Returning to the fortress grounds, Kagome arrived to find that the consecration of the new main hall had been completed in her stead. Through the open doors, gilded Buddhas and silvery shrine stones gleamed, artfully arranged around the spring-fed pool that glimmered brightly from within. As she mounted the wide, short stair, Miroku and a contingent of monks stood back at a respectful distance from her. Pacing slowly around the large and warmly lit space, which smelled of fresh pine and lacquer, she closed her eyes and reached out with her senses.

There was a calmness here, a divine tranquility that suffused her. Eons ago, very near to this spot, the god Izanagi had gazed out, purified from his failed quest in the underworld, and praised the first rising of the sun. How incomparably beautiful it must have seemed to him, then, even as his wife and sister remained condemned to languish forever separated from him, in the dark halls of the land of the dead.

Izanami, mother of fire. Consumed giving birth to the flame…

“…Kagome-sama?”

She opened her eyes, turning back at the sound. Around his shakujou, Miroku’s fist was white-knuckled, the monks of his entourage bowing low and shaking with their foreheads pressed to the ground.

“You are bleeding,” Miroku faintly said.

Kagome blinked, puzzled. Then she felt it—the slow, steady trickle of blood dripping from her nose to her lip.

“Sorry,” she muttered, dashing it away. “Must be the cold air.”

At a glance from Miroku, the other monks scrambled up and retreated from the building. With a solemn frown he advanced across the tatami to stand before her. Stuffing her hands into her sleeves, Kagome levelled her gaze with his.

“What?” she asked him, a little sharply. “It’s just a nosebleed, nothing serious.”

“You were illuminated,” Miroku said, regarding her gravely still, “but you weren’t aware of it, were you?”

Kagome’s eyes widened before she jerked her chin aside. “It happens sometimes, but it’s not a big deal. I’ve got plenty of reiki to spare.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Miroku said, in his most diplomatic tone. “But even you have your limits, Kagome-sama. You are only human, after all. Even with healing, your body can only withstand so much. Excessive use of power will weaken and degrade you.”

Kagome’s cheeks flamed. She didn’t need a lecture on what her mortal flesh could endure. “Trust me, Miroku-san, I have just as much of a vested interest in preserving my health as you do.”

Miroku’s brow creased, his deep violet eyes losing some of their luster. “Pardon?”

“Oh, come on now,” the miko said, smiling slightly. “Let’s not pretend you haven’t profited from our acquaintance—and stand to profit even more.”

“That is a cold way to frame it,” Miroku replied with consternation. “I consider you my ally, and trusted friend.”

“Once,” Kagome said, her eyes flinty, “you trusted in my judgment.”

Miroku lowered his gaze, and Kagome deemed him chastened enough. Turning away, she ascended the dais and held her hand to the lamp that blazed high upon it. Against her palm the flame licked at her, light and cruel.

Sesshoumaru had been right, when in her darkest hour he’d told her that her destiny didn’t end with the destruction of the Sacred Jewel. She could see it clearly now, the path that lay before her.

Her glowing hand fell to her side, unburned.

”The Shikon no Tama was only the beginning, Miroku-san,” she murmured, her eyes alight as she contemplated that tongue of seething flame. “We have the work of a thousand lifetimes ahead of us.”

Inuyasha © Rumiko Takahashi