Chapter Text
The monk was, of course, a mere mortal despite all the rewards of Heaven. But that did not make it less strange to watch him slow as age and the toils of their journey began to catch up. Tang Sanzang had stayed busy, sought after by scholars and acolytes and gods alike for his wisdom and kindness, and thus only had time to entertain a visit every couple of years. The once-black hair gradually turning grey, and then falling out entirely (and how Wukong had teased him for that, cheerfully offering to share some of his own plentiful fur). Long steps growing shorter and slower, until even a small child had no issue keeping up with the reborn Golden Cicada on his daily walks (and always refusing Wukong's offers to carry him when the Monkey King visited, as he always had, citing that there were no demons or dangers about, and thus no need for haste or hurry).
The man Wukong had once called Master was, however, very steadfast in writing back whenever he received a letter, and that tradition stuck over the years as they turned to decades. The lack of a messenger panting and wheezing their way to the top of Flower Fruit Mountain a month after Wukong had sent a letter had been his first sign that something was wrong.
He had brushed it off at first. The trip was long, and messengers were not always reliable. Perhaps the letter had simply gotten dropped somewhere, or stolen by bandits, or Tang Sanzang had gone on another long journey and forgotten to leave a forwarding address. Wukong had written again, and yet another month passed without a reply, and he had felt a shimmer of unusual worry nag at him. He had not usually bothered with unplanned visits to the esteemed Tang Sanzang, finding that more often than not the trip would be in vain. But, the monk had gotten somewhat less prone to travelling all over the countryside, trying to help everyone and everything that seemed to have even the slightest problem that could be given aid, so perhaps Wukong would be lucky. If nothing else, then he could always claim that he just happened to be passing by, talk himself into being given access to the monk's personal chambers, and leave half a dozen little pranks and surprises all over the place to remind his old Master to return his letters.
So off he had gone on the somersault cloud, phoenix feathers streaming behind him in the wind. The worry, however, sat like a bad peach pit in his gut, and grew when he arrived at Chang'an, only to find a great line of people winding through the city streets towards Daci'en Temple, all quiet and grim.
"I am Sun Wukong, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven! I demand to know what you are all doing here!" Wukong said to the nearest man.
"Great Sage! We are gathered in the hopes of saying our farewells to the Buddha of Sandalwood Merit, for he is ill with age and has not long left in this world!" the man said, bowing deeply to him.
The pit turned to ice. And Wukong leapt back on his cloud and sped to the Temple, past the procession and the guards and the gates. His visage terrifying and terrified, he stormed through the corridors, acolytes and monks alike throwing themselves aside in his path, until he arrived at the plainest room, and there, found all feeling but grief leave him.
"Tang Sanzang," he pleaded, and knelt by the bed, taking the hand so frail that it could shatter against a summer breeze. "Master. My friend, are you still here?"
He could have wept when Tang Sanzang's lips, cracked and dry, pulled back to smile. "Sun Wukong, my oldest student," said the great monk, voice so weak that even the Six-eared Macaque could have strained to hear it.
"Please, Master! Do not give up yet! I will find a cure for this ailment, I will bring you peaches from the tree of immortality, or pills from Lao Tzu, or the Queen Mother's wine, or—!"
But he felt the hand in his grow still and cold, as the Great Monk's chest sank once and did not rise again.
"Tang Sanzang. My master. My friend," Wukong begged, as his vision went blurry and his shirt wet. "Please..."
He stayed there, quiet and selfish, as the monks near the walls left the room. He stayed there, quiet and selfish, as the hallways filled with the quiet murmured sutras and chants. He stayed there, quiet and selfish, as the city went entirely still at the gong, informing all that a soul had left for Nirvana. He stayed there, quiet and selfish, until the sun rose again, and the monks arrived to take Tang Sanzang's earthy remains to the funeral pyre.
Only then did he finally release Tang Sanzang's hand, and fled in the shape of a beetle. Then a bird, then a tiger, and then himself, running and running and running, until the sun had gone down, and his lungs burned and his muscles shook.
Only then did he allow himself to fall, and screamed his grief to the uncaring sky.