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Tripitaka cowered in a crack in the stone wall of the cave; the fissure in the stone was just big enough for him to fit through, so there was no chance that demon could get in, but that wasn’t what he was worried about.
The sounds of a terrible battle were all he could hear. The screeches and roars of the enraged demon his eldest disciple was fighting rang through the cave, but to his dismay, Wukong said nothing.
The Monkey King was usually very talkative during fights; he’d quip and throw clever insults at his opponents, but not this time. This time he didn’t say a word.
Fear turned in the monk’s stomach; Sun wasn’t doing well. He shouldn’t be fighting at all. He was still injured from their encounter with Red Boy. The demon had done a number on Pilgrim, and it had severely weakened him. It had only been three days.
They ran into monsters and fiends a lot more than Tripitaka thought was possible, but two ridiculously powerful demons in one week? Was their luck really that bad?
Another fierce roar from the monster shook the whole cave, causing bits of stone to rain down on Tripitaka. Where were Sandy and Bajie? They had gone out to scout and find food respectively, leaving Sun and Tripitaka to set up camp in a clearing of a thickly wooded forest.
The monk had insisted that Wukong take it easy; the Monkey King had of course argued with him over this to no end.
“You’re being such a mother hen! I’m fine,” he’d pouted, but Tripitaka refused to hear it.
“You’ve not recovered yet,” Tripitaka had insisted, “and when the others get back we need to check your bandages again.”
Wukong had muttered something under his breath, but he sat down cross-legged on the ground, still with his arms crossed like a petulant child.
“Now I’m going to go get some firewood; you stay here and rest, got it?”
Sun shook his head, “what if you get attacked by demons?”
“I’ll be fine; I won’t go any farther than a few dozen feet. Nothing’s going to happen.”
He should have known better than to say something like that; they had been on this journey for years at this point, and it seemed, no matter what, something always happened. Almost as soon as he had stepped into the forest, he got snatched by some sort of bird demon who had quickly taken him back to a cave to present him to his king.
The king had, of course, gone through the whole spiel about wanting to eat him, but only two minutes later, Wukong had busted through the wall and immediately began fighting the demons. The little monsters were instantly eviscerated by Pilgrim, but the king demon was not so easily defeated.
Another roar snapped Tripitaka back to the present. There was a horrible, wet ripping and tearing noise and then silence. The monk heard nothing but the sound of his heart hammering in his chest.
“Master.” It was Wukong. “It- it’s okay. You’re safe.” There was something wrong; his voice was raspy and weak.
Tripitaka peaked his head out of the fissure in the stone to see the room smeared with viscera and gore. The monster’s decapitated body was lying in a slowly expanding pool of blood. The head was nowhere to be seen. Wukong was standing in the center of the room coated in dark crimson. Both his hands clutched his left side. He wobbled as he tried to take a step, but instead, he collapsed onto the hard, stone floor.
“Wukong!” Tripitaka ran to him; he knelt down next to his prone disciple who was now also lying in a pool of blood. The monk carefully turned him over onto his back; Tripitaka froze upon seeing the damage.
Wukong’s side was a mess of blood and shredded flesh. It was nothing like the injuries he’d sustained in his fight against Red Boy; this was on another level. It looked like the demon had tried to bite him in half.
Sun took in sharp, ragged breaths as he lay on his back staring up at the ceiling of the cave. Tripitaka didn’t know what to do; his hands hovered uselessly above Wukong, afraid of making things worse. He needed to get the bleeding to stop, so he tore one of the sleeves off his robes and pressed it against Wukong’s side. The cloth was almost instantly turned the color of crimson.
The monk continued to put pressure on the wound even as he felt warm blood seep from between his fingers. It pooled around Sun’s small body in an ever-expanding lake of gore. How could so much blood come from such a small person?
“Are you alright?” Pilgrim asked in a weak voice. The Monkey King’s gaze had shifted from the ceiling to the monk’s face.
Tripitaka couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh as tears streamed down his face. How could Wukong be worried about him at a time like this? The monk wasn’t the one bleeding out on the floor.
“I’m fine, Wukong, and you’re going to be alright too. Just hang in there, okay? The others are going to be here any second, and we’re going to get you all fixed up.” Sun didn’t reply.
“How bad is it?” He asked after a moment.
“Not too bad,” the monk answered quickly.
It was Pilgrim’s turn to laugh, weak and pained; it turned almost immediately to a choking cough. “You’re a terrible liar, even for a monk,” he gasped. “I’m serious, how bad?”
“Bad,” was all Tripitaka could say.
Tripitaka had seen plenty of terrible injuries; he had seen the aftermath of many of Wukong’s one-sided massacres after all, but this was by far the worst injury he’d ever seen on a still-living being.
Tears trickled down the monk’s face as his breathing became irregular. His lower lip quivered, but he tried to take in calming breaths. He couldn’t break down into a puddle of useless tears like he usually did in emergency situations. Sun needed him. He just continued to focus on putting pressure on the wound.
Sun’s breathing continued to get weaker and more erratic. The rise and fall of his small chest began to falter as his breaths came in short, desperate gasps.
Pilgrim placed a shaky hand on top of one of Tripitaka’s as he continued to apply pressure. “Master, It’s going to be alright,” Sun reassured though his voice seemed even weaker than before.
“How can anything be alright when you’re dying?” The monk thought, but he didn’t say a word; he couldn’t. Instead, he continued to try to hold back sobs.
“It’s going to be okay,” Sun gasped. “It’s going to be okay. It…. It….”
He never finished his sentence. He went completely still.
Tripitaka shifted his attention from the wound to Pilgrim’s face.
“Wukong…?”
Wukong didn’t answer.
Sun stared blankly up at the ceiling. His eyes, usually so bright and full of excitement and life, were dull and dark, glazed over in death.
Tripitaka froze.
“No, no…. Hey! Stop messing around, Wukong!” The monk panicked. “That’s not funny! I-I’m serious; cut it out!” He shook Sun by the shoulders. Wukong’s head lulled limply to the side.
It was only then that true realization hit the monk.
As if for the first time, he took in the scene before him. His whole body shook; he glanced down at his hands covered in blood, Wukong’s blood. His best friend’s lifeless body rested on the cold, stone floor of the empty cave.
He was alone.
Wukong was dead…. He was dead.
Tripitaka felt a scream bubble up inside him as despair pierced his heart, shattering it into a million pieces. His eyes were fixed on Sun’s face. His poor, brave disciple, his friend. He was gone.
The cave echoed with a cry of utter grief and anguish, a sound of pure loss and agony, the heartbroken cry of one who has lost everything.
The monk pulled Sun’s limp body into a hug; he held him tight, not caring about the slowing cooling blood soaking into his robes, staining them dark crimson. He buried his face into the soft fur atop Wukong’s head as sobs racked his frame. As he cried, Tripitaka stroked the fur on Pilgrim’s temples and behind his ears the way the Monkey King liked, gently rubbing in small circles as he had done so many times before.
He did nothing but grieve for a long time, how long he didn’t know, only aware of the overwhelming loss and the scent of copper.
~
Wukong bared his fangs, and the ten kings cowered.
“I thought I told you last time I wasn’t interested in the whole death thing,” the Monkey King snarled. Sun stood threateningly over the rules of hell.
“Th-there must have been some mistake!” One of the gods of the underworld stammered.
“Well fix it.” Wukong’s tail flicked angrily. “My master needs me, and if you keep me here a second longer that is necessary… there will be hell to pay.”
~
Tripitaka gently stroked Sun’s cheek. The monk had run out of tears to cry, so instead he just knelt there numbly. His clothes were soaked in blood, but it didn’t matter, nothing did, not anymore. Sun was dead. How could anything ever matter again? Getting to the West didn’t matter. It was impossible anyway; without Wukong they would all die. It was over.
Wukong’s body twitched. Tripitaka paused; he looked down at Sun still cradled in his lap. Nothing appeared to be changed. Again another twitch, unmistakable this time.
“Wu-wukong….”
A shudder ran through Sun’s small frame, and a moment later he gasped for air. His eyelids flutter for a moment before fully opening. Like the ignition of a spark, life returned to his eyes, and color returned to his face. Tripitaka watched in amazement as the massive, gaping wound in Wukong’s side mended itself, not even leaving behind a scar, though the blood remained.
Tripitaka frantically cupped Sun’s face in his palms and stared deep into his eyes. Wukong’s expression was dazed and exhausted, but he was alive. Pilgrim smiled weakly. “Hiya, Master,” he did his best to chirp.
The monk burst into tears once more; this time they were tears of relief and exhaustion. He hugged Sun like the Monkey King might be ripped away from him at any moment.
“Woah,” Wukong gasped in surprise as Tripitaka pulled him in closer, but he didn’t shy away. Instead, he rested his cheek in the crook of the monk’s neck and let out a sigh. He wrapped his tail around the monk’s waist and snuggled in closer.
“Wh-what happened?” Tripitaka asked through sobs. “I thought… I thought… Sun, you were….”
“It’s okay, Master,” Pilgrim replied, his voice still weak. “You didn’t really think the underworld could hold me, did you?”
“The underworld? You…”
“Sorry I took so long; those bastards kept going on about their paperwork, but don’t worry, I got everything squared away. They won’t be bothering us any time soon.”
Tripitaka didn’t know what to say. Pilgrim had escaped the underworld? That wasn’t possible, was it? But then again the proof was in his arms; Sun was alive.
As the monk managed to calm down, he rested his cheek atop Wukong’s head. They stayed like that for a bit. Tripitaka took in deep breaths, secure in the feeling of Wukong’s heartbeat against his own.
“Master! Sun!”
They both looked up to see Sandy and Bajie standing at the entrance to the room, with looks of fear on their faces. It was only then that Tripitaka remembered they were in a gore-coated room both covered in blood.
“It’s okay,” he reassured. “We’re fine; everybody’s okay.”
Sun chuckled. “Except that guy,” he gestured to the decapitated corps of the king demon. “We’re fine, but him… not so much.”
The other two still rushed to them. Sandy fussed over them both, checking them for injuries. Other than some torn clothes and being drenched in blood, Pilgrim was okay. Tripitaka too got a clean bill of health.
That night after at least three baths, Tripitaka settled in and prepared to go to bed. The monk sat quietly by the fire, processing everything that had happened that day as his disciples talked and socialized. They were having some kind of lighthearted argument as they often did. The monk watched as Pilgrim bickered with his brothers as energetically as he ever had; he seemed perfectly fine despite everything that had happened.
Slowly the playful dispute got a little less playful, and after getting thoroughly fed up with his bothers, Bajie in particular, Pilgrim took a seat next to Tripitaka as he grumbled curses under his breath. It wasn’t very monk-like behavior, but at that moment, Tripitaka couldn’t bring himself to care.
“How are you?” He asked. Wukong stopped grumbling and looked up at him.
“Good, a little tired maybe, but other than that I think I’m alright. What about you? Are you okay?”
Tripitaka gave him a weak smile. “Sun, I’m fine; you’re the one who… who….” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Tears welled up in his eyes just thinking about it.
Wukong rested his head against the monk’s shoulder while Tripitaka wiped the tears from his face with the heels of his hands.
“I really thought I lost you,” he said quietly after a moment.
Sun smiled gently. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
Tripitaka smiled at his unbelievable nonchalance, but the smile quickly faded. “This journey…. I don’t know if we can do it. There’s already been so many close calls.” He looked over to where Bajie and Sandy were still talking. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost any of you.”
Sun seemed to consider this. “We’ll make it,” he said finally.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I believe in us, and a wise man once told me that belief is more powerful than any doubt.”
“Who told you that?” Tripitaka asked, wondering who was sagacious enough to be considered wise by Wukong.
“You did.”