[b]Yue the Sun Farmer![/b]

The mask of Princess Kikil is wood and stone and electricity. It is slashed with blue and dusted with orange, bordered with swirling patterns in white. It is a meter tall, coming down below her chest and raising high in the air; painted crazed eyes and enormous lips and eyebrows made of exposed circuitry. It is a thing of beauty - or at least, is descended from one - but it too is a thing of monstrous power. The relief is stronger than the regret of breaking such a thing when the crack runs all the way down its centre and the heavy mask slides free and clatters to the floor.

And beneath you see a mirror.

You see exhaustion. You see [i]elation[/i]. You see a heart that's filled to the brim with pride and wonder. You don't have to wonder what that emotion is like, that starstruck awe, because it's filled you a hundred times in a hundred ways as you saw all the beautiful people on your adventure. But now you're on the other side of it for the first time and it makes you realize two different things.

The first thing is that it makes you see just how special you are. You made a blade out of love, as keen as the First Princess' arrows. You overcame someone who was trying her best in a way that took her mask and her heart all at once. You left an impression so deep that this Princess will never, ever, forget it and will work her hardest over months of quiet future practice to try and incorporate into herself. You did something amazing, Yue.

The second thing is that it makes you see just how [i]special[/i] you are. This expression? This shock and joy and love and awe? This is an expression that every maiden in the game of Princesses seeks. This is what they were all fighting for, the blow that they sought to land with each turn of their sword. They all practiced as hard as you do, Yue, spending weeks and months perfecting their art so that someone could look at them like that. Like [i]this[/i]. And you gave that to them. You can see now that each time you looked out with love you made someone's day, you filled their hearts with pride, you made everything seem worth it. Now, finally, you understand just how happy you made so many people. 

You stand atop a mountain in this moment. And though the climb was steep, when you glance back at the trail behind you, you see you planted a thousand flowers in your wake.

The mirror's tear-blurred edges resolve slightly. The hair is longer, the face is older, there is a new and unbearably cool scar that bisects the left eyebrow - still your face, but not quite. And her eyes are filled with tears too. "Ah - you dummy," she sniffles, "you cut all the way through my mask to my heart in one blow. D-don't you know you're not supposed to do that?"

And then Xiu throws her arms around you in the biggest hug she knows how to give.

*

[b]Daily Affirmation Of The Way <3[/b]

You are kind of a big deal. For some reason.

You are by no means the most senior monk. No means the wisest. Definitely not the strongest - you washed out of the dojo at the brown belt level because that was the transition point from 'punchy yoga' to 'punchy other people'. These days you mostly procrastinate about weeding the garden and invent new and exciting bean-bag chair postures to lie in as you browse the internet. And now, here you are, with the entire martial/religious establishment of the Nine Kingdoms looking to you for guidance.

You spent a while wondering if it was because you were, somehow, the most enlightened out of any of them. Enlightenment was a tricky thing to measure, but maybe the other monks could see that you were the best at it. But then, why couldn't you see it in yourself? That had been an insight worthy of a status update: [i]"A ladder leads to heaven and a stairway leads to hell. But who is the king of those who lie down to rest?"[/i] Everyone had read it, nodded quietly, and just as quietly assumed that that king was, in fact, you.

There are five hundred year old grandmasters, with eyebrows descending to their knees. There are young and fierce dominants on their quest to turn hell into heaven. There are rice farmers and there are ninja, there are hackers in striped stockings and there is a sushi chef who whistles as he cooks. Warriors in saffron robes ready to do righteous violence to those who break the laws of heaven, and dispossessed celestial bureaucrats who write the laws of heaven sitting on golden nimbus clouds and battle with ennui. They all watch the burning cruise ship and listen to the screams of foxes, and then they all turn their heads. They all watch you.

But who are you to watch? In the absence of any better answer, you watch Rosepetal and Princess Chen. You watch fire and water dance together and you see a strange sort of harmony there. It's no different from what anyone else sees, but still you feel the itch. You feel a calling, a tension in your brain. Something you [i]have[/i] to do. And so you pull out your laptop, sit down on the cliffside, and type out a post.

It takes you a few tries. You start by trying to make it short and pithy, then you go into a rambling koan about harmony and chaos. None of it works. Some part of you feels the pressure of other eyes, but it's not them that compels you - it's trying to find the shape in the words themselves. Eventually you just write:

[b]Daily Affirmation Of The Way <3:[/b]
[i]Harmony creates harmony.[/i]


Finally, you look up.

Every one of the assembled monks produces their phones - some have laptops, some have digital watches, some look over other's shoulders, some read it out to those around them. The words ripple out through the crowd and they nod quietly and consider. They look at Rose and Chen together 'midst the fire and water and none of them can deny that it is harmony they see there.

And so they lower their nunchucks and fox nets and quietly stand down as the cruise ship full of cutie chaos continues on its way.

And then, finally it occurs to you.

It's not that you are the wisest. Not that you are the smartest. It's that you are the one who wrote.