the battle rages on in the shrines. as pillars chip, doors crack, &. fences
crumble, the torches struggle to stay lit in late-autumn winds that have long since
stripped the cherry blossoms of their petals.
it’s the crack of wood as the sword strikes the pillars that wakes genji up.
sleep is a luxury these days; anticipated in its arrival, though fleeting. if it wasn’t
the nightmares that woke the cyborg, it was the pain, &. other times it was both,
coalescing to form the reminders of what he no longer was.
yet it’s a strangely familiar feeling now— his master’s hand bringing him
back to reality as orbs oscillate in patterns across what little was left along his
back, not replaced by metal &. cybernetics. his breath comes in shaky gasps at
first, steadying over the time spent in the omnic’s calming presence. the stress
from the nightmare still lingers in a cloak over his heart, making each pulse painful.
“.. yes, master. it was.”
the roar of the dragons from his dream still remains, locked away under
an illusion of calm, withheld from the monk as something he hadn’t needed to
know. something genji hopes he’ll never need to know.
the taste of the lie on his tongue is bitter; it’s as real as the scars that
decorate his body, as real as his phantom limbs.
for now, he’ll smile for the tekhartha.
To what extent would one go to protect those they love from harm? How often would one shatter their limbs to carry those they hold close to their heart? The weight of Atlas is always easier shared, and yet each and every person Zenyatta has met seems intent on creating worlds to stack upon their shoulders.
Genji is no exception to this. He has seen testament to this fact time and time again, though perhaps in differing ways. There is a weight that pushes at the curve of the cyborg’s spine that does not belong to any metal parts, but rather sleepless nights he thought Zenyatta would be unaware of, perhaps, or maybe indifferent to.
Well, no matter. They are both here now, and Zenyatta will see to it that this, too, shall pass. His hand is warm, contrary to popular belief about omnics; though the air of the temple was brisk at absolute best, one thing the Shambali could always pride themselves on were their top-notch temperature regulation systems.
. . . Though perhaps Zenyatta did call for extra warmth a moment ago. How could he not? The boy — the man, he must remind himself, not the boy — has suffered so much. In truth, Zenyatta sees a little of himself in those eyes, right down to that rage, that sorrow. There was a time, though Genji did not know it, when Zenyatta was wounded and weeping, as well.
The monk inclines his head as Genji stirs, the jieba ights upon his forehead glimmering a soft, calming blue. “It is in the past,” he says gently, voice a mere hum, accompanied by the soft ringing of his mala beads as they chime in place, a halo around him. He pauses for a moment, only the briefest lull in that gentle song betraying his struggle for words-- before finally acquiescing to himself, turning his head to the sky, visible through the open window of the room.
“The stars are lovely tonight,” he continues, “Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise. Would you care to join me outside, my pupil?”
To what extent would one go to protect those they love from harm?
stormborns
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