FYM - 163

Plum blossoms...

“Lord Song put great thought into this place. It bears a striking resemblance to our old residence in Chang’an…”

Before her doubts could fully form, his explanation had already arrived. His tone carried respect as he mentioned her late father, and when he lowered his gaze to look at her, the side of his face bathed in the gentle moonlight appeared especially soft and serene.

“I once promised to take you to see the plum trees I planted with my own hands, but I’ve failed to keep that promise for so long… Now, let’s consider this a substitute. Does that absolve me of breaking my word?”

…She remembered.

It was shortly after he left Jiangnan. Letters were scarce, dreams of returning home even more elusive. The sparse words from afar, written on thin paper, had been etched deeply into the heart of the one who waited—

“The old mansion in Xidu has long been uninhabited; weeds and wild grasses have overtaken the paths. I’ve cleared them and planted new plum trees. By the time you return north, they will stand tall and proud.”

At that time, she had believed wholeheartedly that she would marry into the Fang family and become his wife. She also thought it wouldn’t be long before she could see the “proud tree” he had planted for her with her own eyes. But fate took a sharp turn—everything changed. Neither she nor he ever returned to Chang’an again. The imperial capital, once a thousand miles of golden splendor, had fallen. Who knew when—or if—it would ever be reclaimed?

Her heart felt a deep sense of melancholy. Yet, knowing that showing it might only deepen his guilt over the “failure” of this northern campaign, she pretended to be dazzled by the blooming flowers, happily flitting about among them like a carefree oriole that had escaped its cage.

“Did you plant all these yourself?”

She turned back to him in surprise, burying her growing sorrow deeper within her heart.

“So many… Didn’t it tire you out?”

He stood behind her, hands clasped behind his back, gazing at her with the same tenderness he had shown years ago by the lake at Shifan. If she stumbled over a branch, he would surely catch her just as securely as he always had.

“How many is ‘so many’?”

He looked with her at the sea of plum trees stretching across the garden. In truth, this grove was far smaller than the plum orchards specially commissioned by the former emperor and the current one for her.

“A tree or two each day… Over time, it adds up.”

Their ways of expressing longing were different. She painstakingly sketched his horse on paper over and over, while he silently planted the flowers she loved day after day. The speechless plum trees bore witness to his thoughts and responded in kind: sprouting roots in spring, bearing fruit in summer, shedding leaves in autumn, and finally blooming their most tender and poignant flowers in winter. Sometimes, he would sit alone under the trees, drinking wine, petals falling like snow onto his body, as though she were quietly resting her head on his shoulder to keep him company.

In that moment, she understood. A surge of bittersweet sweetness welled up inside her, and she felt her eyes growing warm. But she didn’t want to cry. This night was too perfect; even the slightest hint of despair would spoil it. So she forced a wider smile and quickly turned away, lest he see through her.

He didn’t press the matter. Together, they worked tirelessly to preserve the mirage of this hard-won paradise. After composing herself for a moment, she turned back to walk beside him. The swirling petals carried the man’s restrained yet fervent affection, making her heartstrings tremble with an echo that lingered endlessly.

“Third Brother…”

Standing on tiptoe, she leaned up to kiss him. Her hood had long since been discarded, forgotten on the ground. He never let her down—his warm hands encircling her waist reassured her that as long as he was there, he would always respond to her desires. She became more impassioned, but just then, she heard a soft gasp. Turning around, she saw two servant girls from the household who had accidentally stumbled upon their intimate moment.

Startled, she realized she had let herself get carried away. Dreaming didn’t mean they were truly living in a dream—reality’s harshness could still send them plummeting off a cliff to shatter into pieces. She immediately tried to push him away, hurriedly covering her face in vain. But his grip tightened unexpectedly; instead of letting her escape, he kissed her even more deeply. The gaze of others burned like branding irons, yet they clung to it for warmth despite their scars.

“Third Brother—”

Panic seized her, and this time she truly struggled. He released her lips but didn’t let her go. His gaze was profound and obsessive, his stern rebuke more unyielding than her resistance—

“Don’t you like it?”

“Let everyone see that we’re together!”

It was as if her throat had been seized. That word—”like”—cut as sharply as it had when he asked her in the plum pavilion whether she “liked” the marriage decree between him and Princess Yong’an. She couldn’t answer, and tears began to well in the corners of her eyes. He pulled her tightly into his arms again, perhaps exhausted to the point of collapse himself.

“I like it too…”

That’s what he told her.

“Yingying… I really like it too.”

Warm tears began to fall. Around him, she felt like the weakest, most useless person in the world. Yet her cheeks felt a sudden chill. Looking up at the low-hanging sky, she realized it had begun to snow.

Jiangnan rarely saw snow compared to Central Plains. Growing up shuttling between Jinling, she couldn’t recall ever seeing snow here. But that night, it began to fall suddenly—flakes like salt or frost, drifting and swirling in the wind. Against the lush, enchanting colors of the plum blossoms in the courtyard, it created a scene of rarest beauty.

“It’s snowing…”

She murmured to herself, feeling another hollow corner of her heart quietly filled. Perhaps even then, she still hoped for divine mercy to grant them a miracle. And so, this nighttime snowfall became a寄托 (symbol), telling her that even on a dead-end road, she could still glimpse a flower that had survived against all odds.

Thus, when he leaned down to kiss her again, she no longer resisted. The two servant girls who had stumbled upon them were long gone. At that moment, the world contained only the two of them. They embraced passionately, forgetting all societal taboos. Only the man holding her tightly felt real—nothing else mattered. He lifted her into his arms, and amidst the chaos, she found herself in his room, falling onto his bed. His body was strong and fiery, and the passion of that night consumed them both, leaving them intoxicated and lost in each other.

He was incredibly gentle. Every kiss was careful, every touch tender. The brutality from earlier within the palace walls had vanished. Perhaps this extreme tenderness was his way of making up for the wrongs he felt he had done her. She melted into a pool of water in his arms, intoxicated without any need for persuasion. Even her desires swelled, wanting to touch his body again and again, to feel his heartbeat and confirm that he was here—forever hers.

…

The snow continued to fall outside the window, but the room remained warm, untouched by the cold. He gently gathered her damp, disheveled hair, and as she leaned against his chest, she felt a sense of stability and tranquility she had never known before.

“Rest for a while…”

He kissed her brow and tucked the warm quilt over her exposed shoulders.

“…I’ll keep an eye on the time.”

It was a sorrowful statement, a reminder that their parting was near and that all stolen pleasures were fleeting. Pretending not to notice the cruelty of his words, she simply shook her head lightly in his arms. They sat in silence for a long time until she finally reached out and nudged him.

“…Medicine.”

Medicine…?

He looked down at the woman in his arms, her cheeks still flushed but her expression now tinged with unease. Perhaps fearing he wouldn’t understand, she quickly averted her gaze and added, “…Contraceptive tea.”

After tonight’s indulgence—and given that he hadn’t held back during each encounter—contraceptive tea was clearly necessary.

He understood what she meant but didn’t respond for a long while. She looked up at him, puzzled. Snow seemed to fall in his eyes too, and the hand resting on her shoulder tightened slightly.

“Shuyan…”

The subtle shift in how he addressed her made her realize he was both hesitant and resolute at that moment.

“What if one day they no longer need us… Would you be willing to leave this place?”

Snap.

Outside, the snow fell heavier, breaking a fragile branch of blossoms.

“You…”

Her eyes widened slightly, as though she didn’t understand—or perhaps understood but couldn’t believe. The weight of the characters “Xian” and “Yi” pressed heavily on him, suffocating him throughout his life. She couldn’t imagine him ever having the chance—or even the desire—to break free from them.

“Perhaps the northern campaign is hopeless. I’ve missed the last chance to salvage it…”

His voice was so low it was almost indistinguishable, yet his tone remained calm and steady.

“The peace faction has gained momentum. Continuing the war risks losing the hearts of the people in Jiangnan… Ten years, twenty years, thirty years… Perhaps achieving reunification will take that long…”

“I won’t live to see it…”

“Elder Brother, Zixing, Ziqiu… Yuanjing, Yuanxi…”

“…Perhaps none of them will live to see it either.”

Snap.

The sound of branches breaking echoed repeatedly. In her lover’s arms, Song Shuyan heard only the muffled beat of his heart. Her thoughts drifted further. Some truths didn’t need to be spoken—they were already clear in her mind.

…He was right.

The haste of the northern campaign had capitalized on the internal strife following the Eastern Turkic defeat. Taking Chang’an directly was a defensive strategy aimed at severely weakening Zhonghe Wei’s forces and driving them back to the northwest. With Xidu secured, morale would rise, and the court would have room to maneuver.

But tonight’s failure had shattered all those plans. The barbarians cared nothing for the Way of Kings. Zhonghe Wei, like a cornered rat, sought only temporary survival, unconcerned with long-term governance. Thus, they gambled recklessly with the lives of millions, unknowingly pushing themselves toward their own destruction in the long run.

Yet the difficulty lay in their inability to compete with such shameless scoundrels in terms of “longevity.”

This single setback—not even a true defeat—had already crushed the morale of the people in Jiangnan. The peace faction in court grew stronger daily, insisting that the government should focus on recovery rather than continuing the fight against the barbarians and rebel lords. While this was a reasonable judgment, they failed to see that over time, defending the north would become impossible. The risk of regional governors breaking away from Jinling’s control would multiply a hundredfold. Eventually, the division between north and south would become inevitable, and the worst-case scenario was that Zhou might not even maintain its current state of precarious stability along the Yangtze River.

…They couldn’t afford to drag this out.

—But what choice did they have?

She had already taken full responsibility for this “defeat,” yet the anger and resentment of the people were still directed at the blameless soldiers. The Fang family of Yingchuan—a century-old prestigious clan, once revered by the common folk—now returned to court to almost no applause. How could this not fill her with dread and fear?

Anger would soon give way to rebellion. The situation in Jiangnan, let alone Central Plains, was already deeply troubling. Unless absolutely necessary, she didn’t want to resort to force against her own people. But if everything spiraled out of control… what other choice would she have?