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Two men in red wedding silks approach an ancestral shrine, within a temple of cedarwood. A red ribbon is placed, carefully and by both the men’s hands, in the center of the altar.
To their eyes and those of the crowd below, the ribbon does not change.
On the spiritual plane, though… it lights up.
It’s a bright scarlet beacon of love, and time, and fate, and dedication. It is powerful. It calls.
When the two ghosts appear, they do not know where they are, and though they have a sense of who it is they’re looking at, bowing before them… the sight is hard to understand.
Shen Hongyu knows without a doubt that the groom at her feet is one of her sons, fully matured—he looks too much like Qingheng-jun not to be. But is he A-Huan, or A-Zhan?
His golden eyes raise to the stone tablet bearing her name, and she smiles. It’s her tiny Lan Zhan, entirely grown. And getting married.
Yang Changhu, on the other hand, knows without a doubt that the man at her feet is Wei Ying. He’s a perfect fusion of sweet Wei Changze and herself, and his smile is like looking into a mirror. But he’s mature… he may be the same age or even older than she was when she died (Oh. Yes. She died).
He’s wearing a cultivator’s sword and dressed in wedding regalia, with roses and tiny, purplish flowers pinned in his hair. She’s awestruck: a more handsome, beautiful groom simply could not exist.
Now, both mothers realize, in the same moment… their sons are husbands. To another husband. And somehow, miraculously, there is a crowd of happy faces witnessing the ceremony in full support.
And then, each realizes that there is a ghost of a woman at her side, and they look to one another.
Yang Changhu immediately grins.
Shen Hongyu blinks, then smiles back with something like moonglow. “It’s you. Changhu. You make a lovely ghost.” And then she’s shy, having said that.
“Yu-Yu.” Yang Changhu uses the nickname she always used, a knowing curl of humor in her voice. “Not as lovely as you.” She never got to see Hongyu grow into full womanhood—her long, elegant bone structure is striking. “It seems we died around the same age. Is my son marrying your son?”
Shen Hongyu gasps, and she looks more closely at the other man. The resemblance is unmistakable—the same lithe, androgynous handsomeness; the same sparkling eyes and emotive expressions.
The grooms are standing, with respect as they gaze at the stone tablets bearing their mothers’ names. For a blink, Wei Ying’s eyes flash right to the ghosts’, almost seeming to perceive them. Tears pool in his eyes.
Then, turns back to face Lan Zhan with a joyous smile. They take one another’s hand and glide away in their scarlet silks, down an aisle of music and paper lanterns, with people wearing clan colors from all over.
Yang Changhu makes a delighted sound. “There are rogue cultivators here! And so many who aren't men! Even folk from my master's mountain! And who is that boy in red with the flute and Lan headband, following them? Yu-Yu... How much has happened while we were away?”
They follow the crowd to a colorful town neither of them has seen before. It's in the center of a valley, ringed with green mountains all around colored by the setting sun. As spirits, the women are swimming in the energy of the space; it couldn’t feel better. And, as spirits, they add their own happiness to the crowd—invisible, but felt by all.
It’s their blessing, and it’s flowing freely.
“Oh, Yu-Yu, look,” Yang Changhu gasps, pointing to a tall man in white and blue with her transparent arm. “Is he yours too? He must be, he’s like a twin to A-Ying's husband. What are your boys’ names?” She laughs. “I should know my son-in-law’s, at the very least!”
“That is Lan Huan, my firstborn,” she murmurs, moved almost beyond the point of speech—not only by the beautiful sight of him, but also from sensing his gentle, loyal spirit. He wears the Lan Clan Leader hairpiece, she notes distantly. “Your son-in-law is Lan Zhan.”
“A-Huan is just as I remember you.” Turning from him, Yang Changhu now leans playfully close to Lan Zhan, assessing his energy. “Hmm… this one, however, is like no other. I think A-Ying has quite the catch, though I wonder how hard it was to get here!”
Both ghosts take a moment to feel deeper, gazing at their sons with their red silks and tightly clasped hands. And in the same moment, they realize that interwoven with their sons’ love and magnetic attraction and bursting happiness… there’s also so much depth, and so much loss, and a history of truly insurmountable pain.
“Aiya,” Yang Changhu whispers. Whatever happened, she can tell that her son went through a great deal… And she wasn’t there for him…
“Changhu,” Shen Hongyu murmurs in a low tone, moving closer to the other spirit. Almost touching. “We did not choose to leave them. We would never. And whatever their pasts may be, they are so happy now. They’ve found each other… again, I believe.” That bright red, powerful call from the ribbon of fate had suggested as much to her.
“Yes.” Yang Changhu sighs. She’s not sure if ghosts can cry, but she feels like she might. “How grand.”
Now the energy between the men changes. Wei Ying leans in to whisper something in Lan Zhan’s ear, which blushes bright pink. The ghosts make eye contact—Yang Changhu knowing, Shen Hongyu embarrassed—and without needing to speak, they drift away to give their sons privacy.
As they leave, they pass the Lan boy dressed in red, whom the grooms call over to their table as their son. Smiling widely, he hurries right through the ghosts. They both gasp, as all the feelings he has for these men flash through them.
They watch their grandson—A-Yuan, Wei Ying called him—sit at his dads’ table. The little family glows with an aura of warmth.
Throughout the rest of the crowd, the ghost women feel respectful awe toward their sons, or deep affection, or both—and in those cases, they know they’ve encountered dear friends, and give them blessings. They delight in the youthful laughter of junior disciples, all of whom adore their masters in red. They marvel at the presence of a peaceful, sentient undead person in the crowd, sensing Wei Ying’s qi lacing through him (“Is my son some sort of necromancer? Oh, Yu-Yu, what happened?”). There are rogue masters from Baoshan's mountain that they knew as girls, and Lan masters they knew from the Cloud Recesses, too. The air around their transparent forms chills when they encounter Lan Qiren, but warms again when they giggle together over the memory of Yang Changhu’s pranks on him.
She smiles at Shen Hongyu. “Ah, it’s so good to be here with you as a mother. If only our husbands were here. I hope I can find him after this… I died next to Changze, holding hands.” She sighs, looking wistful. “I loved him fiercely.”
Shen Hongyu doesn’t answer right away. “I am grateful to Qingheng-jun. He protected my life, and gave me my children.”
Yang Changhu looks at her directly, unsmiling. She reminds Shen Hongyu of the fiery warrior maiden she once knew.
And, whom she once…
As if in answer to that line of thinking, Yang Changhu takes her hand, surprising her. “I’m also glad it’s just us here, after all this time.” She grins, and despite her transparent form, it’s full and bright. “Tonight, we’re our own women. Come.”
They enjoy the crowd more, then—at Yang Changhu’s pull—fly through the town and fields and temple. Moving through the world is different, as spirits: time is intuitive, seeming to pause when they do, then skipping ahead once they have an intention.
Landing again on a boardwalk over lotus blossoms, they find their sons arm-in-arm on their way to their home, and leave them in privacy again—this time, at Shen Hongyu’s pull. She leads them to soar over and under the surface of the valley’s great lake, beneath the full moon. They cavort in the natural wonders of the valley until the moon’s passed behind its hills.
“Let’s visit our sons when they wake,” Yang Changhu suggests—and then, there they are: outside a little compound with the sun climbing up the sky. The home is tucked away in a private cove, set a ways off the main body of the lake.
“Gentians.” Shen Hongyu smiles sadly at the violet-blue flowers. “These grew outside my home.”
“Changze’s and my home wasn’t as nice as yours, I bet!” Yang Changhu stands appraisingly before their sons’ gate, looking happy with what she sees. “But Fengmian we always made sure had enough, even beyond Lotus Pier. Ah, Fengmian was a good man too—if not a little cowardly! That’s why I couldn’t pick him, in the end. I wonder why he and his family weren’t at the wedding, I thought for sure that must have been his A-Cheng back there, and a boy who looked like A-Li… Anyway, I do wish I could have seen little A-Huan and A-Zhan running around, happily playing in your flower beds.”
Shen Hongyu is still looking at the gentians. She wishes the same even for herself. “You had a lot of love in your life. I’m glad for Wei Ying, on that account. Surely there were many who loved him by extension.”
Yang Changhu looks down at the swaying grass and flowers, eyes fond. “Fengmian certainly did.” But then, she remembers the scars she’d felt in her son’s spirit: abuse, betrayal, loneliness…
Sensing her distress, Shen Hongyu steps forward, urgent and firm. “Changhu. I would have loved A-Ying.”
They look at one another for a moment, the valley glimmering through each other’s transparent forms as they do.
Yang Changhu smiles once more. “Well, let’s get to know him. And A-Zhan.”
The next moment, they’re through the compound's stone walls and waiting outside the house, on its veranda. Many of the wood-and-paper panels making up the walls are slid open to the air, and there’s a frying sound coming from inside, percussed with the clang and scrape of metal on metal. Then, there's Wei Ying’s bright laughter.
Shen Hongyu looks sidelong at her companion. “That is not your laugh, yet it reminds me of you.”
“It’s Changze’s, exactly the same in tone. But Changze was the quiet type, and rarely laughed so openly like that.”
“Mmn. Yes, that is it.”
“Why are we hesitating, Yu-Yu?”
“… I suppose I am nervous.” Would Lan Zhan resent how absent she was forced to be, while she was alive? Her imprisonment was her own doing. It was her decision to duel that master… though at the time, it had not felt like much of a choice. “Perhaps seeing ghosts would disturb them.”
“Surely they’ve seen worse than us.” But Yang Changhu also can’t seem to cross the threshold. It’s silly, even—they don’t need to use the door, after all.
Wei Ying’s voice shocks them (in their jolt of surprise, their spiritual energy rattles the windows). “Hey, ghosties, why don’t you introduce yourself instead of lurking, hm? Whoever you are, you don’t seem bad. We’re just about to have lunch.”
The mothers look at one other—Yang Changhu smiling ruefully, Shen Hongyu with very big eyes—and then, they appear inside their sons’ home.
Wei Ying is dressed in black with red accents, carrying two steaming bowls of vegetables to the table and smiling at the apparitions in his living room as if they were ordinary guests. He also sets two bowls of rice and cups of tea for them.
Lan Zhan is dressed like the noble Lan heir he is, sitting at the table and pouring green tea for his husband—his gaze is neutral and cool, focus keen on Yang Changhu and Shen Hongyu. He can see them too, and his golden eyes widen dramatically when they fall on his mother.
To the spirits, the enormity of these cultivators’ spiritual powers is like looking at full moons on a dark night—Lan Zhan blue like the sky reflected on a river; Wei Ying a red as vivacious as blood. Their energies are opposite, yet harmonious and intermingled.
There’s a moment of stillness and silence—until Wei Ying unfreezes. He sets down the bowls and rights the teapot with his hand gently overtop his husband’s (Lan Zhan had frozen mid-pour, continuing to pour past the cup’s brim). “Zhiyin, our mothers are here,” he murmurs to him with a loving smile. “Let’s save them some tea.”
Coming to his senses, Lan Zhan stands, lips parting. “… Mother.”
Wei Ying rises to stand beside him, and the casual, easy-going smile he’s worn is now belied by eyes that Yang Changhu remembers—the pleading kind he wore when she and Changze would leave him for night hunts. He doesn’t speak. But he takes Lan Zhan’s hand and squeezes, knuckles going white.
“A-Ying. My sweetheart. Your ribbon of fate summoned us at the wedding,” Yang Changhu explains, intuiting that Shen Hongyu can’t speak right now. “We found ourselves blessing your wedding banquet, and we wanted to see you, before we… return.”
To where? Neither of them are sure. But they feel it coming—it’s like a pull. Or a call. They are not afraid, but they’re also not ready to leave just yet. They were summoned here by their boys; this meeting is the final piece of their visit.
Wei Ying flinched, at ‘A-Ying.’ That look in his eye doubles in intensity, and his smile is gone.
Lan Zhan bows, cueing Wei Ying to do the same. When they rise, Wei Ying’s eyes are already pooling. “Mom,” he finally says, voice breaking.
And then, the Wei Ying that Yang Changhu remembers returns in force—he breaks from the formalities and leaps right over the table, rushing up to her with a tearful grin. He's much taller than she was. “Mom! Mom, I got married! And to Lan Zhan!”
She’s laughing, and then so is he. “I saw! I’m so happy, and so proud.” They can’t embrace, but Wei Ying holds out his hands, palms up, and she lays hers on top. Their energies mingle there, and it’s almost like touch. Being a spirit herself, what she feels in his qi is now undeniable. “A-Ying, how did you become a necromancer?”
He laughs and cries even harder, at that.
Shen Hongyu is aware of their reunion, and her heart is glad, but she hasn’t taken her focus off of her son. He’s still frozen, staring at her with a stricken expression that is impossible to read.
Then, it’s replaced with determination—a kind of contained ferocity, lending Shen Hongyu a glimpse of just how powerful her son has become. He glides around the table and forward to her, eyes never leaving hers. She’s transfixed, even intimidated; how could her round-cheeked, tiny boy have turned into this elegant, commanding person? He has already lived longer than her by half a decade. And he’s tall. Taller even than his father was.
He holds his hands out, palms up, in a mirror of Wei Ying. When she lays hers over his, she’s overwhelmed by how his ferocity is equally matched with tenderness. He is a fearsome cultivator—and also gentle, so very gentle, all the way to the core.
Wei Ying is a ready storyteller, and Yang Changhu is a captive audience with many eager questions. He regales her on his and Lan Zhan’s journeys, intersecting and apart. As they converse and cry and laugh, Lan Zhan and Shen Hongyu commune silently. When she was alive, she loved to tease him—trying so hard to cajole some smiles or laughter out of her sullen, silent little boy. Now, though, she follows his lead. Lan Zhan's spirit tells her everything, directly from his heart to hers.
Finally, wiping his face, Wei Ying turns to Shen Hongyu to bow. “My husband's mother… Shen Hongyu, I’m forever grateful to you. Your son is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Yang Changhu’s gaze flashes up to Lan Zhan’s—who strides over to her, taking Wei Ying’s place and he his. "Cangse-sanren," he says in his deep, resonant voice. "I am honored by your presence."
The mothers hold out their hands to their new sons, and the men lay their palms over theirs, spirits commingling.
Yang Changhu’s smile is wiped away, shocked and moved by a swell of genuine, ferocious righteousness so mountainous, it is almost painful to perceive.
Shen Hongyu’s solemnity is wiped away, brightened by a celebratory, loving spirit that bursts with compassion and courage, and she is compelled to smile. Hugely.
And of course, both women feel the love and respect their son-in-laws carry for their husbands. Their love is vast—a wide, rich forest that teems with beauty and nurturance and life.
The spirits look at one another, deeply happy. Completely satisfied that this time, they leave their sons in good hands.
As if sensing the change in their energy, Wei Ying’s smile phases from wide to small. “Time to go?”
The mothers stand before the sons they bore again, and this time, they bring their foreheads together.
I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to leave you, they both silently communicate to their children. I love you so much.
I know. You are forgiven, both men respond. I'll always love and honor you.
Even with the joy and security of these husbands, their community, and their home, the ghosts might find it hard to leave, just now, if the sons were to cry. And they look like they could.
But then, Lan Zhan wraps his arm around Wei Ying’s waist, and Wei Ying smiles up at him with strength.
The ghosts are ready. We are so proud, they communicate last. Their sons bow.
Floating beyond the little house’s wall and onto its wraparound veranda, they hear Wei Ying hum a laugh inside. “Hm. Being in touch with the dead really can have perks, eh? Hey, hey, Lan Zhan—do you think they were friends? They seemed like it.”
The mothers do not hear Lan Zhan say anything. And yet, it’s clear there’s a kind of conversation going on, for Wei Ying continues, “Ha, well of course we can’t know for sure, we didn’t ask. Ahh, we should have. Actually, there’s so much I would have liked to ask, but she kept asking me about my life, and I just kept going! Aiya… But, hey, Lan Zhan—that just means we can make up whatever we want, right? Haha! Yes! I think they were friends. We can say my mom was like me, and yours was like you.”
“Xiong-zhang,” they hear him murmur.
“Ah, you’re right, he’s just like her! That’s perfect, I love your brother, so, being like us, our moms would get along great… So, do we think they met on a nighthunt, protecting some little village out by Baoshan's Mountain?”
At this, Lan Zhan’s emotions are so powerful that the spirits sense them even from this distance: he’s gratefully, lovingly basking in Wei Ying’s sweet imagination, enjoying this particular brand of his nonsense very much.
As Wei Ying continues to chatter, animated and emotive in his storytelling, the two spirits smile at one another outside.
Suddenly, they find themselves standing before their spirit tablets again, standing in the fine, cedar shrine amidst a garden of roses. The call—Return—is loud.
“Well, old friend,” Yang Changhu sighs, smiling wryly at her companion. “Here we are. I have to admit… I don’t want to say goodbye to you.”
“I don’t know what to expect, crossing over again. I don't think I was in the Underworld. Perhaps reincarnation is imminent. I can’t quite… tell when I’m returning to.”
“Time is strange now, isn’t it? Somehow, I am the self I was when I died. That self was a mother and a wife and lover. In this very moment, I feel so strongly for Changze and long to be at his side again, and I would love nothing more than to see my A-Ying as a little boy… However, at this same moment, I am also every self I have ever been. I don’t remember them as much as I am them, all at once. Do you know what I mean?”
Shen Hongyu nods. The entirety of her life is somehow present. She is an infant with fuzzy memory, a woman feeling the first pangs of Lan Huan's labor, a lanky-legged girl sprinting through a rice paddy… a lonely, teenaged cultivator, shy of her new breasts and inner fire, looking across a Cloud Recesses courtyard to see a strange, handsome girl surrounded by laughing friends, just as that girl passes through a shaft of sunlight…
“So, I guess what I’m saying is…” Yang Changhu steps forward, touching one of Hongyu’s shoulders—and kissing her cheek. “Since we’re everyone we’ve ever been, let’s be those maidens from the past. Let’s return there.”
Shen Hongyu is certain that if she were alive, she would be shaking. “But…”
“I’m also returning to Changze,” Yang Changhu says. Her smile is warm, gentle, and certain all at once. “This spirit is not so limited as a human body is, I think. Part of me will always be with him. But, Yu-Yu… Part of me was always with you, too, even on my happiest days with him. True love never dies, you know.”
She hangs her head, despite the happiness fluttering so powerfully in her spirit that the roses around them sway in a magic wind. “I broke your heart.”
“Eh, I got over it. There was no future for two girls, anyway.”
“Maybe so. Although it seems our sons are forging a different world.” She meets her eyes, intent and honest. “I never did ‘get over it,’ as you say.”
“Really? Oh, that’s too bad, Yu-Yu.”
The ghost women take one another’s hands, look at their shining tablets, and then at each other once more.
If anyone were to look inside the cedar wood temple in the garden of roses just then, they would see two shimmering teen girls. They're smiling at each other with excitement, leaping off into some other plane hand-in-hand, disappearing with a peal of echoing, joyous laughter.