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The sound of bone crunching under Wukong’s cudgel had filled him with something far beyond pride. The crumpled body on the ground was the product of absolute violence, the kind of knockdown dragout fight he longed for. He had done that. He was a powerhouse.
His gaze is vibrating, his breath coming hard as he places his boot on Macaque’s corpse, pressing into his chest as he drags the staff free, wiggling it with a wet crack before it wrenches loose, coming out of the mash. Red soaked bone drops from the end and Monkey King gives the cudgel a shake, flicking the meat from the end. He grimaces.
Monkey King hadn’t felt nauseous at the sight of blood before. Gone now was the rush of winning, the heat in his chest as he stood over his ruin, proven again to be the most powerful, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. In its place, a wrenching took hold. His stomach turned, ice in his throat as he turned back to the form he’d left in the dirt. His eyes flick over the blood— so, so, so much blood- and he feels fear settle in.
“Macaque.” The word leaves him soft, voice raw as he rests the cudgel to the ground, moving forward, to the body. “Macaque,” He repeats, his voice unsteady, worried, “C’mon— get up.” Why isn’t he listening? Why isn’t he moving? Monkey’s knees hit the bloody dirt, soaking into his slacks as he grabs the other’s robes, shaking him, “You’re not being funny.”
From a distance, the display is almost too much to watch, but impossible to look away from. The car crash of Wukong’s emotions was well under way and as the smaller monkey draws his best friend to his arms, the group winces at his scream.
Wukong was predisposed to tantrums. He’d yell, stomp his feet, sling insults, all in the name of getting what he wants. He’d hollar, scream, swing his staff, and fuss, his needs unmet and his anger unmatched. This was no comparison to the gutteral sound he unleashes at his loss. His claws clutch the soaked fabric, his tears spilling over his cheeks, mixing with the red as he wails, ending in an agonized scream. Birds nearby disperse, the call of crows overhead, mixing with the sobs that chase that awful sound.
His form shudders against the body in his arms, his voice raw as he whimpers for Macaque, slowly cupping pieces of the other’s skull, his brains, pushing his head back together. Zhu Bajie is the first to move, coming to Monkey King’s side, starting to take his arms, “Monkey— c’mon, you gotta let go,” The words are gentle, trying to coax his big brother from the corpse. Slowly, Monkey releases the body, almost distant as he stands with the other, unmoving where he stands.
It’s Wujing next, coming to help move Wukong, taking a bloodied hand and drawing him away, intercepting his view. Only then do the Sage’s eyes meet his Master’s. Golden Cicada’s gaze is soft, apologetic, a loving stare that spoke millions. It showed understanding. An ache.
When they meet, Wukong is drawn into those arms, staining those beautiful tapestries with the blood of his darling. He sobs, soft, quiet. Surrounded by his family, in the arms of his beloved master, Wukong felt the kind of loneliness they write tragedies about.