Disclaimer: There has never been, nor ever will be a time when I own Inuyasha. I could try, but there are too many other bloodthirsty people.

Author's Note: Ok, well, this is just a little fic that popped into my head after reading a summary of Rurouni Kenshin's Seishouhen. It's a very sad little fic, and may seem a little strange to some people, but I enjoyed writing it. I still don't think it lives up to its amazing title, though.

Sango uses a little Japanese in this fic. Here are the translations: Teishu- informal, archaic form of husband Houshi- monk (Buddhist) -Chan- a suffix used for one's friends, pets, or for children.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little fit of mine. Please review.

Autumn Nullity

Good morning, teishu.

I picked some chrysanthemums for you. I found it harder than usual to get up this morning, harder than it has ever been before. I lay motionless in my futon long before I felt my limbs could bear me to your shrine. I walked slower up the hill today, too. But regardless, I am here now, teishu. So, even if it is later than usual, good morning.

I feel bad to be placing these chrysanthemums at your shrine today. I had longed so fervently to have a lovelier flower, but there is none to be found in this dying world.

Yes, the world is dying with me, teishu. That is a funny thing about dying in autumn: as your strength fails, so does that of the world. As the disease causes my cheeks to turn rosy, leaves explode in vibrant colors. As my eyes water uncontrollably, so the rain falls in icy sheets. As the glow of summer fades, so do I. And now, my coughs summon the crimson life from my body. I feel nearer to you each passing day.

Do you miss me, teishu? Sometimes I feel that it is not the disease that pains my breath, but rather the knowledge that I breathe when you do not. It's silly, because I know the pain would not be so for you, but it is so hard to live without you. Some days, I feel like running to the top of the highest peak and screaming your name. Other times, I just want to sit in solitary silence, alone with my tears and nostalgia. But, as I can do neither, my pain persists. All I can do is come to your shrine and speak to a dead man. Would you have done the same for me?

Sometimes, I think of suicide, but I know that that is childish. Better to die slowly by this disease so that my friends will think there is hope than by ending it all with my own hands. You always warned me that I cared too much for my friends' happiness. Perhaps you were right, but I can not see you taking your own life either.

The disease did it for you. It's funny almost- I never thought I would outlive you. Even when you and I were diagnosed with the same illness, I always pictured myself dying first. It isn't fair how this disease has taken so much from me. I can't even lift my wakizashi anymore.

Oh, how forgetful I grow. I have almost forgotten that the disease has given me something great as well, something I wouldn't trade the world for: the disease gave you to me. The very same day we were diagnosed, you asked for my hand in marriage. Do you remember, teishu? You said you did, before you died, but even now? Even after a month since your final depart? There were fireflies that night. They danced around us as you took me into your arms. I still remember the feeling of your arms.

But other things grow dim. I can no longer see your face, teishu. It's funny, because I can clearly remember the first time we met. I met you as your enemy. In a field with the fiery sun overhead, I fought you. But your face, I can't see it. I can describe it, but I can not see it, like someone who has lived amongst the ever burning flames of hell all his or her life trying to define cold. And your voice, that too eludes me, even when I need to hear it most. Only your eyes remain in my memory. Your beautiful, rare, amethyst-colored eyes stay on the back of my eyelids.

In my dream world everything comes rushing back to me. In that insubstantial land, full of mists and illusion, you are alive again. I can see your face, hear your voice, but not only that. Other things come back, like what you felt like and tasted like. I can remember every caress that tickled across my skin. I can remember lying in your chest, breathing deeply the scent I could never place. But I always wake and then all that fades until all that remains are your eyes. It is cruel that you should pass as other memories before you. You should be different.

Oh teishu, my legs are aching as I kneel amongst the dead leaves. These visits are starting to take so much out of me, and I am not sure how many more I can make. But I will stay a little longer, if only to tell you

Teishu, the fine clothes Kagome-chan prepares for me hang limp around my thinning frame. The blankets she wraps me in no longer keep out the chill. Her medicines can not succeed in numbing the pain anymore. Is this the way you felt as your days drew nigh to the end? You consciously bore your torment and told no one. How selfish you were; I would have born it with you. But who am I to criticize you, when I do the same? I know my time in this world is drawing to a close, but I will not let the others know. How alike we are. They will not know; I will carry this secret to my grave. Only, I think Kohaku knows.

He stands behind me as a young man now, teishu, his head bent in prayer. Ever since your passing, he has left his training to watch over me. Don't worry, I won't keep him from his studies for much longer. He is trying so hard to pick up where you left off, and I personally think he makes a better houshi than you ever did. He is so shy and gentle. When I came to pray yesterday, he took my hand and told me that you were watching over us.

Are you, teishu? Sometimes, I feel that you are. Before I go to bed, or if I'm in the kitchen. Or last night, as I watched the last fireflies float around the porch, I felt you near. In those times, which only happen when I am alone, I can almost sense your eyes upon me. But when I turn, you are not there. So, are you waiting for me? I hope you are.

Teishu, I have to go now. Until tomorrow, thenMiroku.

Ok, for those of you who don't know, the disease that killed Miroku and is now killing Sango is tuberculosis. It was called a romantic disease (how a disease can be romantic is beyond me) because of the symptoms. Weakness, rosy cheeks, and watery eyes are a few examples that were mentioned in this fic.

I hope you enjoyed. Please, review.

Ichimu