Author's note: Ever notice how being in a training class spawns fanfiction? Maybe it's just me. Anyway, love the new job and I should have plenty of time to get chapters out quicker now. Next one's going to be tricky, now that Sanzo's back, so don't expect it too much quicker. As always, I don't own Saiyuki, and there's no yaoi here.
Whether it is fear or nerves, I find myself unwilling to brave the presence of the assembled monks and priests in search of food. Instead, I slip through the empty halls and enter the dusty silence of the library. My fingers trail over the spines of the books on a random shelf, nervously caressing the titles and bindings. Almost at random I pluck one from the shelf and seat myself in an alcove to read until the kitchen is deserted. The story absorbs me, and I drift through events like a specter, names and places brushing against my awareness like cobwebs. After an unfathomable length of time, a quiet grunt brings me out of the book, and I discover the librarian glaring at me, the only light in the library coming from the lamp in his hand. Ducking my head in apology, I replace the book on its shelf and allow myself to be herded out.
The kitchen is, as I suspected, deserted at this hour. Faintly glowing embers in the main hearth let me pick my way to the pantry door, and I begin assembling the supplies I'm likely to need over the next few days. A small wheel of cheese, a large, round loaf of bread. I contemplate borrowing a sharp knife to cut them with, but a swarm of bloody memory fragments obscures my vision and with a shudder I select a dull spreading knife instead. Starch, dairy - I need protein and vegetables. It takes several minutes of searching, but I finally acquire a small crock of chickpea paste and some assorted produce. There is a small honeycomb, carefully wrapped in waxed cloth, but I firmly reprimand myself and leave it where it is. I'm here for nourishment, not to indulge myself. Bread, cheese, vegetables, protein. Now for the liquids I'll most likely need for Sanzo.
The medical texts suggested diluted fruit juices and clear broth. Juice will have to do; I doubt I could find any broth, much less keep it heated on a little charcoal brazier. There are jugs of fruit juices in the back of the pantry; one of those and a jug of clear water should suffice. After a minute's searching, I am able to find an empty jug and fill it with clear water. A deep drawer yields a cloth big enough to hold most of my purloined supplies, and a few minutes later I am staggering back to Sanzo's room, overburdened but reluctant to make a second trip. The vegetables and juice should be kept cool. Well, the current weather is certainly cold enough to chill produce, and the storm shutters are drafty. Sanzo's little table is easy enough to move; I place the produce and juice jug on it where the draft from the shutters will keep them cool.
Food. Robes. Bedclothes. Brazier, charcoal, lamp and oil. I run through my mental checklist, ticking each item off. I think I have everything. I am as prepared as I can be, with only guesswork to go on. All that remains now is to wait for Sanzo's return, and I really should rest up in preparation for that. A final look around the room to make sure everything is set, and I reluctantly close the door behind me. Invitation aside, I feel like I'm intruding, and I already know that I won't be able to rest in here. The corridor leading to my cell is silent and dark, almost as though it were a hallway through the dismal realm of Purgatory. My cell door opens without a sound, at the same time inviting and threatening; my unlit cell is an ominous dark blot that yawns before me as though it would swallow me whole. I can feel my heartbeat quicken as I step inside, eyes flicking involuntarily over to the empty corner. I won't be able to sleep here.
Quickly, before the hallucinations can catch up to me, I strip my bed of sheet and blanket and make my hurried way outside, sandals slapping faintly on the stone. Sanzo's objections to my sleeping outdoors are that it is cold and raining. By keeping warm and dry, I will bypass these concerns. The rain seems to have stopped for the time being; I should be able to get at least a few hours of honest sleep. A few minutes of ducking down back paths and into unused gardens, and a dry corner between the temple, a shed, and an overgrown bush presents itself. I wrap sheet and blanket around myself, then settle into the lee of the bush with the cool stone of the temple against my right cheek. The familiar rustling of leaves in the night breeze calms me, and I succumb to sleep.
The tolling of the morning bell drags me up out of a quiet darkness, but the drumming of rain against the shed roof and the warmth of the wool blanket around me push me back down. I can eat later.
The noon bell hammers relentlessly against my consciousness, dragging me out of the sleep that, miraculously, was not filled with nightmares. Noon. Sanzo. Still wrapped in my blanket, I pelt down empty halls and throw open the door to Sanzo's room, but it's empty. He's not back yet. Again I run through the halls, this time to the gate. It's raining, a monotonous drizzle that turns the world a bland grey and dampens the spirits of anyone caught in it. I pull a corner of blanket over my head as I leave the protection of a roof and cross the main courtyard. The guards glare sullenly at me as I approach the stairs, but don't stir inside their protected alcoves. I ignore them and sit on the second step, off to the right. The simple wool blends into the stone, making me feel like an extension of the temple, a misshapen carving that no one quite knows what to do with. Being wool, the blanket at least keeps me warm even as it gets wetter. Time becomes meaningless as I sit there in the rain; the thick clouds obscure any hint of the sun. There is no way to measure how much time has passed as I sit and watch the foot traffic of Chang An blankly; everything is just marking time, nothing has meaning without something of significance to provide a point of reference. I don't move at all; I will sit here as long as it takes for Sanzo to return.
What seems like eons later, Sanzo's muddy, bedraggled form emerges from the thin crowd, and time resumes. His significance causes my existence to have meaning once again, and I hurry down the steps towards him. He doesn't seem to be aware of me at all until I am right next to him, and then he gives me a look that can't decide if it is demanding an explanation for my presence, demanding my removal from his presence, or fixing upon me as a possible solution to some tangled problem I am not aware of.
"Sanzo?"
My voice seems to bring him back to the present, and his eyes focus on me. The look has changed to sullen resignation.
"My room."
The words are harsh, a barely-recognizable croak, and a fit of dry coughing causes Sanzo to nearly double over almost before they are out of his mouth. I grasp his shoulders as the coughs wrack him, and hold him upright as he staggers and nearly falls. Despite the chill of the wind and rain, he is definitely fevered, and the breaths he takes once the fit of coughing ends are short and shallow. The set of his shoulders suddenly shifts, and instinctively I remove my hands as he straightens with a visible effort. The glare Sanzo levels at me is the same as when he left - a warning to not ask questions or comment.
"Don't-" His voice rasps again, and he represses another fit long enough to choke out "let them see-" before he doubles up again in what sounds like a painful storm of coughing.
While Sanzo's head is bowed, I disentangle myself from the woolen folds of my blanket and drape the rude cloth over him. It hides his robes and head, making him look like just another monk. A quick glance at the gate reassures me that the apathetic guards haven't left their alcoves and are likely oblivious to Sanzo's presence. I may be able to sneak Sanzo inside without anyone knowing he's returned. Of course, it suddenly occurs to me, no one may know he'd left in the first place. I'm fairly certain he didn't announce this trip to the heads of the temple, and if Goku hasn't talked to me in the last four days, then he wouldn't have talked to the monks either, and I certainly didn't mention Sanzo's absence to anyone. Sanzo sways beside me, and I put out a hand to steady him. He's not capable of returning to his room without assistance, and with my head exposed like this, the guards will surely recognize me, and thus, him. If Sanzo wants to make it back to his room unrecognized, he's going to have to share the blanket. Sliding his arm over my shoulder with one hand and tugging a fold of wool over my head with the other, I maneuver us both under the protection of the cloth. Slowly, with much stumbling on Sanzo's part, we make our way up the stairs. He leans on me almost completely in some places, and I duck my head so that my eyepiece doesn't show. The guards don't even look up.
An acolyte passes us as we enter the main building, but he doesn't give us a second glance. Other priests are sure to notice, though. The halls are almost completely empty, and we manage to get to his room without incident. He becomes more aware as I sit him on the bed, and does something with the pillow as I light the brazier. The room will warm quickly, but in the meantime he should remain warm and, preferably, dry. I snag a clean robe from the pile and a dry blanket and place them on a chair by the bed before taking the sodden blanket from around Sanzo's shoulders. He shivers, but seems to recognize the wisdom of dry clothes and attempts to untie his robe with stiff, numb fingers. They flutter against my hands as I push them aside and strip both outer robe and wet undershirt off of him. Clean robes can wait - he may be fevered, but his chest is cold and clammy. One hand on a bare shoulder to hold him steady, turn back the bedclothes, and Sanzo practically falls over as another coughing fit takes him. I ease him down to a reclining position, on his side so he can breathe easier, and he falls into an uneasy but exhausted slumber.
Cough, fever, shallow breathing - all symptoms that support the idea that Sanzo has pneumonia. There is one more thing to check. I move the blanket and robe to the bed, setting them on Sanzo's legs, and take a seat on the chair. The medical texts suggested tapping on the patient's chest, both to diagnose the illness, and to help loosen the mucus that is causing the cough. Carefully, I roll Sanzo onto his back, then spread my fingers on his chest and tentatively tap.
Warm, after days of cold rain and stumbling and falling in the mud on the road. Wrapped in blankets and propped up against something solid and warm. A woman, middle-aged and stout, with greying hair in a bun and flour-stained clothes. Momentary panic - she's from the local village, she knows who I am and is bound to want to know why I'm wandering around by myself at such a young age.
"I've called for a doctor to come and look at you. Don't worry, I haven't told anyone who you are."
Relief; the world fades out.
Patches of awareness - listening to the baker's wife ramble about her husband, dead these three years. Her daughter, grown and married and moved away. Her son, who didn't live to see the age of five, he'd be my age now, twelve or so. Warm broth, soft bread, warmth. I'm leaned against the big baking oven.
Darker patches - nightmares, memories that fade in and out like everything else does right now.
Clearer thought - I'm well enough to walk, but not fully recovered. It doesn't matter. I can't stay here, I have to go . . . have to keep moving . . . have to get them. I have to get them!
Slipping out before dawn; no note, no good-byes, no thanking the well-meaning widow who took me in without question and didn't pry into wounds not even scabbed over yet.
With a sharp inhalation, I lift my hands from Sanzo's chest. They're throbbing, and I swear I can almost feel every individual fiber in the robe that brushes against my skin. What was that? It's not my own memory - I was several years older when I waged my war of apathy against the world, and the one who took me in was an old man, not a middle-aged widow. I stare at my hands as though they contain the answers to every question ever asked, and can just barely see faint lines of sickly-green chi stretch from my fingers to Sanzo's chest. Chi. Life-energy. Did I pick up on what Sanzo is experiencing? No. If that were the case, I wouldn't have seen a baker's widow. A memory, possibly? I cover Sanzo with the blanket, then spread the second blanket over him and put the robe back on the pile. Whatever it was, it does Sanzo no good to be exposed to the chill air while I contemplate it.