Crossings

By Eline (Kanzeon on ff.net)

Note-type-thingies: This is a little bit AU . . . as in a small side-track off the main timeline.

Warnings: Violence, cussing, nasty stuff, etc, etc . . .

Worn-out disclaimer: I own nothing and fanfic is copyright infringement, I know, but it's not like I make any money out of it . . .

Timeline: A little while before Sanzo found Goku.

* * * * * * * * * *

Picking on the youth who dressed like a monk had been, in retrospect, a mistake. They normally preyed on lone travellers because they were less likely to be trouble. That boy had been more than just *trouble*--drunk or not, monk or not . . . He had been hell on two feet before they had got lucky enough to land a blow on him. Kuro would probably lose his leg. A messy, messy business . . .

The gunshot had been a near thing. But fortunately, it could be explained away to startled guests as thunder shaking up some of the sheet metal roofing out back.

Rifling through the hardly priest-like boy's belongings in the safety of his small back-office behind the kitchens, the stout innkeeper reflected that it had not been worth the bother. The brat had not been carrying that much cash. Some funny roll of paper, odds and ends like writing materials and spare slippers. At least the gun was a quality piece . . .

His questing hand found something solid in the bundle. Dragging out the weighty cloth-wrapped object, he spent a moment or two undoing the meticulously tied knots and pulled out--

A gold diadem, by the gods . . . By the weight and feel of the heavy circlet, it was nothing less than solid gold.

Lu'dan the innkeeper was a pragmatist who counted his losses and gains in cold, hard coinage. Lu'dan was also not above cheating his own men. There was no need for any of them to know that they had caught a larger fish than they had expected.

He thrust the diadem back into its wrappings swiftly as the footsteps of his lieutenant Shibun reached the door.

"Boss? Was it worth it?" the skinny, hawkish man enquired.

Lu'dan snorted and gestured to the boy's scanty belongings. "Hardly. How is Kuro?"

"Gave him the strongest stuff we had--he's going to be out of it soon." Shibun glared down at the limp body on the floor. They had dragged him down here because they could not risk disposing of the body so soon with awake guests around. "Pretty boy's still alive? That can be fixed . . . Boss, we wouldn't mind making him a lot less pretty."

Lu'dan looked down at the youth, noting the delicate features under the shock of blonde hair. His men had to be appeased, but there were other possibilities that could entertained. "Tie him up and throw him in the shed at the back. Try not to break his face in while you're at it."

"You mean . . ."

"He's young. Kyoba'll pay for hair and eyes like that."

Shibun started to grin unpleasantly. Kyoba the flesh-trader operated in the relatively lawless north, but he did come by or send men down occasionally to pick up anything Lu'dan just happened to have lying around. It was an infinitely more profitable way of getting rid of any inconvenient victims. None of those Lu'dan sold north ever came back.

* * * * * * * * * *

Sanzo knew what hangovers were. They were the natural result of piling strong liquor on top of beer. Waking up to a hangover and a throbbing pain in his head was unpleasant to say the least. Waking up with all the above combined with several dozen aches and pains all over the place was just another day in the life of Genjo Sanzo, seventeen-years old and hating every moment he was delayed in his search by morons who thought that they could kick him around.

He groaned involuntarily as the lump on his skull reminded him of the events of last night--

It would have been lucky for him if they had just kicked him around. No, he had fallen off the stairs, drunk as a skunk and incapable of shooting straight. And then they had probably kicked him around for fun.

Opening his eyes with some effort, he confronted his current surroundings warily. Darkness--no, dimness surrounded him. The air smelt musty--some kind of storeroom? There was light coming through a small barred window set high in up in the wall opposite him.

So they had not chucked him into the river or killed him straight off. The only people who had made such a mistake were all dead now. Sanzo generally saw to that . . . if only his arms were not bound behind him with something that felt like wire.

They had also ripped the hem of his robe and gagged him with it. And there were dried tracks of blood on his face that itched--the fall must have grazed his temple. He was propped up against the stone wall of this small room and when he tried to test his limbs despite the agony it caused, he found that his left ankle had been chained firmly to a steel ring set in the floor, effectively anchoring him to one spot.

They were not about to underestimate him again.

Through the blinding pain and the mounting urge to retch, Sanzo cursed himself or being nine kinds of a fool. He had been unforgivably careless. All because of one stupid storm . . .

His body managed to work up a few dry heaves--he had not eaten enough to produce a spectacular mess. Which was a good thing because he would have choked on his own vomit with the gag in the way.

The nausea passed and he forced himself to focus on something else besides his injuries and current state of dehydration. A useful technique he knew to distance his mind from his physical discomforts also provided him with a way to suss out his immediate surroundings to a certain degree. Awareness of himself faded back and was replaced by sensations of another kind. The room . . . shed . . . was largely empty except for himself and the musty rushes on the floor. He strained his limited resources a little more and found the faint traces of life beyond the wall. Humans were not as easy to sense as youkai--they . . . *emanated* a lot less. He was still within the inn compound--there were people moving just outside. And he doubted that any of them would help him--the fact that he had been attacked on the stairs and locked up in here meant that the innkeeper was aware of the going-ons in his inn and perhaps even in-charge of the crooked operations here.

He gradually became aware of noises just outside. Movement and voices, coming closer. The inn's servants? Or perhaps the not-so-honest landlord--

"Stupid hag . . . do something useful . . . That brat in the shed--get going!" Definitely the landlord. Ordering about the drudges, no doubt.

The door creaked open and a stooped figure bearing a basin of some sort slunk in.

Sanzo had a brief glimpse of the courtyard outside before the door closed again, leaving him in the semi-darkness with the shadowy shape. Whatever it was, it barely made a sound as it crossed the floor slowly towards him.

He could tell that it was female, but barely recognisable as such. She was thin--no, bony because she was not young. Her hair was a rather colourless shade that could have been dirty straw or mousy brown before it had faded with time. It hung down in some places over her face, obscuring her features. The innkeeper's woman from last night.

"So . . . you're the one Lu'dan netted last night." It was a dry, disconcertingly cold voice. Sanzo found himself wanting very much to inch away from the old crone as she plunked the basin down and squatted right beside him. She hauled his head up and peered into his eyes for a moment before ripping the gag off. "You look like they dragged you down the stairs backwards."

Still reeling from the pain that all that movement caused, Sanzo certainly *felt* that way. He probably looked worse--his skin tended to bruise easily.

Up close, the woman was not as old as he had originally supposed. About forty, but prematurely ageing. Her greying appearance could be attributed to her drab clothing and faded hair. She attacked his face none too gently with a washrag, mopping away the dried tracks of blood from his forehead. "Huh--it's only a flesh wound . . . Nothing you'd die of. Now, what was it that knocked you out . . . Ah."

Bony fingers found the lump on his skull and he almost yelled when she prodded it.

"That's a fine goose-egg you've got there, boy," she said almost cheerfully. "Got no ointment for it though, so you'll just have to grin and bear it for now."

Suppressing the urge to wince because he could not escape her ministrations, Sanzo bore the indignity in silence as she slapped a pad of cloth over the wound on his temple and held it in place with a few strips of bandages.

"You're lucky to be alive. Most of those he robbed wind up as sausage filling," the woman said. "Or maybe not . . . He's keeping you alive after all."

"Should I be asking why?" Sanzo asked sarcastically even though his mouth felt like a desert at the moment. He was privately relieved that he had not touched any of the meat dishes.

"He's thinking of selling you to Kyoba the flesh-trader. Because you're such a pretty boy . . ." Callused fingertips caught his chin and turned his face gently. "So very pretty."

He twisted away from her grasp with a snarl. "Go get your fucking entertainment elsewhere, bitch. Do you get off on other people who are worse off than you?"

"Such a nasty tongue--I heard Kyoba cuts out the tongues if his merchandise doesn't co-operate . . ." Her smile was bitter. "I pity you, boy. But I never gloat." She reached out again to touch his hair.

"Get your stinking hands off. You don't get enough prick from your husband?" he hissed. "Why am I not surprised?"

Her mouth widened into a dreadful parody of a grin as she grabbed his hair and hauled him to face her. There was only hatred in those cloudy eyes. Hatred that had been honed needle-fine by time into something cold and inhumanly focussed. But worst of all, he could tell that there was nothing remotely maniacal behind that twisted facade. She was frighteningly sane despite her ranting.

"You really are a nasty little boy--there's nothing I'd like more than to slit the throat of my *husband* from ear to ear . . . and he knows it. No husband of mine, boy," she rasped in his face, bequeathing the unpleasant scent of what was probably a rotting molar or two on him at close quarters. "Do you know how long it took for me to become ugly enough to disgust that pig?" That awful rictus again as she bared her teeth. "Oh, I was pretty once. So pretty . . . like you. But being pretty gets you in trouble . . . as you know now."

She released him and patted his hair back in place as though nothing had happened. "So you just be a good boy and behave. We'll make your stay here as nice as possible . . . And don't bother yelling--this is the too far away from the inn for the customers to hear you."

* * * * * * * * * *

Lu'dan looked up from his tally-books when the door to the back-office creaked open. There was a reason why he did not oil the hinges to his rooms anymore. The reason for this particular habit shuffled in in her dark threadbare robes and old clogs. The innkeeper wondered for the thousandth time just what trouble he had heaped on his own head for marrying the old shrew back when she had been presentable.

"Well?" he barked to cover his unease. The presence of Shibun outside his door was one mitigating factor that allowed him to speak with the mad woman during the day. While he spoke, his eyes automatically roamed about to make sure that there were no sharp pens or sharp objects of any description within easy reach. "The brat will live?"

"More than enough for you to sell him off," she said. So she was coherent today at least. "He could have concussion, internal injures . . . who knows? He could drop dead as long as he does it after Kyoba buys him and that's all that matters, isn't it, dear?"

"Shut up, old woman," the innkeeper snapped, more out of habit than anything else. "Feed the damn brat and keep him quiet."

"Yes, dear," she said with a smirk that he did not trust in the least.

"And stay away from the kitchens during operating hours--the sight of you unnerves everyone!" Not to mention the last time she had tried to poison his food. It would have been easier to get rid of her if he had not married her so publicly all those years ago. Most of his staff was wary of her and she had the drudges running scared.

"Whatever you wish, husband dear."

"Get out," Lu'dan snarled. No, he could not trust her and her peculiar moods. One would think that a woman could be happy with her lot when she was married and had a comfortable life, but no, not that bitch. She *would* go about like she was in perpetual mourning and de-scale fish all day long to spite him when he offered her the life of a prosperous businessman's wife.

But he did sigh with relief when she was gone. It had not been that long ago since the time she had tried to poison his pen nibs . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

Keeping awake while the old woman had been in the shed had been tiring--all Sanzo wanted to do was sink back into the blackness and rest. But that would probably cost him in the end--he had to be aware and ready, should any chance for escape present itself.

So far, he was out of luck. The old woman had came back once more with water and porridge--which she left within easy reach if he really wanted to bend and lap it up like a dog because she had not bothered to untie him.

Hunger and thirst won out around midday--if his reading of the patch of light from the window was accurate. Besides, he reasoned to himself, he needed to conserve his energy and he was weaker than a kitten at this point.

And then there were the annoying dizzy spells that struck without warning. He had almost blacked out the last time he had bent over the damned water bowl.

The need for his battered body to recuperate won over all his mental protests eventually and he dropped into a light doze towards the evening.

He was roused much later by the slightest scrape of wood against stone. Alert by force of habit, he kept his breathing even and tried to discern his latest visitor from the shadows. It was past sunset and he was saved from complete darkness by the waxing moon and a relatively cloudless night.

The innkeeper's woman emerged as silently as before. She was not wearing her clogs and in one hand, she held a pair of unusually sharp knitting needles. Sanzo tensed up to shift himself as much as he could in his trussed up state. Perhaps he had been wrong in the assessment of her overall sanity--

But she bent over his ankle with the needles and started to prod at the padlock.

It did not take her too long to work the tumblers in the lock around. Next, she produced a set of rusty but functional wire-cutters and sliced his bonds apart. His arms were numb from being restrained. Movement . . . hurt.

Sanzo gritted his teeth and flexed his arms. His training had ensured that his cramped muscles would recover fairly quickly. The pins-and-needles sensation told him that blood was returning to his limbs. Now if only the pain from all the bumps and bruises would fade away so quickly . . .

A clay jug was shoved his way. Water--clean and extremely welcome at the moment. Now was not the time to argue with his parched throat.

"Hurry up and drink." The old woman held out a small bundle of something that might have been provisions as she spoke in a low tone. "Take it and go down to the dock. You should be able to get a boat and escape," she said curtly. In the dimness of the shed, she definitely seemed more or less normal. It occurred to him that the madwoman-act by day could cover up a startling amount of competency when no one else was around.

"You really must despise your husband," he muttered when his throat no longer felt like a desert. An ally at this stage was . . . unexpected, but he would not throw away a chance like this.

"Spiting him is my hobby until the day I get close enough to cut his throat," she said. "Hurry up. I have a copy of the gate key here." And what she showed him was indeed a copy--painstakingly shaped from what could have been a scrap of metal roof sheeting. It seemed that she had kept herself rather busy over the years . . .

An unused key. She would not leave until her whatever vengeance she held close to her heart was satisfied.

"I'm not leaving without my things."

"Fool. Kyoba could come along at any time and you'll be worse than dead if he brings you up north. Do you like taking it up the ass, boy?"

"I don't intend to go anywhere with anyone." Sanzo tested his balance gingerly by standing up with the aid of the wall. Fuck it all . . . He was still getting dizzy spells that made his vision swim. "Listen, do you want revenge on that man or something?"

"Why, yes." She cocked her head to one side and raise done eyebrow sceptically. "Are you saying that you want to take on Lu'dan and his men? Shibun and the others are wondering if they could have a go at you if Kyoba says you don't have a virgin ass."

"If you haven't noticed, baba, you're not the only one who has a score to settle,"

She laughed at that. "What a little spit-fire you are. You boys like to play so much . . . Are you sure can play with the bully-boys? They play very rough."

"I can play down at that level--if I had my weapons back. At the very worst, I'll be dead," he continued, ruthlessly suppressing the thought of other, less pleasant outcomes. He would find his own way through this--even if it did kill him. "Dead and you'll have one more failed attempt on his life--but you can go on nursing your damned grudge for eternity for all I care. What's one more bitter-pill compared to what you want? Will you move, or stay still until you rot away in this stinking dung-heap waiting for another chance?"

She regarded him for a long moment. Whatever it was she was scrutinising, Sanzo supposed he would never know. "I see. You're not a very nice boy at all. I think they did underestimate you . . ."

"Then help me get my gun. And the rest of my things." Namely his master's diadem and Sutra. Most important of all, most precious of all--the only reminders of his Master and his quest. "Better yet, show me where it is and I'll--"

"Men who have nothing to fear sleep in peace. Lu'dan doesn't sleep in peace without a locked door and alert guards. After all, he's afraid I might slit him open the way I gut a fish . . . I'm not even supposed to be here. It took a few months for me to learn how to pick that lock on my room." That mirthless smile again. "And you've been roughed up too much--."

"My gun makes a large difference even if I can't stand."

"Confident, aren't you?"

"Hardly. But I will do what I set out to do. And I am going to get out of here on my terms no matter what."

There was a spark of understanding then. They both had very little left to lose.

"You can try. If you're not afraid of dying," she conceded.

"So what is *your* reason for living, baba?" he countered.

Her face was expressionless, but something else about her seemed to burn. Sanzo could sense it on the edge of his perception, burning away ceaselessly. It was an icy, cold rage that had lost all heat but none of its murderous power. "That filth . . . has killed those dear to me. This place," she said, indicating the walls around them, "was built using my dowry and the money taken from my *real* husband. All this . . . all of it because I was pretty enough to gain the attention of that filthy lump of shit." She practically spat out the last part.

"So you have a motive," he said flatly. "I wouldn't mind seeing that bastard dead, but it's none of my business as long as I can get out of this place."

The woman tilted her head in a gesture that was probably an unconscious holdover from the days when she was supposedly pretty. "Is this your idea of a bargain?"

"No. Just a suggestion because I won't guarantee anything."

"And people think I'm mad?"

"You're pathetic," he ground out. Wasting his breath on this woman was making him thirsty again and he felt another headache coming on. "You've been trying for *how* long already? Some day, you'd just be living day after day, wishing that he'd slip and break his neck. Waiting for that bastard to drop dead or die from food poisoning perhaps. I'd say you're very close to that stage, baba."

She was glaring at him now, no longer as focused and cold as before. It appeared that he had struck a nerve. "I wanted to be *alive* to spit on his grave," she hissed. "I wanted to make sure he was dead."

Ah--the old bitch was not insane after all. He could understand the need for a clean kill. That was why he always aimed for the head and chest. Very few humans and youkai could actually get up to stab you in the back after that sort of thing.

"Maybe you still can."

"I'm holding you to that, boy. How soon can you move without falling over?"

Sanzo scowled at her. If *she* could see that he was not entirely stable on his feet, then he really couldn't fool anyone at all. "Give me another day or so. And tell me the layout of this place so I won't be walking around blind."

They worked the wire into makeshift bonds that could be pulled apart in an instant but could past muster if anyone was to do a cursory check. The chain and lock on his ankle were fixed in place again and would do as long as no-one tested the padlock.

Now all they needed was a plan, which Sanzo intended to formulate around his aim of getting his Master's Sutra back.

But everybody knew what they said about the best-laid plans . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

End of Part 2.

Rating will go up because of violence, Sanzo-abuse, etc, etc . . .