◎ Yu Suiyun × Su Shiyu Extra · Part Two · Final Chapter (with Afterword) ◎
04 · Longing for You Across a Vast Blue Sky
After Yu Suiyun entered the palace, she quickly won Song Lan’s favor.
Though “favor” was not quite the right word — she had simply used the coquettish charm she had cultivated from childhood to guess at the image Song Lan carried in his mind of what a daughter of the Yu family ought to be.
She acted haughty and willful, openly and shamelessly drinking from the cup of jealousy meant for the Empress, while playing the part of a young girl freshly awakened to love. Everyone in the palace knew that only she could share in the Empress’s favored place, because she “truly adored” the Emperor.
Hearing such rumors, Suiyun laughed for quite a long while.
Before entering the palace, she had never known she possessed such a talent.
The longer she remained in the palace, the more she could smell, beneath the splendor of the Yu clan’s glory, the scent of a great edifice on the verge of collapse — and she gradually came to understand why her father had been so insistent on sending her into the palace.
In the entire palace, no one understood her except the Empress — yet they maintained a facade of discord between them, and opportunities to speak were few and far between. In the end, Suiyun confided only in the most guileless person by her side, A’Yan, asking her to secretly pass letters and ink between herself and the Empress.
She leaned over the writing desk, picked up her brush, and wrote: “Troubles begin the moment one learns to read.” A’Yan tilted her head over in bewilderment, and Suiyun merely smiled and stroked her hair, saying she hoped A’Yan would never come to understand what that line meant.
The fourth year of the Jinghe era. A late spring imperial hunt.
Suiyun had requested to accompany the imperial procession — originally only to see her father and brothers for a moment and exchange a few words. But she had not expected that outside the painted hall, she would encounter Su Shiyu.
One year without seeing him? Or was it two?
She could not quite remember — she only felt that he had grown considerably thinner.
When he saw her appear, Su Shiyu’s face showed no surprise. He boldly followed her onto the carriage, then reversed the host and guest dynamic entirely, saying in a flat tone, “Let us go.”
It was only then that Suiyun realized she had boarded the wrong carriage — the one outside the painted hall should have been the one the inner court attendant had prepared to take her to Yu Qiushi.
She did not know what credentials the driver outside had shown to the guards at the late spring hunting grounds, but they passed through without obstruction all the way out of the imperial hunting park. Suiyun lifted the carriage curtain to look outside — seeing no one around, she finally dared to speak again: “Have you lost your mind?”
Su Shiyu lowered his head and stroked a plain, simple sachet in his hand, saying nothing.
Suiyun found it utterly incomprehensible — she still could not believe this was something he was capable of doing: “You came to see me — for what purpose?”
Su Shiyu gripped that sachet tightly and slowly raised his head.
Amid the jolting sounds of the moving carriage, Suiyun noticed that his eyelashes were trembling faintly: “…When you came to find me back then — was it because you already knew you were going to be sent into the palace?”
Of course not — it had only been a vague premonition, nothing more.
But Suiyun did not answer. She only said, “You have not answered my question, yet you are turning it around and asking me instead?”
Su Shiyu suddenly grabbed her wrist, with a force so great it nearly crushed it.
But the gesture did not last long — only for an instant. As though suddenly realizing what he was doing, he abruptly released her, staring at the red mark his grip had left on her wrist. His chest rose and fell unevenly, yet he could not get a full sentence out: “I…”
He drew so close this time that Suiyun could even hear the sound of his heartbeat.
“Your elder brother came to find me,” Su Shiyu said, turning away from her gaze that was almost too close to bear, speaking with some embarrassment: “He asked me — in all those years gone by, when you set aside your dignity and devoted your attentions to me — why had I never once, never once…”
A bitterness she had not felt in a very long time welled up inside her. Surrounded by his breath, Suiyun nearly could not stop herself from trembling along with him: “All of that is in the past — there is no need to bring it up again.”
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“I am nothing but Father’s adopted son — not a true son of a great family. From the very beginning, I was not worthy of you.” He exhaled several times, then finally steeled himself and spoke rapidly: “My younger sister was to become Empress, and your father was the Chief Minister — the calamity of powerful in-laws was plain to see. Even if the late Crown Prince Chengming had still been alive, even he might not have been able to tolerate such a unified and deeply connected family. After I wrote that note about peach blossoms and flowing water, Father said many things to me — and it was only then that I understood: even if you did not mind that I was merely an adopted son, the two of us could have no future together.”
Suiyun stared at him unwaveringly, listening as he continued: “I had not wanted to cause you grief. Yet how could you not have told me… I had assumed your father would find you a man who suited your heart. Looking back on it now, I realize I was simply too foolish.”
“Your father had no choice but to send you into the palace. Even if there comes a day when the Yu family… even if you were already married into another household, your husband’s family might still harbor reservations and might not necessarily be able to protect you. But if you remained in the palace, oblivious to affairs outside, simply muddling along — at the very least you would survive…”
He spoke in a scattered, disjointed way, as though his soul had left his body — yet in this very moment, Suiyun suddenly understood the meaning behind everything he was saying.
She looked at the face before her and recalled the day they first met. The capital Biandu had been full of high-spirited young men, yet she had never been able to forget a single teardrop that fell from his eyes beneath a willow tree. The feelings she carried — feelings even she herself did not know the origin of — were perhaps born from the tender sentiment hidden within that teardrop.
Yet the admiration between them was like the catkins of spring — faint and elusive, scattered by a gentle breeze, leaving no bone-deep ache, no heartrending sorrow. If she had not lost her senses that day and run to ask “Do you admire me?” — there would have been not even a trace of it left.
In Su Shiyu’s heart, she could easily find a man better suited for her than him.
And in Suiyun’s heart, Su Shiyu was not someone she could not live without.
That inexplicable plea of hers one night, and his lost and bewildered explanation today — neither of them could even be called making an effort.
In her heart, Suiyun thought: Su Shiyu knew everything about Luowei, and understood all too clearly the dangers of the Yu clan and the treacherous currents of the imperial household. It was because she had married Song Lan that he was now showing this rare loss of composure.
If she had truly become an ordinary family’s wife, as he had once wished for her — those feelings he might not even have been able to perceive himself would have long since died along with that fate.
Behind them both lay their respective families, interests, and loved ones. This tiny, insignificant fondness — this “liking” of uncertain origin — could not sustain anything at all, and could only end without ever truly beginning.
A thousand thoughts flashed through Suiyun’s mind in an instant. She gave a soft, self-mocking bitter laugh — and Su Shiyu lowered his head and held out the sachet in his hand.
The small blue wildflowers had long since been dried by the passage of time, grown thin and fragile. Inside the sachet were a few petals of peach blossom — she did not know if he had intentionally added some fragrant herbs — and a faint, delicate peach blossom scent drifted out.
“Since ancient times, a woman’s marriage has always been decided by her parents’ command and the words of a matchmaker — someone as direct as I have been is truly rare.” After a good while, Suiyun finally rubbed her eyes and said, doing her best to keep her tone light: “Then let me ask you once more — if you and I had not been born into this world as we are, if there were no need to live for others’ sake, would you…”
“Yes.”
He answered without the slightest hesitation. His gaze swept past her fingers, and he hesitated for a long while — yet in the end, he did not reach out to take her hand: “Coming to see you today is the boldest thing I have done in twenty years of living within the bounds of propriety. But these words — I had to tell you.”
Having said this, he said no more.
Suiyun clutched that sachet and finally could not help but laugh aloud.
Since the day she had been married off, this was the first thing that had made her laugh with genuine delight.
Through the carriage curtain, the driver suddenly called out in a long, drawn-out voice: “Young Master — there seems to be a carriage following us.”
“It must be my father,” Suiyun said, glancing back, her eyes red: “Stop the carriage.”
The driver hesitated somewhat — though he tightened his grip on the reins, he did not stop as she had asked. It was not until Su Shiyu said in a low voice, “Stop,” that the carriage came to a halt.
Yu Suiyun reached out one hand to lift the curtain, bent low, and was preparing to step out — when she felt him grasp a corner of her skirt from behind.
His fingers lingered over it, stroking it reluctantly two or three times — only the hem of a skirt, nothing more. That was, in all likelihood, the most intimate contact they would ever share.
Su Shiyu said, his voice trembling: “Suiyun — you must live well.”
“I will,” Suiyun answered softly, swallowing the sting in her eyes. “You too.”
She tucked the sachet into her sleeve, stepped down from the carriage, and did not look back.
If she had known that this ordinary encounter was the last time they would ever see each other, she would surely have looked back at least once.
…
After Chang Zhao reported to Song Lan, the imperial physician carefully carried the child out.
Only Suiyun and Song Lan remained in the dimly lit palace hall. Song Lan rose from the golden, dragon-carved throne and walked toward her, one step at a time.
Suiyun felt her fingers trembling uncontrollably, yet her heart felt a kind of liberation. Song Lan lifted her chin with his knuckles, forcing her to meet his gaze.
And as she looked at him, imagining what expression would appear on that face after the child died — she could not help but laugh.
Song Lan knitted his brows, his gaze cold and vicious: “What are you laughing at?”
Suiyun rested her hands on his shoulders and said nothing.
“You are actually fond of the Empress’s elder brother?” Song Lan asked in a soft murmur close to her ear. “Why are you fond of him? The Yu clan and the Su clan have never been close. Your elder brother was infatuated with the Princess — that was known throughout the entire capital. Yet in all these years, I have never heard of any private acquaintance between the two of you.”
“How could Your Majesty suspect this subject’s wife?” Suiyun steadied her breathing and put on the expression she had so often worn before, saying with feigned indignation: “What fondness? What private acquaintance? These are nothing but wild fabrications. Why would that official surnamed Chang invent such lies to frame this subject’s wife? Before I entered the palace, I met him only once, and after entering the palace, I have not even laid eyes on him.”
What she said was not entirely a lie.
Chang Zhao had used her to test Su Shiyu, believing that Su Shiyu was deeply enamored of her and would surely overstep the bounds of propriety — not knowing that this suspicion, when it reached her ears, was genuinely laughable.
She and Su Shiyu had not even so much as touched hands. The most intimate contact they had ever had was when, sharing a single carriage, he had grasped a corner of her skirt.
Nothing more than that.
“Oh,” Song Lan said — it was unclear whether he had believed her. He gave a scornful laugh and suddenly brought up something else: “Do you know — the Empress was not at Guyou Mountain at all. She has fled.”
Suiyun’s heart lurched. Before she could guess the meaning behind his words, Song Lan continued: “As it happens, her elder brother has now fallen into Our hands. If she does not come back, We will kill her brother — how does that sound?”
She dared not contradict his probing, so she said with a coy smile: “Whomever Your Majesty wishes to kill need not be asked of this subject’s wife. This subject’s wife has just been through childbirth, and is also suffering this grievance — truly, I do not wish to hear such things.”
Song Lan narrowed his eyes and smiled: “Very well.”
The imperial physician returned shortly, and said something in a low voice to Song Lan. Song Lan’s brow furrowed slightly, then quickly smoothed. He reached out to help Suiyun up, and said to Chang Zhao at his side, in a tone neither warm nor cold: “Official Chang, you have been presumptuous.”
Chang Zhao glanced at Yu Suiyun and bowed his head deeply: “This official deserves death.”
“Never mind,” Song Lan said with a yawn, showing no desire to punish him further. “We will give you a chance to redeem yourself through meritorious service. Go to the Ministry of Justice and properly investigate this young Master Su — and if nothing comes of it, then have him—”
He drew out his words, leaving the sentence unfinished, yet with a playful look he glanced over at Suiyun.
Suiyun’s vision went white. She dug her nails viciously into her own fingers and barely kept herself from losing composure.
Song Lan noticed nothing amiss — he patted her cheek and laughed: “Suiyun, do not be afraid. You have given birth to an imperial son for Us — no matter what becomes of your mother’s family, We will treat you well, and treat our child well.”
The following day, before the Empress Dowager arrived, Song Lan tested her one more time.
“The Empress’s brother is dead. Even We had not anticipated that he could not withstand the torture — what a pity, what a pity.”
Suiyun tried to smile at him, but could not. Her fingers stroked the newborn infant’s soft face — yet her heart was no longer tossing and turning as it had been the day before.
If Su Shiyu had known that Song Lan intended to use him to threaten Luowei, he would certainly have preferred death.
Chang Zhao had used her to “restrain” Su Shiyu for so long, only to have him turn the tables — how could Chang Zhao not have wanted him dead?
Before this, Chang Zhao had also mentioned Su Shiyu to her, intentionally or otherwise, on many occasions — but having spent so long in the deep palace, she had long since cultivated the good habit of caution, and had not said a single word more. This was precisely why Song Lan, even now, could still believe in her naivety.
To die… was not entirely a bad thing. Living within this dark and oppressive gloom was truly too painful.
Before long, perhaps she could meet him again in the underworld. She only hoped the King of Hell would be kind enough to send them both to a good place in the next life.
Whether out of resignation or self-preservation, Song Lan was satisfied with her reaction. After the two of them played with the child together for a while, he departed with leisurely ease.
Yu Suiyun steadied herself against the writing table and reached beneath the vanity box, finding a sachet that had grown somewhat threadbare from being handled so often.
The sachet had faded in color, and its fragrance had long since completely dissipated.
She pressed it against her heart and felt it beat in unison with herself.
One beat after another.
05 · Peach Blossoms Still Smile Upon the Spring Breeze
Luowei broke off a branch of peach blossoms and came alone to the wilderness on the outskirts of Biandu.
The Shangsi Festival was nearly upon them, and the spring flowers bloomed in abundance. She had come out of the city for a purification ceremony, and upon seeing a peach tree, broke off a spray of blossoms and made her way to this wild hillside, where she gently laid it before the tombstones of Suiyun and Su Shiyu.
At the time, Song Lan had been furious and stripped Suiyun of all her titles, permitting her to be interred in the imperial mausoleum only as a palace servant. Luowei knew all too well that Suiyun would not have wished to be confined within the imperial household even in death — so she had gone to great lengths, and at last managed to bring her ashes to this place.
As for Su Shiyu — when they left Biandu, she had cast his body into the water. She had searched for him again and again afterward without success, until at last it was Chang Zhao who told Song Yaofeng that after they had left that day, he had sent men to retrieve the body from the water and given him a proper burial.
It could be said that their bond of true friendship — however true or false it may have been — was not betrayed.
“Suiyun, elder brother — spring has come again to Biandu.”
Luowei raised her eyes to look. The two of them had never shared a title or a place together in life, and had not been buried together — yet the small trees she had planted behind the two tombstones over the years had grown leaning toward each other, their branches and leaves intertwined, as though they had quietly become one.
Luowei sat before the tombstones for quite a long while. She wanted to say more, yet in the end she did not know what to say.
Unknown birds flew together through the forest, their calls echoing wide and hollow across the valley.
The echoes returned in waves, carrying with them a faint note of sorrow — as though paying tribute to the feeling that had always been between them: faint and restrained, its depths known to none but themselves, a feeling that could never be measured.
The sun sank in the west, and the mountain fell silent. In the last light of the evening, a single branch of peach blossom lay quietly on the ground, and the wind came, lifting its petals and carrying them toward a small stream not far away.
“Peach blossoms drift on the flowing water into the distance.”
One does not know from how long ago, or whose hand wrote this beautiful verse and sent it to the one who held their heart — or perhaps not quite the one who held their heart; only a person who had stirred a moment’s feeling, a moment that stretched as long as eternity.
A young woman’s voice, sweet and smiling beneath the moonlight, recited the continuation, her words carried into the wind and gradually lost to hearing.
“There exists another realm beyond this world of men.”
【 End of Complete Work 】
Author’s Note
And so the story ends here.
I had originally wanted to write a few more extra chapters for the other characters, but after much deliberation I could not decide who to write about, so I have set it aside for now — perhaps I will add them in the future if the opportunity arises.
【 A Very Long Afterword 】
Thorn of the Crabapple is the novel whose premise came to me most suddenly (though I suppose I haven’t written all that many at this point). The story summary came to me in one go and has barely been revised since — which is quite rare, since I’ve rewritten the summaries for everything else in my catalogue many, many times, and writing summaries is something I find terribly difficult…
My original intention was to treat it as a transitional practice piece after finishing The Snow Song, but during the outline stage I discovered that this premise — born in a single flash of inspiration — contained a great many problems I was not sure I could resolve, which caused my outline process to collapse completely. In the end I wrote three hundred words of outline, saved four thousand words of draft, and then suddenly just started posting.
I had to start posting because what my outline really focused on was the characters — the female lead, the male lead, their close friends, the morally ambiguous figures, the antagonist. I found this group of people so compelling and full of life that I simply had to write them!
Since I had no expectations for its performance (which has since far exceeded them), I wanted to write in a more stream-of-consciousness style, without any thought whatsoever for readability. Looking back now, it is indeed convoluted, overwritten, and shrouded in obscurity — I won’t deny that… but it was a worthwhile experiment! When I look back at it in the future, though immature, I think I will still be very fond of it.
In any case, each day I would write the plot on the spot following that three-hundred-word development arc, and if I reached a particular case I could usually plan out the next three days of story from it. The romantic storyline developed rather naturally — most of it was fragments I had imagined in my head.
Writing this way is actually very exhausting and gives rise to many problems. There were times in the middle when I nearly couldn’t go on. But because I loved it dearly, and because I had more readers than my previous work and did not want to let them down, I somehow managed to keep updating daily until the very end (in three months, I only missed three days — truly hard to imagine, even though my daily updates weren’t especially long)… I am truly grateful for everyone’s encouragement and support. Every comment, good or critical, I took to heart.
From the very beginning, what I wanted to write was that line in the summary: “the steadfast resolve of a heaven’s favorite child amid the murk and filth” and “the destruction and tempering of an idealist.”
The characters I personally am most drawn to are always deeply idealistic — both the female lead and the male lead are, and no matter what background they are placed in, I greatly love writing good people who are utterly without moral flaw. So some readers may feel that the two leads are too perfect — perfect to the point of seeming artificial, especially after the emotional entanglement between them is resolved.
This is indeed the case. Looking back after I finished, I reflected deeply on it. Because the two of them are so deeply principled, clear-headed, and able to let go, after the misunderstanding is revealed there is a lack of reaction, which may cause the emotional intensity to drop sharply midway through. But for this particular work, I found it very difficult to resolve this problem — because the female and male leads I had envisioned from the start were exactly like this. The tension existed beneath the political struggle; but once their identities became clear, neither of them had more time to resent, suffer, reproach, or grieve one another. This genuinely does not match the reaction of a pair of lovers (especially a female lead who has been deceived), but under that earlier premise of “idealism,” I feel she is simply that kind of person. This is not a question of who is more romantically devoted — if their positions were reversed, their reactions would be no different; only the order in which they learned the truth would vary.
In summary, in terms of completion I am fairly satisfied — I wrote the story I set out to write from the beginning, all the threads I left open were tied up, and I have no regrets to speak of.
For my next work, I will likely not use this style of writing again (I found it quite draining to write as well, honestly), and will try a more concise approach. Mainly I feel that changing how a story is told can help it be told better — and the same goes for the romantic storyline. I actually prefer writing short-form love stories composed of scenes (like extra chapters). Writing them long really does require a proper outline!
From the 8th of April to today — four months and nineteen days. Thank you to every reader who has stayed with me to the end.
That we could come to love this story together is a true meeting of kindred souls.
Until we meet again in the world of stories~
2023.08.27 02:58 Beijing