knittingknots (knittingknots) wrote,

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Drabble: Bellflower

IK, with Kagome being introspective


Kagome, twirled the flower in her hand.  It was a bellflower, blue and in full bloom.

The bellflowers nodded in the early autumn light.  She grew them  in her garden like she did several other pretty plants, since they were useful.  The  roots were especially good in the winter when the cough came.

“Bellflower,” she said.  “Kikyou.”

She thought a moment of the woman she remembered, and whose soul she shared.  Life and time and taught her even more about whom she was and what her life might have been like.  She sighed a little over how she had once felt so threatened by the miko, and even more, the irony of  how in a way their lives echoed each other.  After all, here she was, living a life as a healer and sometimes miko, with the man her former self had first come to care for, but was not yet ready to live for.

That situation, time itself had resolved to fix, and as far as she was concerned, time had done so brilliantly.

Kagome put the flower in the basket with the others.  InuYasha walked out into the garden, their son in his arms.  He walked up to her, saw the deep contentment in her eyes, and smiled.

“Kaede will appreciate this,” he said, and bending forward, kissed her on the forehead.  “Bellflowers don’t grow as well down in her garden as they do in yours.”

“I know,” Kagome replied.  “Strange isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, wrapping his free arm around his wife. “Maybe not.”  Atae looked at the basket, but it was out of his reach, so instead, he decided to chew his on his fist.  “Maybe it’s because she was able to let go and find peace.  Maybe it’s a gift.”

“Maybe,” she said.  Tiptoeing up, she kissed him on his chin.

Together, they walked down to the village to give Kaede the flowers.  They, in turn, would follow the elderly miko as she walked up to the sacred place, and watch respectfully as Kaede laid them by her sister’s shrine.  And as the miko prayed for her sister, Kagome would look up at her husband and think about the ways her life now was indeed in a way a gift from the poor tragic woman who had befriended a hanyou, and quietly, too softly even for her husband to hear, she would whisper, “Thank you.”

Tags: drabble
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