Submission (#1857) Approved

Prescott hates Kyendi. It reminds him of the home he lost years before, stolen away and taken during the night. 

Prescott passes underneath an archway, the red and gold decadence pierced by the sharp ding of a wind chime. A long-forgotten memory overlays the bamboo bridge he finds himself at; the steps are worn and faded as they are now, but all he can see for a moment is freshly cut bamboo shining green and pristine. He shakes his head to clear his mind, and the rickety old bridge appears again. 

"Doing alright?" Misha asks from behind him, giving Prescott a small nudge to his rump. "Got quite a ways left to go, blossom." 

Giving a shallow kick at the elder 'nin, Prescott huffs. The bridge, when he steps on it, is as unstable as it looks. He can barely look at the couple hundred foot drop to the forest floor, making his way across on steady feet. 

They've been walking from hilltop to hilltop, the tall, rounded mountains dropping off sharply in between each peak. The ancient bridges that connect each one are in various states of decay and ruin, unused to carrying passengers across. 

Even when Prescott had lived here, recovering in the hidden monastery with his childhood illness, the bridges had made him uncomfortable. A fear of heights isn't something the monks ever directly made fun of him for, but he'd catch a stray smile or two every now and then. The faded memory of their mirth at his mortal fears makes him feel petulant, tromping across the bridges with fervent speed. 

By the time Prescott is worn out, the sun is high in the sky. The two of them have almost hit the point where the mountaintops crest the clouds, and a couple bridges are left before the tops disappear into the frothy grays entirely. 

"Shouldn't we take a break?" Prescott asks, trying not to sound too out of breath. Misha shoots him a look, not unlike those that the monks would. It's almost infuriating. "Shut up." 

"Didn't say anything, blossom," Misha says. Nonetheless, the older male throws back his flowing hair, and begins to unclip his pack. 

The mountaintop they've decided to stop at is cold and slightly humid. The rounded top has the usual small, point-tipped shelter. The red shingles hang over the side of the rectangular support structure, gold trim lining the very tips. A cursory paper lantern hangs from the west point, unlit and dangling in the wind. There are holes and pieces shredded from it. The years haven't been kind without any upkeep. 

Clearing out leaves and twigs from the bamboo flooring, Prescott begins taking off his stuff.

His wrist guards come off first, pulling the laces out with his teeth. Prescott shrugs his toolkit off of his waist as well, pulling it up and over his head. There's some water and a little bit of food left in their respective pouches. A quick tug pulls the bags from their clips, and Prescott takes a swig of the water. It tastes even better after the long walk. 

Misha always makes fun of him for them with his stupid, laughing eyes, but Prescott pulls off his boots as well. It's not his fault his pawpads are sensitive, alright? His little pile of adventuring clothing and tools is swept into the corner, and Prescott is glad to stretch out his paws. 

"Should be another hour 'til we reach the temple," Prescott tells Misha over his shoulder. The pink 'nin rolls on his haunches, stretching out his back. 

There's a crunch of leaves as Misha settles in next to him. A bit of straw-yellow hair drifts over and tickles Prescott's shoulder. 

Settling in for their quick lunch break, Prescott pulls out a rice cake. Munches on it while Misha pulls out a bit of leftover apple pie from his own pack. The 'nin has a bit of a sweet tooth that Prescott usually finds disgusting, so he just ignores Misha in favor of his own savory food.

By the time he's stuffed his face with the remaining rice cakes he had packed, Prescott feels ready to take a nap. However, they can't just stop now, when they're so close to the top of the pathway. 

Prescott looks past the chipped paint of the wooden guard rail. They're high enough now that he can just make out the floating isles off in the distance. Prescott feels nostalgia wash over him. How many times had he been racing up this same pathway to get back in time for dinner, only to stop and just stare? Despite the fear of heights that had slowly been losing its edge, a younger version of him would catch sight of the glowing shards embedded in the isles and stop, dumbfounded. 

Prescott hadn't been able to leave the monastery for very long, back then. His lungs and heart had still been trying to catch up to a normal pace after the sickness ravaged them. So he would sit there and stare off at the floating isles, feeling hopeless. Thoughts had plagued his mind, telling him he could never go that far without keeling over. 

Now, though, he finds himself thinking of all the things he's done since leaving his old home. Prescott's been to those floating islands, now, and has gone even further. From Ahza to Enmir, Prescott's been on the run for almost as long as he spent in this home, here in Kyendi. 

Misha is one of the only things recently that has made that journey bearable. 

Gearing himself up, Prescott starts putting his gear back on. The wrist guards, then the hind boots, and lastly the satchel with the pouches re-attached. Misha, having long been done with his dessert-for-lunch, is already ready to go. He has a small smile on his usually flat face, as if he can tell that Prescott is mentally prepped and is, even worse, proud for it. 

The last trek of the journey is complete within an hour, actually. The bamboo deteriorates more the further they go into the clouds, wind and rain having bore down on them over the years without upkeep.There’s a brief period where they’re being held captive by the clouds themselves, but they get past it and eventually end up above their reach. The view is, as always, still breathtaking. 

By the time they’ve reached the final, round-topped mountain top, the sun is starting to dip from its throne in the sky. The monastery itself doesn’t start at the very top, but instead greets visitors with a gateway. Two great, tall beams covered in blistering red paint stand proud, with two thinner beams running between them at the very top until they pass the width of the beams. 

The nostalgia hits him like a meteor, this time. 

Memories upon memories of sitting here at this gate rush through him, and Prescott can almost see a mini-version of himself pressed up against the pillars. The monks inviting him back in after he’s just gone for another walk to test his limits, standing guard at the gates whenever they had a traveler, the first (and last) time he tried to climb up to the top of the beams– 

Prescott presses his eyes together, hard. 

“Fucking stupid,” he whispers, shaking off the growing wetness around his eyes. Misha is a silent statue behind him. “Fuck.”

It tears through him, then; the need to make sure that the monastery really is abandoned. Just past the pillars, which stand vigil at the highest peak, a worn, cobblestone step path begins. It twirls around and around, running perpendicular to the mountainside.. Built both on the side of and into the domed mountaintop are sections of the monastery, and as Prescott fumbles onto the path, he skips all of them. Various places for mediation, a small lunch hall, the library– 

It doesn’t take long before he’s gone around and around for long and hard enough to make him dizzy. The twirling stone staircase pounds against his paws and Prescott is breathing hard, he knows, but he can’t stop until he’s completed this pilgrimage, until he’s reached his true home.

The small room tucked haphazardly into a space between two other bedrooms is hard to miss if you don’t know what you’re looking for. It wasn’t originally even there to begin with, but after receiving his comatose, prone form, the monks had quickly shoveled out a space for him to rest and recover in. Even now, it’s small. The sliding door creaks noisily as he scrabbles to throw it open, the tatami mats roughed up from rodents and bugs in their quest to burrow into it. 

The room is empty. 

Ransacked, really.

All of his valuable Dusk ruin finds have been pilfered, his old stash of food and coin completely ripped from the hidden chest in the floor. The single bed that had been his prison for one year and his comfort for 6 more was torn apart, the soft fluff from the pillows strewn about the room. 

It’s almost comforting to find it in such an odd state. If it had looked immaculate, the imagery might’ve been too much for him to bear. A sick yearning to return to better years, better times, where people loved and cared for him. Misha would understand. 

Now, though, Prescott simply slides the door shut once more, turns to Misha who's slowly catching up behind him, and sets his jaw.

“Let’s go.”