Chapter Text
Kalachakra: the wheel of time spins ever on. The torment of existence, the horror of nothingness and then, without warning, a rebirth.
“...Xiao-Jiu...” The sound is both plea and prayer. It’s a path that takes you home.
Your hand holds tightly to something pleasantly warm but as your eyes slowly open, it pulls away. There is an unfamiliar man (an image flashes quickly through your mind - one of shattered sword fragments) by your side. A quiet unease rises.
“Shidi?” His eyes shine with concern and, unmistakably, a tinge of guilt. The latter emotion, always present on the man’s face, is a source of comfort (anguish) consternation. You do not know this man who died for you, for the guilt and history that bound you together. Hiding your face behind your sleeve, you turn your head away and consider your surroundings - the white canopy bed, the bamboo walls, the elegant tea set- and yourself, the white robes and similar fan. There is a sense of harmony and you realize, that this room, this sanctuary, is yours. It dawns on you then that something that simple shouldn’t require such guesswork.
“You finally awoke - is there any discomfort?” asks the elegant man dressed in black robes. His words draw your attention back to him. You don’t have time to consider why the thought of telling this man of your memory loss, of your countless failed attempts to account for your sins bothers you. ‘Shidi, he called you. So he would be...
“No, Shixiong.” You sit up and cough; the form of address oddly sticking in your throat but thankfully finally rolling off your tongue. He continues speaking, this time of a fever, a conference and something about disciples but you are distracted. There is a dull ache in your chest. That man is....mother-figure, brother, promised savior, oath-breaker, betrayer, leader, ruined, dead and dying, always because of you, oh gods why...calling a name. Your name (?)
“...Qiu-shidi? Qingqiu-shidi! Are you listening to me?”
You nod in response, inwardly chiding yourself for being so absent-minded and undoubtedly semi-suspicious, and fan yourself, saying “My disciples...in my absence...how have they fared?” There. That should be enough to show that you were listening. Everything is fine. Naturally, this master has all of his memories intact. What nonsense are you considering?
“Ming Fan and the senior disciples have done well in managing the rest during your illness,” Shixiong (?) then sighs. “Luo Binghe.....is still in the woodshed.”