Page 109

A YEAR FLEW BY and then another, sweeping like rainfall until I lost count of them altogether. Those were good years, when we grew as a family, in a way that we never had the chance to do before. The healing of the mind was slower than of the body, for these wounds cut deeper and it was harder to mend what was unseen. I did not know when it began, that these fractured pieces of me slowly began to come together again—healing, if not perfectly, at least enough so I felt almost myself. I no longer woke, gasping the names of those lost, reliving the fire searing my veins or the terror freezing my flesh when Wugang’s axe had descended upon me.

My memories were kinder, cruel remembrances blunted, interwoven with fragments of remembered joy: Ping’er, telling me the stories of the Immortal Realm as I sat rapt before her. Prince Yanming, his face alight as he swung his wooden sword.

And Wenzhi …

All the parts of him that had touched me not once but twice, even through the barriers I had built against him. His intelligence and indomitable will, his ruthlessness and tenderness, the softening of his expression when he looked at me. And most of all, how he had loved me and then died for me.

As the pain dulled, its edge worn off, something else stirred in its place. A restlessness—just as I had felt as a child, craving the horizons beyond. A relief, that this spark in my soul was rekindled, that the hollowness in me had begun to fill with a yearning … for more.

A simple truth, a cruel one, that this was no longer my home.

I left to visit Shuxiao. She lived with Mengqi by the southern curve of the Celestial Kingdom, in a quiet place ringed by bamboo, shadowed by blue-gray mountains. The sight of the stone house with its arched roof of red tiles warmed me—the home my friend had always dreamed of, along with the companion of her heart. It soothed my spirit to sit with her and talk as we used to, beneath the shade of the trees in her courtyard. I was glad for the love she had found, even as it made me long for my own.

Impossible, my mind scoffed. There had been two great loves in my life, and there was no room in my heart for more.

I steeled myself for my next destination, the Eastern Sea. It was something I had to do, to quell the merciless voices within, to satisfy the grief that tore at me still. I did not know if that young soldier had been Prince Yanming—I never would—and wherever his spirit lay, I hoped he had found the peace he deserved. The dragons’ promise was a great comfort, and on the days when I was kind to myself, I imagined that he found some joy with the creatures he most loved, and that they loved him too.

The sight of the Fragrant Coral Palace sparked in me the same wonder as before, with its luminous rose quartz walls rising from the sapphire waters. Yet a weight bore down upon me, my feet dragging along the crystal archway which led to the entrance. The guards did not allow me in, an attendant dispatched in search of Prince Yanxi, yet I did not have long to wait. Prince Yanxi greeted me warmly, though his smile was somber. The sight of me would have brought back unwelcome recollections, those that hurt. When I shut my eyes and breathed in the salt-laced air, I could almost hear his brother’s bright gurgle of laughter, the patter of his footsteps as he ran toward me. My head lifted, my pulse quickening in anticipation, but then other memories crashed upon me—of his pale face a heartbeat before the guandao plunged through his chest. Ah, the pain cut deep. It was as Ping’er had once told me: Some scars are carved into our bones. And I thought to myself, some might even break them.

“May I see him?” My voice was tentative, part of me expecting a refusal. What right did I have to come here? I was neither kin nor close relation. But I had loved his brother and mourned him, and was that not a right in itself?

To my relief, he nodded. “Yanming would like that. Seeing you always made him happy.”

I followed him through the palace, my insides tightening with trepidation at what I might find. A cold stone altar tucked away in a lonely room? I need not have worried. They had built him a beautiful remembrance in a garden of coral, warmed by the rays of the sun. A lacquered altar of ebony and mother-of-pearl stood in the center, and upon it lay a single sandalwood plaque inscribed with Prince Yanming’s name, flanked by twin candles, their light unwavering even in the breeze.

Prince Yanxi and I stood unspeaking, our heads bowed, our hands clasped before us. There was no need for the incense the mortals lit, hoping it would bear their words to the heavens. Nevertheless, I whispered a prayer for him, imagining that the wind might carry it to wherever his tender spirit lay—whether one with the ocean he had loved, with the dragons, or here, in his beloved home. Tears trailed down my cheeks. Even after all this time, I had not wept myself dry.

A hoarse sob tore from my throat. “I promised to protect him. I failed.”

Prince Yanxi’s voice was gentle and grave. “I blame myself too. If only I could relive those moments, I would not have brought Yanming to the Southern Sea. I would have gotten him to safety earlier. But this was not our fault. We must end this cycle of remorse, which leads only to despair. Yanming would not have wanted that. He was a joyous spirit, filled with love and laughter, and that is how I want to remember him. Not how he died, but how he lived.”

These words of his were a balm to my pain, a reminder that while there was death in life, there was life in death too. That all need not be lost. Prince Yanxi fell silent, perhaps giving me time to gather my battered composure. Like him, I had tormented myself in the solitude of my mind, wondering whether I could have saved Prince Yanming had I been quicker, if I had killed Wugang the first chance I got. A hundred ifs, unknowns, and possible endings haunted me, as fleeting and intangible as the mist at dawn. All the regrets in the world would not change the past.

We remained there for hours, until the moonlight caressed the place in shades of silver and white. At last, I rose to my feet and bowed. “Thank you,” I told Prince Yanxi. “I will take my leave now.”

“Where will you go?” he asked.

There was no invitation to stay. And even if there had been, I would not be so callous as to accept. I would spare his parents the sight of me. I had not killed their son. I would have laid my life down for him—and yet, his blood stained my hands.

I left the Eastern Sea with a violent hunger gnawing at me for someplace new, untainted by the past. Gripped by a desire to wander and roam, to drown my senses with unfamiliar sights across emerald forests, silver mountains, and untouched oceans. There was one place that called to me stronger than the rest, one place I had stayed away from, afraid of reopening old wounds that had never quite closed.

Finally, I yielded, traveling to the Golden Desert, trekking across the glittering dunes as the sunrays beat down upon my head. If the Celestial Kingdom was spring, the desert was a pitiless summer. I slept in the afternoons and walked in the evenings when it was cooler, beneath the light of the moon. Some nights I fell asleep upon the rough sands, only awakened by the fierce glare of day … and those were the times I slept best of all.

At the border of the Cloud Wall, I froze—jolted by the sight of those shifting violet clouds, emotions crashing through me. Through snatches of news that trickled my way, I heard there had been a great power struggle after Wenzhi’s death. His mother, the Dowager Queen, had emerged victorious, ascending the throne and proving she was a capable and wise ruler. Just as her son would have been, had he not the misfortune of loving me.

The Cloud Wall prospered, no longer the outcast of the realm. Immortals ventured freely to this place they had feared for so long, and the name “Demon” was uttered less. A sudden urge seized me to journey there—where I had known both anguish and hope. But Wenzhi’s mother would rightfully cast me from her presence, the one who had cost her son so dear. No, I could not impose myself upon her, stirring up grief anew. She was no friend of mine; I had no claim to her patience, even as I longed to grieve with her for what we had both lost. The greatest service I could do for her was to disappear.

There was fragile solace in knowing that after an immortal’s passing, their spirit lived on in our realm, whether in the skies or the Four Seas. Even though their consciousness was gone, at least they were not wholly lost. Death was a strange thing for an immortal to ponder, yet how could I not when it had claimed those I loved?

I lifted my head, inhaling deeply. Something in me—the part which still hurt—craved the very air here, the trace of him I sensed among these clouds. A hard thing to grasp, impossible to define. Was I attuned to it because of our closeness, because we had been tethered by the enchantment that killed him? Or perhaps, it was merely the kindness of my mind, conjuring illusions to ease the hurt.

I dropped to my knees as I gazed upon his land, indulging in my memories. There was a time I wanted to forget everything to do with him, and now I pressed each remembrance close to my heart, even those that wounded me—because they were all I had left. I had thought I hated him, eager to tear him from my life, unaware that the roots of my feelings went deeper than I knew. Each time he had fought to recover what he’d so recklessly destroyed, I had shoved him away, too afraid to examine the feelings he roused in me.

“I am sorry,” I said aloud. I was forever apologizing these days. “I was too proud and stubborn to realize what I felt, to understand what you tried to tell me before. I loved you then … and I miss you still.”

Clasping my hands before me, I pressed my forehead to the prickling sands. A crisp breeze blew over me, laced with the faintest scent of pine, so familiar and dear—the ache in my chest tightened until I could not breathe. Closing my eyes, I lifted my face to the wind, breathing it in until the clawing pain subsided, whispering of broken dreams and hopes, those that would never come to pass—and I imagined wherever he was, he heard me.

Such fairy tales, I told myself then.