When she was young, Song Qingyou once knelt before the Buddhas and made a vow.
If her life went smoothly, she swore never to commit the sin of killing, and to treat everyone with kindness.
But fate played its cruel trick, and in the end, she broke her vow.
Who could have guessed that the upright gentleman whose hands she stained with blood would one day kneel in the long night, pleading with the gods:
If Song Qingyou’s wish comes true in this life, I vow to atone for every life she has taken.
Let hardship fall upon me, let me sink in a sea of suffering. I have no regrets and harbor no resentment.
A silver-tongued, secretly ruthless villainess × an aloof, noble gentleman
Empress Dowager vs. prince
The man is chaste; the woman is not
Many years later, Song Qingyou could still remember that it rained on the eve of her wedding. Her maid warmed wine beneath the veranda, while the sound of water trickled coolly from the upper floor. Fu Qi covered her eyes with his hand. Their touch lasted but a fleeting moment, the boldest thing they ever did.
He asked, "If I keep you from leaving this Pavilion of Rainbow Clouds tonight, could everything go back to the way it was, when we were travelers in the mountains of Shu?"
"We were never mountain travelers. I only borrowed that name to journey through the mountains and rivers of Shu. Your Highness should regard it as a dream, and by no means take it for reality."
She could never have known that her airy words, "by no means take it for reality," would set Fu Qi on a road from which there was no return.
Later, the emperor would often stare at her face in a daze, murmuring, "A dream, only a dream. I cannot dream of it; cold waters flow in vain."
The late empress had died young, and because Song Qingyou resembled her, an imperial decree confined her within the palace gates.
Their skin and bones may have been alike, but the soul of the woman he loved was gone.
In the end, he could neither dream of her nor touch her.
Only many years later did Song Qingyou learn that the following lines had already appeared at the beginning of Fu Qi’s farewell letter:
Our old travels, our old travels: are they still there now?
The old days were gone, and her old friend had long since died.
For most of the road that lay ahead, she had only her own cold, lonely shadow for company. Even the one memory worth holding on to, the warmth of Fu Qi’s palm that night, gradually faded with the rain falling beneath the eaves.
Theme: Our old travels, our old travels: are they still there now?
