Su Chaoci Side Story: Amid the Colored Clouds
[01. The Difficulty of Circumstance]
Outside the window, a storm was brewing. Su Chaoci rolled up his sleeves and ground his ink, hesitating for a long while before finally writing down the words: “Awaiting your return.”
The candlelight cast shifting shadows across his furrowed brow.
Half a month later, on the night of Zhou Tan’s wedding, Zhou Yang, still not fully sobered from the wine he’d been drinking, slipped in through the back door of the Su residence and into his study.
Zhou Yang held his liquor exceptionally well — even after drinking all night with Ren Shiming, he showed barely a trace of drunkenness. Su Chaoci glanced up at him and saw his indifferent yet reddened eyes.
“That woman… what’s her background?”
Su Chaoci set down the scroll in his hands and answered, “The daughter of a scholar-official known for his integrity in the capital. She’s on fairly close terms with the Chancellor’s eldest daughter.”
Zhou Yang pressed further. “Could she harm my brother?”
Su Chaoci shook his head. “I don’t know.”
After a pause, he added, “She’s a woman raised in a proper household, after all — nothing serious is likely to happen on the wedding night itself. Since you’ve returned, go pay a visit tomorrow and see for yourself.”
A faint, barely perceptible cold glint flashed in the young man’s eyes. “If she has ill intentions, I’ll kill her.”
Su Chaoci only sighed. “She’s the daughter of a noble official’s household.”
Zhou Yang said dismissively, “So what?”
Su Chaoci cleared his throat and changed the subject. “I’m glad you made it back in time. I haven’t been able to sleep these past few nights — after all, with my position still uncertain, and my apparent estrangement from your brother on the surface, going to him rashly might ruin whatever plans he’s laid, but not going leaves me unable to rest easy either… I don’t even know how his wound is healing.”
Zhou Yang gripped the hilt of the sword at his waist, a flash of pain crossing his eyes. “I once thought that if I fought on the battlefield and earned some merit, it might smooth my brother’s path somewhat… but marching with the army so far away, cut off from news, leaving him here alone worries me terribly. And swords and blades show no mercy — who knows which day I might…”
Su Chaoci pressed his fingers to his brow, deep in thought, then suddenly said, “Do you want to stay by his side?”
Zhou Yang answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Of course… but the reason I originally went off to travel far away was because my brother refused to let family stay close to him — too many attachments would only make things harder for him.”
Su Chaoci said, “I have an idea, though. Do you remember when Zhou Tan first returned to court from his provincial post and got into that dispute with someone? I recall you were confined to the house as punishment by Lord Ren at the time, yet you still slipped out in night-black clothes and took a blow meant for him, right across the back. Afterward you didn’t dare let him know, and came to find me and Master Ai to treat the wound instead.”
“Yes, I remember,” Zhou Yang thought it over, then immediately understood what he meant. “What a fool I’ve been! This plan is excellent — since I already saved his life once, I only need to have Old Master Ai recommend me to his side, and my brother will surely trust me.”
“But…” Su Chaoci hesitated. “Ah Yang, think carefully. If you stay by your brother’s side under such an identity, you’ll lose your chance at advancement within the military. You might die at the hands of some nameless assailant, or fall victim to some hidden scheme, and never have the chance to achieve glory or rise to command… Are you truly willing to accept that?”
Zhou Yang shot back at once, “Young Master Su, if your father could come back to life… between him and your dream of becoming Chancellor, which would you choose?”
Su Chaoci opened his mouth, then fell silent.
Zhou Yang laughed. “I have only one family member left in this world. To me, he matters more than every dream I could ever have combined… I once asked my brother this very question. He was young back then, and greedy — he said he wanted everything, both the future and the fulfillment of every wish, all at once. I don’t know whether he can manage that, but I’m not as capable as he is — I have to choose one or the other, and there’s no need for me to hesitate over it.”
He gave a cupped-hand bow and disappeared into the vast night. “Thank you.”
Su Chaoci relit the candle beside him, its flame flickering unsteadily. Zhou Yang hadn’t closed the door on his way out, and the newly lit flame was soon snuffed out by the wind blowing in from outside.
The wind blew on for a long while, but the rain never came.
[02. Wandering in Spirit]
For three nights in a row, Su Chaoci had the very same strange dream.
In the dream he sat by a window, beside him a stretch of strange, transparent glass, sunlight passing through it to warm his cheek.
Voices drifted around him.
They sounded almost human, yet not quite — rustling, hushed, indistinct.
“…Sages — how should we even define a sage? The essay ‘On the Way’ says, ‘When a sage emerges, he teaches the people the way of mutual support and nurture’ — utterly good, utterly beautiful, selfless, great, broad-minded, benefiting all under heaven. Every word of highest praise can be used to describe them.”
“But I’m unwilling to use a word like ‘sage’ to define the historical figures I admire. Everyone has their own private interests — the ideal of ultimate sagehood is nothing but a golden idol shaped by the perfect imaginings of worshippers. So when I study a historical figure, the first thing I do is search for their flaws in the historical record.”
“…”
Looking down, he saw a floor so polished it reflected light back at him — he had never seen such an absurd sight in his life.
“Only once I find these harmless little flaws can the golden idol step down from its pedestal and become an ordinary person, filled with all seven human emotions — for greatness, after all, must always rise up out of the ordinary.”
A woman approached him, her hair unbound, dressed in clothing unlike anything he had ever seen, and studied him closely.
“Who are you?” he asked.
No one answered. The world twisted and tore apart, then in an instant returned to normal.
The next day, when he first met Zhou Tan before the court, he still hadn’t fully shaken off that strange, disorienting dream.
“Young Master Su…”
“My surname is Su, given name Ci, courtesy name Qianling.”
A voice, puzzled, asked from within the void.
“Qianling… why is it that you never tell people your courtesy name is Qianling?”
Somewhat embarrassed, he muttered, “Qianling sounds like a girl’s name.”
The other laughed softly, calling “Qianling” close to his ear.
“‘I departed from Baidi at dawn amid the colored clouds, and returned to Jiangling a thousand li away in a single day’ — it really does suit you as a name.”
The voice followed him from his dreams into waking life, and he gradually grew accustomed to its presence. More than that, he was astonished to discover that this other person seemed to understand him remarkably well, knowing what was on his mind even without seeing him.
After his father’s death, after the Lantern Tower affair broke out, after the upheaval in the capital, after Zhou Tan departed on his long journey — for a long stretch of time, he heard that voice no more.
Then one evening, dozing off while the pages of documents rustled loudly in the Council Hall and the flower-lattice window stood unclosed, he fell into a deep dream and saw that strange woman once more.
This dream was far more coherent than the ones before. He found himself on a pleasure boat upon the great river, the woman standing beside him, gazing out at the setting sun ahead.
Su Chaoci turned his head and, for the first time, saw her face clearly.
Elegant, composed, tranquil, carrying an air of scholarly refinement so pronounced it seemed less like the cultivated air of a well-read poet, and more like the practiced, exacting bearing of a historian, an editor, someone devoted to careful study.
The woman reached out and touched his face.
Su Chaoci’s heart raced with uncertainty, yet for some reason he didn’t move at all, allowing her calloused hand to trace gently across his cheek.
He saw a single clear tear fall from her eyes.
“Twenty years spent among books, and at last I see you before me…”
He never learned where this woman came from, but the two of them quickly became kindred spirits.
“On the third day of the third month, on the wild river in the countryside, I’ll wander with you in spirit — I look forward to it.”
The Chancellor Su, renowned throughout the realm, did not marry until he was nearly forty years old.
His wife’s origins remained a mystery — she belonged to no great clan, no noble family. One day, she simply appeared out of nowhere, and Chancellor Su abruptly took her as his wife.
His wife had no interest in social gatherings, and after their marriage she left the capital to travel far and wide. A year or two later, she left behind a daughter for him, then vanished entirely without a trace. Aside from Su Chaoci, no one ever knew where she had truly come from, or when exactly she had passed from this world.
“Qianling, I am a foolish man, but I love and cherish you, just as I love and cherish this glorious age — just as you love and cherish me, but love and cherish the fate of this nation even more. Meeting twice only brings more sorrow — better to return to where I belong. When your life has run its course, in the moment you close your eyes… we will surely meet again in another world.”
Su Chaoci lived to the age of sixty-six, having accomplished everything he had ever set out to do. When he died, scholars throughout the realm mourned him, the emperor suspended court for seven days, and the crown prince personally supported his coffin. His name was recorded in the annals of history for all time.
Before he closed his eyes for the last time, he remembered a clear day long ago, their first meeting on a boat on the wild river outside the city, the sails billowing full, hair flying in the wind, the evening sky filled edge to edge with colored clouds — he had felt himself step outside the clamor of the world and experience a peace he had not known in a very long time.
“We will surely meet again in another world.”
—I’m coming to find you.
[03. A Letter Baring My Heart to Zhou Xiaobai, No. 5]
A brief note:
It is said that “a scholar dies for the one who understands him.” Since we first came to know each other from humble beginnings, and together ascended the golden hall, sailed the sea of officialdom, crossed through the paths of dragons, and came to understand the workings of government, more than a decade has now passed. To speak of the depth of our friendship as kindred spirits, to call it far beyond the ordinary — these words could never be enough, and so I set down everything I wish to say, baring my heart in this letter.
The debate sparked by the Order to Remove the Flowers was no small matter — looking at it from beginning to end, none of it surpassed in importance the affairs of military strategy, the people’s livelihood, the borderlands, and taxation. You have held firmly to the Confucian way, while striving with all your strength to carry out the work of the Legalists. In my discussions with others, I have often observed: those in this world who seek to reform the law are either as unyielding as bronze and iron, impervious to all obstacles, or as gentle as the spring breeze and nurturing rain, advancing slowly and patiently. The former face death before achieving life; they endure slander and resentment first, before building their reputation afterward. This much is common knowledge, and most know which path to choose based on its relative merits — yet you alone chose differently.
I bow and say: from your youth you carried talent and virtue beyond your years; leaving your hometown, you earned praise and renown, your reputation carrying for ten thousand li even as you served far from the capital, sheltering the realm beneath your protection like a canopy spread over all beneath heaven. By the day you received the imperial mandate, the murky clouds of past pettiness and grievance had long since scattered and dispersed — how brilliantly you shone, rising to that height! Had it not been for the Order to Remove the Flowers, you would surely have become a minister remembered for ten thousand generations. I have often, in the solitude of dreams, taken up my brush to reflect upon myself: can the one who carried you across such trials still shield you from the clouds that gather now? Alas! Alas! I think of how you knew full well the path you walked would lead to your own destruction, yet never once spoke a resounding word in your own defense — and I, a man now disgraced before the world, am consumed by boundless shame and regret, unable to find peace within myself.
…
Bathed together in the same long wind, crossing the very same sea — Li Bai once wrote, “I long for the immortal who dwells in the far eastern corner of the azure sea, where the sea is cold and the heavenly winds blow fierce.” And Su Shi once wrote, of drifting freely on the current, “…just then, a solitary crane happened to fly in from across the river, heading east.” From this I understand: could the immortal in that far eastern corner of the azure sea, and the one who once flew crying past me in the night long ago, perhaps have been none other than you? I now dwell by this desolate river crossing, brush in hand, unable to find the words. Du Fu, caught by wind upon the Huai River, wrote with feeling, “One should worry only of mooring for the night in some noisy, lowly place — better to be blown out into the vast open sea, where true freedom begins at last.” I hope only that you have found your way now to some free and boundless realm… I have no talent worthy of sending to you, and can only pace back and forth in mourning. Though I bare my heart in this letter, I still cannot fully express the depth of my feeling in words fit for your memory — I offer only these scattered, colorless rites into the vast unknown.
I know you have walked the path of pure, untainted snow, and that even as it melts away, there is something moving in that, too.
May we both take care.
Author’s Note:
The whole story is now complete, everyone!
- “I long for the immortal who dwells in the far eastern corner of the azure sea, where the sea is cold and the heavenly winds blow fierce, white waves rolling like mountains overturning the Isles of Penglai.” — Li Bai, “Someone I Long For”
- “…drifting freely on the current… just then, a solitary crane happened to fly in from across the river, heading east,” and the later line “flying and crying past me in the night long ago” — both adapted from Su Shi’s “Latter Ode on the Red Cliff.”
- “One should worry only of mooring for the night in some noisy, lowly place — better to be blown out into the vast open sea, where true freedom begins at last.” — Su Shunqin, “In Reply to a Favorable Wind Encountered on the Huai River”