[fic] Heaven Up, Earth Down 1/1
Sep. 10th, 2010 09:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keire_keTitle: Heaven Up, Earth Down 1/1
Author:keire_ke
Rating: R
Pairing: 393
Disclaimer: Written only to be enjoyed free of charge. All characters belong to Minekura Kazuya
Summary: Karmic bonds can never be broken, can never be erased, and much like spilled ink will leave ineffaceable marks on the silken robe, so will the karma that binds two people together.
Author's notes: Loosely based on the novel Tale of Murasaki, which was my primary source and inspiration for Heian Japan’s culture. I tried to stay faithful to the spirit rather than the letter, so I hope my mistakes and liberties taken wouldn’t be too noticeable. Most of all, I hope it pleases!
Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
7thnight_smut for atanih88. Betaed by rroselavy. :)
Heaven Up, Earth Down
It was the third day of the eleventh month. The first tendrils of frost wove themselves into the early mornings, spinning their fairy tales onto the lacquered surfaces. Sanzo had been restless since the sunrise had woken him, though why he could not say. As the sun started its travel to meet the horizon he settled to his writing table, hoping to quell his unease with the writing of the holy sutras. With any luck his hand would be steady at last, and the holy texts would grant him peace of mind. Alas, it was not to be.
The eleventh month was unusually warm this year, so Sanzo had the shutters opened wide, until his little office was little more than a patio, open to the vision of the silent lake, which boasted a perfect reflection of the moon’s glorious face. Sanzo had always found the moon a comfort, mindless of the insults it had drawn to his name.
His hand ground the inkstick with practiced ease, falling into the familiarity of the action until the realisation that his mind would not settle even to such simple a task – the inkstick was now at half its original length – and the thick black paste on the inkstone would write nothing.
Sanzo cursed under his breath and reached for more water. As he poured, however, the sound of chimes and hurried footsteps by the gate caught his attention. His hand slipped and the inkstone spilled from the table, landing upon his knees.
Sanzo cursed again, abandoning the sutra altogether. He was out of favour with the gods, it seemed, and they wished him to remain so, if the dark rivulets spreading on the silken robe he wore were any indication.
“My lord,” said the summoned servant, moments after Sanzo’s call.
“Take this,” he told the man, thrusting the ruined robe into the servant’s hands. “See if it can be salvaged. If not, do with it what you will.”
The man disappeared without another word, but Sanzo had no chance to reclaim his lost peace. Another servant knocked on the door, bowing in half as he spoke.
“My lord, the emperor’s messenger is here. He begs to speak with you.”
“Invite him in, then. I shall be along shortly.” As soon as I find something to wear, that is, he would have added, were he speaking to a friend.
“As you wish.”
******
“What kept you?” was Sanzo’s greeting when he entered the main room of the mansion. The messenger smiled and raised his cup.
“I trust you won’t mind, I asked the servants for sake.”
“Why would I care? There certainly is more than enough. Are you out of favour with the emperor again?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Gojyo smiled wide, which in Sanzo’s opinion was more than enough to lose favour with great many people, himself included.
“You are here, for one.”
“I do not know, to be honest. I was given those letters and strict instructions to relay them to you as soon as possible.”
Sanzo said nothing. The letters bore the imperial seal, and, if Gojyo was indeed hastened on his way, they had to contain urgent news.
“Well? Have you no plans to read them?”
“I dislike news,” Sanzo said, but the emperor’s will had to be done. He broke the seals and unrolled the paper.
“That bad?” Gojyo asked, when Sanzo cursed under his breath.
“There is a Chinese delegation coming to Miyako through here. I am to welcome them and see them through to the capital myself.”
“That is good news!”
“How is that good news?” Sanzo all but barked.
“Most people would consider being allowed back into favour a good news.”
“I hardly think this constitutes being allowed back in favour. This shall be a nuisance. Furthermore, was I ever out of favour?”
“The banishment seems to indicate so.” Gojyo was tired after the long road, this much Sanzo could see. The second cup of sake had brought sleep into his eyes and heaviness to his head, which now rested on his open palm.
“I enjoy solitude.” And, though few people were privy to that information, his presence in the region was less banishment and more of an agreement between himself and the emperor. Though his mother wasn’t the empress, Sanzo was heir apparent and, until the emperor’s new wife could bear him a son, he remained heir apparent. As he had no desire to claim what many perceived as his birthright, he chose to withdraw into Konzen’s generously offered exile.
“Suit yourself,” Gojyo said with a shrug.
“Go to sleep. You’re useless anyway, more so when you’re only half awake. I had the servants prepare a room for you.”
“Sleep well, Sanzo.”
Left alone, Sanzo examined the letter again. The light had started to fade, so he asked for a lamp to be brought to the table. A delegation of five was coming: a high-ranking Chinese diplomat, his son, and three officers the letter claimed as inconsequential. More troubling then the expected visit, however, was the implication permeating the paper and the ink. Konzen fancied them spies, a preamble to Chinese invasion of their shores.
Splendid.
Their arrival was scheduled to the tenth day of the eleventh month, barely enough time to make preparations for the journey. Sanzo thought of sending Gojyo back with his reply, but decided against it. Considering how little time remained, Konzen was bound to receive the news of Sanzo receiving the news after the arrival of the ambassadors, which would serve no one’s interests. No, Gojyo would stay and make himself useful to Sanzo by distracting Hakkai, and he would certainly be of more use along the journey.
Hakkai. Sanzo massaged his temples. Hakkai was going to love the news, imminent threat of war or not. He was a scholar, so his interest in war was limited to the battles playing out across the ancient texts, in the poets’ brushstrokes. Yes, he would enjoy the chance to test his language skills – they had been dormant for so long.
Sanzo, though his education lacked nothing, had none of the flare for the Chinese language that ought to characterise a scholar. He could write and read it, naturally, but the spoken language he had no use for.
Only thing that remained was ensuring there was accommodation for all of the guests. Tomorrow morning he would give orders for the spare rooms to be cleaned and prepared – they had but six days, which was nowhere near enough time for the preparations. The mansion at which he resided was far from the grandiosity of the palace, or even the houses that his equals commanded in Miyako. Never mind his equals, Sanzo thought with a quirk of the lip. There had been plenty of nobles his junior in rank whose homes were bathed in gold and silks, whereas his humble abode was nothing but comfortable.
Briefly, he wondered if Konzen intended this to be a slight to the Chinese delegation, but abandoned the thought equally fast. Convenience must have dictated that choice. His home may have been situated on the far end of nowhere, but it was just off the fastest track from Echizen to the capital. If they left Echizen at noon, they would arrive at Sanzo’s doorstep in time to rest before continuing the next morning.
Sanzo paused by the terrace to watch the waxing moon dance upon the waves of the lake. The waters were not yet frozen, though early in the morning there was a hint of crust at the shore, just enough to make a sound when stepped on. Winter was coming and it would be harsh enough to prevent journey in or out of the valley.
Perhaps it was best that he would be wintering in Miyako. Enjoyment of solitude was one thing, freezing to death in the fragile halls was something quite different. Even so, the thought of departing and submitting himself to the rituals and inane customs that pervaded the courtiers made him feel sick to his stomach.
With that thought in mind Sanzo shed his robe and laid to rest. Tomorrow would be a busy day, the first of many.
******
Six days of preparation seemed like a continuous blur to Sanzo. He spent much of it at his desk, writing letters that should, with any luck, guarantee them a comfortable rest at every point of the way from here to Miyako. Gojyo, when prompted to stay, responded with delighted enthusiasm that made Sanzo want to recant his invitation immediately. He didn’t. Despite his rank, Gojyo was all too easy to be familiar with, especially here, where the stiff ceremony of the imperial court didn’t figure into every detail of the daily life.
Finally, the tenth day arrived and a few hours before sunset the Chinese delegation rode into Sanzo’s courtyard.
Sanzo greeted them, to the best of his abilities, in Chinese, as was befitting his rank. However, he planned to let Hakkai take over the conversation. Sanzo had pride enough to fuel half the court, but he prided himself most on his pragmatic mind, and the ability to recognise the tasks he was unsuited for.
“Master Son GoHan,” Sanzo said, inclining his head towards the ambassador. “I am honoured to welcome you in my home.”
“We are humbled by your hospitality, Prince.” It was something of a relief for Sanzo to realise that the Chinese ambassador spoke fluent Japanese, even if his accent bore the hint of his native speech. “I am called Sun WuFan, this is my son, Sun WuKong.” The son, far as Sanzo could tell, was perhaps twelve, pink in the face and swaying where he stood. The other delegates were keeping a respectful distance from the ambassador, enough of a hint that Sanzo need not bother himself with them.
“Allow me to see you to your rooms. We are ready to depart on the morrow.”
******
At dawn Sanzo was woken by an urgent call.
“My lord,” said the ambassador respectfully when Sanzo entered his chamber. “I am sorry to disturb your sleep so early, but my son is ill. He cannot travel in this condition.”
Sanzo allowed the boy a glance and was forced to concede the point. He was, indeed, ill. His body was wracked with tremors and his brow was damp with sweat. His eyes opened when he heard a commotion and, for a short moment he was looking straight at Sanzo, through the haze of fever, and his gaze struck the errant prince like a knife.
“I shall send for an exorcist at once,” he said. Then paused. Konzen would not appreciate a light treatment of this situation, even if the child was genuinely ill. “Cho Hakkai will travel with you in my stead. I will remain here, until your son is well enough to travel.”
“I would hate to inconvenience you, sir.”
“You have my word, master WuFan. I will see to his safety, but I insist the rest of you continue to the capital.”
“Very well then.” WuFan spoke shortly to his son, which even to Sanzo’s insensitive ear it sounded harsh, then to his escorts. “We shall be ready to depart in an hour.”
Sanzo nodded and left the room. Perhaps he ought to have been ashamed of how easy it was for him to disobey the emperor, but he couldn’t muster the feeling. Any excuse that allowed him to not appear in court was a good one, even if it meant looking after an ill brat.
He spent the hour writing letters. First, to the emperor, informing him of the circumstance and begging his forgiveness. This was hardest, as expressing remorse in verse was one of the most difficult tasks he had ever undertaken, particularly when the remorse was not honest. What he’d managed was a fairly trite letter, one that would win no contests, but – he hoped – would sufficiently explained the reasons for his disobedience.
The second letter he wrote to allow Hakkai and Gojyo, along with the ambassadors, passage and hospitality in the cities they would travel through. A minor concern, but a concern all the same and, if he didn’t want the emperor’s anger on his head, he needed to see this through.
It was only when Gojyo and Hakkai, ready to depart, appeared at his door that he remembered he’d forgotten the most important thing.
“I shan’t travel with you,” he said simply.
“The emperor ordered it.”
“The emperor ordered I supervise the Chinese delegation personally. You will do that for me, along the way. I will remain and see to it that the boy isn’t behaving suspiciously.”
“You think his illness is a lie?” Hakkai asked, lowering his voice.
Sanzo didn’t even have to consider. “No. He is ill, I am sure of that. That doesn’t mean he is fully innocent,” a lie, if he’d ever heard one, “so remain I shall.”
“Can’t be too careful, I suppose,” Gojyo said, though it was doubtful he believed what he was saying. He was a simple man, in Sanzo’s reckoning, unsuited for politics if only because he was quick to make up his mind and nothing in the world would make him act civil to a person he despised.
The departure had been ready since before the delegation had arrived, so it was no wonder how swiftly they progressed. Sanzo stood in the courtyard, dressed in his best ceremonial silks, listening to the farewell poem Sun WuFan had composed for the occasion, an ode to the mountains that guided them on their way. Sanzo wished he’d shut up and be on his way, finally. He had exorcisms to supervise.
“I wish you luck,” he said when the accursed poetry had finished. “May your journey be fruitful.”
“Farewell, master Sanzo.”
With that they were off. Sanzo stood at the door for a while longer, watching the departing procession with unseeing eyes. He had to count on the emperor’s anger, it would be foolish to assume he’d emerge unscathed. Konzen would never honestly consider that child a spy, not when he met him, he would, however, be displeased when he found Sanzo shirking his duties.
“Send for a priest,” he told a servant.
******
Perhaps it was a sense of duty that prompted him to sit in the chamber where the exorcism was performed, even though he most often found the spectacle disturbing. The dirty orphan, clawing at the floor as the malicious spirit took possession of her body was most disquieting.
Thankfully, the ceremony was short. Either the boy was strong or the spirit weak, but as the incense smoke filled the room and the child on the floor arched her back, Wukong breathed freely behind the curtain, and if it weren’t for the barrier, Sanzo could have sworn their eyes met.
The following morning the fever broke, and the boy slept as though dead. The doctor proclaimed him on the road to recovery, and fit for travel in no more than half a month.
Sanzo cursed privately at the message. His best excuse to avoid the conspiracies and the snivelling was fast convalescing, vanquishing all hope of a peaceful season. “This is most fortunate,” he told the doctor, lying through his teeth. “Half a month, you say?”
“Normally I would recommend more, but this here is a strong young man, even though he is Chinese, he will be capable of withstanding the journey.”
And just like that, hope had returned. Sanzo dismissed the doctor and spent a quiet evening wondering about the composition of a letter to let his brother know he wouldn’t arrive for at least two months. To his chagrin the season had been warm, so the snow won’t hurry in blocking all the passages, but there was still time to spin the boy’s illness into a story strong enough to withstand the scrutiny of an imperial order.
He sat at his table as the breeze travelled through the room, until the night muffled the sound of the household, until all hint of perfume and man-made materials dissipated in the scent of earth and sky and the mountains. Sanzo set aside his brush and stood by the window. In those moments he was most peaceful, alone, with no creature to share the night with, save the moon.
Tonight, he wasn’t alone. Someone else was wandering the immaculate night, someone whom the moon was glad to welcome. Sanzo forced his memory to match a name with the person he saw wandering by the lake, but none would appear. It was a man, he thought, by the way he held himself, but he was equally certain this was not one of his servants.
Fearless, Sanzo discarded his shoes and stepped out into the night, to meet the spectre that had broken into his solitary world, before it disappeared in the lake.
It was only when he stood at the brink of water that he recognised the person. Sun WuKong. The boy had to be insane, to be swimming in the moonlit lake so soon after his illness. Sanzo, with great reluctance, stepped into the water, because in the night he didn’t trust his voice to reach his goal. He was not so silent, however, because he was heard, and now the boy was turning and coming to him, a vision in the pale light of the moon, clad in nothing but a thin layer of white silk.
He was no boy, Sanzo had to admit. Sun WuKong’s face may have been round and youthful, but his body belonged to a young man. Though Sanzo was clad in many more layers, he felt a stab of shame, not modesty, because because the moon – perhaps it was its doing – had put in his head the notion that on such nights as this gods descended to earth to move into their new houses, and he had dared to interrupt one.
A most foolish notion. The taboo direction marked the way towards the peak of the mountain, the opposite of the way to the lake.
Sanzo shook his head in an effort to clear his mind. The water was warm enough to walk into, brimming with the quiet energy the moon bestowed upon it. Sanzo took a few more steps forward until he was standing face to face with the foreign creature who’d invaded the peace of his house and torn it upside down. He didn’t dare to speak, not trusting his voice, not trusting the night or the moon.
He didn’t know what strange ghost had taken over his mind, when his palm travelled upward to cup the face of the stranger and guided their lips to meet. He dared not question the moment of insanity that prompted this, he dared not think.
WuKong’s mouth was soft and wet, his face warm with the vestiges of fever. Sanzo felt the gentle press of his fingers upon his own hand, felt the rise of passion and desire that would soon sweep them both into forgetfulness and indubitably trouble. He didn’t think, though, couldn’t let himself think, because even if there was a malicious spirit guiding his steps that night this moment, whatever arose from it couldn’t be wrong, couldn’t be anything but divine.
No matter the fire in their veins, however, the waters of the lake hid beneath their comfortable surface a coldness that wouldn’t be easily shaken. Sanzo felt WuKong tremble more keenly than he felt the cold seep into his body as well. He didn’t speak as he led them out of the water and back into the house.
He was loath to wake a servant, fearing that a presence of another would break this strange charm that perhaps ought to have been broken, but whose allure didn’t allow the thought to flourish. He helped WuKong disrobe and burrow in the bedding prepared for him, accepted the radiant smile of gratitude and hid in his own chamber.
He found that, all of sudden, he couldn’t breathe.
By morning he was in control again, the moonlit encounter all but forgotten. Sun WuKong had risen too; Sanzo found him half-dressed, admiring the view from the window and, in a moment of generosity, invited him to breakfast.
Wukong tilted his head, gazing up at Sanzo with a puzzled expression. He said something that made Sanzo blink in turn, a strange, wondering phrase uttered in a peculiar song-like tone.
“Would you care to join me for breakfast?” Sanzo repeated, uttering Chinese with difficulty. For the first time since the delegation departed he found himself wishing he hadn’t sent Hakkai away.
“Oh! With pleasure,” WuKong replied, “Master SanZang.”
“What?”
“Did I get it wrong?” the boy asked, making Sanzo green with envy with every strangely lilting, but perfectly uttered, Japanese syllable. “I’m sorry, I’m not a scholar, my classical Chinese is lacking; I often make mistakes. I would rather speak Japanese with you.”
“My name is Sanzo, not- SanZang.”
WuKong bent to the low table, on which a Chinese letter was left. “This is your name, though?” he asked, pointing to a few hastily scribbled characters.
“It is.”
“We read this as SanZang. Sanzo.” WuKong smiled again. “I like how it sounds. How do you say my name in Japanese?”
Curious indeed. “I don’t think anyone ever spoke of your name,” Sanzo said, folding his arms.
WuKong reached for a brush, cast aside some minutes ago, and overturned the letter. His hand was clumsy with the characters, giving them just enough shape to be recognisable, but not enough to make them elegant. Clearly, this was the reason for the lack of esteem his father displayed. A child to an ambassador who possessed barely enough writing skill to be understood, it was a wonder he was included in the journey at all. Then again, with the ease with which he spoke Japanese, his presence wouldn’t be wholly unwelcome.
“Goku,” Sanzo said immediately, when WuKong’s hand ceased its movement.
“Goku,” WuKong repeated, gazing down at the words. “I like it.”
Sanzo had to admit, the more he got to know him, the more fitting the name Goku seemed for the quicksilver boy, as opposed to the regal WuKong.
“Shall we eat?”
“Oh yes, I’m starving!”
******
Goku took such delight in his meals, Sanzo found it difficult to keep up. His skill with a brush left much to be desired, but he could almost catch insects mid-flight with his chopsticks.
“How long ago did my father leave?” he asked unexpectedly, when the servants were clearing the table.
“Just yesterday.”
“Aren’t I supposed to follow?”
“The doctor says you aren’t well enough to travel, won’t be until the twelfth month begins,” Sanzo said.
“That long? I’m never sick for long. I could leave now, I bet I could catch up on horseback in a day or two.”
A race on horseback! Sanzo was willing to do much more than lie to prevent that from happening. The perspective of riding horseback alone would have him mustering all of his diplomacy skills – the chase, and the subsequent days spent in court, though – that he was willing to do anything to avoid.
“You cannot,” he said simply. “The doctor says you are not well enough, therefore you are not well enough to travel.”
“But this is ridiculous. I’m fine!”
“This is not up for debate.” Sanzo gave the boy a hard look. He hardly needed that to know just how he could get his way. “You father entrusted your well-being to me, I do not think he would be pleased had I urged you on a difficult journey so soon after a sickness. Do you wish for me to lose what favour I have with him?”
Predictably, Goku coloured. “Of course not! But he won’t be happy I stayed behind, either. I’m always in trouble.”
That the barely literate son of a diplomat was frequently in trouble with his father was of no surprise to Sanzo, and evidently not a secret WuFan found necessary to keep, either. “We stay until I decide you are well enough to travel.”
“We?” Goku tilted his head and smiled. “Are you coming too?”
“I have been charged with your well-being by his highness the emperor.”
Goku’s gaze didn’t waver for a second. “Oh,” he said, and all his good humour dissipated. “He thinks I’m a spy. And you’re supposed to keep watch.”
So much for discretion, then. “Yes,” Sanzo said. There was a moment of silence and the image of Goku, half-naked, bathed in moonlight, flitted through his mind. “If it makes you feel any better, I think you’re too stupid to be a spy. I just don’t want to go to Miyako.”
Strangely enough, Goku perked up at that. “I’m really not a spy,” he said and, though their acquaintance was short, Sanzo could hear the unspoken, “though my father might be.”
“Aren’t you at all insulted?”
“No. I know I’m not smart.” Goku shrugged and picked at the edge of his robe. “I mean, I know I’m not stupid, either, I just can’t write very well, poetry goes over my head, and I can barely remember the classics.”
“You speak Japanese fluently.”
His grin was blinding. “You think so? Thank you! I am good at spoken languages, I can speak with most people of the empire!”
“What empire?”
Goku gave him a long look, as though Sanzo’d said something stupid. “China, of course.”
“How is that worthy of admiration, aren’t you Chinese?”
“We don’t all speak the same language,” Goku said. “Not even close. Every province has a different way of speaking.”
“That seems foolish.”
“The empire is great,” Goku said. Sanzo took it to mean vast. “Many people live there.”
Sanzo wasn’t sure what to say to that.
******
Goku proved to be an excellent distraction from Sanzo’s daily routine. Regardless of the doctor’s predictions, he would frolic in the sun as though he were never ill and, after a day or two of consuming more than a human being should, he was in such good shape he would run all the way around the valley without even losing his breath.
Sanzo was envious, not only because the Chinese seemed to have the foresight to dress their people in a manner that allowed them to move freely.
“Is there fish in the lake?” Goku asked randomly one day, joining Sanzo by the window in his office.
“There should be.”
“Do you want to go fishing?”
“Why would I want to go fishing?”
“It’s peaceful.”
“I had peace aplenty right here, before you chose to interrupt me.”
“Do you want me to go?” Goku asked, turning his gaze on Sanzo, who couldn’t find it in his heart to turn the boy away.
“Why fishing?”
“It’s quiet. No one dares to speak loud on the lake, but it’s a good quiet, like a million people are there with you, not saying anything.”
Sanzo smirked. “I’ll go, if you promise not to say anything.”
Goku laughed. “I promise!”
They would row to the middle of the lake most mornings for the rest of the month, and sit back to back in the tiny boat, with a float bobbing on the surface of the lake. More often than not Goku would nod off. Sanzo wouldn’t have thought it possible, for the boy to remain quiet for so long, but there he was, in the middle of the lake in silence that seemed to stretch as far as the mountaintops. It was peaceful.
******
On the twenty-sixth day of the eleventh month Hakkai and Gojyo returned from the capital, bearing with them imperial letters, with – to Sanzo’s great surprise – commendation from the emperor.
“What does his highness write?” Hakkai asked when he and Gojyo settled for a bottle of sake.
“He commends my choice to remain behind and orders for the boy to be supervised at all times.”
“Is he in the house?”
“No. He’s probably in the boat on the lake. He likes fishing, for some reason.”
“Do you have a servant following him?”
“No.”
“He’s free to roam the countryside, unsupervised?”
“He’s a child, Hakkai. He’s too stupid to mean harm.”
“It is disturbing that you don’t see the inherent danger of allowing a foreigner free reign of your estate.”
“Again, Hakkai, a child. He’s no older than twenty, and the only wrong thought he’d ever entertained was sneaking sweets from the kitchen. Hardly a spy material.”
Hakkai didn’t look convinced. Thankfully, at about that time Gojyo distracted him by raising his glass in toast. “To politics and how much we hate it.”
“Hear, hear.”
Somewhere in the distance a door was opened and, before long, a servant was opening a screen door before Goku, who’d paused when he saw that Sanzo wasn’t alone. “Hello,” he said, almost shyly.
“Come on in,” Gojyo invited with a generous wave of his hand. “Sanzo’s just been telling us you managed to get him away from his papers, isn’t that a feat!”
“It wasn’t hard,” Goku said with a small smile, taking a seat by the table.
“You speak very good Japanese,” Hakkai remarked a little stiffly. Goku blushed and Sanzo snorted into his cup. Poor Hakkai, for all his classical training, the Chinese language was as quirky as it was differentiated.
“Goku said there’s more than one way to speak Chinese,” Sanzo said. If there was one way into Hakkai’s heart, it was by offering him knowledge and, luckily when it came to the Chinese language, Goku had that in spades. Before long Sanzo and Gojyo were totally excluded from the conversation, as Hakkai had Goku repeat, over and over, phrases that he found troublesome for whatever reason. Despite his earlier protestations about lack of proficiency with classical Chinese, Goku was clearly charming his way into Hakkai’s scholarly heart.
“You’re right,” Gojyo said when they set to retire for the night. “No way in hell is that kid a spy.”
“I hardly need you to validate my opinions.”
“It wouldn’t hurt!” Gojyo disappeared behind a door before Sanzo could share some more of his views.
******
Only six days remained until the end of Goku’s recuperation and, the closer the day, the more avid Sanzo was in his efforts to find an excuse. The initial date coincided with the direction taboo, but that was one day only. Sanzo never ceased in his efforts to come up with something, resorting even to asking the gods for help, and finally, on the eve of the departure, his prayers were answered. Sanzo was enjoying a cup of warm sake when a bolt of lighting crossed the sky, signalling the beginning of a snowstorm.
“Thank you, merciful Kannon,” Sanzo told his altar when, the next morning, the air outside was still impenetrable. The journey, for obvious reasons, had to be postponed.
It snowed for three days and nights, blanketing the valley and, most importantly, the only way out of it. They were on their own for the foreseeable future as, soon after the storm, the wind brought frost, so vicious in its bite Sanzo would be hard-pressed to send a dog outside.
There was no reason to even risk a servant’s life with a letter, the weather would certainly be reported by the people on the other side of the mountain range. Sanzo could have his peaceful, cold winter all to himself.
“Wow! It looks awesome!” Goku enthused, leaning so far out of the window Sanzo had to bodily haul him back in. “Let’s go check it out!”
“Excuse me?”
“Let’s go out!”
“Into the snow? Are you insane?”
“Well, why not?”
“It’s cold!”
“Playing in the snow is fun. Come on, Sanzo!”
“Do you expect me to walk out into the snow, dressed like this, and walk?”
Goku cast a critical look at Sanzo’s long pants, and even longer sleeves. “This could be hard. I’ve got a spare set of winter clothes. They are very warm.”
There was something in his face, something earnest and kind, that Sanzo found himself unable to refuse. He followed Goku to his chamber and donned the form-fitting Chinese garments, pants that only reached his ankles and sleeves that did not trail on the floor when he stood.
He felt naked.
He was forced to admit that the barbarity of wearing such clothes was dubious, when, after pulling a ridiculous fur hat on top of his head, Goku pulled him into the snow and the cold did little more than bite at his face. The shoes Goku lent him were keeping his feet warm, and the jacket was more than enough protection.
“It’s so pretty,” Goku said as they scaled the side of the mountain.
Sanzo was forced to agree. The cold sun set the snow aflame, except for where the trees were casting sharp, cutting shadows. He watched the boy smile in the sunlight, watched the wind colour his cheeks and steal the misty puffs of his breath. The mountain was steep, but no so steep they had to struggle. They reached the first mound and Sanzo unexpectedly felt the boy’s hand find his, pulling him down the slope, tumbling into the white fluff.
They came to a stop in the narrow valley, atop, Sanzo was certain, a frozen stream. If he concentrated, he could hear the weak trickle that still fought for its life beneath the snow. They were safe though – the ice buried under the snow had to be at least as thick as the breadth of a hand.
Sanzo felt, with all of his body, the heaving mass of cloth and fur and flesh pressed against his shoulder, breathing in unison with him. He turned to find Goku looking at him, from beneath crystalline drops of melted snow that stuck to his lashes as they tumbled. Sanzo was suddenly reminded of the kiss they shared in the lake, how sweet was Goku’s mouth and how eagerly he reciprocated. He was bound by the desire to taste it again, to find whether the arousal he still felt in the darkness of the night was of his imagination or was it true. He turned to his side, shielding Goku from the sun, and pressed their lips together.
It was readily apparent that his imagination’s involvement was marginal. Sanzo’s mouth opened, insistent for more contact, just as Goku’s hands grasped the collar of his robe. Sanzo felt cold fingers brush his neck, worming underneath the warmed clothes, tearing the fastenings as they went. He wasn’t one to allow an insult go unpunished. Sanzo rose to his knees to free his hands and open Goku’s jacket. It was something of a shock to find that between the two of them even in the snow, with nothing separating them from it but a few layers of cloth, there could be enough heat to keep his blood boiling.
The fastening of their robes gave in easily enough, and Sanzo spread his jacket so that they could hide beneath it. Their cover was barely sufficient for one, let alone two, and with each movement the threat of becoming exposed to the elements grew.
The cold ought to have been a deterrent, but Goku was young – barely out of his teens – and Sanzo was no old man himself. Their bodies craved to be touched, and the satisfactions that burst at the merest of touches raced through their veins.
They clung to one another in the heat of their coupling and against the cruel bite of winter. Sanzo wormed his hands between Goku’s back and his clothes, and when Goku’s came to rest on his back he submitted to their pull until they were chest to chest and heaving with the same breath.
Though there was unspeakable tenderness in Goku’s soft gasps against Sanzo throat, his gyrating hips were more like those of a wild animal. Sanzo closed his eyes as they moved against one another, in the fire and the passion finding something of solace, something that was at the same time comfort and hurt, amazement and fearfulness, most of all, however, satiation and fulfilment.
It was then that he fully perceived that he was doomed, but the thought would remain distant for a while longer.
They hadn’t spoken as they cleaned the proof of their coupling from their bodies with a handful of snow, nor did they speak as they made their way back to the house, hiding from Hakkai’s eyes. Sanzo could scarcely find the words to put his thoughts into shape, especially when he felt Goku’s wide eyes on his body, mindless of clothes.
“You know, I really hated this time of year,” Goku said. “In our calendar this period is called ‘walled-up winter’.”
“Sounds like a prison.”
“I know.” Goku brushed his hand through the heap of snow on the balustrade on the house’s terrace. “I used to pray for the winter to end sooner, but right now I really don’t mind.”
He smiled and disappeared inside to change out of his wet clothes, but Sanzo stayed outside to give his impatient heart time to still. He must have waited a moment too long, though, as the moment he set foot inside Hakkai was there, his displeasure written all over his face.
“What are you doing, Sanzo?” he asked when they were inside Sanzo’s room.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Even if he isn’t a spy…”
“He’s not, for gods’ sake! Have you met him?”
“Even if he isn’t a spy, he is Chinese. You must be insane to spend so much time with him, spend time with him alone!”
Sanzo closed his eyes. “Has the emperor asked you to spy on me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hakkai’s voice deepened to a growl, something that Sanzo had seldom occasion to hear. “I would never speak against you, unless it is to you, and I’m telling you now – you need to cease your association with that boy. Never spend time with him alone, for gods’ sake, limit his movements in the valley, keep him contained!”
“Hakkai,” Sanzo started, but Hakkai didn’t let him finish.
“I wasn’t granted an audience with his highness, but I know that he expects a war to break out, soon. When that happens, everyone will be suspect. Everyone, Sanzo.”
Sanzo said nothing.
“Just think about it. Please. I would hate to send you poems while you watch the moon from behind prison walls.”
Hakkai left Sanzo to his thoughts, perhaps the biggest mistake he would ever make. Sanzo shrugged out of the heavy fur-lined fabric, had a servant collect and dry it, then he sat by his table.
His mind was blank, but his hand moved on its own. Before the sun hid behind the horizon he had covered three whole pages with the Lotus Sutra, but he kept writing even then. He kept writing until all sound in the house ceased, until he was alone in the night. Only then did he set down his brush, and stood.
Sanzo was quiet as he moved through the halls, and even quieter in sliding open the door to Goku’s room. The sutra had helped, but it wasn’t until he found Goku, awake, admiring the stars in the sky, that his mind had truly settled. He wasn’t wrong, he thought to himself as Goku’s arms opened and their lips met and, no matter what came out of this, no matter the anger of the emperor, this was what it must be.
Sanzo drew the bedding around them, long before their robes were even unfastened, as protection against the cold, winter air. Though it was barely warmer than it had been in the snow, they hastened to shed their robes, both eager to feel the press of skin against skin. It was a moonless night – dark was ubiquitous – but Sanzo found his fingertips filling in for the lost sense, finding images and colour where eyes could see none.
Goku’s skin was smooth, unmarked, and heated as though there was a furnace within his body. Sanzo’s hands found the ridges of his ribs when he exhaled, the jutting curve of his hip, the tender skin of his abdomen. Goku’s hands upon Sanzo were equally warm and, unlike the unbridled passion that had steered them in the shimmering snow, this, now, was slow and tender, a teasing at the flesh rather than devouring of it.
Sanzo found it a touch strange, how content he was just to lie still and exchange lazy kisses when mere hours ago they were rutting in the snow like wild beasts. The heat, the different heat from the one that enveloped a body wrapped in silk, was slow to build, starting instead with a kindling in his groin, than travelling along his limbs as slow as it would over a damp tree branch.
Goku moaned into Sanzo’s mouth when his oil-slick fingers travelled into him, when Sanzo settled between his legs, when his body strained to accommodate Sanzo’s sex. He was mindful of the need for silence, and so, even when the covers slipped form their shoulders and the cold winter air assaulted their skin he was quiet, whispering a strange song into Sanzo’s ear.
There was no witness to their joining, as even the moon had been away, and the stars remained silent. Sanzo stayed in the room, listening to Goku’s breath for some time after they freed themselves from the tangles of one another’s arms, wishing against common sense that he could stay. He couldn’t though. Morning found him asleep in his own room.
******
Winter in the mountains was harsh, but Sanzo found that sneaking into the room of his lover every night coloured it with enough excitement so as to keep boredom from ever setting in. Every now and then he would meet Hakkai’s disapproving gaze, and he would be frozen solid with the knowledge that he knew – Hakkai knew - but equally fast the fear would relent.
Hakkai wouldn’t speak against him. His word was as good as any promise.
No matter how fervent the wishes, however, the spring must chase away the snow, and clear the mountain passages. Finally, when not even the rivulets of water blocking the way could be taken as an excuse, Sanzo ordered for the departure to be prepared. His staff was efficient; within three days they were ready to go, to brave the dangers of the tract and then, what was worse, the court.
Goku shared his coach when they reached the plains and, for the most part, he was silent. “I don’t want to go,” he said when the servant informed him they were nearing the city gates.
“I know.”
They rode through the streets and, each step, each clunk of a hoof against cobble, brought them closer to the agony of the palace above the clouds.
As it happened, Sanzo barely needed to worry about his meeting with the emperor, because as soon as the carriage stopped there were armed men surrounding it on every side, whisking Goku away.
“What is going on?” Sanzo asked, loudly, when he was bodily prevented from following. “How dare you!”
“Emperor’s orders, my lord,” said the soldier, mortified beyond imagining.
It was only Hakkai’s hand that stopped Sanzo from causing a ruckus the capital would have long remembered. “See the emperor,” Hakkai breathed into his ear. “Find out what is happening.”
Sanzo listened. As fast as his robes would allow he hurried up the steps, ignoring all in his path. The emperor had been waiting.
“Konzen,” Sanzo said, forgetting for a brief second all the rank and propriety. “What are you doing?”
His brother raised his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You had Goku- you had that child arrested, why in gods’ name would you arrest a child!”
“Because that child, as you say, is the son of a Chinese ambassador, a man who spent years in our country and who may well know too much for our sake.”
“It is insane. He knows nothing that could harm us.”
“You don’t know that.” Konzen straightened and, for the first time, Sanzo noticed the scribe sitting behind him, the regent in the corner, hidden by shadows. So this was what his karma brought him. “In fact, I have reason to suspect you may be blinded by your affections.”
“So I bedded him, that does not put my ability to judge people into question.”
“We are at war, Sanzo.”
War. Sanzo closed his eyes. War with the Chinese. Things couldn’t possibly be worse. “What is to become of him?”
“It is my deepest regret, but the boy shall be executed.”
“Are you insane?!” Perhaps it was a mistake, to lose his temper with the emperor of Japan, but Sanzo could barely contain his fear and anger. If Goku was killed, if he was lost – well, obviously he could hope for the karmic bond they shared to bring them together in the next life, but what more? “Have you lost your mind?”
“Did Cho Hakkai travel with you?” Konzen asked unexpectedly.
“Does it matter?”
“Bring him in here,” the emperor ordered, as Sanzo fumed. For the life of him he couldn’t fathom the notion that would send Goku – innocent, clueless Goku – to his death.
“Konzen, please,” Sanzo said, so quietly it was naught but a whisper. “Reconsider.”
“Are you not denying you have ties to the boy, the Chinese boy, when your country is at war?” the regent asked, stepping forth.
Sanzo closed his eyes. “No. I do not deny.”
“You see, majesty?” the regent spoke to the emperor. “He is a danger, even as heir apparent he thinks nothing of allying himself with the Chinese.”
“Now wait here!” Sanzo smiled grimly, without opening his eyes. Gojyo. As kind as he was eager for a political suicide. “Sanzo’s not a traitor!”
“You will show proper respect,” the regent hissed and, even though he silenced Gojyo’s mouth, he couldn’t diminish the fire in his eyes.
“Cho Hakkai,” the emperor said.
“My lord?” Hakkai asked respectfully.
“Will you deny that Lord Sanzo has an attachment for the Chinese boy?”
Sanzo, even with his eyes closed, could hear the hesitation in Hakkai’s demeanour. “You can’t speak against me, if you say the truth,” he said, to no one in particular.
“No, your highness. I will not deny,” Hakkai said after a moment, and the whole room exhaled. Sanzo could see the regent was taking a breath to speak, but Konzen raised his hand.
“Then… Let it be known that heir apparent prince Genjo Sanzo is hereby stripped of his rank,” Konzen said. “He is banished from the capital, never to return. He is to spend the rest of his days in the mountain abode, and is not permitted to leave beyond the valley. He is never to be mentioned again.”
Sanzo barely contained the smirk that threatened to twist his mouth. Banishment to a place he loved was hardly a punishment for what had to be treason in the emperor’s eyes.
“Hakkai,” the emperor said. “I task you with the well-being of my brother. You are to remain with him, until the end of his days, and see to it that he remains contained.”
“Yes, your highness.”
There was a sound much like that a man would make when his foot is stepped on, that Sanzo suspected originated with Gojyo.
“You will remain in his service,” the emperor said to Gojyo. “He is permitted no letters, unless they bear my seal.”
Another wounded sound and Gojyo bowed. “As you wish, your highness.”
“Now, leave,” Konzen said to Sanzo. “You will depart the capital within five days, never to return.”
“Goodbye, brother,” Sanzo said simply. It was only the anger and pain he felt when the image of Goku would flit through his mind that stopped him from saying thank you.
******
There had been uproar in the capital over the banishment of the prince that some still saw as the rightful heir, and Sanzo’s departure ended up being delayed by a few days. He cared not. Bereft of his rank he was powerless, unable to determine whatever had become of Goku, powerless to even say goodbye.
When finally they set out of Miyako, he was relieved, though the pain he would feel in his chest till the end of his days, and the days of travel did nothing to numb it. Finally, on the noon of the fifth day of travel, he stood on the porch of his home, welcoming it in the security that he will never again be cast from it.
Before the servants could unload a tenth of the luggage, however, there had been footsteps within and Goku stood in the door, breathless and barefoot.
“Sanzo!” he cried, launching himself into his arms, whole, alive and there.
“His highness decided to spare his life,” Hakkai said quietly. “I wasn’t sure until now, but here he is.” He paused, as though the words caused him pain, but continued, “He is to be killed if he tries to leave the valley, or contact anyone. No one must know he lives.”
There was more, but Sanzo stopped listening. Goku was warm and alive in his arms, and so the utmost cruelty of banishment that the emperor had chosen to burden him with all of sudden became the greatest reward he could achieve in his lifetime.
Later he would apologise to Hakkai and Gojyo, for theirs must have been the worst punishment – losing favour and trust, being banned to the outskirts of the empire, for Sanzo’s sake – but not now.
THE END
Author:
keire_keRating: R
Pairing: 393
Disclaimer: Written only to be enjoyed free of charge. All characters belong to Minekura Kazuya
Summary: Karmic bonds can never be broken, can never be erased, and much like spilled ink will leave ineffaceable marks on the silken robe, so will the karma that binds two people together.
Author's notes: Loosely based on the novel Tale of Murasaki, which was my primary source and inspiration for Heian Japan’s culture. I tried to stay faithful to the spirit rather than the letter, so I hope my mistakes and liberties taken wouldn’t be too noticeable. Most of all, I hope it pleases!
Written for
7thnight_smut for atanih88. Betaed by rroselavy. :)Heaven Up, Earth Down
It was the third day of the eleventh month. The first tendrils of frost wove themselves into the early mornings, spinning their fairy tales onto the lacquered surfaces. Sanzo had been restless since the sunrise had woken him, though why he could not say. As the sun started its travel to meet the horizon he settled to his writing table, hoping to quell his unease with the writing of the holy sutras. With any luck his hand would be steady at last, and the holy texts would grant him peace of mind. Alas, it was not to be.
The eleventh month was unusually warm this year, so Sanzo had the shutters opened wide, until his little office was little more than a patio, open to the vision of the silent lake, which boasted a perfect reflection of the moon’s glorious face. Sanzo had always found the moon a comfort, mindless of the insults it had drawn to his name.
His hand ground the inkstick with practiced ease, falling into the familiarity of the action until the realisation that his mind would not settle even to such simple a task – the inkstick was now at half its original length – and the thick black paste on the inkstone would write nothing.
Sanzo cursed under his breath and reached for more water. As he poured, however, the sound of chimes and hurried footsteps by the gate caught his attention. His hand slipped and the inkstone spilled from the table, landing upon his knees.
Sanzo cursed again, abandoning the sutra altogether. He was out of favour with the gods, it seemed, and they wished him to remain so, if the dark rivulets spreading on the silken robe he wore were any indication.
“My lord,” said the summoned servant, moments after Sanzo’s call.
“Take this,” he told the man, thrusting the ruined robe into the servant’s hands. “See if it can be salvaged. If not, do with it what you will.”
The man disappeared without another word, but Sanzo had no chance to reclaim his lost peace. Another servant knocked on the door, bowing in half as he spoke.
“My lord, the emperor’s messenger is here. He begs to speak with you.”
“Invite him in, then. I shall be along shortly.” As soon as I find something to wear, that is, he would have added, were he speaking to a friend.
“As you wish.”
******
“What kept you?” was Sanzo’s greeting when he entered the main room of the mansion. The messenger smiled and raised his cup.
“I trust you won’t mind, I asked the servants for sake.”
“Why would I care? There certainly is more than enough. Are you out of favour with the emperor again?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Gojyo smiled wide, which in Sanzo’s opinion was more than enough to lose favour with great many people, himself included.
“You are here, for one.”
“I do not know, to be honest. I was given those letters and strict instructions to relay them to you as soon as possible.”
Sanzo said nothing. The letters bore the imperial seal, and, if Gojyo was indeed hastened on his way, they had to contain urgent news.
“Well? Have you no plans to read them?”
“I dislike news,” Sanzo said, but the emperor’s will had to be done. He broke the seals and unrolled the paper.
“That bad?” Gojyo asked, when Sanzo cursed under his breath.
“There is a Chinese delegation coming to Miyako through here. I am to welcome them and see them through to the capital myself.”
“That is good news!”
“How is that good news?” Sanzo all but barked.
“Most people would consider being allowed back into favour a good news.”
“I hardly think this constitutes being allowed back in favour. This shall be a nuisance. Furthermore, was I ever out of favour?”
“The banishment seems to indicate so.” Gojyo was tired after the long road, this much Sanzo could see. The second cup of sake had brought sleep into his eyes and heaviness to his head, which now rested on his open palm.
“I enjoy solitude.” And, though few people were privy to that information, his presence in the region was less banishment and more of an agreement between himself and the emperor. Though his mother wasn’t the empress, Sanzo was heir apparent and, until the emperor’s new wife could bear him a son, he remained heir apparent. As he had no desire to claim what many perceived as his birthright, he chose to withdraw into Konzen’s generously offered exile.
“Suit yourself,” Gojyo said with a shrug.
“Go to sleep. You’re useless anyway, more so when you’re only half awake. I had the servants prepare a room for you.”
“Sleep well, Sanzo.”
Left alone, Sanzo examined the letter again. The light had started to fade, so he asked for a lamp to be brought to the table. A delegation of five was coming: a high-ranking Chinese diplomat, his son, and three officers the letter claimed as inconsequential. More troubling then the expected visit, however, was the implication permeating the paper and the ink. Konzen fancied them spies, a preamble to Chinese invasion of their shores.
Splendid.
Their arrival was scheduled to the tenth day of the eleventh month, barely enough time to make preparations for the journey. Sanzo thought of sending Gojyo back with his reply, but decided against it. Considering how little time remained, Konzen was bound to receive the news of Sanzo receiving the news after the arrival of the ambassadors, which would serve no one’s interests. No, Gojyo would stay and make himself useful to Sanzo by distracting Hakkai, and he would certainly be of more use along the journey.
Hakkai. Sanzo massaged his temples. Hakkai was going to love the news, imminent threat of war or not. He was a scholar, so his interest in war was limited to the battles playing out across the ancient texts, in the poets’ brushstrokes. Yes, he would enjoy the chance to test his language skills – they had been dormant for so long.
Sanzo, though his education lacked nothing, had none of the flare for the Chinese language that ought to characterise a scholar. He could write and read it, naturally, but the spoken language he had no use for.
Only thing that remained was ensuring there was accommodation for all of the guests. Tomorrow morning he would give orders for the spare rooms to be cleaned and prepared – they had but six days, which was nowhere near enough time for the preparations. The mansion at which he resided was far from the grandiosity of the palace, or even the houses that his equals commanded in Miyako. Never mind his equals, Sanzo thought with a quirk of the lip. There had been plenty of nobles his junior in rank whose homes were bathed in gold and silks, whereas his humble abode was nothing but comfortable.
Briefly, he wondered if Konzen intended this to be a slight to the Chinese delegation, but abandoned the thought equally fast. Convenience must have dictated that choice. His home may have been situated on the far end of nowhere, but it was just off the fastest track from Echizen to the capital. If they left Echizen at noon, they would arrive at Sanzo’s doorstep in time to rest before continuing the next morning.
Sanzo paused by the terrace to watch the waxing moon dance upon the waves of the lake. The waters were not yet frozen, though early in the morning there was a hint of crust at the shore, just enough to make a sound when stepped on. Winter was coming and it would be harsh enough to prevent journey in or out of the valley.
Perhaps it was best that he would be wintering in Miyako. Enjoyment of solitude was one thing, freezing to death in the fragile halls was something quite different. Even so, the thought of departing and submitting himself to the rituals and inane customs that pervaded the courtiers made him feel sick to his stomach.
With that thought in mind Sanzo shed his robe and laid to rest. Tomorrow would be a busy day, the first of many.
******
Six days of preparation seemed like a continuous blur to Sanzo. He spent much of it at his desk, writing letters that should, with any luck, guarantee them a comfortable rest at every point of the way from here to Miyako. Gojyo, when prompted to stay, responded with delighted enthusiasm that made Sanzo want to recant his invitation immediately. He didn’t. Despite his rank, Gojyo was all too easy to be familiar with, especially here, where the stiff ceremony of the imperial court didn’t figure into every detail of the daily life.
Finally, the tenth day arrived and a few hours before sunset the Chinese delegation rode into Sanzo’s courtyard.
Sanzo greeted them, to the best of his abilities, in Chinese, as was befitting his rank. However, he planned to let Hakkai take over the conversation. Sanzo had pride enough to fuel half the court, but he prided himself most on his pragmatic mind, and the ability to recognise the tasks he was unsuited for.
“Master Son GoHan,” Sanzo said, inclining his head towards the ambassador. “I am honoured to welcome you in my home.”
“We are humbled by your hospitality, Prince.” It was something of a relief for Sanzo to realise that the Chinese ambassador spoke fluent Japanese, even if his accent bore the hint of his native speech. “I am called Sun WuFan, this is my son, Sun WuKong.” The son, far as Sanzo could tell, was perhaps twelve, pink in the face and swaying where he stood. The other delegates were keeping a respectful distance from the ambassador, enough of a hint that Sanzo need not bother himself with them.
“Allow me to see you to your rooms. We are ready to depart on the morrow.”
******
At dawn Sanzo was woken by an urgent call.
“My lord,” said the ambassador respectfully when Sanzo entered his chamber. “I am sorry to disturb your sleep so early, but my son is ill. He cannot travel in this condition.”
Sanzo allowed the boy a glance and was forced to concede the point. He was, indeed, ill. His body was wracked with tremors and his brow was damp with sweat. His eyes opened when he heard a commotion and, for a short moment he was looking straight at Sanzo, through the haze of fever, and his gaze struck the errant prince like a knife.
“I shall send for an exorcist at once,” he said. Then paused. Konzen would not appreciate a light treatment of this situation, even if the child was genuinely ill. “Cho Hakkai will travel with you in my stead. I will remain here, until your son is well enough to travel.”
“I would hate to inconvenience you, sir.”
“You have my word, master WuFan. I will see to his safety, but I insist the rest of you continue to the capital.”
“Very well then.” WuFan spoke shortly to his son, which even to Sanzo’s insensitive ear it sounded harsh, then to his escorts. “We shall be ready to depart in an hour.”
Sanzo nodded and left the room. Perhaps he ought to have been ashamed of how easy it was for him to disobey the emperor, but he couldn’t muster the feeling. Any excuse that allowed him to not appear in court was a good one, even if it meant looking after an ill brat.
He spent the hour writing letters. First, to the emperor, informing him of the circumstance and begging his forgiveness. This was hardest, as expressing remorse in verse was one of the most difficult tasks he had ever undertaken, particularly when the remorse was not honest. What he’d managed was a fairly trite letter, one that would win no contests, but – he hoped – would sufficiently explained the reasons for his disobedience.
The second letter he wrote to allow Hakkai and Gojyo, along with the ambassadors, passage and hospitality in the cities they would travel through. A minor concern, but a concern all the same and, if he didn’t want the emperor’s anger on his head, he needed to see this through.
It was only when Gojyo and Hakkai, ready to depart, appeared at his door that he remembered he’d forgotten the most important thing.
“I shan’t travel with you,” he said simply.
“The emperor ordered it.”
“The emperor ordered I supervise the Chinese delegation personally. You will do that for me, along the way. I will remain and see to it that the boy isn’t behaving suspiciously.”
“You think his illness is a lie?” Hakkai asked, lowering his voice.
Sanzo didn’t even have to consider. “No. He is ill, I am sure of that. That doesn’t mean he is fully innocent,” a lie, if he’d ever heard one, “so remain I shall.”
“Can’t be too careful, I suppose,” Gojyo said, though it was doubtful he believed what he was saying. He was a simple man, in Sanzo’s reckoning, unsuited for politics if only because he was quick to make up his mind and nothing in the world would make him act civil to a person he despised.
The departure had been ready since before the delegation had arrived, so it was no wonder how swiftly they progressed. Sanzo stood in the courtyard, dressed in his best ceremonial silks, listening to the farewell poem Sun WuFan had composed for the occasion, an ode to the mountains that guided them on their way. Sanzo wished he’d shut up and be on his way, finally. He had exorcisms to supervise.
“I wish you luck,” he said when the accursed poetry had finished. “May your journey be fruitful.”
“Farewell, master Sanzo.”
With that they were off. Sanzo stood at the door for a while longer, watching the departing procession with unseeing eyes. He had to count on the emperor’s anger, it would be foolish to assume he’d emerge unscathed. Konzen would never honestly consider that child a spy, not when he met him, he would, however, be displeased when he found Sanzo shirking his duties.
“Send for a priest,” he told a servant.
******
Perhaps it was a sense of duty that prompted him to sit in the chamber where the exorcism was performed, even though he most often found the spectacle disturbing. The dirty orphan, clawing at the floor as the malicious spirit took possession of her body was most disquieting.
Thankfully, the ceremony was short. Either the boy was strong or the spirit weak, but as the incense smoke filled the room and the child on the floor arched her back, Wukong breathed freely behind the curtain, and if it weren’t for the barrier, Sanzo could have sworn their eyes met.
The following morning the fever broke, and the boy slept as though dead. The doctor proclaimed him on the road to recovery, and fit for travel in no more than half a month.
Sanzo cursed privately at the message. His best excuse to avoid the conspiracies and the snivelling was fast convalescing, vanquishing all hope of a peaceful season. “This is most fortunate,” he told the doctor, lying through his teeth. “Half a month, you say?”
“Normally I would recommend more, but this here is a strong young man, even though he is Chinese, he will be capable of withstanding the journey.”
And just like that, hope had returned. Sanzo dismissed the doctor and spent a quiet evening wondering about the composition of a letter to let his brother know he wouldn’t arrive for at least two months. To his chagrin the season had been warm, so the snow won’t hurry in blocking all the passages, but there was still time to spin the boy’s illness into a story strong enough to withstand the scrutiny of an imperial order.
He sat at his table as the breeze travelled through the room, until the night muffled the sound of the household, until all hint of perfume and man-made materials dissipated in the scent of earth and sky and the mountains. Sanzo set aside his brush and stood by the window. In those moments he was most peaceful, alone, with no creature to share the night with, save the moon.
Tonight, he wasn’t alone. Someone else was wandering the immaculate night, someone whom the moon was glad to welcome. Sanzo forced his memory to match a name with the person he saw wandering by the lake, but none would appear. It was a man, he thought, by the way he held himself, but he was equally certain this was not one of his servants.
Fearless, Sanzo discarded his shoes and stepped out into the night, to meet the spectre that had broken into his solitary world, before it disappeared in the lake.
It was only when he stood at the brink of water that he recognised the person. Sun WuKong. The boy had to be insane, to be swimming in the moonlit lake so soon after his illness. Sanzo, with great reluctance, stepped into the water, because in the night he didn’t trust his voice to reach his goal. He was not so silent, however, because he was heard, and now the boy was turning and coming to him, a vision in the pale light of the moon, clad in nothing but a thin layer of white silk.
He was no boy, Sanzo had to admit. Sun WuKong’s face may have been round and youthful, but his body belonged to a young man. Though Sanzo was clad in many more layers, he felt a stab of shame, not modesty, because because the moon – perhaps it was its doing – had put in his head the notion that on such nights as this gods descended to earth to move into their new houses, and he had dared to interrupt one.
A most foolish notion. The taboo direction marked the way towards the peak of the mountain, the opposite of the way to the lake.
Sanzo shook his head in an effort to clear his mind. The water was warm enough to walk into, brimming with the quiet energy the moon bestowed upon it. Sanzo took a few more steps forward until he was standing face to face with the foreign creature who’d invaded the peace of his house and torn it upside down. He didn’t dare to speak, not trusting his voice, not trusting the night or the moon.
He didn’t know what strange ghost had taken over his mind, when his palm travelled upward to cup the face of the stranger and guided their lips to meet. He dared not question the moment of insanity that prompted this, he dared not think.
WuKong’s mouth was soft and wet, his face warm with the vestiges of fever. Sanzo felt the gentle press of his fingers upon his own hand, felt the rise of passion and desire that would soon sweep them both into forgetfulness and indubitably trouble. He didn’t think, though, couldn’t let himself think, because even if there was a malicious spirit guiding his steps that night this moment, whatever arose from it couldn’t be wrong, couldn’t be anything but divine.
No matter the fire in their veins, however, the waters of the lake hid beneath their comfortable surface a coldness that wouldn’t be easily shaken. Sanzo felt WuKong tremble more keenly than he felt the cold seep into his body as well. He didn’t speak as he led them out of the water and back into the house.
He was loath to wake a servant, fearing that a presence of another would break this strange charm that perhaps ought to have been broken, but whose allure didn’t allow the thought to flourish. He helped WuKong disrobe and burrow in the bedding prepared for him, accepted the radiant smile of gratitude and hid in his own chamber.
He found that, all of sudden, he couldn’t breathe.
By morning he was in control again, the moonlit encounter all but forgotten. Sun WuKong had risen too; Sanzo found him half-dressed, admiring the view from the window and, in a moment of generosity, invited him to breakfast.
Wukong tilted his head, gazing up at Sanzo with a puzzled expression. He said something that made Sanzo blink in turn, a strange, wondering phrase uttered in a peculiar song-like tone.
“Would you care to join me for breakfast?” Sanzo repeated, uttering Chinese with difficulty. For the first time since the delegation departed he found himself wishing he hadn’t sent Hakkai away.
“Oh! With pleasure,” WuKong replied, “Master SanZang.”
“What?”
“Did I get it wrong?” the boy asked, making Sanzo green with envy with every strangely lilting, but perfectly uttered, Japanese syllable. “I’m sorry, I’m not a scholar, my classical Chinese is lacking; I often make mistakes. I would rather speak Japanese with you.”
“My name is Sanzo, not- SanZang.”
WuKong bent to the low table, on which a Chinese letter was left. “This is your name, though?” he asked, pointing to a few hastily scribbled characters.
“It is.”
“We read this as SanZang. Sanzo.” WuKong smiled again. “I like how it sounds. How do you say my name in Japanese?”
Curious indeed. “I don’t think anyone ever spoke of your name,” Sanzo said, folding his arms.
WuKong reached for a brush, cast aside some minutes ago, and overturned the letter. His hand was clumsy with the characters, giving them just enough shape to be recognisable, but not enough to make them elegant. Clearly, this was the reason for the lack of esteem his father displayed. A child to an ambassador who possessed barely enough writing skill to be understood, it was a wonder he was included in the journey at all. Then again, with the ease with which he spoke Japanese, his presence wouldn’t be wholly unwelcome.
“Goku,” Sanzo said immediately, when WuKong’s hand ceased its movement.
“Goku,” WuKong repeated, gazing down at the words. “I like it.”
Sanzo had to admit, the more he got to know him, the more fitting the name Goku seemed for the quicksilver boy, as opposed to the regal WuKong.
“Shall we eat?”
“Oh yes, I’m starving!”
******
Goku took such delight in his meals, Sanzo found it difficult to keep up. His skill with a brush left much to be desired, but he could almost catch insects mid-flight with his chopsticks.
“How long ago did my father leave?” he asked unexpectedly, when the servants were clearing the table.
“Just yesterday.”
“Aren’t I supposed to follow?”
“The doctor says you aren’t well enough to travel, won’t be until the twelfth month begins,” Sanzo said.
“That long? I’m never sick for long. I could leave now, I bet I could catch up on horseback in a day or two.”
A race on horseback! Sanzo was willing to do much more than lie to prevent that from happening. The perspective of riding horseback alone would have him mustering all of his diplomacy skills – the chase, and the subsequent days spent in court, though – that he was willing to do anything to avoid.
“You cannot,” he said simply. “The doctor says you are not well enough, therefore you are not well enough to travel.”
“But this is ridiculous. I’m fine!”
“This is not up for debate.” Sanzo gave the boy a hard look. He hardly needed that to know just how he could get his way. “You father entrusted your well-being to me, I do not think he would be pleased had I urged you on a difficult journey so soon after a sickness. Do you wish for me to lose what favour I have with him?”
Predictably, Goku coloured. “Of course not! But he won’t be happy I stayed behind, either. I’m always in trouble.”
That the barely literate son of a diplomat was frequently in trouble with his father was of no surprise to Sanzo, and evidently not a secret WuFan found necessary to keep, either. “We stay until I decide you are well enough to travel.”
“We?” Goku tilted his head and smiled. “Are you coming too?”
“I have been charged with your well-being by his highness the emperor.”
Goku’s gaze didn’t waver for a second. “Oh,” he said, and all his good humour dissipated. “He thinks I’m a spy. And you’re supposed to keep watch.”
So much for discretion, then. “Yes,” Sanzo said. There was a moment of silence and the image of Goku, half-naked, bathed in moonlight, flitted through his mind. “If it makes you feel any better, I think you’re too stupid to be a spy. I just don’t want to go to Miyako.”
Strangely enough, Goku perked up at that. “I’m really not a spy,” he said and, though their acquaintance was short, Sanzo could hear the unspoken, “though my father might be.”
“Aren’t you at all insulted?”
“No. I know I’m not smart.” Goku shrugged and picked at the edge of his robe. “I mean, I know I’m not stupid, either, I just can’t write very well, poetry goes over my head, and I can barely remember the classics.”
“You speak Japanese fluently.”
His grin was blinding. “You think so? Thank you! I am good at spoken languages, I can speak with most people of the empire!”
“What empire?”
Goku gave him a long look, as though Sanzo’d said something stupid. “China, of course.”
“How is that worthy of admiration, aren’t you Chinese?”
“We don’t all speak the same language,” Goku said. “Not even close. Every province has a different way of speaking.”
“That seems foolish.”
“The empire is great,” Goku said. Sanzo took it to mean vast. “Many people live there.”
Sanzo wasn’t sure what to say to that.
******
Goku proved to be an excellent distraction from Sanzo’s daily routine. Regardless of the doctor’s predictions, he would frolic in the sun as though he were never ill and, after a day or two of consuming more than a human being should, he was in such good shape he would run all the way around the valley without even losing his breath.
Sanzo was envious, not only because the Chinese seemed to have the foresight to dress their people in a manner that allowed them to move freely.
“Is there fish in the lake?” Goku asked randomly one day, joining Sanzo by the window in his office.
“There should be.”
“Do you want to go fishing?”
“Why would I want to go fishing?”
“It’s peaceful.”
“I had peace aplenty right here, before you chose to interrupt me.”
“Do you want me to go?” Goku asked, turning his gaze on Sanzo, who couldn’t find it in his heart to turn the boy away.
“Why fishing?”
“It’s quiet. No one dares to speak loud on the lake, but it’s a good quiet, like a million people are there with you, not saying anything.”
Sanzo smirked. “I’ll go, if you promise not to say anything.”
Goku laughed. “I promise!”
They would row to the middle of the lake most mornings for the rest of the month, and sit back to back in the tiny boat, with a float bobbing on the surface of the lake. More often than not Goku would nod off. Sanzo wouldn’t have thought it possible, for the boy to remain quiet for so long, but there he was, in the middle of the lake in silence that seemed to stretch as far as the mountaintops. It was peaceful.
******
On the twenty-sixth day of the eleventh month Hakkai and Gojyo returned from the capital, bearing with them imperial letters, with – to Sanzo’s great surprise – commendation from the emperor.
“What does his highness write?” Hakkai asked when he and Gojyo settled for a bottle of sake.
“He commends my choice to remain behind and orders for the boy to be supervised at all times.”
“Is he in the house?”
“No. He’s probably in the boat on the lake. He likes fishing, for some reason.”
“Do you have a servant following him?”
“No.”
“He’s free to roam the countryside, unsupervised?”
“He’s a child, Hakkai. He’s too stupid to mean harm.”
“It is disturbing that you don’t see the inherent danger of allowing a foreigner free reign of your estate.”
“Again, Hakkai, a child. He’s no older than twenty, and the only wrong thought he’d ever entertained was sneaking sweets from the kitchen. Hardly a spy material.”
Hakkai didn’t look convinced. Thankfully, at about that time Gojyo distracted him by raising his glass in toast. “To politics and how much we hate it.”
“Hear, hear.”
Somewhere in the distance a door was opened and, before long, a servant was opening a screen door before Goku, who’d paused when he saw that Sanzo wasn’t alone. “Hello,” he said, almost shyly.
“Come on in,” Gojyo invited with a generous wave of his hand. “Sanzo’s just been telling us you managed to get him away from his papers, isn’t that a feat!”
“It wasn’t hard,” Goku said with a small smile, taking a seat by the table.
“You speak very good Japanese,” Hakkai remarked a little stiffly. Goku blushed and Sanzo snorted into his cup. Poor Hakkai, for all his classical training, the Chinese language was as quirky as it was differentiated.
“Goku said there’s more than one way to speak Chinese,” Sanzo said. If there was one way into Hakkai’s heart, it was by offering him knowledge and, luckily when it came to the Chinese language, Goku had that in spades. Before long Sanzo and Gojyo were totally excluded from the conversation, as Hakkai had Goku repeat, over and over, phrases that he found troublesome for whatever reason. Despite his earlier protestations about lack of proficiency with classical Chinese, Goku was clearly charming his way into Hakkai’s scholarly heart.
“You’re right,” Gojyo said when they set to retire for the night. “No way in hell is that kid a spy.”
“I hardly need you to validate my opinions.”
“It wouldn’t hurt!” Gojyo disappeared behind a door before Sanzo could share some more of his views.
******
Only six days remained until the end of Goku’s recuperation and, the closer the day, the more avid Sanzo was in his efforts to find an excuse. The initial date coincided with the direction taboo, but that was one day only. Sanzo never ceased in his efforts to come up with something, resorting even to asking the gods for help, and finally, on the eve of the departure, his prayers were answered. Sanzo was enjoying a cup of warm sake when a bolt of lighting crossed the sky, signalling the beginning of a snowstorm.
“Thank you, merciful Kannon,” Sanzo told his altar when, the next morning, the air outside was still impenetrable. The journey, for obvious reasons, had to be postponed.
It snowed for three days and nights, blanketing the valley and, most importantly, the only way out of it. They were on their own for the foreseeable future as, soon after the storm, the wind brought frost, so vicious in its bite Sanzo would be hard-pressed to send a dog outside.
There was no reason to even risk a servant’s life with a letter, the weather would certainly be reported by the people on the other side of the mountain range. Sanzo could have his peaceful, cold winter all to himself.
“Wow! It looks awesome!” Goku enthused, leaning so far out of the window Sanzo had to bodily haul him back in. “Let’s go check it out!”
“Excuse me?”
“Let’s go out!”
“Into the snow? Are you insane?”
“Well, why not?”
“It’s cold!”
“Playing in the snow is fun. Come on, Sanzo!”
“Do you expect me to walk out into the snow, dressed like this, and walk?”
Goku cast a critical look at Sanzo’s long pants, and even longer sleeves. “This could be hard. I’ve got a spare set of winter clothes. They are very warm.”
There was something in his face, something earnest and kind, that Sanzo found himself unable to refuse. He followed Goku to his chamber and donned the form-fitting Chinese garments, pants that only reached his ankles and sleeves that did not trail on the floor when he stood.
He felt naked.
He was forced to admit that the barbarity of wearing such clothes was dubious, when, after pulling a ridiculous fur hat on top of his head, Goku pulled him into the snow and the cold did little more than bite at his face. The shoes Goku lent him were keeping his feet warm, and the jacket was more than enough protection.
“It’s so pretty,” Goku said as they scaled the side of the mountain.
Sanzo was forced to agree. The cold sun set the snow aflame, except for where the trees were casting sharp, cutting shadows. He watched the boy smile in the sunlight, watched the wind colour his cheeks and steal the misty puffs of his breath. The mountain was steep, but no so steep they had to struggle. They reached the first mound and Sanzo unexpectedly felt the boy’s hand find his, pulling him down the slope, tumbling into the white fluff.
They came to a stop in the narrow valley, atop, Sanzo was certain, a frozen stream. If he concentrated, he could hear the weak trickle that still fought for its life beneath the snow. They were safe though – the ice buried under the snow had to be at least as thick as the breadth of a hand.
Sanzo felt, with all of his body, the heaving mass of cloth and fur and flesh pressed against his shoulder, breathing in unison with him. He turned to find Goku looking at him, from beneath crystalline drops of melted snow that stuck to his lashes as they tumbled. Sanzo was suddenly reminded of the kiss they shared in the lake, how sweet was Goku’s mouth and how eagerly he reciprocated. He was bound by the desire to taste it again, to find whether the arousal he still felt in the darkness of the night was of his imagination or was it true. He turned to his side, shielding Goku from the sun, and pressed their lips together.
It was readily apparent that his imagination’s involvement was marginal. Sanzo’s mouth opened, insistent for more contact, just as Goku’s hands grasped the collar of his robe. Sanzo felt cold fingers brush his neck, worming underneath the warmed clothes, tearing the fastenings as they went. He wasn’t one to allow an insult go unpunished. Sanzo rose to his knees to free his hands and open Goku’s jacket. It was something of a shock to find that between the two of them even in the snow, with nothing separating them from it but a few layers of cloth, there could be enough heat to keep his blood boiling.
The fastening of their robes gave in easily enough, and Sanzo spread his jacket so that they could hide beneath it. Their cover was barely sufficient for one, let alone two, and with each movement the threat of becoming exposed to the elements grew.
The cold ought to have been a deterrent, but Goku was young – barely out of his teens – and Sanzo was no old man himself. Their bodies craved to be touched, and the satisfactions that burst at the merest of touches raced through their veins.
They clung to one another in the heat of their coupling and against the cruel bite of winter. Sanzo wormed his hands between Goku’s back and his clothes, and when Goku’s came to rest on his back he submitted to their pull until they were chest to chest and heaving with the same breath.
Though there was unspeakable tenderness in Goku’s soft gasps against Sanzo throat, his gyrating hips were more like those of a wild animal. Sanzo closed his eyes as they moved against one another, in the fire and the passion finding something of solace, something that was at the same time comfort and hurt, amazement and fearfulness, most of all, however, satiation and fulfilment.
It was then that he fully perceived that he was doomed, but the thought would remain distant for a while longer.
They hadn’t spoken as they cleaned the proof of their coupling from their bodies with a handful of snow, nor did they speak as they made their way back to the house, hiding from Hakkai’s eyes. Sanzo could scarcely find the words to put his thoughts into shape, especially when he felt Goku’s wide eyes on his body, mindless of clothes.
“You know, I really hated this time of year,” Goku said. “In our calendar this period is called ‘walled-up winter’.”
“Sounds like a prison.”
“I know.” Goku brushed his hand through the heap of snow on the balustrade on the house’s terrace. “I used to pray for the winter to end sooner, but right now I really don’t mind.”
He smiled and disappeared inside to change out of his wet clothes, but Sanzo stayed outside to give his impatient heart time to still. He must have waited a moment too long, though, as the moment he set foot inside Hakkai was there, his displeasure written all over his face.
“What are you doing, Sanzo?” he asked when they were inside Sanzo’s room.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Even if he isn’t a spy…”
“He’s not, for gods’ sake! Have you met him?”
“Even if he isn’t a spy, he is Chinese. You must be insane to spend so much time with him, spend time with him alone!”
Sanzo closed his eyes. “Has the emperor asked you to spy on me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hakkai’s voice deepened to a growl, something that Sanzo had seldom occasion to hear. “I would never speak against you, unless it is to you, and I’m telling you now – you need to cease your association with that boy. Never spend time with him alone, for gods’ sake, limit his movements in the valley, keep him contained!”
“Hakkai,” Sanzo started, but Hakkai didn’t let him finish.
“I wasn’t granted an audience with his highness, but I know that he expects a war to break out, soon. When that happens, everyone will be suspect. Everyone, Sanzo.”
Sanzo said nothing.
“Just think about it. Please. I would hate to send you poems while you watch the moon from behind prison walls.”
Hakkai left Sanzo to his thoughts, perhaps the biggest mistake he would ever make. Sanzo shrugged out of the heavy fur-lined fabric, had a servant collect and dry it, then he sat by his table.
His mind was blank, but his hand moved on its own. Before the sun hid behind the horizon he had covered three whole pages with the Lotus Sutra, but he kept writing even then. He kept writing until all sound in the house ceased, until he was alone in the night. Only then did he set down his brush, and stood.
Sanzo was quiet as he moved through the halls, and even quieter in sliding open the door to Goku’s room. The sutra had helped, but it wasn’t until he found Goku, awake, admiring the stars in the sky, that his mind had truly settled. He wasn’t wrong, he thought to himself as Goku’s arms opened and their lips met and, no matter what came out of this, no matter the anger of the emperor, this was what it must be.
Sanzo drew the bedding around them, long before their robes were even unfastened, as protection against the cold, winter air. Though it was barely warmer than it had been in the snow, they hastened to shed their robes, both eager to feel the press of skin against skin. It was a moonless night – dark was ubiquitous – but Sanzo found his fingertips filling in for the lost sense, finding images and colour where eyes could see none.
Goku’s skin was smooth, unmarked, and heated as though there was a furnace within his body. Sanzo’s hands found the ridges of his ribs when he exhaled, the jutting curve of his hip, the tender skin of his abdomen. Goku’s hands upon Sanzo were equally warm and, unlike the unbridled passion that had steered them in the shimmering snow, this, now, was slow and tender, a teasing at the flesh rather than devouring of it.
Sanzo found it a touch strange, how content he was just to lie still and exchange lazy kisses when mere hours ago they were rutting in the snow like wild beasts. The heat, the different heat from the one that enveloped a body wrapped in silk, was slow to build, starting instead with a kindling in his groin, than travelling along his limbs as slow as it would over a damp tree branch.
Goku moaned into Sanzo’s mouth when his oil-slick fingers travelled into him, when Sanzo settled between his legs, when his body strained to accommodate Sanzo’s sex. He was mindful of the need for silence, and so, even when the covers slipped form their shoulders and the cold winter air assaulted their skin he was quiet, whispering a strange song into Sanzo’s ear.
There was no witness to their joining, as even the moon had been away, and the stars remained silent. Sanzo stayed in the room, listening to Goku’s breath for some time after they freed themselves from the tangles of one another’s arms, wishing against common sense that he could stay. He couldn’t though. Morning found him asleep in his own room.
******
Winter in the mountains was harsh, but Sanzo found that sneaking into the room of his lover every night coloured it with enough excitement so as to keep boredom from ever setting in. Every now and then he would meet Hakkai’s disapproving gaze, and he would be frozen solid with the knowledge that he knew – Hakkai knew - but equally fast the fear would relent.
Hakkai wouldn’t speak against him. His word was as good as any promise.
No matter how fervent the wishes, however, the spring must chase away the snow, and clear the mountain passages. Finally, when not even the rivulets of water blocking the way could be taken as an excuse, Sanzo ordered for the departure to be prepared. His staff was efficient; within three days they were ready to go, to brave the dangers of the tract and then, what was worse, the court.
Goku shared his coach when they reached the plains and, for the most part, he was silent. “I don’t want to go,” he said when the servant informed him they were nearing the city gates.
“I know.”
They rode through the streets and, each step, each clunk of a hoof against cobble, brought them closer to the agony of the palace above the clouds.
As it happened, Sanzo barely needed to worry about his meeting with the emperor, because as soon as the carriage stopped there were armed men surrounding it on every side, whisking Goku away.
“What is going on?” Sanzo asked, loudly, when he was bodily prevented from following. “How dare you!”
“Emperor’s orders, my lord,” said the soldier, mortified beyond imagining.
It was only Hakkai’s hand that stopped Sanzo from causing a ruckus the capital would have long remembered. “See the emperor,” Hakkai breathed into his ear. “Find out what is happening.”
Sanzo listened. As fast as his robes would allow he hurried up the steps, ignoring all in his path. The emperor had been waiting.
“Konzen,” Sanzo said, forgetting for a brief second all the rank and propriety. “What are you doing?”
His brother raised his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You had Goku- you had that child arrested, why in gods’ name would you arrest a child!”
“Because that child, as you say, is the son of a Chinese ambassador, a man who spent years in our country and who may well know too much for our sake.”
“It is insane. He knows nothing that could harm us.”
“You don’t know that.” Konzen straightened and, for the first time, Sanzo noticed the scribe sitting behind him, the regent in the corner, hidden by shadows. So this was what his karma brought him. “In fact, I have reason to suspect you may be blinded by your affections.”
“So I bedded him, that does not put my ability to judge people into question.”
“We are at war, Sanzo.”
War. Sanzo closed his eyes. War with the Chinese. Things couldn’t possibly be worse. “What is to become of him?”
“It is my deepest regret, but the boy shall be executed.”
“Are you insane?!” Perhaps it was a mistake, to lose his temper with the emperor of Japan, but Sanzo could barely contain his fear and anger. If Goku was killed, if he was lost – well, obviously he could hope for the karmic bond they shared to bring them together in the next life, but what more? “Have you lost your mind?”
“Did Cho Hakkai travel with you?” Konzen asked unexpectedly.
“Does it matter?”
“Bring him in here,” the emperor ordered, as Sanzo fumed. For the life of him he couldn’t fathom the notion that would send Goku – innocent, clueless Goku – to his death.
“Konzen, please,” Sanzo said, so quietly it was naught but a whisper. “Reconsider.”
“Are you not denying you have ties to the boy, the Chinese boy, when your country is at war?” the regent asked, stepping forth.
Sanzo closed his eyes. “No. I do not deny.”
“You see, majesty?” the regent spoke to the emperor. “He is a danger, even as heir apparent he thinks nothing of allying himself with the Chinese.”
“Now wait here!” Sanzo smiled grimly, without opening his eyes. Gojyo. As kind as he was eager for a political suicide. “Sanzo’s not a traitor!”
“You will show proper respect,” the regent hissed and, even though he silenced Gojyo’s mouth, he couldn’t diminish the fire in his eyes.
“Cho Hakkai,” the emperor said.
“My lord?” Hakkai asked respectfully.
“Will you deny that Lord Sanzo has an attachment for the Chinese boy?”
Sanzo, even with his eyes closed, could hear the hesitation in Hakkai’s demeanour. “You can’t speak against me, if you say the truth,” he said, to no one in particular.
“No, your highness. I will not deny,” Hakkai said after a moment, and the whole room exhaled. Sanzo could see the regent was taking a breath to speak, but Konzen raised his hand.
“Then… Let it be known that heir apparent prince Genjo Sanzo is hereby stripped of his rank,” Konzen said. “He is banished from the capital, never to return. He is to spend the rest of his days in the mountain abode, and is not permitted to leave beyond the valley. He is never to be mentioned again.”
Sanzo barely contained the smirk that threatened to twist his mouth. Banishment to a place he loved was hardly a punishment for what had to be treason in the emperor’s eyes.
“Hakkai,” the emperor said. “I task you with the well-being of my brother. You are to remain with him, until the end of his days, and see to it that he remains contained.”
“Yes, your highness.”
There was a sound much like that a man would make when his foot is stepped on, that Sanzo suspected originated with Gojyo.
“You will remain in his service,” the emperor said to Gojyo. “He is permitted no letters, unless they bear my seal.”
Another wounded sound and Gojyo bowed. “As you wish, your highness.”
“Now, leave,” Konzen said to Sanzo. “You will depart the capital within five days, never to return.”
“Goodbye, brother,” Sanzo said simply. It was only the anger and pain he felt when the image of Goku would flit through his mind that stopped him from saying thank you.
******
There had been uproar in the capital over the banishment of the prince that some still saw as the rightful heir, and Sanzo’s departure ended up being delayed by a few days. He cared not. Bereft of his rank he was powerless, unable to determine whatever had become of Goku, powerless to even say goodbye.
When finally they set out of Miyako, he was relieved, though the pain he would feel in his chest till the end of his days, and the days of travel did nothing to numb it. Finally, on the noon of the fifth day of travel, he stood on the porch of his home, welcoming it in the security that he will never again be cast from it.
Before the servants could unload a tenth of the luggage, however, there had been footsteps within and Goku stood in the door, breathless and barefoot.
“Sanzo!” he cried, launching himself into his arms, whole, alive and there.
“His highness decided to spare his life,” Hakkai said quietly. “I wasn’t sure until now, but here he is.” He paused, as though the words caused him pain, but continued, “He is to be killed if he tries to leave the valley, or contact anyone. No one must know he lives.”
There was more, but Sanzo stopped listening. Goku was warm and alive in his arms, and so the utmost cruelty of banishment that the emperor had chosen to burden him with all of sudden became the greatest reward he could achieve in his lifetime.
Later he would apologise to Hakkai and Gojyo, for theirs must have been the worst punishment – losing favour and trust, being banned to the outskirts of the empire, for Sanzo’s sake – but not now.
THE END
