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Happiness was not something that Song Lan felt anymore, but the simple act of walking came close. That he could choose to do something so insignificant as sidestep puddles, hop over streams or kick a pebble, all under his own volition, felt like immense freedom after several years of no control at all. His body had been given back to him by Wei Wuxian and for that he will always be grateful.
His mind was a trickier beast. If he was not careful, if he did not stay alert, his thoughts would be consumed by the terrible deeds he was forced to do. They would be nightmares if he had the ability to sleep. He remembered the blood of innocents coating Fuxue and being unable to turn to his master and strike him down instead.
As long as he roamed the countryside, exorcising evil alongside two souls as his companions, he had purpose.
And so the equation of his life became this: his body must last as long as it took to heal the souls of A-Qing and Xiao Xingchen. If his unnatural state granted him enough time to do so, he might even consider himself fortunate to be a fierce corpse.
He traveled far from Yi City, avoiding people, afraid to come across any surviving family of his victims who would remember him as a killer. He was not sure if he would be brave enough to apologize even if he had his tongue. It was better to not bother them at all, not to reopen their wounds with the hollow words of ‘someone forced me to do it.’
There were times when Song Lan stopped and lost all sense of himself. He went still for hours, only his robes and hair moving in the wind. Once a small brown bird landed on him and pecked at his shoulder. He stirred and watched as it pulled on a loose thread on his robe. He did not move until the bird flew away. His eyes moved from side to side, at last realizing he was not in Yi City, that he was not forgotten for days by Xue Yang, that did not have not await his next command, that he was in charge of his own body. He stepped forward then, ready for his legs to disobey as they had for eight years, but they carried him forward. It was the only way to go.
There was no one to love anymore. There was no one to hate anymore either. He did not know which was more disorienting.
In the dead of night, a tall silhouette stood in a desolate field. It began to howl, and other demonic creatures heard and approached it, swirling around in a vortex of dark smoky tendrils, drawn to the intoxicating energy of resentment. They could tell it was one of them, its spirit was just like theirs, still caged in a corpse. And they remembered their own lives too, cut short, unjustly, cruelly. They howled together, as if they could release their grief and fury through sheer sound, expending their lamentations until their voices grew hoarse and weak. The shadows disappeared as dawn approached, leaving Song Lan standing alone.
Song Lan’s throat was sore the next morning, but that was nothing compared to finding out that the soul of Xiao Xingchen had broken more overnight, and he did not know why.
For a few weeks Song Lan was on the trail of an unknown demon, one that roamed the outskirts of towns, bellowing and frightening townsfolk. He stalked the countryside searching for the source, but never heard anything other than insects at night. When he got to the next village, he was told they had heard it the night before.
It was not long before Song Lan realized he was the monster.
Yet, when he stood guard at town gates, or stayed the night at an inn, there were never any reports. He did not lose himself around others. He was not a monster as long as he was among people.
Song Lan had not been to this particular town before, but an old woman recognized him from a journey she took to visit her daughter, when they had helped push her cart out of a ditch. He could not recall and his face must have shown it, because she said, “You’ve righted more carts and helped more people than you could possibly remember, daozhang.”
When she found out Xiao Xingchen was no longer alive, she gave him a few moments of sympathy, before scolding him, “Then why aren’t you wearing white?”
He left that town in white robes. And when he forgot himself the next time, standing in a meadow, a breeze fluttering the long sleeves in the periphery of his vision, he imagined for a blessed moment that Xiao Xingchen was standing beside him.
Song Lan was traveling near Yunmeng, but his destination was the home of the Baling Ouyang Clan. He had written his introduction ahead of time to hand to the guards.
Rather quickly, Ouyang Zizhen appeared, out of breath from running, and bowed low. He took Song Lan to meet his father. He did the talking for him, having already read the note.
“My son has told me your story. Such a terrible misfortune,” the clan leader said. “You are welcome as our guest.”
Ouyang Zizhen was all nervous energy, trying to contain his questions, as he led Song Lan to a guest room. Once there, Ouyang Zizhen provided him with plenty of paper and ink.
“Song Daozhang, please let me know what food you would like, otherwise you can rest from the road here, and I can come back later.”
Song Lan knelt at the table, dipped a brush and wrote, “Would you like to stay and talk for a bit?”
“Yes!” Ouyang Zizhen closed the doors securely then bustled about preparing tea. “Oh,” he said, stopping as he set water to boil. “Can you drink?”
Song Lan nodded, not wanting to refuse his hospitality.
Ouyang Zizhen sat down opposite him, eyes all bright, smiling nervously.
“I wanted to thank you for burying A-Qing,” Song Lan wrote. “And for the offerings that all of you left on her grave.”
“I have been burning paper money for her nearly every day,” Ouyang Zizhen confessed, turning a little red. “She and Xiao Daozhang did not deserve such an end. Did you know her in life?”
“Yes, but briefly. She was very brave.” Song Lan’s brush hovered over the paper, before he continued. “I’d like to show you what remains of her spirit.” He put the brush down, then reached into his robe, pulling out a small pouch he had tied with a light green satin ribbon. He placed it on the table between them.
Ouyang Zizhen’s eyes went a little wide. He had heard of spirit trapping pouches, but had never been so close to one that actually contained a spirit, nevermind one that was broken. His lower lip began to tremble.
Song Lan was about to write an apology—how inconsiderate he had been to this soft-hearted boy—when Ouyang Zizhen spoke up.
“May… may I hold it?”
Song Lan saw the bravery it took to ask. He nodded.
Touching it as reverently as he could, Ouyang Zizhen cupped it, amazed at how light it felt, as if the spirit’s presence counteracted gravity itself. Without conscious thought, he released spiritual energy into it, as he shed a few tears.
“I’m sorry…” Ouyang Zizhen put the pouch back down. He covered his face with his sleeve to wipe his eyes with his other hand. “She suffered so much for someone so young.”
She was around your age, Song Lan thought. Much too young.
Ouyang Zizchen composed himself and inquired about Song Lan’s travels. He had mostly visited other clans in learning his future duties as a clan leader. Visiting Yi City had been his first real taste of danger. He wanted to know more about the world at large.
Between sips of tea, Song Lan wrote about not only the beauty of the countryside, but the kindness of commoners, despite their hardships.
Before he departed, Ouyang Zizhen asked if he could keep the notes. Song Lan handed the papers to him with a bow.
Song Lan blew out the candles in the room shortly after the sun had set. He did not need to rest, but never took more than he should, especially in the home of a smaller clan. He checked the two pouches as he did every evening, and found that A-Qing’s spirit was stronger than it was that morning. Song Lan could not believe it. He set it back on the table and picked up Xiao Xingchen’s pouch. There was no noticeable change in his.
He sank back into the bed—a novelty at this point, but one he would indulge in—and closed his eyes, wondering if the devotion of a romantic young man helped a soul heal more than the grief of a fierce corpse.
After breakfast the next morning, Ouyang Zizhen stopped by to show him around the grounds. Song Lan walked beside him, occasionally writing questions on paper.
They stopped to observe a disciple training younger disciples.
Song Lan already knew he would ask him to show them his sword technique by the way Ouyang Zizhen’s left foot was all but vibrating on the floor boards. He unstrapped both swords and held out Shuanghua to Ouyang Zizhen who accepted it as carefully as he did the spirit trapping pouch.
The disciples bowed to him and moved to the side. They watched Song Lan go through precise sword forms with Fuxue. His movements were clean, unmarred by his years of imprisonment, practiced to perfection since he trained as a small child, embedded in his muscle memory.
Later that afternoon they had tea again. Ouyang Zizhen had more of a handle on his hero worship and was more relaxed. He had reread Song Lan’s notes and had insightful comments and questions. Song Lan felt hopeful for the future of the Baling sect.
For the second evening in a row the condition of A-Qing’s soul had improved. The following morning, he told this to Ouyang Zizhen who reported the good news to his father, who left Song Lan’s invitation to stay open-ended.
They went to the clan’s elders for guidance, as Ouyang Zizhen had not known souls could shatter before he had gone to Yi City. The clan elders said shattered souls were very rare. Souls could be broken by an external force, such as a talisman for A-Qing’s, which mended quicker than those caused by an internal force. Xiao Xingchen’s pain had been so great as to shatter his own soul; he would have to be the one to decide to heal at all.
Within a week, A-Qing’s soul was whole once again. Ouyang Zizhen put on a brave smile when Song Lan told him.
“Where should I release her?” Song Lan wrote.
Ouyang Zizhen knew where to go. Song Lan accompanied him along a pier, smaller than Lotus Pier several miles away. Ouyang Zizhen hopped off the pier and walked along the bank of the river, lined by stones smoothed by the tides over centuries.
“I think she would be happy by the water,” Ouyang Zizhen said.
Song Lan admired the way the sunshine dappled on the water and agreed with a nod. He was about to pull the drawstring of the pouch, when he realized it was not up to him. He turned with a bow and offered it to Ouyang Zizhen.
“No, oh, no, I couldn’t,” Ouyang Zizhen said, already shedding a few tears.
Song Lan inclined his head, still offering it to him.
With a shaky breath, Ouyang Zizhen took the pouch with steady hands and brought it to his lips. He whispered his goodbye.
Song Lan was on a different hunt. Drifting back to places they had traveled together, he sought out people with stories and memories of Xiao Xingchen.
After many miles, he came to a town where people recognized him, even after two decades, because they had saved them from a serpent-like yaoguai that was stalking their children.
“Daozhang, where is your companion?” the older folks asked, faces wary, eyeing his white robes.
He was never very expressive before he was a fierce corpse, and he was glad for it now, only the tiniest frown visible, as he hummed an apology, placing a hand over his chest, gesturing to his mourning robes.
There were pitying looks and sympathetic murmurs. Some, uncomfortable with his grief, drifted away. Others, curious, unabashed, asked, “How did it happen?”
“He was betrayed”, he wrote. He would never tell anyone that Xiao Xingchen died by his own hand.
Song Lan could not speak, but every night, he would hold Xiao Xingchen’s soul and think, I'm sorry, it wasn't your fault, hoping it would be felt through the pouch.
People asked for him in different ways. Few asked for Xiao Xingchen, fewer still for the Bright Moon and Gentle Breeze. Some asked where was his companion, his partner, his friend. The more shameless ones said those words with a smirk, dripping with innuendo. Most would simply ask, “Where is he?” as if there was no one else ‘he’ could refer to, as if Song Lan knew no other man on earth but him. That was part of his grief. He had put nearly all his faith and love in a single place.
Depending on his mood, he answered in different ways. On days when he could stand it, he would write down the simple truth: Xiao Xingchen was dead.
On days when he had very little to give, he wrote that Xiao Xingchen was on an errand, a town over, attending to something else. Sometimes he wanted to believe the lies. If he sat in a tea house long enough, maybe Xiao Xingchen would walk through the door, breathless with laughter and a reason for his delay, helping a woman with her market wares, playing with a child, coming across information for their next night hunt. His reverie would be broken when the establishment had to close.
Farmers sometimes waved, bowed, or offered food for a wandering daozhang. Song Lan did not bother them as they worked, but if he was called over, he helped in any way he could, from moving a stuck plow to performing rituals to purify homes of evil spirits.
A farmer recognized him and wanted to thank him again. Many years ago, he had uncovered bodies on his stead, awakening resentful energies. They had cleansed the area for him, and after a proper burial for the corpses, the farmer was able to keep and work on his land.
Another farmer shouted at him, calling over his wife, who bowed deeply when she spotted Song Lan. Do you remember, they said, when our daughter had fallen into a well, and you—mistaking him by his white robes—jumped down to save her? Xiao Xingchen had not even needed rope. Their grown daughter had children of her own, in the next town over. Could he stay for dinner? It was the least they could do.
Song Lan kept searching. Maybe not everyone remembered as clearly as they did decades ago, some have forgotten, some have moved, some have passed away. Sometimes what people remembered had nothing to do with life or death. Older women would wistfully recall how Xiao Xingchen was the most beautiful man they had ever seen—some saying that he still was. No one else had come close in all that time, they insisted. Who could forget a smile like that?
Every once in a while, he came across entire groups they saved. This town from ghosts, this family from a fire, this village from a murderer. In those places, Xiao Xingchen’s death was felt much more deeply. Song Lan would take out the pouch to show it to them. They would burn incense, make offerings, and pray for him.
After those encounters, Xiao Xingchen’s soul was a little better than before.
Song Lan followed the trail of memories, to farmland and towns where Xiao Xingchen had wandered alone for years. He was not recognized there, so he had to head into places where people gathered. In tea houses or general stores, he found those who could read his note aloud to others.
Upon learning of his death, a woman cried, telling him that Xiao Xingchen had pretended to abduct her, so she did not have to marry a cruel man. He helped her escape to a distant relative’s village, where she was now happily married.
Another woman recounted how she had gone into labor early in the fields. Xiao Xingchen had carried her back to her home, where she was able to give birth safely. For that she had named her daughter after him.
Xiao Xingchen saved a boy from being attacked by a mad dog, pulled a young girl out of river currents—there were stories by survivors of all kinds.
A man in his thirties recalled running away as a child. Xiao Xingchen had found him lost and hungry, miles from home. As he escorted him back, Xiao Xingchen told him his mother might have been angry at him but that did not mean she did not love him. It was hard to understand, but sometimes adults said things they did not mean.
Song Lan could not stop the tremor in his hands that night.
There were angry reactions too. More than once a man tried to start a fight with him. When villagers defended him, and sent the instigator away, they would confide in Song Lan that that man used to beat their wife, until Xiao Xingchen had dealt with him.
At times a corrupt leader, an abusive foreman, a furious merchant carrying an old grudge would confront him. Song Lan was never entirely sure if he was mistaken as Xiao Xingchen or simply as a cultivator encroaching on their area.
He lost his first fight around this time. Fuxue felt heavy in his hand, his limbs strangely leaden.
Song Lan was back in a town that seemed vaguely familiar…
“Are you Xiao Daozhang’s good friend?” a vendor asked, after hearing the news from others. “I think you should visit the seamstress.”
Xiao Xingchen liked to order robes from this seamstress, in the time they traveled together. Her hair had gone completely white. She was steady, strong, used to the news of death by now in her old age. She insisted on making tea, though Song Lan tried to get her to sit.
“I have to heal his soul,” he wrote, taking out the pouch to show her.
She pulled the paper close to her face. “And who will heal yours?”
Before he could decide how to explain his uncertain condition as a fierce corpse, she violently poked the spirit trapping pouch.
“You!” she said, roughly handling the pouch in a way no one else has ever dared. “Do you know you’re hurting him?”
Song Lan shook his head, vocalizing a denial in his throat.
She shushed him and continued talking to the bag. “Even trying our best, we have all hurt the ones we love. I am sure he has hurt you too.”
Song Lan became silent.
“If you don’t wake up, I’m going to tell him what you told me all those years ago.”
There was no response of course. Her face crinkled into a toothless grin.
Song Lan waved his hands to implore her to stop, but she only took them in her own small knobby hands.
“You know he loved you. That should not be a surprise.”
He tried to pull his hands back to cover his ears, trying to respect Xiao Xingchen’s privacy, but she held onto his fingers tightly, with hands that held innumerable pots and pans sizzling with jumping oil, slapped clothes against rocks thousands of times, pulled babies out of their mother’s bodies, and worked themselves into claws over a lifetime.
“He said he wanted to marry you. I had to tell him, men do not marry each other!” She laughed at the memory. “He asked why not? I said I’m not sure, it might be that bloodline business those sects started centuries ago. But men like you have loved each other since the dawn of time.” She smiled at him. “He liked that, the dawn of time, like his name.” She became serious again. “There is only so much I can remember these days. Words are easy to forget, but not the way we feel when we hear them. He said he would marry you in a time when it was possible. You know he always thought things would get better. When he spoke like that, it made you feel like it was true.” She turned back to the pouch. “So what exactly are you waiting for?”
There were roads to follow, miles to walk, rivers to cross, mountains to pass, people to encounter. The goodwill he collected was repairing Xiao Xingchen’s soul at the same time that it was depleting his resentful energy. Even knowing that, he carried on.
Over the years, the stories ran out. New heroes, new faces and names emerged.
Still, he roamed and kept battling demonic spirits, unaware of tales passed on of the mute cultivator who wore mourning robes and bore two swords.
When he could no longer reach up high enough to pull either sword out, Fuxue and Shuanghua stayed crossed on his back.
His handwriting slowly became illegible.
Sleep eluded him, but his consciousness wavered, slipping away to a kind of meditative state, of being aware he was not aware. It was almost peaceful.
Atop a snow covered hill, Song Lan sank to the ground, finally too weak to stand. He has held on as long as he could.
I'm sorry. It is not your fault.
The soul within the pouch stirred.
Song Lan smiled. Were you waiting for me?
He struggled to open the pouch with his gnarled fingers, before loosening the drawstring.
Let’s go, he thought, closing his eyes for the last time.