Chapter 14

Gojyo stood shakily in between the two darkened hallways, his face a confused mask of shock and humiliation. The anger that had given him the strength to confront and follow Sanzo downstairs had vanished at the sound of one single word—a word that still seemed to be hanging in the air, keeping him trapped in place: 'Stupid.'

Sanzo had abused him verbally again and right after being warned against it. And yet Gojyo…

Gojyo had not been able to react. He had just … frozen.

But it was time to focus again. Time to move.

Now.

He blinked, wiped sweat off his face with his good hand, and looked around, trying to get his bearings. The only recollection he had of this floor was a blur of ice-cold tiles, blissfully hot water, and Hakkai's gentle voice murmuring that everything would be all right.

"Yeah, sure," he snorted to himself. "Everything."

The memory of that bath gave him a sense of purpose, though. His body still seemed to be itching where he had touched it and Gojyo wanted to wash that sensation away.

The bathroom was the last door to his left—he was sure that he had heard Hakkai saying that aloud.

And it would not be hard to get there, would it? He would not even need the lamp that Sanzo had taken with him; daylight now leaked into this vault from whatever cranny it could find, playing upon small details. A rusty knob. A discolored patch on a doorframe. A stain on the floor.

Like in that huge hall of his.

Gods, but he needed a bath!

His stomach now threatening to expel its meager contents, he rushed to the bathroom and shoved the door open. The cubicle consisted of a hole in the floor, a venting hole in the wall, and buckets and pans with water in the opposite corner. No tiles and no space for a bathtub. Definitely, this was not the place where he had been bathed.

Ignoring the stale stench of urine, Gojyo turned to the water supply. Even from the door he could tell that it was fresh and cold and that it would feel wonderful on his fevered skin. Sunlight filtered down from the venting hole, sparkling on the contents of a particular bucket, and suddenly the lure of such a combination was too much to resist. He went to it and sat with his back to the wall, mesmerized.

Sunlight on water.

It brought forth the sounds and images of a not-so-distant afternoon; of Hakkai haloed in gold, immersed to his waist in a river, washing blood from Jien's shirt.

Gojyo tilted his head to the ceiling, frowning. Once upon a time, Jien had reassured him as Hakkai did now. Once upon a time, Jien had done for him the same little, priceless things Hakkai did for him. Then Jien had just walked away from him one day and nothing had been truly all right ever again in Gojyo's life—until Hakkai. Who was more, much more than a mere replacement.

Gojyo closed his eyes. Though the Colonel had told him that Jien was dead, it had been the news of Hakkai's 'demise' that had undone him in that prison. He would not have fallen so easily into that bastard's sick games if he had not believed that he had lost Hakkai. He would have fought longer and better if he had Hakkai to go back to.

And he, the mind reader, had known that all along.

Gojyo gritted his teeth. He had played against cheaters before—had, actually, done his own share of cheating—but what that cruel bastard had done… Well, at least he had given Gojyo something to do now he was out of the Sanzo-ikkou. Because Gojyo would go back to that town, would face the Colonel, and would kill the fucker. Not to avenge his outraged virtue or some other tripe like that, but on behalf of that nameless little girl whose corpse was left to rot while he lived to enjoy another day. It was simple like that.

Hakkai was the complicating factor in the equation.

That and the small detail of finding himself paralyzed at the very first attempt he had made to regain his self-esteem.

Gojyo brought his bad arm, still tucked inside his large shirt, closer to his body. Damn, Sanzo had not even called him stupid—Sanzo had merely labeled his remarks as such. Of course, a direct attack was only a matter of time; Sanzo was Sanzo and Sanzo was merciless—at least to him. Though Sanzo…

Sanzo has admitted that he lusted after me.

Gojyo dropped his head and stared at the water. There were depths under its surface—depths that hinted of unworldly, timeless mysteries. Even in a bucket. Even in a smelly room.

"You never learn, right?" he snarled, hating himself for still caring. "You never fucking learn."

He shifted to his knees, dismissing the myriad of bruises and memories that such a position awoke, and reached down for the bucket. Which ended up being too heavy to be lifted with only one hand.

Scowling, he started trying to haul the thing up anyway.

Was Sanzo asking him for another chance? Like … starting anew from the night of the youkai ambush? Or was Sanzo acknowledging that he had purposefully passed up his chance?

It should not matter.

It must not matter because it did not make any difference now.

Did it?

A stronger pull and he upturned the bucket with a crashing sound. He watched bleakly as water spilled, soaking the crude floor and his pants. Frustrated, he bent forward and leaned his forehead on the side of the bucket, trying to slow down his ragged breathing. Shit, he had to get a grip…

The muffled noise of something massive being dropped or slammed came from what seemed a long distance away. Gojyo credited it to Sanzo and Goku's return and, relieved, sagged in his cold pool. Maybe Goku would know where that bathtub was… Maybe Goku could even help him heat water…

Another thud and a crashing sound—glass or china being shattered—and Gojyo sat up, startled, almost toppling over again with dizziness.

"The fuck?"

He fumbled for support and awkwardly got to his feet. The hallway was still deserted and disquietingly silent—Sanzo rarely raised his voice, but Goku's, whatever the mood the saru was in, tended to carry. Gojyo listened to every sigh and crack this old building produced for a while, then carefully started retracing his way back to the staircase.

He halted midway when he heard another thudding noise. Louder. Closer. Coming from behind one non-descript door in a row of non-descript doors. He hesitated, then went to it. He might be in bad shape, but he would not hide upstairs and leave to an injured Sanzo the task of dealing with a potential threat. Besides… It may not be a threat at all. If Goku had not fled from the temple, the fake monk was risking himself outside for nothing.

He lowered the heavy metal knob, cracked the door open to peer inside, and blinked, surprised, as his eyes, accustomed to the semi-darkness, adjusted to daylight.

The small room—a dusty, unimportant storeroom, if the few piled crates were any indication of its purpose—was empty. It had not even a window. But a wooden panel had been displaced in the back wall, showing a passage to what had to be another wing of the temple. The light came from there. And the noise.

Licking his lips nervously, Gojyo advanced to take a cautious look. The new room was large and lavish, with a high ceiling and tall glass windows that welcomed in the sun. There were shelves overflowing with books and rolls of parchment, some still on the scattered desks, as if whoever had been studying here had departed in a hurry. The library. It must be.

Perceiving movement to his right, Gojyo turned quickly. A small brown monkey grimaced and hissed at him from its perch on a cabinet before escaping through an open window—breaking a china vase in the process.

Gojyo shook his head, chuckling mirthlessly. A monkey, indeed. Not the one he was looking for, but a monkey, nonetheless. He was pulling his sweaty hair out of his face when the unmistakable buzzing registered and something touched the back of his hand. He jerked his hand down and gaped, his mind going blank, as the fly hovered erratically.

There were others, he realized after a while. Buzzing and swarming over one of the desks. Gojyo wiped his hand on his shirt, nauseated, finally picking up the smell of decay.

It's just a dead animal, he told himself. It came in through the open window, couldn't find its way out again and died. That's all.

One wobbly step at a time, he willed himself to advance into the room to check on whatever was rotting in there. He could not go to Sanzo and simply report, like a frightened child, that there was 'something' in the library.

It was an arm. An arm had been laid there, the rigid hand clawed upwards as if still in excruciating pain. From tumid, decaying flesh poked the white edge of the upper arm bone, neatly serrated. A knife had been stuck into the elbow and chewed pieces of bone had been put aside in a bowl, along with some rice. A tasty banquet—there was no other possible conclusion, especially at the sight of the wine bottles aligned on the floor.

Gojyo stepped back, retching and reaching for his bad arm. He gaped in freezing terror when his right hand found only an empty sleeve. Then he remembered that he had his arm tucked inside his shirt, that his arm was still where it should be, though hurting, and hurting more because he was squeezing it mercilessly to reassure himself that it was real, that it was there.

Not daring to turn his back on the gruesome scene, Gojyo slowly began to retreat towards the storeroom passage. A bell started tolling in the yard.

Then a low, dangerous growl sounded from a corner.