The Floating Flower Terrace was now guarded by the Jintian Guards and had almost been forgotten by the people of the imperial city. Though meeting here seemed dangerous, in truth it was not. After all, even when Luowei was Empress she had rarely come to the Floating Flower Terrace — and Song Lan, unaware that the Jintian Guards had already pledged their loyalty to their former master, simply thought that with them standing watch, there was no need to post additional shadow guards here.

The Floating Flower Terrace had originally been situated in a secluded stretch of the Bianhe River, far from the bustle surrounding Fengle Tower. After the Upper Lantern Festival night long ago, this place had been converted into a memorial altar. In the beginning people still came frequently to pay their respects, but Song Lan had since used repairs as a pretext to seal it off for half a year — and gradually it had grown deserted and silent.

As long as the lanterns around the Floating Flower Terrace were extinguished, one could commit murder here without anyone in the busy stretches of the Bianhe River ever knowing.

Ye Tingyan stood beneath that cold golden statue, hands clasped behind his back, watching the sun near the end of the Bianhe River, just about to set.

Since autumn began, the days had been noticeably shorter. The hour of sunset had also gradually grown earlier. The afterglow of the evening clouds dyed the entire Bianhe River into a pale gold; below Fengle Tower, flower boats drifted and swayed — all the city’s splendor was there, while here it was silent and still.

The Reed-flower Bridge before the Floating Flower Terrace was like a dividing line, splitting the river into two ends — one hell, one the human world.

The evening glow carried the day’s lingering warmth and fell upon his eyelids. He didn’t know if it was because he had been staring at the sun too long, but these eyes had begun to ache faintly again, and tears he didn’t realize he was shedding moistened his lashes.

This golden statue had been sculpted to depict the former Crown Prince Chengming raising his sword to make sacrifice to Heaven. Song Lan put on an elaborate show of longing and remembrance, so the craftsmen had been extremely devoted, carving every detail with great care.

Ye Tingyan looked up and saw the golden statue was heroic in bearing and radiant in appearance, like a god descended from the heavens, utterly ignorant of what sorrows this mortal world might hold.

Then he lowered his head and looked toward the calm water surface below the terrace.

Today there was no wind. The water on the river was undisturbed. He saw his own indistinct reflection.

He had already removed the crimson official robes he had worn coming out of the palace and changed into a pale gauze long robe. The inner garment was the pale green of newly-emerged willow shoots — that green was very, very pale, nearly white, yet ultimately was not white.

— He could only wear some colors his beloved had once liked, and offer a veiled, restrained show of affection.

Just as the sun disappeared beneath the far-off long river, the golden glow was swept away with it, leaving behind a heavy, dim blue. At that moment he suddenly heard footsteps — and in an instant he felt his palms grow damp with a sticky layer of sweat.

Ye Tingyan forced himself to turn around.

In the dusky blue sky there was just enough light for him to make out the face of the approaching person. Luowei had removed her bamboo hat, and he only now realized she had taken off all her disguise. Plain, unadorned face to the sky, a robe of white, and she hadn’t even dotted on a touch of lip rouge.

None of the Jintian Guards failed to recognize her — they bowed and let her through.

Ye Tingyan looked at her fixedly. He had thought he would not dare to look at her, yet at this moment he could not bear to look away at all — from their very first meeting she had looked like this, and after all these years she had barely changed at all.

While he still wore this false face to meet her.

Luowei walked to stand close before him and raised her head to look up at the golden statue.

In former days she had not dared to come to this place. This golden statue was sculpted so lifelike — the drifting sash, the upswept eyes, and at the tip of the sword there was even a crabapple blossom that had been brushed off — the closer to home the more timid one grows, and she didn’t know how she would face him.

Then she lowered her head and looked at the person before her.

Ye Tingyan was wearing pink — in former days she had even wondered why he was so fond of wearing pink. Now everything was glaringly clear. She reached out to stroke the shimmering pale pink gauze, and in the same motion took hold of his sleeve. Ye Tingyan gently raised his arm and clasped the hand that slipped down into his palm.

Luowei stared at their two hands clasped together. A sour, aching feeling filled her chest. She kept her face composed, even asked as if she didn’t already know: “Why aren’t you wearing white? I remember — in the past you loved white best.”

Ye Tingyan gave a self-wounding smile and made no answer.

White is pure, the backbone of a gentleman.

Yesterday’s noble bearing — where can one seek it now?

The tears in his eyes grew and gathered, condensing into a single full, round drop, which fell heavily. Luowei lowered her head, and let him draw her into his embrace, carefully holding her.

She buried her head in the hollow of his neck. The gentle, sweet scent of sandalwood wrapped around her entirely and told her plainly — this is reality, not a dream.

Ye Tingyan pressed one hand to the back of her head and heard the muffled sound of her weeping in pain.

She gripped his lapels tightly with both hands, as though she wanted to push him away, yet never brought herself to do it. A wetness soaked through the thin garment at his shoulder and seeped into his body.

Fragments of shattered longing and yearning.

He was past caring whether she would shatter — he couldn’t help but hold her tighter. He was even more fragile than she was now; if they could shatter together, flesh and blood mingled, white bones broken, melting into an inseparable, tumbled chaos — that too would not be a bad thing.

“You…”

She choked too much to speak in full sentences, and finally dared to lift her head and look once more at that face — familiar yet strange.

The hand gripping his lapel loosened. Trembling, she reached up and touched his tear-dampened face.

Ye Tingyan kissed her fingers — the salty, wet taste of tears.

Luowei looked at him for a long, long time.

Under her tearful, intent gaze, he couldn’t say a single word. He even wanted to lower his eyes and hide from her gaze.

The dusky blue sky grew darker and darker, as if about to swallow the two of them whole. To the east, the shadow of the moon had already appeared. It was neither the beginning nor the end of the month — the moon was full, yet not quite completely full.

He thought of the Floating Flower Terrace of that year. On that Upper Lantern Festival night, the stabbing of the crabapple tree killed not only the young crown prince — the grand hall he had built in his heart came crashing down along with it.

That grand hall had once been so close to the sacred in his dreams — one step down, the sea wide, the sky boundless.

All that remained was the gilded rot of flowers in full bloom, the putrefaction adorned with blossoms.

I, facing myself, am too ugly to look upon any longer.

“What are you… afraid of?” Luowei, tears still flowing, finally spoke another complete sentence.

Hearing no answer, she asked once more: “What are you afraid of?”

“I am afraid you won’t recognize me,” Ye Tingyan answered in a trembling voice. He had mustered all his courage and spoke quickly: “I had already fallen into my own inner demon — I couldn’t even recognize myself. I believed his words, believed you would betray me, and for that… I toyed with you, humiliated you, coerced you, until the very last moment, when I could finally see this heart clearly. I was so afraid — afraid that when you saw me as I am now, you would come to regret everything you had sacrificed for me. I am not worthy of your sacrifice. You…”

He stroked Luowei’s face, and the final sentence veered suddenly off course as he murmured: “You’ve grown so thin, so very thin.”

Luowei gave a self-mocking laugh: “…When you saw me in the inner court, wasn’t it already an unrecognizable face? Since you believed it — why did you still put the knife in my hand?”

Seeing him say nothing, Luowei said: “Let me ask you then — at the ancestral temple at Chongling, the moment I opened my mouth, did you believe my words right away? I told you time and time again that what I wanted was this realm. I even claimed I was willing to give myself to a powerful minister for its sake. Did your heart have even half a measure of doubt?”

Ye Tingyan was taken aback, and only then realized — after that chaotic night, when she opened her mouth and called “Your Highness,” he had felt as if all the clouds had parted and the sun had shone through, and he had truly not doubted her intentions ever again.

He had the heart to explain, but feared she would not believe him. For a moment he didn’t know what to say that would make her believe. Just as he was turning it over and over in his mind, Luowei suddenly let go of his hand.

She stepped out of his embrace and retreated several paces: “That day when you told me not to go — what were you going to tell me?”

Ye Tingyan reached toward her with open arms and answered: “I — I had originally intended to personally take you into my study, yet I kept hesitating back and forth, afraid you wouldn’t believe me. After you saw… saw the two characters ‘Ling Ye’ — the first thing you felt, was it happiness?”

He repeated himself painfully, almost pleadingly: “The moment you knew I was still alive — were you happy?”

Wind swept across the still-damp tear tracks on his face. Luowei looked at him and suddenly burst out laughing. She turned back to glance at the already dark Bianhe River and then, quite suddenly, stepped over the stone railing at the edge of the Floating Flower Terrace and leaped off!

Ye Tingyan’s heart lurched. Without thinking at all, he stepped forward several paces and jumped down after her.

As the wind rushed past his ears, he felt afraid for the first time.

The moon overhead shone cold and indifferent. The scene of that night when he had fallen from the Floating Flower Terrace replayed itself moment by moment. The river water was icy — the old wound on his right shoulder still ached faintly. He could not swim. Struggling and trying to surface, someone grabbed his ankle and dragged him down toward the dark river bottom.

And so he could only watch helplessly as the moon on the water’s surface receded into the distance.

But this time was completely different.

He fell into the water. As he floundered in confusion, someone supported his shoulder.

Ye Tingyan’s entire body went rigid in an instant, nearly fainting on the spot.

Yet something held him — some obsession. He had entered the water to find someone. This time he was no longer alone. He needed to find —

Those hands pressing on his shoulders lifted him, bearing him back up to the surface. Just as he was about to suffocate, lips like rose petals pressed against his mouth and breathed a mouthful of air into him.

And so Ye Tingyan jolted fully awake.

He opened his eyes, saw Luowei’s face, saw the moon above her head. Unthinkingly he kissed her deeper and deeper, until Luowei bit him, and only then did he break apart from her, gasping.

He heard Luowei ask: “Were you afraid just now?”

Ye Tingyan answered from the heart: “Afraid.”

“Then why did you jump?”

“Because —”

He wept and laughed all at once in the river, and shouted his answer: “Because of you! I saw you, and there was no time to think — I simply followed wherever you went. It was nothing more than… the Floating Flower Terrace of that year. Even if it were a sea of fire, I would throw myself in to burn alongside you!”

The sound of a boat cutting through the water came from nearby. Ye Tingyan made an effort to lift his head and saw Zhou Chuyin standing at the prow.

He suddenly understood — this had certainly been Luowei’s arrangement before she came to the Floating Flower Terrace. Zhou Chuyin had been waiting here in the boat for a long time.

“Yes — there was no time to think, nothing you needed to think about.” Luowei pressed close to his ear, breathless, and said: “None of this was your fault. None of it was my fault. What need is there between you and me to go back and forth, fighting to sort it all out clearly?”

Warm drops mingled into the river water and flowed slowly along his neck.

Zhou Chuyin and a guard together pulled the two of them up. Luowei knelt on the side of the boat, and he lay with his head in her lap, dripping and shaking. His fingers refused to loosen their grip on her water-soaked sleeve.

“— Between you and me, what is there to speak of as debt and owing?”

He finally dared to reach out. He held her fast, unable to suppress his laughter.

Luowei laughed with him. The oar struck the reflected light on the river into fragments, carrying the small boat slowly forward — toward an unknown darkness.

Though the reflection was scattered, the moon had always been there at the sky’s edge.

The autumn wind was cold, but settled in such an embrace, Ye Tingyan felt no cold at all. Luowei bent forward and pressed her forehead to his, breath mingling — not a trace of ambiguity in it, only a deep devotion of two people clinging to life together, as if they would cross to the ends of the earth.

They had struggled a long, long time in this icy water and had finally swum back to each other’s side.

Twelve years of drifting, bleak as autumn withered.

Returning water reflects the sky and sinks.

Twin tears fall before the one you love.