FYM - 81

The chill of early winter seeped into her bones. It turned out that the sky over Yingchuan was this cold—words spoken with excessive kindness could still cut like a knife, making Song Shuyan shake her head stubbornly while tears streamed down her face in pain.

“Madam…”

Even her voice trembled.

“I don’t believe… Third Brother, he wouldn’t…”

She still couldn’t bring herself to say the word, as if ignoring and avoiding reality would somehow change it. Lady Jiang’s hand, which had been gently patting her back, seemed to grow colder in an instant—perhaps she too wanted to cry at that moment.

“He did his best.”

Lady Jiang spoke calmly, concealing all her grief beneath a sigh.

“…He did everything he could for what he believed was right.”

Yes.

He was the master of the Fang family, the Yingchuan Marquis praised by all, the only son of the late Duke on whom great hopes were placed, and the loyal minister entrusted with heavy responsibilities by the current emperor. Each of these identities alone was enough to crush a person, yet he bore them all, walking forward alone under such immense pressure.

-- “To offer,” means “to give.”

-- “To leave behind,” means “to gift.”

…So, it was both a reflection and a curse.

“In the past, I blamed his father, and now I blame him…”

Lady Jiang’s voice grew distant, as if she had fallen into memories.

“What difference would it have made to step back? A family, a nation—all have their fates. Even if they gave everything, they couldn’t change what was destined. Unfortunately, Yi trusted his father more than he trusted me, so he insisted on moving forward relentlessly… No matter who tried to persuade him, he refused to turn back.”

“But in truth, they had no choice. Someone had to clean up the mess—I used to think they had options, but… I was wrong.”

She smiled faintly, self-mockery creeping into her tone.

“Shuyan…” She sighed softly again, understanding leading inevitably to nihilism. “…You should go.”

“You are not bound to Yi through marriage, so you shouldn’t be dragged into this… You can seek another good match in the future, and you must stop thinking of him.”

…How cruel those words were.

People are quick to forget, but only because they’ve never truly seen the vast seas or towering mountains. She had glimpsed the splendor beyond the mundane plains—distant as indigo, close as green, seemingly stern yet warm upon approach—but then, like mist gathering suddenly, she was shut out, condemned to yearn without seeing ever again.

At that moment, she shook her head desperately, clinging tightly to Lady Jiang’s sleeve even as the world spun around her. Lady Jiang bent down and embraced her tightly, perhaps feeling both pity for her and a deep kinship in shared suffering.

“My dear child…”

It seemed that even she was about to shed tears.

“Throughout history, military families have always faced uncertainty. Once called to battle, life and death hang in the balance… Yi feared something might happen during this trip, so before leaving, he arranged matters concerning you with those around him.”

“He treated you as his wife, and naturally, he entrusted his belongings to you. Material wealth is trivial, but it represents his intentions. You and Yi were meant to meet, but not to stay together. Lingering will only harm yourself and lead you astray.”

“You still have a long life ahead of you… Life must go on.”

In truth, Song Shuyan understood every word Lady Jiang spoke came from the bottom of her heart. Only such a kind and compassionate elder would not force an unwed bride to remain faithful to a man. Yet, she found herself unable to accept her generosity, wishing instead to stay forever in Yingchuan.

After Lady Jiang left, she tossed and turned, sleepless. Despite being gravely ill, she forced herself to rise, wrapping a robe around her frail body. When she opened the door, Zhui’er and Ding Yue, who had been standing guard outside, were startled and urged her to return to her room to rest. She merely asked in a low voice, “Where is the courtyard he used to live in?”

The phrase “used to” was so ordinary, yet strangely, it struck a chord in those who heard it. Ding Yue lowered his head slightly and said, “…Please follow me, Miss.”

The night winds of Central Plains in October were bitterly cold, but as she walked along the corridor with Ding Yue, she felt no chill. With each step, the scenery changed, and with each new sight, a thought arose in her mind. She knew that the path beneath her feet was one he had once walked, and even the simplest steps filled her with sorrow.

Step after step, farther and farther apart, until finally, they stopped before a door. Ding Yue looked at her worriedly, saying, “Miss Song…”

Whether he feared her frailty or her sadness at the sight, it was unclear.

She didn’t hear him. Her fingertips trembled as she reached out to touch the door. If she had witnessed the scene in the military tent where he received the letter she had sent through her second brother, she would understand that she now felt the same nervousness returning home.

Squeak—

A soft sound broke the silence of the night. She pushed open the door, and her heartstrings, already stretched taut, tightened again painfully. She almost imagined him walking slowly past her.

Noble families often favored luxury, but compared to others, the Fang household seemed simpler. The furnishings in his courtyard were sparse—aside from a desk and long chairs, there were only two tall cabinets. One stored books and letters, while the other held swords and medicine jars.

As she stepped inside, the scenes came alive in her mind. She could almost see him reaching up to take down a porcelain bottle of medicine—the Marquis of Wuhou was likely always injured. She paused briefly by the cabinet, just as he might have, then slowly moved to sit at his desk. Ding Yue entered to light a lamp for her before bowing and retreating.

The bright lamplight illuminated the items on the desk: paper, brushes, official documents, and letters. They were not neatly arranged; several fine purple-hair brushes lay haphazardly on the inkstone. Perhaps he had forbidden others from touching his things. It was precisely this disarray that overwhelmed her with emotion. She imagined him sitting here last during the New Year’s Eve of the Taiqing first year. After the New Year, he went to Luzhou to fetch Lady Jiang, then turned toward Jinling and Qiantang. Perhaps he hadn’t known then that he would return directly to Chang’an and head northwest for battle, thinking he’d soon return here.

Grief surged again, but it was as if someone clutched her throat, preventing its release. Holding her breath, she flipped through the papers carelessly. The familiar handwriting on the white sheets pierced her heart. At the corner, she spotted a familiar long box. Her heart raced as she hesitantly lifted it to open—and indeed…

…There was the painting of spring mountains she had returned to him on the boat.

The edges trimmed by her second brother had begun to fray slightly, but everything else remained intact. The only difference was that she had only half-completed the Nine-Nine Winter Counting Chart in red, and now he had meticulously filled in the rest. His vermilion was slightly darker than hers, creating a clear boundary between their work. They seemed to be on the same painting, yet separated by an invisible barrier.

He had inscribed two lines of poetry beside it:

“Do not lean against the perilous railing of a tall tower.

For the traveler is far beyond the spring mountains.”

This…

The profound blank space left behind unsettled her. That he had kept it carefully until now was unexpected. She didn’t know that on many lonely nights, it had lain quietly on his desk, every drifting plum blossom traced by his fingertips. Grief welled up uncontrollably, and years later, she finally wept bitterly, her heart breaking. Though she knew he must have been thinking of their farewell on the river when he wrote those lines, now they seemed hauntingly appropriate—he was the perilous railing of the high tower she leaned on, yet also the distant traveler hidden beyond the spring mountains.

—How could I have given you these lines?

“Parting sorrow grows endless as distance increases, flowing ceaselessly like spring water.” The so-called “flat fields and spring mountains” were metaphors for parting emotions.

By November, the Central Plains were frozen solid. Several snowstorms had swept through Yingchuan, turning the world into a vast expanse of white.

Song Shuyan’s illness lingered, but thanks to the careful care of the doctor arranged by the Fang family, she gradually improved. Still, she sank into melancholy. Every day, aside from resting in her guest quarters, she sat in Fang Xian Ting’s room. Sometimes she spent entire days silent, like a wooden statue, worrying Zhui’er and Nurse Cui deeply.

Outside, chaos reigned. After the defeat at Shangxiao Valley, the court ordered a thorough investigation. The Lou family’s disobedience of military orders and desertion of duty were exposed to the public. To protect his clan, Lou Xiao took full responsibility and committed suicide before the troops. The Lou family fell into disarray and submitted to the Fangs, relinquishing nearly half of their forces within the passes.

The Fang family was also in turmoil. The master had sacrificed himself for the nation, leaving no heirs, making it difficult to choose a new leader with both talent and virtue to command respect. In this critical time, someone had to take charge, so Fang Lian, the Minister of War and brother of Fang He, was temporarily appointed as the head. The entire household was in chaos, and Yingchuan, as the Fangs’ ancestral land, naturally felt the impact.

Though Song Shuyan lacked the strength to concern herself with external affairs, her heart still worried for Lady Jiang. Occasionally, she asked Ding Yue about the current situation in Yingchuan. She learned that besides sending reinforcements to the frontlines, the family was busy compensating the families of fallen soldiers. Lady Jiang, as the mother of the late lord, bore the responsibility and was tirelessly visiting households to offer condolences.

This worried her greatly, and she felt a strange unease. Blood ties connected parents and children—how could a mother endure losing her child and still act so composed and calm? The unease lingered in her heart, but looking back, everything had signs. At the time, she deceived herself into believing Lady Jiang was simply noble and strong, and she stopped asking further questions.

Lady Jiang occasionally visited her.

Despite her own gaunt appearance, she always scolded Song Shuyan for being too thin and even insisted on personally feeding her soup. Torn between grief and guilt, Song Shuyan dared not trouble Lady Jiang and reluctantly accepted the food, forcing herself to swallow bite by bite. Seeing this, Lady Jiang finally smiled faintly, saying, “That’s how it should be… As long as you’re staying with me, I can’t let you harm your health.”

Her words were so warm that, at that moment, Song Shuyan almost wanted to call her “Mother.” But doing so would inevitably remind her of Fang Xian Ting, which would be torment for both of them. So she refrained, instead saying, “Madam, you must also take care of yourself. If you continue to overwork, I fear…”

Lady Jiang understood her concern and smiled, patting her cheek affectionately. She said that after the busy season ended at the New Year, things would calm down. After observing her for a moment, she added, “I hear you’ve been cooped up indoors all day. That’s not good for recovery. The sun has come out after the snow these past few days—you should get out and move around more.”