Over one thousand kilometers west of Nepal, in the green forests which ever protect the rising mountainous shield for Tibet; wanders a young man. His hair falls as a tarnished blonde, soiled with mud, dirt and blood. His skin, once tender—now dark and burnt from when the sun had touched upon him during long months of travel. Feet bare upon sharp rocks, cracked and bloodied, swollen from the miles he had traveled—weathered by the harsh seasons around him. His chest practically naked to the elements as his kashaya robes wore down to their last threads. The rich orange they had been leached by the sun and it slid from one shoulder to hang down like an antarasavaka. Too delirious with hunger and dehydration to pull it back up, the man; Shaka walks on. Clenched in his dirty hands is a japa mala, where countless mantras were whispered from his cracked lips upon one hundred and eight beads. Eyes closed, he trudged with heavy feet, thumbing each bead to burnished amber; and it shone pure in comparison to Shaka's depraved body.

How long had it been since last he ate, since last he sipped water? Equally long had it been since he stopped wandering—since he had simply slept. But still Shaka denied this presence of necessity; for here his stomach would not be strong enough for the leaves he might reach, nor grew any nuts to pry apart. Though the further north he climbed and the colder it got—no snow touched the greenery used to such harsh climate for him to melt in his trembling hands to drink.

Shaka listened in to his surroundings; his mind expands outward in an attempt to grasp at the life that may be around him. He takes the mind of a small bird, and his material body stumbles upon a rock when he focuses on feeding weak little hatch-lings a meager regurgitated meal. And soon his consciousness flees even this small creature to a wood worm burrowed in dry bark, and his mind is overcome with the simplicity of this existence; gnawing on wood until eventually he is scooped out by the claw of some tiny mammal, and it is his death in this small creature that makes his breath flit from his concave chest and finally topple over a fallen branch. His body is so thin that his fall hardly makes a sound—his breath shallow, thin with oxygen and hardly sustaining. Lying in the dirt, decaying leaves—even then he does not open his eyes; and the thought of his own death from his extreme asceticism does not cross his mind.

From the thin scrub of forest underbrush, comes the rustling and snuffling of a large creature. Its presence had gone undetected in Shaka's extremely weak state. A tiger, brilliantly orange with its black stripes making blazing path to its creamy underbelly emerges. The tiger's movements would surely have gone undetected regardless of Shaka's awareness, the master predator that it was. There is a gleam in the tigers eyes when it's lips pull back, tasting the air around Shaka who remains prone on the ground. His face is turned towards the creature—but he makes no indication of fear.

"Is it not but the circle of life…?"

Shaka asks it, and the tiger swivels its ears in interest towards the rasping sound. Meandering slowly its way to the man whom lies in its path, the creature looms over Shaka's deteriorated body, muscled powerfully and certainly not lacking as the human was. The tiger leans down slowly, whiskers flaking off the crusted dirt along Shaka's cheek—and it's as he feels a wet, warm nose pressing into a vein in the side of his neck that he finally loses his senses completely..

"In the mountains there is a temple; Mu of the Mystics resides there. It is said that Mu can heal or repair anything; even a broken human like you…"

Shaka's eyes slowly open, beholding the bright eyed tiger sitting regal on its haunches and looking down on him. Even with his blurred vision, Shaka sees the tiger's maw move as though it is speaking, and he thinks to himself that his eyes—unused to working now as they were must surely be playing tricks on him.

"I can take you there, if you so desire."

The tiger's voice rolls deep and gravely, leaning towards Shaka and looking into his cerulean eyes.

"Things of the material world are but insubstantial visual manifestations… Surely you are a hallucination…"

"I am afraid not, wandering monk. Even should you close your eyes again, I still will be here."

Though he closes his eyes anyways—it is not out of disbelief but habit as he slowly awakens back to his senses. Shaka tries to get up on arms and legs too weak and is sent crashing again into the uneven earth. A long time does Shaka lay on the ground, almost like he had given up until once more the press of a cold nose is on his shoulder. Hot air pulsing over him from the big cats muzzle as it smelled him.

"Death hangs over you not, you cannot die here, it is not your fate."

Shaka quakes at the deep voice washing over him, a prophesizing tiger willing to become his temporary guardian and guide of the wilderness.

"The sun is bright here, but the further north we trek the colder it shall become. You will require my warmth and my strength, human. There is no shame in accepting aid."

A warm nose and whiskered muzzle is nudging beneath his arm, its large head forcing itself beneath the crook of his shoulder and lifting Shaka's upper body partially off the ground. Pained breathing creaks from weak lungs at the effort. But Shaka respond to the urging, stiffening his arm around the Tiger's neck and struggling to his knees. Both arms clinging now about the tiger, his face pressed into the musty coat of the great cat—warm and filled with powerful life. The tiger rises up, and with him comes Shaka onto his shaky, blistered feet.

"Many physical ailments you possess, but it would have been those in your heart and mind which might have brought your downfall.."

The tiger surmises honestly to the dying human whom leaned heavily upon its shoulder and head. Its paws languidly padding step by step on the ground while Shaka dragged onwards with it. It knew there was very little time left to the fair human if the mystics help was not sought—no regular human could do anything for the monk now. But the sun was going down, their uphill battle slowing even as the light dimmed and temperatures dropped. Shaka's skin did not tighten with it—his body so defenseless and weak. Pathetic to the predator which was forced to stop their progress, lowering its massive head to allow Shaka to slide to the ground. That was where he collapsed and curled into himself. The man said nothing, but the tiger knew he was thinking of his own death; the one which the tiger would not let come about. Letting out a huffed cough, the tiger stretched out along Shaka's front, hooking a paw over the curled up man and pushing him into its hot belly. Its skin and fur covered the thin frame almost completely—masking the weak scent from the world, warming him, protecting him whilst curled around him entirely.

The tiger did not sleep while Shaka seemed dead to the world; awaking him was difficult, slow and almost painful for him to move. So still the tiger had to lick at his joints to help his blood continue to sluggishly flow and circulate so he could unfold. Shaka was a mess at this point—there was no use and trying to make him stand. The most he could do was wind his arms about the tiger's neck and be dragged along. The weakness of humans almost disgusted the creature—who took it upon itself to rescue the man (for reasons it did not entirely know either).

"I do not know why, but you cannot die here. Just a little longer, child."

It tried to urge him to remain awake; Shaka only moaned in reply and licked his dry lips in vain. They traveled up the mountainside—leaving all that might have been deciduous and edible for scarce and sharp conifers. The air was thin and crisp with a bone chilling breeze. It was dry up the mountain however, and any shrubbery was tough—whatever animals survived up here would be even tougher.

Around a bend in the mountain side, rocks crumbling down the peak in their wake; they came across a temple. A patch of tough grass in the clearing and thistle brushes sporadic before it. The temple was domed in many places—and the pillars were made of clean limestone. Before the steps leading up into the darkness of the palace, stood two great rams. Their horns curled thick and heavy on their heads. The tiger was forced to halt before them when they stomped up to him, shoulder to shoulder, horns lowered and steam bursting in loud huffs from their noses. Their thick wool an able armor, and their horns easily incapacitating.

The stare down lasted but a minute before a cool voice calls to the rams quietly; the sound lingers on a sweetly smelling breeze.

"Do not posture so, my friends."

An apparent man seems to step from the temple, wearing a thick cangpao, and woolen boots to fend off the chill. The sleeve usually worn long was cut, but remained just long enough for Mu to hide their other hand in it for additional warmth. The rams part a small ways and turn towards the creature with lilac hair and two regal dark dots upon their brow. Mu's lashes were thick and lowered in contemplation of the tiger.

"Why does one so great travel all this way?"

Mu asks of the tiger, and in reply it crouches to the ground and lowers his head so Shaka may collapse to the ground. This elicits no reaction from Mu, who only casts sad emerald eyes onto the beaten body.

"I have come this way in the company of this human, Shaka; with the request that you help him."

Mu's eyes shut in a relaxed nature, as though unconcerned.

"Tis true that I may heal those that come to me, but death cannot be undone."

"He is not dead!" The Tiger roars, canines bared and its nose and forehead wrinkled back in its anger.

"Perhaps not, but he is at its door. Why do you endeavor so desperately to save this human man?"

The tiger cast its golden gaze on the dying man, Shaka's senses lost and no longer exactly with them in the world. Deep in a coma as his body attempts one last time to save him by slowing down all functions in his body.

"There are things in life he has yet to see, experience, and understand. Every human deserves that, if they must see the horrors of their created world—so surely they must see the joys of ours. He cannot die with terror in his heart, and alone. If you will not heal him, at least let him die peacefully, and in good company."

The tigers vehemence was touching, and it made Mu wonder just what had happened to Shaka that put him in such a condition. However, Mu remains silent in thought, opening intrigued eyes and looking fully upon the man. Finally, they step with all grace towards the two and smiles at them in benevolence.

"I will do as you ask, do not be angry my friend. Your wish is selfish in all the right ways; so do not worry, I will aid him."

The tiger lets lose a deep rumble, the rolling growl from his chest a relieved sigh.

"Your journey must surely have been trying, please make yourself at home; but do not hurt my companions or you shall no longer be welcomed here."

Mu says this amicably enough while kneeling to roll the monk over onto his back. The crease in Mu's brow is telling; helping Shaka would be hard… A hand on Shaka's shallow cheeks told Mu of a rapidly falling temperature. Sliding down to touch gently upon the vital artery in his neck; Mu feels a very faint, frantic heartbeat. Letting out a soft sigh; Mu carefully enfolds Shaka in their arms—lifting him and walking smoothly up and into the temple. The gait was inhuman with how Shaka was never jostled or shifted in any way.

The entirety of the temple was rather Spartan, but for the nests of soft leaves and brush which had been gathered in mounds around pillars or in corners of the places they passed. In some of these lay slender does with soft eyes and wiggling curious noses. A Ram or two roaming the aisle of rooms or niches where the deer bedded down or cared for their yearlings. Sometimes a woolly female counterpart of the rams in their company, bleating at their own unruly young. In this shrine, Mu protected these gentle creatures from their own male counterparts and predators. The few males here were solely the rams, mated already to the few females living here and only cautious old stags were allowed in this sanctuary with permission.

Mu has a stuffed cot enshrined amongst the creatures of the forest which lived with them. Though most stayed clear of this sole possession—the room had a few bird nests tucked within corners or along shelves which lay dusted with silvery bottles, scrolls and books alike. Their songs were a constant comfort to Mu, and those which stayed in the nests were silent when their companion entered with a barely breathing human. Scarcely had Mu set him on the cot before hovering over a shoulder appeared a bubbling young child, with fiery hair and the brightest smile.

"Master Mu, we have company?" The boy asks in excitement, his loud voice does not disturb the sleeping blond so Mu says nothing.

"This particular human is very ill, Kiki." Mu tells the child, who had been drifting comfortably in the air behind Mu and staring at the man. This makes the boy wilt to the ground and crawl forward to gaze at Shaka intently.

"Will he be alright?"

Mu is watching Shaka when Kiki asks this, deep in thought about it; for Shaka was very ill of his own doing. If he had been more careful, if he had only thought about what his actions would bring..

"He is a rather pitiable child."

Mu speaks low, putting a hand on Shaka's hot forehead and pushing back his bangs.

"Well, we haven't much time Kiki; I need a few things from you." The boy was buoyant once again, his energy restored at being put to work. "First I require a bowl of hot water one of cool water, many clean cloths and a pitcher. Bring these here, to me and then begin a broth for us." For a time Mu stares down at Shaka. "Chicken stock, I suppose." Is the next utterance, in which Kiki nods before a dim flash of light heralds his teleportation into another level of the temple.

The Tiger that had arrived with Shaka then enters the chambers without pause for the companion it aided here; favoring to paw at a space across from the cot to lie and watch from. Slowly it lowers its regal head onto massive paws, burning eyes watching every move Mu makes. As of then, the pale creature was simply untucking Shaka's tangled hair from beneath him, rolling it out to be tendered to later. Moving from there, Mu began to pull apart the thread worn shambles of Shaka's clothes.

"Judging from this frock, he is a Buddhist monk from far away. Is he not?"

Mu asked of the tiger, but took its silence as assent.

"Ai, he surely will be angry but hopefully can forgive the steps taken to revive him. And if not, you conveniently shall be here to take the blame."

The Tiger grunts at Mu, rolling its eyes and instead focuses on the golden glow radiating from the tip of Mu's index finger. Curious as any cat when this one finger is used to cut cleanly down the length of the frock at Shaka's waist to his ankles. Pulling away all the cloth without any blood—the cut even, clean; and Shaka laid bare.

"How pathetic these creatures are." Says the tiger, looking dully upon the bruised and battered body. Mu is moved as well, and hovers a hand above a terrible sun burn over Shaka's chest. Not touching, he allows his eyes to spy the bruises along his legs from the harsh travel, to his worn blistered feet, and revealed a form so malnourished that his ribs could be seen.

"Indeed."

Mu stands and approaches the many shelves lining one wall and removes from it a quaint wooden box. Mu unties the swathes holding it shut—within are neatly rolled bandages wrapped in sturdy lotus leaves and a knife cased in a leather throng.

In select corners of the room and out of the way were plants particularly useful to Mu. The one they approached was a spry aloe plant, of which a long leaf close to the base was selected and cut gently close to the stalk. Mu brings the long slender remedy of a plant to their mouth and kisses its flat top, whispering softly into the thick skin apologies and thanks. Alongside the bandages the plant is laid and from the shelf is soon joined by a very small silver chalice. A bamboo cork stopper keeping it tightly sealed.

Kiki returns loyally and eyes the simple set up of remedies. Setting down his precariously balanced load on the ground beside the cot.

"Humans are not plates of metal for which to be hammered at and sprinkled with precious metals and dusts from the endless cosmos, Kiki. They are fragile, and their bodies so easily shocked."

Mu intones wisely, guessing at what Kiki was thinking. The boy blushes in embarrassment and scratches his chin.

"I'm sorry Master Mu, I'm just worried about him. That's all."

Mu's eyes shift from the pained face of the monk onto the apprentice, and a brief expression of adoration flits across the usually reserved mask. The look overjoys Kiki, who bounces high up into the air.

"I'll go cook now! Is there anything special you want added to the stock?"

"Nothing more than mugwort, Kiki. If Shaka is fighting off some internal infection that I have not detected yet—it would be best to withhold zinc and iron from his body else we help whatever may try and take root herein."

"Yes, Master!" And once again, Mu was left amongst the birds, the tiger, and Shaka.

Taking up a soft rag he dips it in the warm water and rings it out; Mu is gentle when cleansing Shaka's face. Softly patting mud and blood away until only a sun burnt face is left twisted with pain. A very unbecoming expression, Mu thinks when their hand wipes delicately along his neck and shoulders, cleaning gently the extensive burns.

The cloth was rinsed and ringed out dozens of times, and after Mu finished washing Shaka's tender chest and abdomen; the water was too dirty for further use. By now, Shaka's body heat had skyrocketed, and a small fever was working its way up. Mu eased Shaka's discomfort with a cold rag upon his head from the other bowl of water beside them; having had time to cool further. The rest of the monks' body was cleaned this way. A fresh, soft towel rubbing soft circles against his hips and thighs—turned inside out, refolded, dipped and pressed against Shaka's testis. As Mu bathed this area, no amount of soft fondling warranted a reaction. Shaka's body remained uninterested, the soft organ flaccid even when the foreskin was pulled back and cleaned out thoroughly.

"So weak and cold his body is… So little circulation."

Mu sighs to the tiger when taking up one last clean towel and washing Shaka's legs of grime. This was how Kiki came to him, a bowl steaming and an ivory spoon resting against the lip of the bowl. He sets it by the bed to cool; the tiger sniffs at the scent of chicken, but loses interest when catching a whiff of the bitter mugwort within.

"Kiki, leave that there momentarily and come help me."

Kiki bounds over and helps pull the bowl of water aside so Mu can sit cross legged with Shaka's legs hooked over their hips. Kiki helps cautiously push Shaka into a sitting position so that Mu may pull him to rest gently against their chest. Kiki dips and rings out the cloth for Mu and hands it to his master, while picking one up himself. Diligent and carefully Kiki rubs between Shaka's shoulder blades until the skin shines brightly through, but he's more cautious where the burns are worse. Mu is cleaning more gently at the cleft of his buttocks and lower back until the man is deemed reasonably clean.

"Now what, master?"

Kiki asks with intrigue as he disposes of the dirtied rags, including the one that had fallen to the floor when they had moved Shaka. The man now currently had his freshened face pressed into the crook of Mu's neck. His breath humid against the pallid flesh, and feather light.

"Sheets."

Mu speaks crisply, sounding slightly strained for some reason while Kiki laid down a fresh quilt for Shaka. Mu is cradling his head and neck gently when leaning forward to lay him down. Kiki lays a small cloth square over his hips to cover his nudeness; finding it only polite while Mu turns to the aloe leaf; cutting off the thorny sides and splitting it evenly—the gel within is scooped out and placed in generous dots along his shoulders. With nimble fingers, Mu gently spreads it along those burns.

"His back will just have to do without, for now…"

Mu tells the curious Kiki when the same ministrations are applied to his chest. The leaf all used up and thinly stretched.

"Kiki, will you apply the zheng gu shui while I wash up?"

Kiki takes the silver chalice and a swath of bandages, ripping a small square off from the cloth and staining it with the dark, potent smelling bruise medication. This he dabs along the various stages of bruising found on Shaka's body. The sensation if he'd been awake would have been cooling and soothing just like the pure aloe vera was, if but a tad itchy.

Mu came back with clean hands and lilac tresses scrapped back more severely from his face. The bowl of broth is picked up along their way before coming to kneel by Shaka. The spoon is warm where it rested in the soup—but wouldn't burn Shaka when touching his lips, just as the soup wouldn't burn when being ingested. But as Mu soon found out—that would hardly matter, as even the smallest spoonful could not go down Shaka's throat. No matter how Mu tipped his head, it leaks softly from his lips and the nutrients wasted. Mu's sigh was one of defeat when lifting the bowl to their own lips this time; holding the bitter broth in their mouth before leaning down to press their lips against Shaka's chapped tiers, Mu cupped his face so that their thumb could softly part Shaka's lips to trickle the broth in whilst the other hand massaged gently at his throat; facilitating swallowing until all the broth exchanged mouths and disappeared into Shaka.

Kiki was amazing when Mu pulled back, holding the back of their hand to their mouth to wipe excesses away.

"The monk is like a little baby bird."

Mu smiles in a rather amused fashion while taking up the bowl again for more broth, and Kiki stays to watch the way Mu tenderly coaxes Shaka into drinking it down. And by the time the bowl is mostly empty, Mu's lips are stained a soft pink along with their cheek bones, their eyelids heavily lidded as well. It was hard work to pour in so much devotion and patience for healing, not to mention the ki and cosmos Mu tried to gather around Shaka.

"We must watch over him carefully now, Kiki. For every hour is an hour he will spend fighting. Alongside him we must also fight, fight to keep him alive.."

Any and all reviews are welcome; most especially constructive criticism please. If you do not like the story-please don't bother telling me. I don't much care.

If you're confused, or have some questions; please ask me and I will definitely get back to you if you aren't anonymous.

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed,

Daedric