Author's Note: Still working on the Mine Enemy Sequel, but wanted to post some good old alternate pairing angst. Ever since I wrote my first Miroku/Kagura, I wanted to come back to them again. Cheers to this old fandom that will never die in my heart.

May they abide in great impartiality, free from attachment to close ones and aversion to others.

- The fourth of the Brahmavihārās

There were people in this life that would never know when their time had come.

Miroku was not one of them.

He'd known it when he was six and finally understood why he was raised in a house of men, taught the ways of a monk. Why the man he called father disappeared for months at a time, missing his entire childhood.

He'd known it when he was eight and watched his father disappear with a flash and scream into a vortex of black, only partially covered by Mushin's arm over his eyes.

He'd known it when he was sixteen and felt a sudden sting in his palm while he was scrubbing the floorboards of the main temple. A tiny pinprick that he almost mistook for a splinter and a bead of blood, if his blood had been black. He could have died right then, frozen, hearing the faint whoosh of air in his ears and the spiral of darkness that unfurled from his palm, stretching like a cat roused from slumber.

But he'd known it wasn't his time, even as he heard his name gasped, as someone grabbed at his shoulder and he was rushed to Mushin. It had been the beginning.

Now, though. Now it was different.

"Gods," Sango said from her spot under the eaves, squinting at the waves of heat lifting off the dirt road. A line of sweat trickled down the side of her face. "It is hot today."

Miroku begged to differ. It was scorching.

From their perch, Edo village looked like a ghost town baking under the white-hot sun. The green and gold trees cast long shadows. Farther down the hill, dead yellow grass stretched out before them for miles and miles.

The straw hats of the few villagers braving the heat crept painfully up and down the rows of the farming fields. Just watching them made Miroku sweat…not that he wasn't already. The small shade behind Kaede's home was hardly sufficient to protect against the heat, though it was better than the alternative. There were too many warm bodies inside. Too many flaring tempers. Beneath the constant high pitch frenzy of the cicadas he could almost make out angry voices through the wall he was leaning against.

Inuyasha was always worse when he was in pain. And Kagome more irritable when she was worried for him.

Miroku glanced at his companion. While he was barely squeezed into the scant shade provided by the angle of the building, Sango was sitting on a stack of logs shaded under the roof, kicking her legs and staring out into the distance. What might have been a precarious perch for any other person, looked effortless and comfortable with her. She looked far too pensive though.

"Inuyasha would choose," Miroku said to her, "the absolute worst time to fall down a cliffside."

Sango clucked her tongue at him, mouth downturned a little. "His injuries are serious."

Miroku sighed. They were always serious. Inuyasha did not know how to fight anything without almost killing himself. This time, he'd gotten nearly skewered in half by a scorpion demon's razor-sharp tail. At least he'd had the good sense to let the demon cushion the impossible fall they'd made off a mountainside.

His injuries hadn't recovered in the last two days though.

Miroku thumped his head gently against the wall, thinking. "Poison?"

Sango chewed her lip. "Most likely." Not that Inuyasha would admit it. "It should be easy enough to cure, but it will mean I need to return to my village to gather the supplies…" It was her turn to sigh. "He is so stubborn. If he'd told us sooner, I could have been gone and back by now."

Miroku snorted wryly, looking up at her. "Making things easy would be unlike him."

When Sango laughed a little, he felt something in his chest expand. At her silhouette against the bright blue sky behind her. At the sunlight streaming through the cracks in the roof, dappling gold in her hair. When she squinted down the road again, a half-smile playing on her lips, he felt the moment hang, crystalline and tender. She had scuff marks on her knuckles and a sunburn on her cheeks. He was overcome with a sudden urge to reach out and touch her hand.

And that's when he felt it.

A small tear. Like a thread snapping under tension, deep in the meat of his palm. The cursed void in his hand spasming, rippling out ravenously to lick at the base of his fingers and thumb. The rising fervor ready to spill over.

The slowing of time. The heaviness of his body. The sound of his heart pounding, a death knell. The low, almost imperceptible whistle of wind.

There would be no time to run. His traitorous throat seized. He stared frozen at Sango, afraid he'd made a terrible miscalculation.

But then it was over. The void in his hand shrunk, curled up like a precocious feline and settled with a heavyweight along the lifeline of his palm. The iron bars on his chest loosened but only a little. For there the void sat, like a cup of water just slightly too full, the numbness forming a seamless convex curve, primed and easily disturbed.

And he had known.

"Miroku?" He realized Sango was looking at him. There was something hesitant in her expression. "Something the matter?"

He forced out a slow breath as his gaze dropped to his hand, thumb digging into the bones where finger met knuckle, the only parts he could still touch. The rosary beads clinked.

"I'm tired," he told her, watched her straighten slowly, a solemn shadow darkening her eyes as she flicked them to his hand. "I'm just…getting really tired, Sango."

She had nodded, mouth pressed in a thin line. She didn't give false platitudes of understanding, of which he was grateful.

As Sango's gaze turned back to the road, a few flyaway strands escaping from her tie and begging to be tucked behind her ear, Miroku clenched his fist and felt a decision solidify, without warning but not really surprising all the same.

The truth was, Sango was one of those people who would never know when her time would come.

And he wouldn't take that from her.

The fire flickered gaunt shadows in Inuyasha'a face as he tried to sit up from where he'd been dozing. "What are you doing?"

Miroku paused, looking up from the items he had been shifting into piles.

The hanyou looked awful—dark circles under his yellow eyes, his face far paler than normal against sweat-soaked silver hair. Shippou was curled into a ball at his hip fast asleep, tiny hand clutched in the fabric of his shirt. Despite the fact that he and the young fox kit had been arguing all morning, Miroku could see how Inuyasha tried not to disturb him as he shifted, a grimace on his face.

With a half-smile, Miroku returned his gaze to his piles, another coin clinking from his hand into one of them. Most of the items were coins—from the very start of joining the group, Miroku had always been in charge of the money. Probably because he was the only one who cared much for it. But there were a few other things.

He held up a small wooden statue carved in the likeness of a koi fish. "When Kagome returns," and at his pointed look, Inuyasha shifted uncomfortably, "this is for her. She could use more good luck dealing with you."

Inuyasha put a hand to his bandaged chest, wincing a little and then making a face. "I need good luck," he muttered. Miroku tutted at him.

"You've got a demon's luck. I'm afraid a little statue is not going to help much." Miroku eyed the bandages. They were starting to darken. "Do you need help changing those?"

Inuyasha waved him off, grunting. At the monk's frown, he rolled his eyes, staring peevishly at Shippou's sleeping head. "You all are acting like I'm going to die. This is nothing."

Miroku's gaze dropped to the fire. "Don't be so quick to brush it off."

The hanyou's eyes flicked towards him briefly, gold limned in firelight. "What?"

"Kagome will probably come back through the well with a huge medical kit tomorrow. Sango is riding with Kirara to her village as we speak." His rosary beads clinked as he smoothed his hand over his piles. "Kaede would be here right now if that village girl wasn't giving birth tonight. There are a lot of people concerned about whether or not you die."

Inuyasha opened his mouth in automatic reply, a sneer forming on his lips, but then seemed to register something. He stopped, spine straightening as he finally turned to get a good look at the monk.

"…what are you getting at?" He said finally.

Miroku merely hummed, then picked up a really heavy gold coin, rolling it over his knuckles. "This one is for Shippou," he continued. "It's a trick coin, flips mostly on one side." He demonstrated, the coin flashing up in a gold arc in the air which he caught and showed Inuyasha. The side with the engraved kanji gleamed in his palm. "It's got a nice weight to it."

"Miroku." His name, sharp and quick. Silver bangs covered the hanyou's eyes now, obscuring his face. There was a creak of fabric as the hanyou clenched the blanket in his lap, knuckles white. "Cut the crap."

Miroku leaned back, sighing. In truth, he had been hoping Inuyasha wouldn't wake up when he came in. "There are a few other things in this bag." He patted a small cloth bag on his right, sitting on top of the bigger pile of coins. "Some spelled ofuda for Kaede. A…" he paused, and then too quickly, "A hair ribbon. For Sango."

Inuyasha was definitely clenching his jaw now, fangs gleaming in the light of the fireplace. "What the fuck," he ground out. "Why are you even telling me this."

Miroku paused. And then, because their relationship had always been one where neither put up with each other's bullshit, "…because I need you to tell them when I'm gone."

Inuyasha jerked, gold eyes flaring, and Miroku finally got a good look at his face. Stiff, eyebrows lowered and tense, the disdainful curl of a lip. The eyes, as always, betrayed him: anger, anxiousness, and even a little fear, all churning and unsettled. It made him look vulnerable. Young.

"Where do you think you're going to go?" the hanyou finally said, voice almost wooden compared to the look in his eyes. "You can't leave."

Miroku's lips twisted a little and he looked up at the ceiling, scratching his head. "Who's going to stop me?"

A beat of silence. Then Inuyasha's face screwed up. "You bastard."

Miroku sighed. "I know."

Inuyasha tried to jerk to his feet, but then there was a noise that made both men freeze. Shippou was sitting up, blinking bleary green eyes at them, and Miroku saw Inuyasha look down at the kitsune with a flash of alarm.

"What's going on?" Shippou mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "…Are you guys fighting?"

Inuyasha's jaw clenched. Slowly, he sat back down again. The glare he sent Miroku's way scorched like hellfire. Miroku merely returned it, expression tired.

"No, Shippou," Miroku said, watching the hanyou visibly restrain himself against a retort as he continued lightly, "We're not fighting. You can go back to sleep."

Shippou nodded and then, surprising both men completely, crawled fully into Inuyasha's lap. The look of shock that broke across the hanyou's face was as endearing as it was almost too sad. "Don't fight, Inuyasha," Shippou murmured, rubbing his face in the hanyou's shirt. His eyes fluttered closed. "You're still bleeding."

For a moment, Inuyasha didn't look like he knew what to do. Then he brought a hand to the kid's hair, awkwardly resting it there. "It's fine, brat. Go to sleep."

Both men watched in silence as the kitsune fell back asleep, tail curling over his face. The longer the seconds ticked by, the more the silence started to feel suffocating.

"I'm sorry," Miroku said eventually, voice thick.

When Inuyasha looked back at him, his expression was severe. Unmerciful.

"Then you won't go."

"I can't."

"Why not?" His lips pressed thin. "Look if it's got that bad, we can figure this out. We—"

"Don't." Miroku covered his face with one hand. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be. I am dying. There is no we in that."

"You're running away," Inuyasha said, and when Miroku looked down, his tone turned scathing. "Sango won't forgive you for this. You didn't even let her say goodbye."

Miroku's thoughts turned to a few hours ago. Once she'd set her mind to something, Sango wasn't one to waste time. She'd mounted Kirara's back and with a small smile and a two-fingered wave, they'd ascended to the sky. She hadn't looked back, hair rippling in the wind as she and the cat youkai disappeared into the twilight. He had stared at the horizon for a long time, burning that image into his mind, long after the sun had gone down.

If Inuyasha thought that bringing up Sango now might weaken Miroku, he was wrong. His resolve only burned brighter for it. "Better she never forgive me than die because of me."

Another silence filled the room. This time, a silence so full with things unsaid that Miroku almost couldn't stand it. He started to gather the coins in the smaller pile with shaky fingers, stuffing them into the pocket of his robes.

"…and me?" Inuyasha said suddenly.

Miroku paused, the last coin in his hand. When he glanced up, the hanyou was staring at the wall, face emotionless.

"You left something for everyone else," Inuyasha said. "Are you just going to leave me to pick up the pieces?"

That cut deep. The truth of it. "…I don't have anything to give you," Miroku admitted, regret welling in him. "Not anything you need. My prayers, maybe."

"Fuck you." The sudden fury in the hanyou's eyes made Miroku flinch. "Keep your fucking prayers, I don't need them."

Miroku closed his eyes. "You don't. You're stronger then I am. You'll finish what I could not."

His voice cracked a little at last, and then the finality of it all was too much. Miroku turned away quickly, afraid that if he said more he wouldn't be able to follow through with what he had to do. But as he started to exit the room, he was stopped by Inuyasha's voice.

"….you won't get far," Inuyasha was saying lowly. The promise in his words made Miroku's knuckles whiten on the door frame. "We'll find you and drag you back, you selfish prick."

Miroku looked at the dark sky. His smile was humorless. "…I'll have to put my headstart to good use then."

He stood on a hill with his back to Edo, a small pack at his feet. It contained all his belongings—or what he had allowed himself to bring. It wasn't much in the grand scheme of things: some rations, a worn blanket, a hat for the rain, two under kimonos that he would have to take extra care of since they were his only spares. A large stack of parchment, a brush and an ink stick. Coins jingled in his pocket. Anything else he needed, he would have to buy again.

Wind tugged at his clothes. Before him stretched a dark landscape, punctured by the occasional flicker of firelight from a campfire or a far off village. Jagged shadows of thick forests loomed like prison walls.

Out there, somewhere, was a hill with his name on it.

When he summoned Hachi, the raccoon demon took one look at him and his ears flattened. "Miroku," he said, almost reproachful. His voice quivered.

Miroku shook his head, then handed the raccoon a small wrapped package. "Take this to Mushin. There is something in there for you too. Tell him…tell him I am grateful. And that I am sorry."

Hachi's eyes watered as he looked down at his feet. Miroku put a hand on his arm. The worst thing about the curse were moments like these when he had to see people he cared for struggle with the reality he had already accepted. And it was always a trial of his resolve. Hope was always waiting in the rushes, waiting to ignite and illuminate with its false reassurance all his doubts. But he had to be strong against it. If he faltered here, at last goodbyes, the people he left behind would think they could have done something to save him. And they couldn't. That was just a fact.

"This will be the last time, Hachi. The last thing I ask of you. Thank you for everything, friend."

Hachi rubbed his face with a sleeve. "Do you need me to take you somewhere?"

Miroku paused, then glanced back over his shoulder. Kaede's home stood like a sentinel in the dark. Firelight flicked through its window, warm and inviting. Unlike Mushin's temple, it had been small, cramped, drafty in the winter, leaky in the spring, and always full of people that mattered. Mushin had always said home was not a location so much as a meeting place. Not a very Buddhist sentiment, but then he had always been lenient with Miroku more than others. Perhaps because Miroku had never truly chosen their way of life, even if he had eventually accepted it.

"Yes," Miroku said, feeling the chill of the wind through his robes as he turned his back on the only home he had ever known. "As far away as you can take me."

Two days, they flew. Two days of few words and long stretches of silence that were both comforting and yet already full of loneliness, a promise of more to come.

Hachi took him to the coast, a stretch of sea that Miroku had never seen before. And when the raccoon demon left, a hand over his face in silent weeping, Miroku had watched his back disappear into the line of trees before he shouldered his pack and started down the beach.

Despite what he had told Hachi, Miroku didn't actually trust him to not tell the others where he had taken him. Actually, trust was not the right word. Hachi had swore with feeling he wouldn't, and Miroku had felt how much he meant it. Rather, it was that Miroku trusted more strongly in Hachi's feelings then his actual words. It was why he had not asked to return to Mushin's temple, the first place the others would look. Inevitably, they would look for Hachi and eventually he would cave, just as he had last time, because love betrayed even the most well-intentioned promises.

Speaking of promises….Miroku stared grimly at the pale horizon where sea met sky, watching dawn creep again into the world.

Inuyasha had swore he would find him, but Miroku could not let him. Considering both of their track records for making impossible promises to people, neither had good odds…but Miroku was sure he would win out this time. The clock ticked continuously, ominously forward, even if the thought brought him no comfort.

And he was taking no chances.

The young woman was trying to shoulder a yoke, two jars of water tied with rope bound on each end. The village men were out on the dirty, lukewarm rice patties, and the rest of the women were either cooking or too busy with their own jugs of water to help the girl out. She was a cute little thing, her strong black hair coiled in a knot at the base of her neck, and though her skin was burnt from the sun, she had a pair of wide dark eyes that fluttered at him like butterfly wings.

Miroku padded over to her, his staff jingling with every step. Village women looked up from their crockpots, from the suction mouths of little babes, to watch as he passed. There was a sort of reverence and admiration in their eyes that he felt like a physical presence. He knew they painted him over with their expectations, seeing someone handsome and mysterious, tall and lean, swathed in indigo robes and a solemn expression. So different from what they saw in their daily lives.

The young woman looked up as Miroku stepped in front of her, her arms falling limp to her sides, her grip loose on the yoke. Miroku smiled gently and held his staff out to her, which she took eagerly, letting the old bone yoke fall to the ground with a thump. Miroku rolled back his sleeves and swiftly heaved the yoke over his shoulders.

"Where to?" Miroku asked cheerfully. The young woman gestured to a small dilapidated house near the edge of the village, where an old white-haired woman stared with intense concentration into a pot of boiling rice. The boards of the hut were streaked with dirt, and a quick glance into the place revealed a smoky little room, sparse except for a few threadbare blankets and some old chipped crockery against the wall. Miroku set the water down near the back of the hut behind two rather large stacks of firewood and stood up to wipe his hands on his forehead. His eyes flickered to the wood, then out to the forest behind the house, where undoubtedly a woodcutter lived.

The girl looked so young. Up closer, he could see now that her robes were tatters and there were permanent earth stains on the knees of her dress, as if she had frolicked in the fields for long hours. Yet the look in her black eyes as she slipped into the shadow of the woodpile was as sharp as a knife whetted by a practiced hand.

The reality was, there was always someone out there that was willing to take flesh as payment for favors. Or young girls hoping that this one would whisk them away to a better life.

"Thank you, sir," the girl said quietly. Her fingers hooked lightly along the open edge of his robe, a silent invitation.

A pause. "It was nothing," Miroku said. Sweat began to accumulate again on his brow, but his eyes remained fixed on those fluttering, flying eyelashes. After a moment, the girl smiled a toothy smile.

"It wasn't nothin'g."

Would you bear my child?

Miroku's eyes dragged closed. The question was on the tip of his tongue, but never before had it felt so heavy with obligation. Or regret.

In the end, he only smiled and left her standing there, disappointment tainting those dark eyes. It was a crying shame, but even though he was running out of options—and time—it felt too wrong.

What she really wanted, he couldn't give anyone. Even himself.

He should have known the emptiness was too good to be true.

A young woman was reclining on a rock when he crested the next hill, fan open and idly stirring ripples in a nearby stream. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, accented with feathers and earrings of jade. As he approached, she made a pleased sound and closed her fan with a crisp snap, the sound as sharp as the wind whistling through a deep canyon. Despite himself, he stopped short, staring.

She didn't look at him, but from her profile he watched as her cherry red lips turned up at the corners.

It was clear she had been waiting for him.

A yellowing leaf fell from a tree and spiraled around Kagura of the Wind like a golden halo. At the last moment, before it gently touched her hair, she caught it between two fingers. The eyes that turned to him were the color of blood.

"Why if it isn't the monk," she said, tapping her chin with her fan. Her voice was rich and low, almost too pleasant to his ears. If she was affecting surprise, it was a poor performance. "Fancy meeting you here."

Miroku tried not to let his surprise show on his face. He could count on one hand the times he had seen her up close, but none of that mattered; clearly she knew him, and for his part, he would have recognized that white and crimson dress anywhere. The heavy dancing kimono seemed almost obscenely expensive in comparison to their surroundings. Clearly, the finery that the inn keeper's wife had worn at the last inn he stayed in had been little more than a cheap imitation.

His eyes lingered almost unwillingly at the line of her body, at the artful way the fabric of her kimono pulled down at her shoulder to reveal the delicate lines of her collarbone. When his eyes returned to her face, she was smiling at him like a pleased cat stretching lazily in the sunlight.

Her harmlessness was a facade. The last time he had seen her, she had sent a horde of demons to take him and Sango out. She didn't seem interested in killing him right now, though, which was odd. And troubling.

Perhaps, like Naraku, Kagura enjoyed playing with her food.

Miroku gave a small sigh. "Kagura. A pleasure." He looked around a moment, then asked, "I don't suppose we could delay this till tomorrow? If I had known this was coming, I would be down at the village right now."

"Doing what?" the demon asked. The leaf twirled between her fingers.

"Bedding a woman," he said frankly.

Kagura laughed. The sound was musical, like the whistle of reeds in a light wind. "If that's the case, then why the serious face? We can head down together. I'll supervise."

Lips pressed tightly together, Miroku turned on his heel and started to head back. He only got two steps before she landed in front of him in a flash of leaves, fan tapping her chin. Her expression was, for once, solemn.

"You are serious," she said thoughtfully, surveying him beneath thick lashes. "How odd. I thought you religious types were more…discrete." She cocked her head. "Is this a human kink thing? Will it turn you on, being watched by others?"

Miroku looked at her coldly. "I assure you, I have never been less turned on in my life."

She smiled, mischief in every line of her body. Voluptuous creamy skin, pouty lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and endless, effortless grace. She was so beautiful it almost hurt his eyes and it was all wasted on her. Her head tilted to the side, those crimson eyes crinkling. "Ahh, forgive me, I still find human mating customs so baffling. I've asked Kohaku before but…" when he stiffened, her eyebrows quirked, "…he doesn't have much, shall we say, opinion on the matter. Care to enlighten me?"

He was not fooled; she was searching for something. The question was: what?

He worked at unclenching his jaw, then at saying something to deflect. "I wouldn't know."

Her slow smile was nasty and condescending and he wished he hadn't said anything at all. "Really? How interesting."

They stood like that for a long moment. It was strange. This woman had tried to decapitate him on multiple occasions and he had been repeatedly unsuccessful in catching her in his void. It was not necessarily personal, but their antagonism was absolute. Now she was standing within arm's reach, looking up at him coyly, and he had absolutely zero idea what was going on in her mind. Or why she was here.

Frankly, both points were terrifying. More unnecessary and unwanted complications he would need to factor into his plans.

Miroku ran a hand through his hair, then gave her a pointed look. Kagura snapped open her fan and peered out from behind it coyly. "Yes?"

"Lovely as this chat is, daylight is fading fast and I have things to do," Miroku said. And then, with a sudden nastiness on par with her own, "Unless you're volunteering?"

She laughed outright. "You couldn't handle me." She played with the hem of her kimono near her breasts, but he forced his eyes to stay on her face. "Besides, I have some standards, human. You don't meet them."

"Fair," he drawled. "Not particularly interested in breeding more spawn of Naraku."

For a second, she went deathly still. A twitch under her eye, before it was quickly covered with a smile. She leaned into his space and she smelled clean and fragrant and like a woman and absolutely nothing like that backwater village girl.

"You're a brave one, monk," she said delicately, and her desire to kill him was almost palpable. "It's going to get you killed someday."

Miroku stifled a laugh. Hadn't it already?

She raised an eyebrow, then turned and sashayed away into the trees, entirely for show and all for his benefit. He watched her anyway because he was a man damn it.