:: Purpose ::

Gensomaden Saiyuki

Disclaimer: I don't own Gensomaden Saiyuki, which rightfully belongs to Minekura Kazuya. Nor do I own The Book of Counted Sorrows, which rightfully belongs to Dean Koontz.

Rating: PG

Pairings: Zenon/Mirei

Warnings: angst, fluff, het, language, Gensomaden spoilers, mentioned character death

Notes: While Zenon/Mirei is a pairing featured in the story, they are not the focus of the fic. This story strictly centers on Zenon, on his life before and after the death of his family. It's recommended that you watch the anime before reading this, so then a lot of things will make more sense.

Zenon did have a son, but to my knowledge was never named. I gave him the name, and Iapetus was the one to give me the list of various Chinese names to choose from. Much luff to her.

As mentioned above, I didn't write anything from The Book of Counted Sorrows, and it does belong to Dean Koontz. But as the story is set in Ancient China, the author has become an unknown identity for this fic. Also, The Book of Counted Sorrows isn't published anywhere; it's basically just a collection of Koontz's poems inserted in the beginning of his stories, or at the beginning of each "part" of his later stories. The one quoted can be found in one of his bestselling novels, Mr. Murder.

Constructive criticism and feedback is appreciated.

The high-pitched wailing of a baby roused him from a deep sleep. Startled, Zenon pushed himself up on his elbows before he had even opened his heavy eyelids. It didn't take long for the cries to register.

His son was calling.

He only hesitated to look down, checking on the sleeping figure beside him. Her breathing was deep and even, not disturbed in the slightest by her baby's sobs. Zenon knew it wasn't because she didn't care, nor that her mother's intuition was already failing her. His wife was merely tired. Considering she took care of the baby all day, Zenon could hardly blame her.

Doing his best not to stir Mirei, the man cautiously slid out of bed. He took care to make sure the covers weren't thrown back, lest she wake from the cold. She deserved her rest, after all.

Zenon padded across the room; lifting the tiny, squirming child from the blankets he had been swathed in. He gently hushed the boy as he left the room. Mirei still didn't rouse, not even when Zenon shut the door behind him.

The air was chilly, even within the confines of their home. Clothed only in jeans and a tank top, shivers crawled across each of Zenon's nerves.

The house was small, but adequate. There was only one bedroom, so for now their son would sleep in the same room as them. However, Mirei had the constant fear that one of them would smother their baby in slumber. Zenon had tried to explain that such cases rarely happened, but she had been adamant. She didn't want the baby sleeping in their bed, and not because she lacked love for the boy-- heavens, no. It was because of this love that she refused to share a bed with their child.

Their child. Those two words warmed Zenon's heart in ways he would never admit to anyone but Mirei and Tao.

Tao, their child. The boy was sniffling, but had for the most part calmed in his father's embrace. Zenon cradled Tao to his broad chest, rocking him carefully. He didn't hum, though Mirei would often do that, even sing the boy to sleep. She didn't have a beautiful singing voice, but it was entirely hers and came out with as much emotion as she could muster. That alone made each note worth listening to-- at least to Zenon, and apparently to Tao. Mirei's songs always put the boy right to sleep.

Wide, auburn eyes peered up at him. Little Tao stuck a tiny fist in his mouth, chewing idly as he watched his father in something akin to awe. His innocent expression brought a faint smile to Zenon's lips. Few people had ever made his life worth really living before. Irony of ironies, he had found that love and worth in the Lower World, where it was considered taboo for celestial beings to not only reside, but take a lover and begin a family with.

Zenon didn't care if he was exiled. He knew he would be sooner or later, and he gladly awaited the day. Banishment was better than running, especially since he was a well-known member of their military forces. Fleeing would only cause them to track him down, and it would endanger his new family. But ostracism... that was acceptable. They would basically tell him to stay in the Lower World, and from then on he and his family would be left alone.

A soft coo escaped his son's lips. Tao reached up with his wet hand, reaching for his father's face. Amused as well as amazed by the baby's actions, Zenon made no move to avoid the touch. Tao patted his father's nose, a giggle emitting from his tiny mouth.

He had never given much thought to how precious a baby could really be. When he was home, Zenon often found himself watching Tao just to see what the boy would do. The child wasn't yet old enough to crawl, but he was already finding fascination with colors and bright lights. He was constantly moving about, wriggling on his round tummy and squirming toward furniture, his parents, anything that caught his curious eye. Zenon and Mirei had quickly learned that Tao also had an affinity for putting anything he could grasp into his mouth. Luckily, they had few items small enough for Tao to hold, but one could never be too careful. If it was within the boy's reach, away to a shelf it would go.

Tao cooed again, babbling senselessly as he continued petting his father's face. Zenon found a chair and sat down, holding the boy upright in his lap. Tao squealed, thankfully not loud enough to wake his mother, and he reached up again, groping for something he couldn't quite reach.

His hair, Zenon guessed ruefully. Even in the dim lighting the shock of orange was probably noticeable, and if it was noticeable Tao wanted to touch it. Zenon was wise enough to not let the boy satisfy that curiosity; he wasn't quite ready to lose some hair to his own child.

Aesthetically, the trait Zenon loved most about his son were his eyes. They were dark, yet a glimmer of light always shone through. It was his spirit, his good-natured spirit, and he had most certainly earned this from his mother. His eyes resembled Zenon's in color only; the light within him was unmistakably Mirei.

Gods, he loved them both so much.

"So what woke you up, kid?" he asked in a voice no louder than a whisper. He knew very well Tao wouldn't be able to understand; indeed, all the boy did was emit a pleased gurgle. Now he was reaching for his father with both hands. Tao had little control over his elbows, so the boy's chubby arms were outstretched in perfectly parallel lines.

Touched by his son's affection, Zenon couldn't resist pressing a kiss to the soft face. Tao giggled, clinging to his father with all his might.

Love-- something Zenon wouldn't show in public, but at the same time couldn't deny his small but growing family.

Yes, growing. While neither he nor Mirei were about ready to conceive another child, they both knew it was inevitable. They both wanted a family. Mirei wanted people to love and cherish, and who could you cherish more than your husband and those borne of your own flesh and blood? When Tao became a toddler they would try again. He would have brothers and sisters, however many Zenon and Mirei felt they were capable taking care of.

It would be a challenge, and that appealed to Zenon. Life in the heavens was banal. Taking care of his family, working to make sure they survived, providing each and every child -- as well as his wife -- with equal love and affection, all of this would be hard to achieve. They were goals Zenon had set for himself, and for the first time he could remember he felt alive. He had a purpose now. He was making a purpose for himself, bigger and more important with each day, one step at a time.

That felt good. There was no other way to describe it. Just... good. And satisfying.

Soft whimpers shook Zenon from his musings. Immediately turning his thoughts back to his son, the man leaned back in his seat, pulling the boy closer to him. All Tao had wanted was attention, for when Zenon pulled him closer to the warmth of his body, the child calmed, nuzzling against his father's shirt.

So spoiled, the man thought ruefully. Of course, Tao wasn't spoiled-- not yet, and not ever, if Zenon did his job right. He knew what sorts of upbringing raised infantile children; he saw it every day in the tireless faces of Heaven. Discipline brought on responsibility, and those were two of the most important things Zenon intended to teach Tao, to teach his future children. The problem with many parents was that they tended to become excessive, either in lacking or doling out too much punishment. Too little brought up an eternal brat, but too much made a child dangerously rebellious. Or worse, broke them before they learned to stand up for themselves.

You could never give your own child too much love. There was no such thing. It may have sounded silly coming from Zenon, and just months ago he would have said that no, it was possible, and one had to be careful with how much affection they showed.

But watching Tao grow, even in the few months he had been alive, Zenon came to decide that too much affection wasn't the problem. He would just have to balance the love and discipline. A challenge. Not with the discipline, of course, since Zenon was apt in militaristic training. He knew how to give orders just as well as receive and carry them out. No, it would be showing enough care for his son and future children that would be the biggest struggle.

"Gabah," Tao babbled senselessly, his eyes closed. A peaceful, tired expression stole over the boy's tiny features. It seemed he had finally worn himself out.

Smiling faintly, Zenon stood. "Let's get you back to bed." As though agreeing with the idea, Tao let out an almost soundless yawn. His tiny body huddled closer to Zenon's, reminding him of a small animal seeking warmth from its mother in a deep burrow.

He was as silent as could be walking back to the bedroom. Cradling Tao over his shoulder, one large hand on the boy's small back, Zenon was able to open the door. A quick glance told him Mirei was awake; her chest rose and fell in shallower breaths than it would have in sleep, and even in the darkness he could discern the warm glitter of her eyes.

The boy was asleep long before Zenon set him down amongst the warm blankets. He took care to set the baby's fragile head on the pillow so Tao's nose faced the ceiling. Being under his wife's watchful eye did nothing to deter him from pressing a tender kiss to his son's head, pausing to rub the soft fuzz of hair before he returned to bed.

Mirei was waiting with a kiss of her own. Slipping an arm around her waist, Zenon returned it, keeping the touch chaste. There was no need for passion, not when an equally satisfying sensation of emotional completeness had already filled him.

"What woke him?" she asked. He could detect traces of sleep in her voice.

"No idea," he murmured, tucking his arm beneath his head and using it as a makeshift pillow. His posture must have seemed silly, since their pillows were plenty full enough, but Zenon had fallen asleep countless nights in that position. Old habits die hard. "He calmed down when I picked him up."

She moved closer, tucking her head beneath his chin, and Zenon adjusted himself to accept the closer contact. Her breath was warm on his collar bone, pleasent, and it reminded him how much he loved the life he had chosen. He couldn't imagine himself regretting this path.

"Nightmare," he finally ventured to her earlier question. "He didn't seem hungry."

Mirei smiled against his skin, her voice growing heavy and drowsy. "I'm so happy..." Zenon blinked, wondering what she meant by that. As though sensing his confusion, she clarified, "That he loves you so much. You'll make a wonderful father, Zenon."

He intended to. That was why he had insisted on choosing a name for his son, and when he had christened the boy, he had done so only after giving careful and deliberate thought to the name. It was believed in China that a name's meaning could shape the child's life. Because he prefered to be human rather than celestial, Zenon succumbed easily to this belief. In the end he had finally chosen "Tao," hoping that the boy would live up to the name, that he would have a long -- and hopefully prosperous -- life.

Rather than say this, he simply pressed a kiss to her forehead. Zenon listened to his wife's steady breathing grow deeper, deeper, until the gentle pattern of her exhales soon lulled him to sleep. In his dreams, he saw death.

Until he came home the very next evening and witnessed the bloodshed with his own eyes, Zenon vehemently denied that the dream had been any sort of premonition.

---

Because of their death, his exile was lifted. Nothing tied him to the Lower World anymore; the loss of his family had shattered his young dreams of making anything of himself down there. Seeing this spirit broken, those ruling the heavens allowed him back in. He only returned because he had nowhere else to go-- and the Lower World was infested with youkai.

He now loathed youkai.

But even more than the cursed creatures, Zenon hated himself. For not getting there in time, for not realizing the warning signs, for not acknowledging the risks of making a youkai his subordinate... there was nothing left for him.

Nothing.

---

He had noticed the creature before now, but at the same time he hadn't really noticed him. Zenon felt uncharacteristically awkward as he stood in the sunlight, his gaze boldly fixated on the person. He had no idea why, couldn't think of a reason he would want to talk to this man... but something about him drew Zenon forward. Like the phrase used often in the Lower World that would one day become a cliché, he was a moth drawn to a flame. But what this flame was, he had no idea.

Currently the being had no idea he was being watched. If he did, he gave no indication otherwise; his chest rose and fell in deep, rhythmical breathing, eyelids twitching behind the shadows his tousled hair threw over his face. A crimson chakra on the middle of his forehead symbolized his immortality, and the shackles on his wrists were an indication of his heresy.

To Zenon's open surprise, the heretic opened his eyes. He did so slowly, leisurely, as though waking from a particularly pleasant nap. Strangest of all, he didn't seem to find Zenon's appearance startling.

Once again taking Zenon aback, the heretic smirked.

"Hello," the heretic greeted. His voice was casual, as if he were speaking to a close friend.

Zenon said nothing.

Unperturbed, the heretic said, "While I'm sure the sun feels quiet pleasant--"

"It's Heaven," Zenon cut in dryly. "Doesn't it always?"

Smirking, the ebon-haired creature -- he was a man, but despite himself, Zenon couldn't help but think of this person as a creature rather than a person -- simply patted the grass.

Zenon ducked beneath the low-hanging branches of the ever-blooming cherry tree. When he sat he kept one leg extended toward the sunlight, the other bent toward his chest. He draped an arm over that leg, using his knee as an armrest, and for some damned reason he couldn't take his eyes off the heretic.

"My name is Homura," the creature said. His gold and blue eyes were intense, particularly the gold, even with his lax, seemingly lazy gaze. The smirk was ever-present on his lips. Somehow it seemed out of place.

"Zenon," he gave his name reluctantly. For some reason the heretic-- person-- Homura made him fidgety. He began to search himself for his cigarettes.

"I know." Homura folded his arms over his chest, relaxing against the broad tree trunk. He regarded Zenon with genuine curiosity. "How may I help you?"

A sneer touched Zenon's lips. He managed to hold it even with the cigarette in his mouth, waited until he had lit it before he spoke around it. "What makes you think I need your help?"

"You are speaking to me, are you not?" The ebon-haired man tilted his head, one eyebrow raised. "Perhaps the first example was not enough of a warning, but those who come into contact with me risk reincarnation." Though the words were light, almost flippant, Zenon could detect unmistakable bitter undertone the man's voice. He opened his mouth to tell Homura that he didn't care, that he had nearly gotten a similar wish just weeks ago, but Homura spoke before he could get a word in edgewise. "Since you do not seem concerned about that, and because you watched me for so long without saying a word, cruel or otherwise, I could recognize you by rumor alone. You are the one who married a human woman and created a taboo child."

A child like you, Zenon thought. He didn't say it. Homura said nothing of it either, but it was clear they were both thinking the same thing.

But Homura had been right. Zenon had come to this man for a reason. Not to mock, not to put down-- he was sick and tired of that behavior, even if it was socially accepted in the heavens.

"Question," he said gruffly. He paused to take a drag of his cigarette, staring ahead at the scenery. In the Lower World the very same sight would seem amazing, magical. But, as the infamous Kenren Taishou had once said, that was because the plants down there really lived. Up here they just Existed, and that wasn't the same as Living.

"Question permitted."

Biting back an inappropriate snort, Zenon said, "My son... he was the same as you. Half-and-half." His chest constricted as he spoke, and though Tao's name was on the tip of his tongue, he couldn't bring himself to say it. Not aloud. Not yet. Doing so would make his death final, and Zenon wasn't ready for that. "But he wasn't a heresy. Heaven didn't kill him. Just that damned youkai," he spat, trembling at the memory.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Homura tilt his head. It was difficult to say, but the man seemed intrigued. "Go on."

Zenon couldn't right away. He waited until the tightness in his lungs eased, giving him enough air to speak without tremors. "He was half-and-half, but not a heresy. You're half-and-half, but you are."

"A mystery," Homura mused, seeming to understand his roundabout inquiry. "I doubt it has much to do with social rank-- my mother was related to the emperor, which certainly says something. You rank high in militaristic training, if I recall correctly."

Not as high as Kenren or Tenpou, Zenon thought ruefully. That was saying something, since the common god thought very little of a fighter as it was. Still he kept his mouth shut, taking another drag of his cigarette. He wanted to hear what else this heretic had to say.

"I'm under the impression it has to do with sheer luck," Homura continued. "Depending on how the blood mixes, whether or not certain traits cancel out others." A thin smile replaced his earlier smirk. More than anything else, that smile caught Zenon's attention, sent chills down his spine. He wasn't sure why. "I just happen to be unlucky. Your son... had he lived, he would have been quite the fortunate demigod."

Closing his eyes, Zenon said quietly, "He would have been a great kid..." He sucked in a breath of air, almost involuntarily. He wanted to say that Tao was a great kid, but at the same time he was loathe to drive himself into further denial.

Silence settled between them. A gentle breeze tossed a few blossoms loose from the branches. Zenon had seen cherry trees in the Lower World, and he could see that the grand plants in Heaven were far more resilient. Where Down Below the blossoms shook free within minutes, leaving the trees bare, Up Here the beauty was retained.

Zenon still preferred the aesthetically pleasing Lower World. Perhaps it was because even the plants Down Below didn't fight off death, but rather accepted it gracefully, grandly. He found that far more appealing than living forever, always useless, nothing more than an accessory to the world.

"Children," Homura suddenly said. His soft voice didn't break the calm, but it did momentarily surprise Zenon. "The true essence of life, for they can teach us far more than we can ever learn from them."

Zenon frowned, grounding out his cigarette against the bark of the tree. For a fleeting moment he thought Homura would attempt to reprimand him for hurting nature like that, but the heretic hardly batted an eyelash. "You quoting something?"

Homura snorted. "Certainly not."

The quiet nearly settled again, and then the ebon-haired man spoke. "Mankind shares all Nature's imperfections, clearly visible to casual inspections. Resisting betterment is the human trait. The ideal Utopia is our tragic fate."

Zenon stared.

Smirking, Homura glanced sideways at the man. "That, I was quoting," he said with a touch of smug amusement. It grated on Zenon's nerves, but at the same time he felt his lips twitching into a wry smirk. Something about this heretic was charismatic; he couldn't help but feel drawn toward him.

"Quoting from...?" Zenon prodded. He was curious, though he wasn't the reading type and knew he wouldn't rush out to find whatever source Homura had obtained it from.

Sounding amused, as though he suspected that nature in Zenon, Homura replied, "The Book of Counted Sorrows, author unknown."

Zenon nodded, having nothing interesting to add to that. It was a peculiar thing to quote; in fact, it sounded like a poem, or a prophecy.

"Sounds like you don't care for the heavens," he remarked.

"How true," Homura said. His easy admittance should have surprise Zenon, but it did not. From what he knew about this heretic, he had suffered a loss eerily similar to his own. Perhaps, in a way, it was more shattering, because this man had lost his woman to life rather than death, and still she would be eternally out of his reach.

For the first time since Mirei and Tao's deaths, Zenon felt he really had something to share with someone.

"In fact, it has prompted me to do a little research," Homura was saying, his thoughtful tone drawing Zenon's focus back to him. "Quite interesting, the things you can find related to Heaven and the Lower World... people can be so careless with the information they leave lying around."

Zenon blinked. What the hell does he mean by that?

"For instance, were you aware that there are five documents -- or scriptures, rather -- that indicate how the heavens and Lower World were created?" Blue and gold eyes stared straight at Zenon, not bothering to hide the fiery knowledge residing behind them. Zenon had the strangest impression that if he hadn't looked Homura in the eye, somehow little of this would make sense to him-- whatever "this" would turn out to be. "They are not kept here; that would be too obvious a hiding place. So they entrust these documents to humans-- mortals. Monks, to be exact. Only the most high-ranking priest of a certain monastery may possess these documents, and few know what they are, much less how to tap into its power."

The last word was what really caught Zenon. He couldn't help it; as a fighter, knowing strengths and weaknesses were something he immediately caught on to. Power was a large factor in terms of influence and brute force.

"Its power?" he repeated.

A pleased smile crossed Homura's face. He seemed happy with Zenon's perceptiveness; clearly that had been something he had been driving at from the start. "Its power," he echoed. "Not only does it decree the laws of Heaven and the Lower World, but they also have various powers-- to create and banish darkness, to create and banish light, to and to control life and death."

"You said there were five."

"Those are the five," Homura amended. "To create darkness, such as the night, as well as shadows and the depths of caves and. To banish darkness, such as the coming of dawn, or when one lights a candle to intimidate the shadows. To create light, such as the rising sun and the flickering of a warm fire. To banish light, such as when the sun drifts down to make way for the rising moon. And finally, to control life and death-- or more correctly, the circle of life, in which we live, die, and are sometimes reincarnated."

It was admittedly fascinating, though the onslaught of new information was a little much to take in at once. Zenon searched for his cigarettes again, searching for something to say. From what he could discern, Homura seemed to be hinting that anyone in possession with all five scriptures could have the power to create Heaven and Earth.

Still, it would be dangerous to say aloud. Though no other gods were in sight, one could never be too discreet. Slowly, Zenon said, "Sounds like it could be dangerous in the wrong hands."

"It does, does it not?" Homura agreed pleasantly. "Well worth thinking over, I would say."

Silence drifted between them again, but this time there was a ring of excitement to it. Zenon felt himself reacting to what this living, breathing heresy was implying. From the sounds of it, he had done extensive research, was possibly still doing some. Not just research on these documents, these scriptures, but also on the gods in general. Somehow, for some reason or another, he had found out about Zenon long before their talk today. For some reason, this man seemed to trust him.

But he was right. What he was offering was well worth thinking over.

They sat in quiescence for a few minutes longer, listening to the breathy sigh of the wind. At times Zenon thought he heard the pink petals fluttering from their original homes and to the ground, gliding down like a fallen, pink-skinned goddess.

At last he stood, his mind made up. Without glancing down at the heretic, Zenon said flatly, "Guess I'll be seeing you around."

"I suppose so."

Those were their only parting words. Though odd, they lifted Zenon's spirits. The entire conversation had taken unexpected turns, going from his simple curiosity about demigod blood to the idea of creating an all new Heaven and Earth.

He was invigorated. Once again, Zenon had found a purpose in life.