Young. So young. And yet so sharp. One could see it in the fine, high cheekbones, the prideful set of the jaw, the bright glint in violet eyes that focused intently on that which was deemed worthy of scrutiny.

Koumyou chuckled softly to himself as he watched the boy, radiant blond hair shining like a halo about his head as he went about his duties in the temple courtyard, sweeping up dead leaves and spilled sand that the wind had scattered out of the Zen garden. It seemed to him that same garden needed raking, so he stood up from his place of rest, leaving the paperwork he had been doing beforehand to tend to a duty he was rarely called upon to fulfill.

The afternoon was quiet enough that Koumyou fancied he could hear the soft crush of sand under the soles of his sandals. The bamboo rake in his hand felt both comforting and familiar, hearkening back to a day when he had drawn lots with the older disciples to decide who needed to attend to the somewhat tedious task. He had always drawn to lose, enjoying the lack of effort it took to smooth graceful, sweeping lines into the soft white sand, around the stones that stood like mountaintops rising above thick cloud.

The gentle swish of the straw broom his youngest disciple was still wielding never faltered as he walked to the farthest edge of the garden, leaving footsteps in the sand and sullying the purity of the untouched lines. They would be erased soon enough, his hands guiding the flat of the rake to smooth the previous marks away in a slow benediction.

Here and there, as he worked, he saw the footsteps of small things, little tracks from birds and the other harmless intruders who could care less about the existence of consecrated ground. Their marks made the sand as sacred as its home, covertly displaying the play of life against the contrivances of man, the way that nature more or less ignored the so-called 'higher beings' that staked claim on the land. The act of smoothing the sand clean was in itself a meditative one, reminding the attendant that nothing is permanent. At least nothing that man could influence.

He worked efficiently but with little speed, timing his movements in a counterpoint to the rhythm of the broom bristles against the tile behind him. The soft hiss of the bamboo rake scribing slow, graceful arcs through the fine sand added its own voice to the quiet afternoon air. His task was completed all too quickly, so he stood for a moment, his eyes wandering slowly over the sweeping curves and long soft lines of his work before he put the rake aside and moved to sit back down in his abandoned place by the window.

As he brushed the long sleeves of his robes out of the way, making sure he didn't sit on them, he noticed the rhythm of his disciple's broom slow and finally come to silence. He picked up his brush, dipping it in water and wetting his ink stone anew before turning to the report he had been writing. He knew, if he looked up, he'd see a pair of bright violet eyes tracing every curve of sand, every swirl, with the intent of understanding…seeing a pattern. He would not speak. Would not break the silence to remind the boy to finish sweeping. He would only remain there, waiting patiently for the inevitable questions to come, and answer them to the best of his ability.

Kouryuu was young. Young enough to feel no fear in asking him for explanations. And sharp. Sharp enough to understand them.