Chapter 37

Gojyo sat very still, staring at the food laid out in front of him without really seeing it. Part of his mind kept registering the unmistakable, luring presence of water, even over the smell of freshly baked bread and already cut oranges—two fingers of stale water in a pitcher to his right—and that was enough to deny him retreat into his fever haze.

Slowly, carefully, he raised his head to look at the closed double doors. He should get up and go to them. They were not locked—at least, Gojyo did not think they were. There would be soldiers posted outside (he had told him that before leaving), but humans should be no match for a trained youkai fighter. So, he must stand, and walk over to those doors, and then … then…

Gojyo scrunched his eyes shut and fought down nausea. Fuck, he should find an exit if only to get away from these smells!

Are you comfortable, little demon? he had asked with a smirk, and Gojyo was certain that he had not even used his special 'abilities' to perceive that the mere suggestion of food, never mind its sight and aroma, was going to make his captive ill. You should be; you're sitting at my desk and in my very favorite chair. I'm going to grant you your privacy, so you can take care of things on your own. No need to hurry things up, but you'd better not extend them too much, either. Understood? Good. Now have your breakfast.

"Duh, just my luck," Gojyo whispered in the empty hall, gazing back at the doors—totally out of reach as far as his failing body was concerned. "Not being hungry for my last meal." Such a thought, all of a sudden, was irresistibly funny and he chuckled in long, sob-like spasms. The sound was amplified and thrown back at him, and then it was like the very walls were laughing. "Are you mocking me?" Gojyo slurred drunkenly, annoyed at the hysterical note he could detect. "Maybe I should scream in here. How would you like that, hmm?"

Ah, but you've already done that, Gojyo, my pal, his taunting inner voice whispered. When you gave him your name, you certainly did a helluva lot of screaming. Remember?

He did.

Shuddering, he peered past the laden desk. The hall was fairly well lit and it was not difficult to find the dark stain that marked the spot where he had been held down and tortured.

You know, Hakkai's calm voice intruded, causing Gojyo to jerk his head up, it's almost impossible to wash dried blood off.

"Hakkai?" Gojyo whispered. "Are you there?"

It's better not to strain your injury, Gojyo, Hakkai remarked calmly and Gojyo cringed further into the dark jacket the Colonel had flung over his shoulders before leaving. Not to mention getting your bandages wet.

Gojyo let out a choked moan.

No. There was no Hakkai. He was just remembering his friend's words that afternoon at the riverbank. When Hakkai had had tried to wash blood out of Jien's torn shirt.

Jien, who was dead. Like Hakkai.

And like himself. After all, he was going to die today.

Gojyo stared down at the lit cigarette in his good hand, raising an eyebrow in incredulity. Gods, he had indeed been offered a last meal and a last cigarette—how trite could one's end turn out? And he could feel the weight of the gun his enemy had slipped into one of the jacket pockets.

Pray to your uncaring gods, Gojyo, the Colonel had invited seductively, tracing Gojyo's hairline with the tip of his tongue. Then, point my gun at the very source of your torment. Right here." And he had planted a soft, wet kiss on Gojyo's temple. Then pull the trigger. Just pull the trigger, little demon, and everything will be over. You won't feel pain or longing or thirst any longer. You'll be at peace. That is what you want, isn't it? To be at peace?

Gojyo had nodded—was nodding again as he recalled the scene.

Don't get any misguided ideas, he had continued in a colder tone, such as to attack my men to go in a blaze of glory. Do you hear me, Gojyo? No funny ideas. Because you'll be captured alive, no matter how many soldiers you manage to hurt or kill; you will be brought to me again, very much alive. Then I will have the pleasure of taking you apart. Literally. Slowly. He had unbent then, brushing his erection against Gojyo's arm. I would love to do that.

"Leave me alone, motherfucker," Gojyo slurred, raising the cigarette to his lips. "You're not even here, so shut up." He spared another greedy glance at the water pitcher and, sighing, sank low in his seat. The jacket helped to fend off some of the chill brought by the fever—his teeth would be chattering if not for this impromptu shroud.

Pray to your uncaring gods, Gojyo.

He should, ne? Just in case.

Tiredly, he tipped his head upwards, puffed out a lungful of smoke and started drawing.

A circle.

And five straight lines radiating outward.

My sun.

The insubstantial figure hovered above his head for a split second before starting to rise, growing thin until vanishing completely into … sunlight?

Gojyo gasped, stupefied.

Sunlight filtered through multiple cracks in the high ceiling, invading this vault with pure, beautiful, perfect radiance.

"Sun has come!" he blurted out in awe. His foggy mind barely had time to assimilate such a miracle, when a new fact washed over him. He was not alone in the hall any more. Heart lurching, he stared at the double doors, now open. And held himself very, very still lest the vision disappear.

White robe and scriptures and glorious golden hair—halfway between the two iron braziers, right over last night's bloodstain, stood Sanzo in the sunlight. A god made a man; a man transubstantiated into light.

His Sun.

Until Gojyo dared to lock his eyes onto his, that is. Because Sanzo stared back at him with no warmth, no forgiveness.

Because Sanzo stared at him with hatred.