Author's note: I'd like to thank Atolm2000 for her help with Sanzo in this part, and belated thanks for helping with Sanzo in the last part, and pre-emptive thanks for help with Sanzo in the next part, for good measure. This is still a yaoi-free fic, and I still don't own Saiyuki.
"Don't bother looking for a place to sit. We're not staying." Sanzo's tone is both disgusted and detached, but for once it doesn't seem to be directed at me.
The bell that signals lunch is still tolling in the distance. I look around the large room at the crowd of monks and priests sitting at tables or in clusters on cushions. The few that are looking back at me do so with contempt and accusation. One high-ranking priest in particular meets my eyes; his gaze flickers down to the loaded plate I'm holding, then over to Sanzo, then back to my plate and up to my eyes again. The message is clear.
"Then where shall I carry your plate?" I ask in a vaguely challenging voice, shifting my own meal to one hand and holding the other out in a mild demand.
Sanzo frowns as he looks at my hand; he glances at the priest who'd made eye contact with me, and his frown deepens further. With a muttered "Whatever," he hands his plate to me and stalks out.
I follow silently as Sanzo winds his way through courtyards and gardens, finally stopping at a small lily-pond with a willow for shade. Sanzo seats himself on the bank, and I return his plate to him. I give him as low a bow as I can manage without spilling my own food, and turn to leave him in peace.
"Where are you going?" The tone holds the implication that I better not take another step until I've given a satisfactory answer.
"I thought I'd return to my cell. Isn't that what would be proper?" I try to maintain a casual tone, but a trace of sarcasm creeps in. I turn back to look at Sanzo, and find him watching me.
"'Proper' is not exactly a concern of mine." The words are heavy with anger and disdain.
You didn't have to leave the main temple, you know.
For sins as serious as his, he should suffer much more than a mere handful of days before his body gives out.
"I wouldn't want to disturb your meal," I reply snidely, remembering the look of cold anger in his eyes as he sentenced me to life.
"You're not disturbing anything." Impatience and annoyance belie the words.
There is a long moment of tense silence while we look at each other; Sanzo is waiting to see what I do, and I'm trying to reconcile the unexpected consideration of his words with the harsh anger of his tone. Finally, I give a stiff bow.
"As you wish, Sanzo." I twist the name into a mockery of the title it is, and seat myself on the bank roughly ten feet from the monk. I still haven't figured out if he actually wanted me to stay or not, so by keeping my distance I should be safe either way.
Sanzo seems unhappy with me; I can see him glaring at me out of the corner of my eye. Ignoring him, I turn my attention to my food and the raging inner debate it's spawned. My body desperately needs the sustenance; I haven't eaten at all in the last day. My heart, however, tells me that even this simple food is more than a monster like me deserves. I pick at the meal for a few moments before my brain suggests a compromise. I will eat just enough to sustain me; that way I can continue to have the strength to inflict injury on myself but at the same time never eat enough to satisfy my body. Decision made, I begin eating slowly.
I stop eating when roughly a third of my meal remains. Sanzo hasn't said a word during this time, and neither have I. Carefully, I get to my feet and begin walking back to the main building.
"Where are you going?" Sanzo's voice tries to sound accusing, but there is an undertone of panic. I turn to face him, and he quickly continues, ". . . not that I care to follow you, but I want to know where to look if they decide they need to know where you are again."
The tone is now cold and derisive, but I know I heard that panic. Sanzo must have realized what he sounded like, and used a harsher tone to cover it up. Does he always do that?
"I'm returning my plate," I reply coolly. "Shall I take yours back, as well?"
Sanzo glances down at the object in question; it looks like be barely ate anything. "May as well," he mutters, and hands it over.
I take the still-full plate and begin walking again. A thought strikes me, and I stop. "If my presence won't sully the books too badly," I casually toss over my shoulder, my words blatantly mocking myself, "I might look at the library."
"Go ahead." Sanzo's voice is a jumble of emotions too complex to unravel.
I begin tracing my path back to the dining hall, pausing part of the way there to scrape all the uneaten food onto one plate. Once I get there, I have to ask where the compost heap is, and get a small lecture on not wasting food along with directions.
Uneaten food on the compost heap and dishes in the kitchen, I wander through the temple in search of the library. It's mostly deserted at this time of day; only a few scholarly monks are scattered here and there. They look up briefly and then ignore me. I wander the stacks for a few minutes, tempted by the titles that peek out. Purifying and atonement, I remind myself, and resolutely select a manuscript of the Noble Eightfold Path. There are numerous little nooks for reading, and I settle in one of them to take a long look at what remains of my life, and what I'm going to do with it.
Right View. The understanding of things the way they are, the realization of the Four Noble Truths. Understand that all beings are subject to suffering . . . suffering is caused by desire . . . I wrench my train of thought away from my own desires, and the suffering they are bringing me. There will be time enough to contemplate those once night comes again. All beings are subject to suffering . . .
I couldn't leave you like that.
Sanzo's words echo in my mind. There is some pain there, something in his past that I do not understand. I am a stranger to him, a sinner that deserves death. Why does my misery bring him suffering? I turn the question over in my head for a few minutes, then set it aside. Perhaps I can ask one of the other monks later.
Right Intention. The intention to resist the pull of desire. The intention to resist feelings of anger or aversion. The intention to not think or act in a cruel, violent, or aggressive manner. I'll need to work on this one quite a bit. Is the desire to cause one's self suffering still a desire that must be resisted? Yes, I decide, but I'll work on that one later. I mull over the other two, and decide that as long as I resist anger, cruelty, violence, and aggression towards other people, I'll allow them towards myself. They will be the tools I use to remind myself that I am imperfect, and strengthen my resolve to act correctly to everyone else.
Right Speech. To speak the truth, to speak gently, to speak in a warm and friendly manner, and to speak only when necessary. Another one I'll have to work at. The last bit won't give me any trouble, but speaking in a warm and friendly manner is going to be more difficult. I make a mental note to ignore the tone of anything said to me, and try to reply only to the words.
Right Action. Abstain from harming sentient beings. Abstain from taking any life, including your own. Guilt shoots through me briefly, but I squash it with the resolution that for me, life is just an opportunity to suffer more. Abstain from doing harm either through action or inaction. Abstain from taking what has not been given . . . that one won't be a problem; I can't think of a single thing that I would want to own right now. Abstain from sexual misconduct. I laugh softly, a bitter sound. I'm not likely to ever engage in any sort of sexual conduct now that Kanan's gone, so there's no chance of misconduct. The only part here I need to work on is not harming other sentient beings. The guilt resurfaces, and I find myself remembering the stricken look on Sanzo's face. I push it aside.
Right Livelihood. To not make one's living in any way that would violate the principles of Right Speech and Right Action, such as selling live beings, weapons, or harmful compounds. Well, if I ever get the opportunity to make my own living, I'll keep this one in mind.
Right Effort. The prevention and abandonment of unwholesome states, and the encouragement and maintaining of wholesome states. If I ever renounce my desire to cause myself suffering, I promise myself, I will embrace Right Effort. Until then . . .
Right Mindfulness. Observe both what happens around one's self, and what happens inside one's mind. Base perceptions on observation, not conjecture. My eyes unfocus and I try to replay my interactions with Sanzo and look at them objectively. The scene in the Grand Hall . . . was Sanzo actually irritated there? Yes, I think he was. At whom or what was he irritated? The other monk, no doubt about it. Sanzo's eyes never met my own, and his words and tone both defended me. I jump to Sanzo finding me in the small garden, and wince as the guilt triumphantly crushes me. I can not believe that Sanzo had any intention of being aggressive there, which makes my outburst unforgivable. That admission destroys the objectivity I'd used to keep my mind and heart separate, and my thoughts degenerate into a dark vortex of self-loathing.
A monk passes by me, and I snap myself back into awareness of my surroundings. There is one more portion of the Eightfold Path; I turn my attention back to my manuscript.
Right Concentration. Concentration is a part of consciousness, granted at a low intensity. All one's energies and faculties unified and directed at one object. Something teases the back of my mind, some revelation struggling to be born. The practice of intensifying the level of concentration brought about by meditation.
Energies unified and directed . . . the memory of the youkai doctor surfaces. He focused his chi and intensified the natural healing of my body. The revelation trembles on the edge of my awareness; I empty my mind in an attempt to lure it out where I can look at it. Instead, I about jump out of my skin when a bell rings somewhere close by, and continues tolling. I replace the manuscript on its shelf and find a window. I have been sitting in contemplation longer than I'd thought; it's dinner time.
I make my way back to the dining hall, going slowly to try to find Sanzo. By the time I get there, however, I still haven't seen him. I wait patiently for him until it seems like he and I are the only ones not serving themselves or eating, but there's still no sign of him. The same high-ranking priest from lunch is looking at me oddly. Right speech, I remind myself. I compose my face into a mask of neutrality and approach him in as respectful a manner as possible.
"Yes?" He asks curtly.
"Pardon my interruption, honored one," I keep my voice carefully mild. "I am looking for the honored Genjo Sanzo."
"Well, don't do it empty-handed," he admonishes me. "Give him the respect he deserves. As your savior, the least you could do is spare him the walk here." Accusing and pompous, he looks down his nose at me for a few more seconds.
I bow to him and he turns away. So I should being Sanzo food? Somehow I feel that the other priests and monks want me to be a servant to him. Well, I can do that. I carefully load two plates with food and set out in search of my savior. He's not in his room or any of the other places I think he might be. I'm reduced to checking the courtyards and gardens methodically, and I finally find him . . . right where I left him. He sits in the same spot on the bank of the lily pond, deep in thought, not noticing me until I carefully sit a few feet away – close enough to hand him one of the two plates but not crowding him.
He looks up with a start as I enter his peripheral vision, and mutely takes the plate from me. His gaze drops to the slightly cooled food as though he's not really seeing it, and after a moment he starts picking halfheartedly at it. There is silence for a few minutes while I slowly eat my own dinner. I was careful to only take about the amount I ate at lunch, so that I wouldn't waste food. When I am done, however, Sanzo's meal has barely been touched. Not harming others through inaction . . .
"Sanzo?" I let a bit of concern into my voice.
He looks up at my unthreatening tone and seems to snap out of his daze. "I'm fine. I'm not hungry." The words hold a trace of resigned irritation, as though he's said it often in the past.
"You should eat more than that. You barely touched lunch." I'm careful to make it a gentle reprimand instead of an accusation.
"I wasn't hungry then, either," he replies sourly, and he looks at me reproachfully.
"What shall I tell them, then, when I bring your plate back still full?" The words are sharper than I'd intended; Sanzo's unspoken accusation stings. "That my presence turned your stomach?" Frustration colors my tone, but I'm not sure if it's directed at Sanzo or at myself.
Sanzo looks away. "It has nothing to do with you. I've always been this way."
The apology and repressed pain in Sanzo's voice slaps me out of my petty frustration. I focus on the set of his shoulders, the tone of his voice, and try to see beyond my own emotional response. Sanzo's shoulders are hunched as though he expects violent words or actions, and I suddenly feel a desire to spare him any further confrontation over this. I reach out and scrape a good portion of the food from his plate to mine. He looks up at me with a very startled expression, and I meet his eyes with a look that announces my intent to pretend that the portion of food in question had been eaten by him, and that what was on my plate was the result of my own diminished appetite. I drop my eyes to my plate and stir the food to make it look picked at.
"If you keep that up, you'll put a hole in your stomach," I say quietly, not looking up. The sensation of being concerned for another person causes my heart to ache, as though it were a half-healed wound. I carefully do not look at Sanzo as though I could pretend that I am speaking to nobody in particular.
"I'll get sick anyway, if I eat this."
Sanzo's voice is as soft as mine is, and that repressed pain cuts into me with an almost physical pang. I wonder again why my suffering seemed to cause him pain, and why he's opening up like this to someone who's caused him nothing but pain and trouble. Whatever the reason, his vulnerability has cut through my shields of misery and anger. You're supposed to be responsible for my actions, I think at his reflection in the still surface of the pond. So why do I feel like I'm responsible for you?
"What should I bring you, next time?"
Sanzo's reflection grimaces. "A drink."
My concern twists into hurt anger. I brought myself to feel compassion for this?
"Just one?" I ask sharply, mentally tossing the idea of Right Speech away.
"I wouldn't want to piss them off too much." Sanzo's tone is also sharp, stiff with sarcasm.
"And what sort of drink does my honored savior require?" My voice is equally sarcastic, and I fix him with a disgusted look.
"What ever you can sneak past the monks," he replies with a snort, glaring at a hapless lily.
"And if I bring you food," I lash out mockingly, "will you eat it? Or will you just drink yourself sick?"
Sanzo's glare softens to a resigned stare. "If I have something to drink, I'll eat." The aggression and sarcasm drains out of him almost visibly, and he stares moodily at the lily pond.
Why is it that losing my temper just now made me feel like more of a monster than the slaughter of innocent youkai did? I gather up the plates and walk away, Sanzo's silence following me long after I've left.