's chapter. Computer crashes and hard drive replacements at ill opportune times can do that.
Chapter One Hundred Six
In the twilight, shadows danced and flickered under the canopy of dark trees. Their branches tugged at Miroku's robes as he trudged around their trunks, trying to find a new clearing. The jangle of his staff chimed each step---the only sound in the gloom. Miroku shuddered in the chill, absently pulling his robes tighter around himself. He had started this journey an hour earlier---and he had a lot more ground to cover before the group he had deserted would be safe.
In his confrontation with Naraku, it had become abundantly clear that he had become a liability. Miroku had hoped in vain that he could somehow rise above his experience while possessed by the demon. He had desperately wanted to try---if not for himself, the monk would do so for Sango. She had believed that he could be redeemed. She had tried to show him that he was worth saving. He had wanted to believe that, too.
What an utter fool he had been!
Miroku had hidden the darkest of truths about his demonic possession even from himself. Naraku's cold fingers had unearthed it from the depths of his heart, exposing them to the world. The power the demon had dangled before him---he craved it desperately, even now. The things he could do with it---he could impose his will on the world. Rationally, Miroku knew it to be false---and yet it called to him, begging him to claim it. The monk had nearly done just that in Ashaba. In that moment of weakness, Miroku understood exactly what he must do.
This wicked problem only had one terrible solution.
Miroku glanced at his cursed hand with sorrow and disgust in his heart. This curse had only brought him evil. At every turn, Naraku had used it against him. The monk's greatest folly had been to try and turn it on the spider hanyou. It demonstrated his sheer hubris---and it put those he cared about in grave danger. Under no circumstances would Naraku ever endanger himself to the Wind Tunnel. By using it as he had, Miroku understood that he had given the evil half-demon exactly what he had desired.
His submission and compliance.
The monk understood that now. Every single time he used it as a weapon, it had served Naraku's nefarious plans. No matter his intentions, he had played into the half-demon's hands, dancing the steps he had ordained.
It would end tonight.
He had been the third to endure this curse. Both his grandfather and father had walked this path before him. Both of them had used the Wind Tunnel as a weapon. Both had naively believed, as he once had, that there was good underneath its evil. By using it to help those afflicted by evil spirits and demons, they would rise above Naraku's malevolent plots. They would find optimism and redemption this way. One day, the curse would lift as they turned it back on the evil hanyou.
Both had failed miserably. Their lives had been fast and short, culminating in a brutal implosion. It had come swift and viciously---checking their own hubris and foolishness. The craters left behind stood as a silent testament to their total folly. He, Miroku, was truly their grandson and son. He would face the same cruel fate.
Rather than waiting for the inevitable drip of sand that was his life, Miroku would take that matter into his own hands.
He would choose the hour and the place. It was the only free choice he had left.
Craving power wasn't his greatest sin, however. Wanting an end to his curse, as selfish as its root desire may be, wasn't his greatest flaw. Miroku recognized them as natural aspects of the human character. One served the human ego's ambition, the other the human drive for survival. The monk accepted them for what they were. Neither were evil inherently. It was how they could be corrupted---as they were now---that had caused his downfall.
The partnership of his ambition for power and his desire to end the curse had trumped his love for Sango. It was this sin that he found unforgivable. In the moment he had wavered on the cusp of sucking up another demon, Miroku realized that he had forfeited any chance for a future with Sango. The monk had done so even though he knew the demon would use him to terrorize the love of his life. If not for Inuyasha's intervention, Miroku knew he would have done it. He would have traded his humanity, his soul, and his love for Sango all to feed a desire for power.
If Sango truly understood that, she'd never forgive him. Miroku knew he'd never forgive himself. He had damned himself. He would not drag her down into the filth with him.
Miroku's breath hitched as he sobbed silently. The warmth of his tears streaked down his cheeks. With rough fingertips, he wiped them away. He didn't deserve any tears---not even his own. He had made his bed and now he must lie in it. No amount of weeping would change that. No, he must accept his fate with stoic dignity.
“O God of Angarak, please have pity on me,” a broken voice cried up ahead. “I have offended thee. I have the blood of innocents on my hands. I beg you, take my heart in retribution. Punish my very soul for all eternity. I am damned.”
Miroku stopped, his heart breaking for this kindred lost soul. The sheer agony in this man's voice hung heavily in the air. He couldn't name the source of this man's torment, but clearly his very soul felt crushed beneath it. The monk wanted to help---he did---but he wasn't exactly in the frame of mind to talk someone from the brink of the abyss. Considering his own black thoughts, he wanted to push past this broken man and complete the terrible task before him.
And yet, he knew he couldn't.
Miroku sighed, resigned. He stepped closer, making certain that his staff jingled to announce his presence. He plastered a false smile on his face. Cheerfully, the monk greeted, “Good evening, friend. May I join you?”
The man startled, scrambling up from his knees. His black robes identified him as a Grolim priest. His hood had no color designation---while Miroku wouldn't claim to know their customs, he could tell this priest ranked low in the hierarchy. An angry sneer crossed his youthful face before melting into a mask of agony. The Grolim bowed low to him. “Forgive me, High Priest. Please. You are welcome here.”
Miroku frowned. This Grolim thought he was a Grolim, too. The monk stepped closer, resting his un-cursed hand gently onto the young man's thick dark hair. “Rise. We are equals here. I am Miroku, a humble Buddhist priest.”
“Buddhist?” The Grolim lifted his head, apprehension in his eyes. He straightened to stand face to face with Miroku. His expression crumbled as he dissolved into tears. “Forgive me my sins. I have offended the God of Angarak with my deeds. I am lower than the low.”
The monk gently grasped the young priest's shoulder. This man stood broken before him, clearly on the verge of self-destruction. It didn't escape his notice that the Grolim wore a holster at his waist. He knew that it contained the sacrificial blade of his faith. Miroku's heart ached to see another in such distress, teetering on ending everything in the face of helplessness. He wished he had some words of wisdom---something that didn't sound hollow or contrived. This Grolim thought himself irredeemable and Miroku identified with that agony.
“Come, let us sit,” Miroku said softly, guiding him to an overturned log. “What deeds have you done to offend your God? Surely you can find a way to balance the bad with acts of good.”
The Grolim priest sobbed brokenly, his head hung low as he sat down. He buried his face into his hands. He shook his head violently. “No. My sins are far too great. I have shed blood---innocent blood---and it will offend the true God of Angarak. I will be damned for eternity.”
Miroku frowned, his brows furrowing. He had been to one of the grisly rites of the Angarak God. Torak---dead or alive---seemed to relish in these gruesome sacrifices. The religion thrived on spilling the blood of innocent victims---burning their hearts in a terrible offering. Just what would cause a Grolim to believe this? Why would their religious rites, ones celebrated for centuries, suddenly be so offensive? Why would it drive one to think of suicide?
Before Miroku could ask, the Grolim sighed, taking a shaky breath. “I have further offended. I served a false god. I burnt human hearts in offering to this false god. I will never be allowed in the presence of the true God of Angarak when He comes. I have served Torak, the false Dragon God. I have wielded the knife to honor his evil name.”
The young man took the large knife out from the holster at his waist. He held it up under the soft moonlight, the silver glinting. Looking towards Miroku, the Grolim said softly, “As punishment, I will use this knife to sacrifice myself. The true God of Angarak deserves my total penance and submission. I took life---so I must lose mine by the very instrument I once used with such fervor.”
Miroku's heart broke for this young Grolim. Clearly, he had awakened to the suffering this Angarak religion afflicted. He saw its torment twist his mind and heart. This Grolim had lost all hope---that he was worthy, that he could serve the new God if He ever came---that he could be saved. The young priest had come to a crossroads. One fork led to life, the other death. He stood with one foot on each, wavering.
Miroku understood. He, too, stood at that very crossroad. Death would be easy. Death would free them both. There would be no guilt. There would be no sorrow. There would be no suffering. He felt its temptation calling him, too. The emptiness that stretched before them in death seemed the most freeing. Death would bring absolution.
Still, the longer that Miroku sat with this Grolim, he realized its lie. Death would be easier, yes, but it would never bring absolution or freedom. Death would solve a temporary problem with a permanent solution. To choose that fork would mean damnation. It would mean suffering---for those left behind. It would be selfish and cruel. To follow that dark path would be arrogant and callous. It would go against every teaching of the Buddha. In his heart, Miroku knew he couldn't let this priest kill himself.
Miroku gently slid the sacrificial knife from the Grolim's grip. He set it down and turned towards the young man. Grasping both his hands, the monk asked, “Why do you think sacrificing yourself will please the true God?”
“I am stained by the countless victims I have carved. I am no innocent---as they were,” the priest said. He sobbed softly, bowing forward under his grief. “I am unclean and unworthy of His redemption.”
“How do you know this?” Miroku squeezed his hands, stopping the Grolim from snatching up the knife.
“I---I have seen him in my dreams. He visits me there---me, the lowest of the low. He speaks to me. He is---,” the man hiccuped. “He is gentle and beautiful. He abhors the violence our false god, Torak, demanded. He loathes the new false god, Naraku. He loathes the grisly altar, the blood, the horror, the torture, the death. He tells me that we are to be agents of peace and charity. He tells me that we are to be kind and shun all hatred and violence. When He speaks, I feel joy---and yet I know I am not worthy to hear His heavenly voice. How can He accept me after I have sinned so grievously?”
The monk slid the knife further out of reach with his foot. He gripped the Grolim's shoulders, forcing him to look up. He stared into the priest's tortured eyes. It didn't escape Miroku that he was this man's mirror. Both of them carried deep wounds, open and raw and bleeding for all to see. Both of them teetered on a dangerous precipice. The monk licked his lips, trying to find the right words for them both. He said, his voice trembling more than he liked, “I don't know. If this true God hates violence so much, however, surely I cannot imagine that he would want you to end your life.”
“I---I want to believe.” The Grolim sobbed, tears streaking down his cheeks. He trembled under Miroku's palms. He lifted his eyes to the sky, crying, “O God of Angarak, I only offend thee!”
Miroku squeezed the man's shoulders, the coarse robe of black cloth rough under his fingertips. He took a deep breath. “I think you have it wrong, friend. You have seen the true God in your dreams, yes?”
Miroku wasn't sure if he believed that the true God had visited this young man. That didn't matter. It mattered that he believed. If he could convince this Grolim that this true God meant for him to bring peace to the world, perhaps the monk could prevent his suicide.
Perhaps it would be the only way to save himself, too.
“Y---yes.” The priest's lips trembled. “I don't understand.”
Miroku rested a palm on the Grolim's cheek. “Do you think, perhaps, that the true God has visited you for another purpose? He wants you to reform His Church---to bring His message of peace and non-violence to to the Angaraks. Killing yourself won't do that. It won't end the abomination that happens in those temples.”
“Why me?” The Grolim's eyes widened. “I am no one---a former haughty priest that performed the sacrificial rite in my village temple. How can I reform the Church? I can't stand against the likes of Mal Yaska or the Disciples of Torak. I have no authority outside of my village. How do I bring the true God's message to all of Angarak from the backwaters of Karanda?”
Miroku smiled ruefully. He kept the demise of Mal Yaska to himself. “I can't tell you that. You'll have to find a way to preach the new message that the true God professes. Start small. All journeys begin with but a single step.”
The Grolim priest looked down, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He squeezed the knuckles, rubbing them hard. He whispered, “He has chosen the wrong man. I am too weak to do this.”
Miroku tilted his head back up with a gentle finger. He made eye contact with confused and frightened eyes. “Or perhaps He has found the perfect one. Will you meditate with me?”
A confused expression crossed his face, the request clearly foreign. He nodded slowly, biting his lip in uncertainty. “Yes, High Priest.”
“There's no need for that, my friend,” Miroku said. A small smile crossed his face. “I'm just a humble Buddhist monk, remember? We're truly equal.”
“You don't worship Torak?” The Grolim's brow furrowed in confusion. “I don't understand. Do you serve the new God of Angarak---the true and ever living God? Is Buddhist His Holy name?”
“No. Oh no. I follow in the path of the Buddha, a man who attained Enlightenment. All living beings are capable of becoming Buddhas,” Miroku answered. “You have been chosen by your God---but I think some words of my religion may help you---and me---find our way on the path.”
“Teach them to me, please, Buddhist monk.”
Miroku slid down onto the ground, assuming the lotus position. He patted the spot next to him. “Join me. We shall recite a few mantras---prayers---together.”
The Grolim's black robes rustled as he joined him on the ground. He tried to mimic the pose, only to end up cross-legged, his expression puzzled. The Grolim held his hands the same way Miroku did, the thumbs and forefingers touching on his knees. “I await your guidance.”
“Close your eyes. Breathe deeply,” Miroku said. He closed his own eyes, trying to push his own dark thoughts away---ones that had receded but threatened to wash over him at any moment. He said softly, “We both need this, I fear. Just focus on your breath. Just be in this moment. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Not next year. Now. Just be in the now and breathe.”
The Grolim next to him took deep shaky breaths. As the silence settled over them, the sounds of the forest came into focus. Birds warbled sleepily. Crickets and other insects buzzed and chirped. Underbrush rustled as small creatures foraged and burrowed for their beds. The simplicity of nature seemed to wash over them both, cleansing much of the distress and the darkness that had seemed so enclosing not too long before. The Grolim's breaths evened out the longer they sat, just the two of them in companionship and shared experience.
Miroku said softly, “I will recite a mantra and you will repeat. 'May we know that it is the journey that is important. May we find our own truth and the divine within ourselves and in doing so help other fellow travelers find their own. May we see each other through spirit and not through worldly eyes. Namaste.”
The Grolim cleared his throat. He recited the prayer back, taking Miroku's prompts as needed. As he grew more confident, Miroku noticed a profound change. He opened his eyes, watching the Grolim's harsh face. It softened and he looked peaceful. Joy gave it an inner light. These words, ones Miroku had recited hundreds of times, had struck a chord with someone so unlikely.
In witnessing this man's awakening, Miroku felt the ice around his own heart thaw. The despondency that had driven him out here receded, losing its grip on his soul. Perhaps he, himself, had been called out here to encounter this man. The Grolim priest did not seem inherently evil or cruel as they had in Mal Yaska. He had found his religion abhorrent---and now he needed a way to change it. Miroku had struggled with the aftermath of his demonic possession, and now he had to find a way to move beyond it---to learn from its darkness and become worthy of the love Sango freely gave.
Love. It, with compassion and hope, pointed the way. This priest loved a God he had not met yet and he, Miroku, loved a woman. Neither should let their past selves taint that pure emotion. Neither should remain rooted in a despondency that perverted their true intentions. It still bothered him greatly that he had nearly thrown everything away for the power---despite the harm it would cause Sango---but to follow through on his intended actions this night would be just as if not more damaging. As a man, Miroku was not perfect---he would struggle with his emotions and his flaws always---but love was perfect. Love cleansed those impurities simply by being truly and deeply felt. He felt his love for Sango burn away some of the anger and hurt. He felt love for life and the nature surrounding them filter through. As he recited the words in tandem with the Grolim, Miroku felt his shoulders grow lighter.
The Grolim smiled, revealing just how young he must be, perhaps a year older than Miroku himself. He said, “Buddhist monk, do you have any other prayers?”
Miroku nodded. “Yes. There are many prayers. Another is 'Evoking the presence of great compassion, let us fill our hearts with our own compassion---towards ourselves and towards all living beings. Let us pray that all living beings realize that they are all brothers and sisters, nourished from the same source of life.”
The Grolim wept at the words. It didn't surprise Miroku. After all, the faith of Torak had no compassion---for those that held the knife or those that succumbed under it. The young priest had known nothing but anger, fear, and suffering. The concept that love and compassion could and should be the center---it overwhelmed those starved of such notions. Nevertheless, Miroku wiped away his own tears. Seeing this Grolim learn that he had value---that he could bring a message of peace to this troubled area---it reminded Miroku why he had become a monk in the first place. He may have been cursed with the Wind Tunnel, but he could bring good---even if only he touched one person as he had tonight. He had made a difference. He had redeemed a small portion of himself, giving himself a foundation to build upon.
The Grolim priest slowly recited this prayer, the words reverent in his mouth. He hid his face in his hands and wept once he completed it. As he recovered, he whispered to Miroku, “Thank you, Buddhist monk. These prayers---they reflect the true God of Angarak.”
“You are most welcome,” Miroku replied. He bowed his head. “But I must thank you. I, too, stood at the abyss this night, struggling with a terrible burden. You have reminded me of the beauty life has to offer. Even among the struggle and the suffering, there is purpose and joy.”
The Grolim took a deep breath, steadying himself. “How should I reform my Church?”
“Start by ceasing the sacrifices at your temple. Teach your people to live compassionately. Make the soiled altar beautiful by placing beauty on it---flowers or art---something that captures the grace of life.” Miroku rested a hand onto the Grolim's shoulder. “When you make peace with yourself, you make peace with the world.”
The young priest nodded. “I will try my best. I will teach my village. To serve one another is pleasing to the new God. To spread compassion is pleasing to the true God of Angarak.”
On shaky feet, the man rose. He bent down and retrieved the knife. Miroku feared that perhaps he had miscalculated. The Grolim may yet use it---perhaps on him. What if it had been a farce? He squeezed his cursed hand, reading to defend himself if necessary---even though only a short while earlier that fate had been meant for him. He inched his hand closer to his staff, needing it handy to disarm the Grolim if need be.
The Grolim held the knife, running his thumb across its edge. He whispered, “Such a thing has caused so much suffering. No more.” He hurled it into the depths of the trees with a triumphant cry. Turning, the priest said, “No blood shall flow upon the altar ever again. Never shall I butcher another human being.”
Miroku breathed a sigh of relief. He slowly stood. “Go---go and redeem your village.”
“I will!” The Grolim hugged him fiercely. “I will never forget you, Buddhist monk, Miroku.”
The Grolim sprinted into the trees, his black robes billowing around him. He gave a cry of triumph as he ran---clearly rejuvenated by his encounter in the forest.
Miroku stood alone, left wondering. He sensed some force had made this unlikely encounter possible. Meeting this Grolim, it had been fate. Somehow, even in the depths of his own darkness, he had been sent to this priest as a light. He had prevented the tragic end of a man's life---two if he included his own. This had been a gift---one that had renewed his strength of purpose. The curse he bore may yet kill him, but he vowed his life would not be lost in vain. When he died, it would be for a good cause. He would go down fighting---for peace and justice and love and compassion.
The monk picked up his staff, preparing to make the trip back to camp. He froze as he felt a familiar demonic presence. He whispered, “Inuyasha---,”
“You thought you could slip away on foot as if I couldn't track you?” Inuyasha said, his voice raw with fear. “You are a stupid fucker if you thought that would work.”
Before he could respond, Miroku felt a weight collide with him. His arms flung wide open, his staff landing with a thud in the underbrush. Sango hugged him hard. She pulled away and stared up at him, her eyes swirling with fury. Miroku braced himself for the slap he deserved only to gasp in surprise as Sango kissed him fiercely.
As she broke it off, Sango sobbed, holding tight to him. She whispered in his ear, “Don't ever do that again.”
Emerging from the trees, Miroku spotted a group behind Inuyasha. Kagome, Shippo, Rin, Kirara, Silk, Velvet, Beldin, Belgarath, Polgara, Poledra, and surprisingly even Sesshomaru had journeyed out into the woods. The monk's eyes widened. Had everyone left camp to come find him? Had they all truly cared about him that much even when he had been a clear burden? A lump formed in his throat and the monk wept openly.
Even after all this time, Miroku had felt like a bit of an outsider---someone who didn't quite belong to the collective. He had kept everyone at arm's length in so many ways---and yet they all had somehow made it past his best defenses. He had begun this night believing his life forfeit, lost, a waste. He had begun thinking that he would not be missed---that they would be better off without him or his burdens. And now, he knew that they all were here for him in their own ways.
Miroku whispered, his voice raw, “Thank you. Thank you everyone. You humble me with your concern.”
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The Journey to the City of Endless Night