Chapter Text
There was a time, when the story of how the Six-eared macaque could hear both past and future -was true.
When he meets Wukong, he tells them like they are tales. Grand fables, made out from secret espionage, undercover missions, like he is more than just a pair of ears.
-he is a spy, an assassin, he tells him, even though Macaque has never taken blood of his own, has never crawled through grit and dirt, in the dark caves of deprived demons. Has not seen the worst this world has had to offer, and remained unscathed.
Easily impressed, Wukong calls him his warrior. Macaque calls himself an actor.
They are both liars in the end.
The creak in his bones ache and snap. The chill tingles down his spin in hollow caresses. Her whispers never stop, blue static still drowns in his shadows, where they claw and scream to be alone. The winter sinks into his heart-Where his steady beat falters. Growing sluggish and languid with each passing day.
The edges of his fingers are tinted blue underneath his claws, they are constantly nipping cold, and he can’t feel much with them.
He can’t -He can’t feel much at all.
He’s dying.
It feels like he’s always been.
The first life he takes, is remembered with wild knuckled fists, messy clawed stabs, hot stinging pain-
It is not as elegant as on the stage, nor as glorious as the sage makes it out to be. Nor wonderful like the stories of heroes and poets-
All it is fear and desperation, prey and predator.
He is scared.
He doesn’t want to die-
“Is it power you seek?”
The voice he hears is low, baritone, almost soundless in the cacophony of his hammering heart. His ears flick back and forth, straining to catch the restless tone again-
He dodges, weaves, but the demon keeps on coming.
He doesn’t want to die-
“Is it power you seek?”
No
But it’s what he needs.
(Wukong calls him his warrior-)
Macaque ignores how his last peak into the future is a sobbing whisper. Please.
Macaque had gotten good at capturing memories. His time in the Diyu was long and static, bleak hurtful darkness, and no magic to connect with: memories were all he had. They had become a comfort at one point, before they became that festering hatred that carved through blood and bone. Snarling flesh giving into the serrated blade.
But the cold thaws eventually, and the memory recedes into crevice of his mind-never to be unearthed-and the anger boils over-
But
It’s not worth it anymore. Is it?
He could live the last dregs of his life-chasing after wukong-act as bitter and vile as he wants-
But-
But that is no way to live.
He wants to live for himself.
(For once.)
Anger. Rage. He had held admiration for these feelings. Feelings that bloomed and fluttered along the carnage, and there was a smile there, all sharp fangs and golden hues. It was admirable until those emotions had been directed at him.
(You should have stayed buried-)
He doesn’t know what to do with.. Wukong . Macaque can’t forgive him, likewise, Wukong won’t forgive Macaque either. Stubborn pride is a trait they both ruthlessly possess. Neither of them will admit to being in the wrong.
And truthfully.
Macaque doesn’t feel like he was.
Maybe-
maybe-
he could have found another way to go about it. Maybe if stabbing grief and jealousy-That awful mix of longing and yearning-if burning bright hatred hadn’t reared its ugly head-if Wukong hadn’t betrayed-(
But you left him didn’t you? Under the mountain-)
If,If, and if-
(It’s not worth it anymore. Is it?)
He wasn’t in the wrong. He wasn’t.
But neither of them were right.
As the years passed and the sage's reputation grew-so did his shadow.
That was all he was now wasn’t he?
( -he is a spy, an assassin, he tells him, even though Macaque has never taken blood of his own, has never crawled through grit and dirt, in the dark caves of deprived demons. Has not seen the worst this world has had to offer, and remained unscathed-
But real spies and assassins don’t boast about their conquest.
He stops telling those lies when the blood runs thicks through his hands.
He’s not acting
Not anymore. )
Macaque's own reputation does not matter, the less that is known about him the better. The more secrets kept in the dark, the more Wukong's light could shine and pierce the heavens-every word gold dipped and sacred.
Macaque is a shadow, he is a warrior,( He is an actor-) , he would follow Wukong through celestial blades-through fire and flame-if it meant-
If it meant-
If it meant he could keep this purpose. This role.
What else was he made for?
Romantic roses, and weeping lilies, sparkle in the morning dew. Where he manages to capture the sunrise in its wake. Black receding into gold and pinkish fuzz. The light is warm.
(The sun had set when he had died, cold. So very cold. But he wasn’t alone. No. He could never be alone in the dark. Pain never slept. )
He’s in a field somewhere in the back countries of China, where the grass curls wet under his steps, and runs smooth through his fingers. It's cold, but in that cool refreshing way, where the shimmery mist rests against his fur. And the air remains untouched by greasy spores and mortal chatter, fresh and clean as the day he left it all behind.
He thumbs a daffodil between his claws. The sun swells in the sky and casts its sunlight along the grass tufts, the flowers, and whatever other flora and fauna thrive. There's a bubbling river here, somewhere, with smooth stones and swimming fish.
It’s the closest thing to paradise he has. (It belongs to him, the seller didn't bat an eye the moment he dropped the sack of gold.)
It’s still not good enough.
Macaque had been fond of reliable patterns.
Wukong had always been predictable-even if others said otherwise-because clearly they didn’t know the sage as well as they thought.
So why then? Why attack Heaven?
His grip on the bowel of fruit wavers, a sick chill running its frosty fingers along his spine, twirling the curls at the base of his neck. Tugging, pulling, dragging him down to the dirt, where bodies are laid to never rise.
Macaque has never regretted his decision to trade his foresight for his Shadows.
The powers that let him protect Wukong, keep up with Wukong, that gave him a purpose besides traveling with his troupe-drifting stage to stage for pennies and pleasure. His powers that made every lie he ever told into a twisted, undeniable truth.
Macaque has never regretted his decision, for all it has given him.
But it doesn’t mean he can’t miss it.
(His last peak into the future is a sobbing whisper. Please-)
Laughter, rickashays off the tree’s and languid breeze, the sounds of bells, and the sounds of trumpets, the sound of hearty grins that only know of conquest, and victory, of trophies and praise.
It has never sounded so naive.
Please-
The paper in his hand is crumpled. Lines folded into it that crumble and crack. There are words here, old and archaic. But they get the gist of what he wants to do -what he needs -he has a choice now.
Point is, it's time to start making your own choices. Something I wish I'd learned a lot sooner than I did.
A bucket list is not exactly what Macaque had in mind,(Neither was dying, again.) but it would do.
It would.