Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

The backyard of Zilanxuan was smaller than Yang Hui had imagined.

A side room, a north-facing window, and a wooden couch covered with a thick cotton quilt. The brazier was already lit, the charcoal glowing red, making the whole room feel as warm as if spring had arrived early. Han Fei stood beside the brazier, holding a dry cloth in his hand. When he saw Yang Hui carrying someone in, he didn't say anything, but simply pointed to the wooden couch.

Yang Hui walked over and placed Yan Lingji on the couch. When she sat down, her red robes spread out on the cotton mattress, and frost-covered water droplets seeped into the fabric from her sleeves, leaving dark watermarks. Her body was still cold, but warmer than in the dungeon, as if her own body temperature was slowly returning after the restriction was severed.

Yang Hui took a step back and stood by the couch. He looked at her face for a couple of moments, then looked away and sat down on a low stool in the corner.

"The hot water is boiling by the well in the backyard." Han Fei draped a dry cloth over the back of the chair. "Zi Nu went to fetch it. Clothes have also been prepared, old but clean."

Yang Hui nodded.

Han Fei glanced at him—at the way he sat on the low stool, back against the wall, hands on his knees, as if waiting for something. Han Fei didn't say anything, pushed open the door and left. After the door closed, only the crackling of the brazier and the breathing of the person on the bed remained in the room.

Yang Hui sat there motionless. He listened for a while to the sound of the brazier, then to the faint sound of the wind outside the window, and finally to the breathing of the person on the bed—from the initial subtle fluctuations to the gradual deepening and evenness. He was using his ears to confirm that she was alive. After confirming, he closed his eyes, but not to sleep. His brain was automatically replaying every detail of what had just happened in the dungeon. The location of the restrictions, the angle at which the sword fell, the order in which the chains came off. He mentally reviewed the entire process, confirming that he hadn't missed any trace that might have allowed someone to track him back. Then he opened his eyes, took out the Heavenly Secrets bamboo slip from his robes, unfolded it, and glanced at it—the cinnabar characters remained unchanged, but a very faint line had appeared in the blank space of the last page, like a mark left by something burning the paper. He looked at it for three breaths, then rolled it up and put it away.

Footsteps sounded outside the door. It was Zi Nu. She pushed the door open and came in, carrying a bucket of hot water and two neatly folded garments draped over her shoulders—a coarse cloth robe and an outer robe, both plain in color. She didn't look at Yang Hui, but went straight to the couch, put down the bucket of hot water, wrung out a hot cloth, and began to wipe the cream off Yan Ling Ji's face. Her movements were very gentle, as if she were wiping something fragile. Yang Hui stood up, walked to the door, and turned his back to the couch.

Zi Nu didn't turn around, and said, "You can sit over there. I won't kick you out."

"I'm not sitting here anymore."

Zi Nu didn't speak again. She continued wiping. The sounds of water, the swishing of the cloth, and the occasional pop of a piece of charcoal in the brazier—these three sounds alternated, filling the air of the small room. After about the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, Zi Nu stood up, put the cloth back in the bucket, and glanced at Yang Hui's back.

"She has no injuries," Zi Nu said. "She's been frozen for ten years, yet her skin hasn't broken, and her muscles haven't atrophied—those icy chains don't hurt people, they just crush them. When she wakes up, her body should be intact, just cold. She might be cold for a long time."

"how long?"

"I don't know. It depends on her."

Yang Hui stood by the door, looking at the wood grain on the door panel. "When you were applying the cream to her face just now, did she move?"

Zi Nu paused for a moment. "How did you know I applied face cream when your back was turned?"

"When you were wringing out the towel, the sound of water stopped twice. Once when you were wiping her forehead, and once when you were wiping her chin. You only stopped when she moved."

Zi Nu was silent for a moment. Then she said, "Her jaw moved slightly, as if she wanted to speak, but no sound came out."

Yang Hui lowered his hand from the doorframe and turned around. On the couch, Yan Lingji's eyelashes fluttered. It wasn't a twitch in her sleep, but the kind of movement one feels before waking up—her eyeballs rolled under her eyelids, and then her eyelashes trembled and lifted upwards.

She opened her eyes.

Those eyes hadn't opened for ten years. Her pupils contracted violently the instant they came into contact with the candlelight, as if burned, then slowly dilated to adjust to the light. Her eyeballs moved, first seeing the ceiling beams, then the candlesticks on the wall, then Zi Nu's face, and then the gray-clad young man not far behind Zi Nu.

Her gaze lingered on Yang Hui. Her lips moved—very slightly, like a dry, cracked leaf fluttering in the wind. Then she uttered a very low sound, so low it was almost inaudible:

"……water."

Upon hearing that word, Yang Hui turned and poured a glass of warm water from the table, carrying it to the bedside. He didn't hand it to her, but placed it on a low table beside the bed so she could reach it herself. Then he returned to his original position—not too far from her, but no longer near the bed.

Yan Lingji didn't touch the glass of water. Her eyes were still on him. There was something in her gaze—not gratitude, not curiosity, not wariness. It was a hesitation that said, "I feel like I've seen you somewhere before." She opened her mouth, wanting to ask something, but she didn't have the strength to ask. She tilted her head slightly, as if searching for a more comfortable position to see his face more clearly.

Zi Nu went over, picked up the warm water, and gently supported Yan Ling Ji's head, letting her sip a little. A drop of water dribbled down the corner of her mouth, which Zi Nu wiped away with her thumb. Then she placed Yan Ling Ji's head back on the pillow.

"You've slept for a long time," Zi Nu's voice was soft. "Wake up slowly, no rush."

Yan Lingji's eyelashes closed again—not unconscious, but asleep. The brief moment she was awake was enough for her to look at Yang Hui for three breaths, utter a single word, and drink a sip of water. Then she sank back down.

Yang Hui didn't move until she closed her eyes. He walked to the bedside and looked down at her for a while. After looking at her, he reached out and gently brushed aside a strand of damp hair that was lying on the pillow, so it wouldn't stick to her face and obstruct her breathing. His fingers paused for a moment when they touched the ends of her hair—the ice on her hair had melted, leaving it damp and cool. Then he withdrew his hand, turned, and walked out of the room.

Han Fei stood in the corridor, leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, as if waiting for him to come out. Seeing him emerge, Han Fei asked, "Awake?"

He opened his eyes briefly, then went back to sleep.

"What did she say?"

"I need water."

Han Fei nodded. "That's alright. Being able to ask for water means you still remember how to survive." He pulled a small flask of wine from his pocket, but didn't drink it, just twirled it in his hand. "Where are you sleeping tonight?"

"next door."

There's no bed next door.

"As long as the wall is hard enough, it'll be fine."

Han Fei looked at him for three seconds, then didn't try to persuade him further. He gestured the wine jug towards Yang Hui—as if to say, "Would you like a sip?" Yang Hui shook his head. Han Fei took back the jug, took a sip himself, and then said, "If she wakes up tomorrow morning, will you come?"

Yang Hui stood on the veranda, the moonlight obscured by clouds, the only light in the courtyard coming from the candlelight emanating from the side rooms. He thought for a moment, then said, "Come."

Han Fei remained silent. He turned and walked towards the main building of Zilan Pavilion, but after a few steps he stopped, turned his head, and said:

"When she said 'water,' you turned around and poured water very quickly. It was like you had been waiting for that word for a long time."

Yang Hui didn't deny it. He stood under the eaves, the night wind blowing through the fabric of his clothes and the black scabbard of the Heaven-Asking Sword at his waist—the sword hadn't become lighter after being drawn in the dungeon, but Yang Hui felt it had "awakened." It knew it had been used once. It knew it would be used a second, a third time. Yang Hui also stood beside the pillar, leaning against the wall, his hands hanging at his sides. He closed his eyes, but didn't sleep. He was listening. Listening to the woman's breathing in the next room—slow, even breathing, a slow, gradual warming from the ice.

He was confirming that she was still alive. Once he was sure, he slowly, very slowly, loosened his grip on his right hand. There were four crescent-shaped nail marks on his palm, deeply embedded in the flesh.

He pinched himself when he "saw her open her eyes." He didn't know it then, but now he feels the pain.