He wasn't sure who told them, but before he left, the monks held up a small jar.
"We heard you wished to scatter his ashes on your mountain," the leader said, his voice soft and eyes red. Even if Sanzang's death was expected, was planned, it was still a nasty shock. "We saved a few jars for your group."
"Thank you," Wukong said, taking the jar.
It felt so light in his hands.
Was this all that was left of Sanzang? Just a light jar? He bit back the urge to sob and tightened his grip softly- if he left it too loose, his hands would shake and he would drop the jar. If he left it too tight, he would crack it.
The flight back home felt like a second of eternity.
And then he was there, back on the beach, where Sanzang had first seen his home.
His white funeral clothes gleamed in the setting sun.
He undid the jar and peeked instead.
A sob did escape at the sight of the white ash, all that was left of his master. His teacher. His friend.
He reached instead, feeling the texture against his fingers, and pulled some out. He whispered a spell and felt a breeze flow.
Without a second, he released the ash.
It gleamed in the setting sun, and, just for a moment, Wukong saw Sanzang flying.