Robes of Office
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Gensomaden Saiyuki › General
Rating:
Adult
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Category:
Gensomaden Saiyuki › General
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,003
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Gensomaden Saiyuki, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Robes of Office
Solitude and insanity had been his twin enemies and constant companions since he had come to Keiun Temple at the command at the Sanbutsushin after his four years of looking for the Seiten sutra. They had told him that his eyes were dead, that he would no longer know the sutra if he saw it after all he had been through, and that he needed to give himself some time to rest. But the “peace and quiet” had been anything but restful for him. His days had been plagued with hideous fears and doubts as he recalled the events of the last four years, starting with Koumyou’s death, and his nights had been filled with nightmares and worse, the fear that he was losing his mind.
He had wandered the compounds of the temple at night, and had encountered the head priest, Jikaku, who had extolled to him the virtues of tobacco and sake, and had been surprised that the young sanzo enjoyed neither. Genjyo Sanzo had been surprised at the elder’s boldness in partaking of such plainly forbidden substances within the temple, and had repeatedly declined his invitations to join him. They had several conversations as Sanzo’s stay at Keiun wore on, and as the old man asked surprisingly perceptive questions about his predicament, the young priest had begun to open up to him, grudgingly, revealing a little of the torment he was going through.
Jikaku’s advice had always been gentle and touched with humor, much as Sanzo’s father and mentor Koumyou had always been with him. The head priest had encountered Sanzo the morning he finally bolted from the monastery, unable to tolerate captivity there any longer, and afraid his madness would surely take him if he stayed. Jikaku had startled the younger priest when he had asked him how he expected to be able to find anything “with those dead eyes,” making Sanzo wonder once again if perhaps the old man was indeed a spirit or demon as he had thought he was when he first saw him.
After Jikaku’s horrible death, so hauntingly like Koumyou’s, Sanzo went to see the Sanbutsushin again, and was told that he was to become the head priest in charge of Keiun Temple. He knew with a heavy heart that his first official task would be to preside over the chanting of the sutras for Jikaku.
For the first time, he was to put on the full robes of office that made him Toa Genjyo Sanzo the 31st, and he was uncertain how he felt about it. He stood in the cold room alone, wearing only a fundoshi, looking at the neatly folded pile of garments before him. Time was pressing on him, he knew they were waiting for him in the main room of the temple to continue the ceremonies, so there was nothing for it but for him to continue no matter how ambivalent he felt, and put the garments on. It was either that or run again.
As he slid the leather sleeves up his arms, he was immediately reminded for some reason of all the blood he had washed off of those arms in the past four years, and struck by the irony of wearing the sleeves over them now. He remembered a conversation with Jikaku where the old man had told him that when he was fixating on the blood he had spilled, maybe he was smelling his own blood in his body, and that truly, everything alive was covered in blood one way or another.
He pulled the snug leather undergarment over his head and settled it comfortably around his chest and stomach. The feel and smell of the soft leather brought back a rush of memory he had completely forgotten about, of being a small child, not long after Koumyou had pulled him from the river, and being snuggled up in his lap when they were alone together in his quarters at Kinzan. The soft leather, warmed by the heat of Koumyou’s body, had been such a warm comforting thing to him, he remembered feeling like he could have lain his face against that soft warmth forever, listening to his master’s quiet musical voice in one ear, and the soft lub-dub of Koumyou’s heart in the other. An almost physically-painful wave of longing for Koumyou passed through him, but as a tribute to him, he became even more determined to wear the robes of his office well and proudly, at least for this day if nothing else, so he pressed on.
He slipped the white silk robe on and tied it with the black belt, and slid the rasa over his shoulders and tied it in place. Immediately he was confronted by more memories of his master, these far less pleasant. He remembered how horrifying it was to be frozen in place by Koumyou’s spell and have to watch him butchered by the youkai, unable to so much as twitch a muscle to help, and seeing his crimson blood spattered all over the pristine white robe. He recalled thinking bitterly what a farce the bamboo breastplate was, how it seemed to guide their knives home into Koumyou’s breast, rather than protect him from them at all.
And the same scene continued to unfold in his memory as he settled the Maten Scripture on his shoulders for the first time. He remembered so clearly what Koumyou had said to him, as he was dying, the scarlet of his blood being wicked up by his silk robe. He could hear his voice as if he was standing by his side.
“Do you know why a Sanzo priest wears his sutra on his shoulders? It expresses his will to carry the burden of his Karma. Watch, Kouryuu, as long as you don’t lose sight of yourself, you can accept even that weight.”
He shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, settling the sutra in place… It felt quite light in physical reality, but he knew, almost had a prescient feeling, what the heavy karmic weight of it would be. He wondered again if Koumyou had really known what he was doing, putting the weight of two sutras on his shoulders, on Kouryuu the River Rat…
Being a monastery, there were no mirrors, so he couldn’t look at himself to see what he looked like. Time was pressing, he knew there were probably grumblings in the auditorium already, he had been later getting back from his visit to Chang’an than he had meant to be.
As he settled the crown on his head, he was suddenly struck when he remembered the final dying words of both Jikaku and Koumyou to him, and how startlingly similar they had been. He knew that Jikaku had known Koumyou, but for their parting words, their last utterances in this world to be so much the same, was really quite unsettling, and gave him the closest to a sense of the profound and inexplicable that he had ever had.
It began to resonate in his head, repeating over and over, almost like a mantra, as he crossed the open compound and prepared to open the doors to the auditorium and face his first official function as Priest Genjyo Sanzo the 31st.
“The rest is up to you…”
~owari~
He had wandered the compounds of the temple at night, and had encountered the head priest, Jikaku, who had extolled to him the virtues of tobacco and sake, and had been surprised that the young sanzo enjoyed neither. Genjyo Sanzo had been surprised at the elder’s boldness in partaking of such plainly forbidden substances within the temple, and had repeatedly declined his invitations to join him. They had several conversations as Sanzo’s stay at Keiun wore on, and as the old man asked surprisingly perceptive questions about his predicament, the young priest had begun to open up to him, grudgingly, revealing a little of the torment he was going through.
Jikaku’s advice had always been gentle and touched with humor, much as Sanzo’s father and mentor Koumyou had always been with him. The head priest had encountered Sanzo the morning he finally bolted from the monastery, unable to tolerate captivity there any longer, and afraid his madness would surely take him if he stayed. Jikaku had startled the younger priest when he had asked him how he expected to be able to find anything “with those dead eyes,” making Sanzo wonder once again if perhaps the old man was indeed a spirit or demon as he had thought he was when he first saw him.
After Jikaku’s horrible death, so hauntingly like Koumyou’s, Sanzo went to see the Sanbutsushin again, and was told that he was to become the head priest in charge of Keiun Temple. He knew with a heavy heart that his first official task would be to preside over the chanting of the sutras for Jikaku.
For the first time, he was to put on the full robes of office that made him Toa Genjyo Sanzo the 31st, and he was uncertain how he felt about it. He stood in the cold room alone, wearing only a fundoshi, looking at the neatly folded pile of garments before him. Time was pressing on him, he knew they were waiting for him in the main room of the temple to continue the ceremonies, so there was nothing for it but for him to continue no matter how ambivalent he felt, and put the garments on. It was either that or run again.
As he slid the leather sleeves up his arms, he was immediately reminded for some reason of all the blood he had washed off of those arms in the past four years, and struck by the irony of wearing the sleeves over them now. He remembered a conversation with Jikaku where the old man had told him that when he was fixating on the blood he had spilled, maybe he was smelling his own blood in his body, and that truly, everything alive was covered in blood one way or another.
He pulled the snug leather undergarment over his head and settled it comfortably around his chest and stomach. The feel and smell of the soft leather brought back a rush of memory he had completely forgotten about, of being a small child, not long after Koumyou had pulled him from the river, and being snuggled up in his lap when they were alone together in his quarters at Kinzan. The soft leather, warmed by the heat of Koumyou’s body, had been such a warm comforting thing to him, he remembered feeling like he could have lain his face against that soft warmth forever, listening to his master’s quiet musical voice in one ear, and the soft lub-dub of Koumyou’s heart in the other. An almost physically-painful wave of longing for Koumyou passed through him, but as a tribute to him, he became even more determined to wear the robes of his office well and proudly, at least for this day if nothing else, so he pressed on.
He slipped the white silk robe on and tied it with the black belt, and slid the rasa over his shoulders and tied it in place. Immediately he was confronted by more memories of his master, these far less pleasant. He remembered how horrifying it was to be frozen in place by Koumyou’s spell and have to watch him butchered by the youkai, unable to so much as twitch a muscle to help, and seeing his crimson blood spattered all over the pristine white robe. He recalled thinking bitterly what a farce the bamboo breastplate was, how it seemed to guide their knives home into Koumyou’s breast, rather than protect him from them at all.
And the same scene continued to unfold in his memory as he settled the Maten Scripture on his shoulders for the first time. He remembered so clearly what Koumyou had said to him, as he was dying, the scarlet of his blood being wicked up by his silk robe. He could hear his voice as if he was standing by his side.
“Do you know why a Sanzo priest wears his sutra on his shoulders? It expresses his will to carry the burden of his Karma. Watch, Kouryuu, as long as you don’t lose sight of yourself, you can accept even that weight.”
He shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, settling the sutra in place… It felt quite light in physical reality, but he knew, almost had a prescient feeling, what the heavy karmic weight of it would be. He wondered again if Koumyou had really known what he was doing, putting the weight of two sutras on his shoulders, on Kouryuu the River Rat…
Being a monastery, there were no mirrors, so he couldn’t look at himself to see what he looked like. Time was pressing, he knew there were probably grumblings in the auditorium already, he had been later getting back from his visit to Chang’an than he had meant to be.
As he settled the crown on his head, he was suddenly struck when he remembered the final dying words of both Jikaku and Koumyou to him, and how startlingly similar they had been. He knew that Jikaku had known Koumyou, but for their parting words, their last utterances in this world to be so much the same, was really quite unsettling, and gave him the closest to a sense of the profound and inexplicable that he had ever had.
It began to resonate in his head, repeating over and over, almost like a mantra, as he crossed the open compound and prepared to open the doors to the auditorium and face his first official function as Priest Genjyo Sanzo the 31st.
“The rest is up to you…”
~owari~