Temple of the Winds 5
By: sagelibra
Pairing: Yuuram
Rating: PG-13 (may change)
Summary: There's one more custom Yuuri doesn't know about.
Disclaimer: Don't own any of them.
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The old monk was starting to be…concerned.
Very concerned.
He noted the untouched food on the tray and his gaze traveled to the figure working tirelessly before the easel. The old monk's gaze went over the numerous drawings, sketches, and paintings strewn about all over the room. There was hardly any space left to move in.
He sighed. He was not really surprised. Wolfram von Bielefield was not the first among his charges to act thusly.
The road to acceptance was difficult at best. Most of the Temple petitioners arrived broken inside. Filled with anger, bitterness, and anguish. They had not come out of their free will, but had been forced, either by circumstance or the torment in their hearts, to seek shelter in the Temple.
And yet, upon arriving at the Temple, many found that not even the monks could ease the pain in their hearts. The Temple could only offer a safe harbor whereupon they could battle their inner demons. The outcome, however, still depended on them. For some, the battle took the form of unceasing energy, whether to exorcise their personal ghosts or to hang on to their memories. For others, it was to withdraw into silence and bitterness.
The old monk had not been surprised to find that Wolfram belonged to the first group. Not for the fiery young aristocrat to stare blindly out of the window or to break into inconsolable tears. Rather he spent hours in frenetic activity – riding, walking, drawing, or painting, if he was not out burning something. Anything to keep his mind from dwelling on his heart's pain. Therein lay bitterness and despair, and of the two it was despair that was the more fearsome enemy. There were four stages to acceptance, the old monk had found through the years - denial, anger, despair, and finally acceptance. He had witnessed too, many who had moved from denial to anger, to despair, and yet were unable to take the next step that would bring them closer to acceptance and salvation. Instead they had chosen surrender. Had given up. On themselves and on life.
The old monk would not admit it, but he – well, somewhat admired Wolfram's determination and persistence, though he was saddened by the knowledge that it was only a matter of time before Wolfram would be forced to grapple with despair, because simply, there was no reprieve from the road to acceptance. There was no running from the demons that haunted the heart and mind, not when they resided inside you.
And he was - concerned that Wolfram, for all his valiant efforts, would not be able to rise above that soul-destroying quagmire. He felt things too strongly, too deeply. The old monk feared that Wolfram would, in the end, succumb to it. He sighed. To fail was to die. The call of death, of release from unrelenting torment, was for many, irresistible.
Aye, he knew all about it, because once upon a time he too had done battle with it. But somehow he had survived. Had found within himself the strength to reject that call. Had instead chosen to accept his fate, and in that acceptance, had found new life. New meaning. New purpose.
The old monk had known, upon first meeting the Mazoku prince, that the path of acceptance would be exceptionally difficult for the young man. Wolfram had too much passion. Too much fire. And he was still so very young. A veritable child in his eyes. The old monk regretted that most of all.
The prince had not yet even reached the peak of his youth. He still had so much to live for. So much to accomplish. Yet the fates had sent him to the Temple of the Winds.
To have your future, your infinite possibilities, ripped from your hands – the old monk sighed regretfully.
He stepped silently to Wolfram's side. Even knowing that the ex-knight would not accept his advice, he had to try.
"Rest for a moment, Wolfram." He urged softly. "Eat. You must keep up your strength if you are to continue painting." In the weeks since his arrival Wolfram had lost all interest in food and sleep, preferring instead to immerse himself in the images of his past. The toll on his body was becoming glaringly apparent. He had lost weight, was gaunt. He was pale, frighteningly so, and combined with his gauntness he seemed increasingly ethereal.
It was only when you gazed into his emerald eyes that you could see some remnant of the fire he had once possessed.
"I'm not hungry." Wolfram replied, his tone clipped, though no longer hostile. It was difficult to remain hostile to the one who cared for you, and who never once responded in kind.
"Yet the body requires sustenance." The old monk observed mildly. "You are not a machine, young man. Without food or rest you will soon wither and fade."
Wolfram paused in the process of blending colors into Greta's hair. It wasn't easy getting that exact shade of red, he mused absently. Maybe if he added a little more brown…?
"Wolfram, eat." The old monk reminded patiently, laying a hand lightly on Wolfram's arm.
The ex-knight shook his head, but obediently let the monk lead him to the table.
"Eat."
Wolfram eyed the cold food with distaste. "It's cold."
The old monk smiled lightly. "Well, if you must insist on letting it wait…"
Wolfram grimaced at the gentle reproach, but began eating anyway. Quickly, automatically, as though it was an unpleasant chore best over with.
"Wimp is getting restless." The old monk remarked casually.
Wolfram stifled a pang at the word. He had found the horse in the stables. Black mane, black eyes. Black upon black. One of a kind. He had named it Wimp and made it his own. Nowadays it was his constant companion, aside from the old monk, of course. He glanced out the window, noted the cloudless skies. It was going to be a clear night.
"I will take him out for a ride later." He said.
The old monk nodded his acknowledgement. Wolfram had no need to ask for permission, he was free to roam the lands in and around the Temple. In fact, the old monk preferred having the blonde prince outside, under the sun, breathing fresh air, than sequestered in his room with only his memories. Nature had healing powers that soothed the soul and eased the pain. Besides, there was no fear that he would 'wander off' towards Shin Makoku, or anywhere else for that matter. There was only the Temple of the Winds, as far as the eye could see.
"You still haven't told me your name." Wolfram said suddenly.
The old monk inclined his head. It was the first thing the ex-knight had asked upon meeting him.
"I have no need for a name." He replied, just as he had that first time.
"That's ridiculous." Wolfram sniffed, "Everyone has a name."
The old monk smiled with gentle humor. "Names isolate us." He told the green-eyed Mazoku. "We become Someone and soon lose sight of Everyone. Here in the Temple we are No one and Everyone. It is no longer who I am but who We are. Alone the pain of our past is unbearable, but Together there is no hurt we cannot overcome."
Wolfram shook his head. "That doesn't make sense."
"Not yet, young Wolfram," The old monk's smile was patient. "not yet."
Riddles. Wolfram thought exasperatedly. He liked talking in riddles.
However, later, alone with his thoughts under a carpet of stars, he couldn't help but think about what the old monk had said.
/Alone the pain of our past is unbearable, but Together there is no hurt we cannot overcome/
Wimp whinnied softly, and Wolfram reached out to rub the horse's nose soothingly. All the while, his eyes remained glued to the sky.
The Temple of the Winds was somewhere beyond everyone's reach, curtained off by magic so ancient he could not begin to comprehend how it worked. But, whenever he looked at the sky and the stars, he knew they were the same sky and stars that Yuuri would see from outside his own window.
/What are you doing right now, Yuuri? Are you thinking about me at all? Do you miss me?/
And the pain, which he had been sublimating all day, rose to claim him again. During the day he could distract himself with his painting and the old monk's companionship. But at night, when everything was quiet and the light was gone, there was nowhere left to run.
Despair swept through him.
"You do not have to be alone, Wolfram."
The quiet voice no longer surprised him. The old monk was worse than his shadow. At least his shadow didn't read his thoughts, or offer advice he really could do without.
"Are all the monks in the Temple like you?" He asked a trifle acidly.
"We are One, yes."
More riddles. Wolfram longed to just turn and walk away, but a thought occurred to him and he asked, "So anyone who decides to join the order loses his name?"
"He gains a family, and a new beginning."
The invitation was unmistakable, and Wolfram was immediately on the defensive.
"What if I don't want to be a monk?" He asked testily.
"Then you do not have to be one." The old monk's tone held a shrug. "It is not the path for everyone."
"But?"
"The Temple offers everyone a chance at a new life. It can be a place of discovery and peace. Or it can be a prison with no hope and loneliness one's only companion." The old monk spoke gently. "The Temple cannot change what has already been wrought, young Wolfram, but it can offer you a chance to have what many others cannot find in their lives."
"Let me guess – true love? Everlasting happiness?" Wolfram's tone was tinged with bitterness.
"Peace." The old monk held regret, but not remorse. "People strive all their lives searching for love, thinking that in love they can find happiness. Yet they do not really understand that love alone cannot give them happiness. Because happiness cannot be given. It has to be found within themselves. In time you will learn, Wolfram von Bielefield, that the face of true happiness is inner peace."
Wolfram wrapped his arms around himself, wanting, needing to deny the logic behind the words, but unable to.
"We can help you find that inner peace, if you will let us." The old monk offered, his tone carefully neutral.
"So you do want me to join the Temple." The words were harsh, but the tone was less so.
"We want to help you overcome your grief, yes."
"But I have to give up my name."
"Who you are no longer matters here." The old monk reminded him. "There are no kingdoms here, no greed, no ambition, no politics. There is no war, and therefore, no need for knights or generals. There is only the Temple."
Wolfram frowned. He could not, for the life of him, imagine being Nameless. His name had been a part of him all his life. Wolfram von Bielefield. It was a name that held power, influence, and responsibility. A name that was now his only link to his past, and to Yuuri.
The old monk smiled, finding hope in the other's silence. It had been a gamble, sharing so much with the young man. But it pleased him to see that Wolfram had not rejected the offer outright, was at least thinking about it. The chances of his charge surviving in the Temple had just risen drastically.
"Think about it."
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