Meaning of Love
This little peice of Daddy-angst was written for iy_unsung_heros for the prompt Father and placed first. Thanks hairann for the banner!
Title: Meaning of Love
Author: aimee_blue
Prompt: Father
Characters: Miroku's father, Miroku, Mushin
Genre: Introspective
Words: 300
Rating: T
Summary: CU. Precious words are heard in the last possible moment, but cherished nonetheless.
The first time a child calls out to their parent is said to be humbling, joyous, elating. But I’d never experienced it. Oyajii, baka oyaji or, if he was feeling particularly petulant, bakayaro.
I’d missed all the starting steps in my son’s life. I’d not even known of his existence until his mother had died. I’d missed all those stumbling, uncertain moments and he no longer needed my hand to help him walk.
Violet eyes just like his mother’s would glower at me whenever I stopped by to visit Mushin. Trying to convince him that I was hunting down an elusive demon had him lifting his chin. Excuses were all he heard; all I had.
There was something else in his eyes too. A reliance. It terrified me. My son needed me and I had nothing to give him. I was a wandering monk, and not a very pious one, a swindler, a womaniser. A reprobate.
Teaching him a cunning trick or how to fight was all well and good. But that wasn’t what he needed. He needed a parent; he did not call me father because I was no father. I would leave him for weeks on end. Escaping my own incompetence.
Convincing myself that I’d make it up to him by ensuring he never had to endure the kazzana was a ridiculous dream. I knew it. The plain harsh truth of it was searing through my hand as the winds raged.
I’d wasted too much time committing to nothing. A vacuous person with an empty life consumed into the void. A fitting end to a life with no meaning.
The first time he called me father, I was dying.
Drowning in the wind, I smiled. No, my life had resulted in one truly special thing.
Miroku.
My son.
Title: Meaning of Love
Author: aimee_blue
Prompt: Father
Characters: Miroku's father, Miroku, Mushin
Genre: Introspective
Words: 300
Rating: T
Summary: CU. Precious words are heard in the last possible moment, but cherished nonetheless.
The first time a child calls out to their parent is said to be humbling, joyous, elating. But I’d never experienced it. Oyajii, baka oyaji or, if he was feeling particularly petulant, bakayaro.
I’d missed all the starting steps in my son’s life. I’d not even known of his existence until his mother had died. I’d missed all those stumbling, uncertain moments and he no longer needed my hand to help him walk.
Violet eyes just like his mother’s would glower at me whenever I stopped by to visit Mushin. Trying to convince him that I was hunting down an elusive demon had him lifting his chin. Excuses were all he heard; all I had.
There was something else in his eyes too. A reliance. It terrified me. My son needed me and I had nothing to give him. I was a wandering monk, and not a very pious one, a swindler, a womaniser. A reprobate.
Teaching him a cunning trick or how to fight was all well and good. But that wasn’t what he needed. He needed a parent; he did not call me father because I was no father. I would leave him for weeks on end. Escaping my own incompetence.
Convincing myself that I’d make it up to him by ensuring he never had to endure the kazzana was a ridiculous dream. I knew it. The plain harsh truth of it was searing through my hand as the winds raged.
I’d wasted too much time committing to nothing. A vacuous person with an empty life consumed into the void. A fitting end to a life with no meaning.
The first time he called me father, I was dying.
Drowning in the wind, I smiled. No, my life had resulted in one truly special thing.
Miroku.
My son.