#masterof

Temple Ghosts

Sand and stones groan under his feet, the once-white soles muddied and thinned by the countless miles on the road.

Three years of desperate, baseless hope, three years of slow and tedious travel, three years of adjusting to the new, godless world.

After three years, he’s finally arrived to the familiar cliffs. And yeto every step he takes is new – not a single soul greets him, not a sound soothes his approach. The valley he’s walking through reeks of death.

His feet carry him along the familiar path, through whatever impression remains of it. His feet are numb enough not to feel the press of the jagged edges of fallen rock, but his heart still feels the ache at seeing the beauty of Mrtyunamjvalah shattered to pieces.

He isn’t sure what he’s hoping to achieve by pressing on. It’s dangerous, and it’s clear he won’t find a living soul in the temple. The monks who have survived the ritual would have scattered across the land – perhaps attempting to continue with their former lives, perhaps finding a new purpose. Qiao Xiu thinks that, but his feet still carry him to the face of the cliff where the entrance is carved.

Perhaps there will be some clues inside, of where they have gone. Perhaps Qiao Xiu can still find his friend.

The symmetry of the temple is broken, the carvings torn up by wear of what feels like a century. The courtyard is in equal disarray, the flying bridges collapsed onto the ground, and Qiao Xiu has to carefully navigate his way through the rubble to reach the temple itself, silently mourning the loss of centuries of tradition.

A piece catches his attention, and he crouches down to look at the familiar symbol. The crescent moon and its shadow, two parts of one whole, lie on the ground at Qiao Xiu’s feet, moss half-concealing them. Qiao Xiu grabs the shard, unable not to. It’s warm with the half-day sun, and he clutches it tightly in his palm, tears prickling in the back of his throat.

He walks further.

The ritual would have taken place in the lower chambers, but Qiao Xiu is drawn up. The stairs he can see are all blocked, and he has to climb the outer wall, small stones slipping from under his boots and making him cling to the surviving carvings. The shikhara towers above him, still almost intact, its shadow concealing an opening in the roof.

He steps into the small room, and his breath is taken away.

There is a figure inside, peaceful, so lifelike that for a moment Qiao Xiu thinks he’s found someone living in this temple of death.

It’s Kalidasa, and Qiao Xiu takes a hurried step forward before realizing the truth.

It’s Kalidasa, sitting in lotus pose on the floor, his face peaceful and eyes closed. But his skin and clothing are covered in a silvery substance, and there is no breath in his lungs.

It’s Kalidasa, and it’s the remnants of the leyline Mrtyunamjvalah was built on, fused into one in a final act of service to the Twin Gods.

Qiao Xiu falls to his knees, hands reaching out and not daring to touch the fragile statue.

There is an inkling of a smile on its face when the wind tears through the small room. The image scatters in a flurry of silver dust, and Qiao Xiu reaches out to catch them with a cry.

The particles cling to his skin, glistening and trembling, and Qiao Xiu wishes the mirage has kept its form a bit longer, even if he knows it was already a miracle it’s stayed intact as long as it has to greet old Mrtyunamjvalah’s final visitor.

Leyline dust flies up with the wind, its glow blinding in the rays of the sun, and Qiao Xiu weeps.

The ghost of Kalidasa’s cold hands and warm smile fades away, and Mrtyunamjvalah falls silent

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