Power Up, Artist Yang!

They— the memories— came as sparks at first. They were fireflies of light, glimmering for the barest moment before dissolving back into the eclipse they came from. They drifted along the waves of time, emerging with the ebb and flow, dipping into the pool of her mind for a splinter of a second, a crack in the walls of her barricaded past. 

But with time, fractures could only grow; stone could only crumble. Bit by bit, the threads of fissures wove together, until not even the strongest barrier could withstand the rift.

The memories came crashing down like a flood, a sea of light rupturing past the denial that had been holding it back for so long. 

On the evening where she remembered it all, it was no different than any other. One moment she was standing guard for the prince, and the next moment, she remembered.

She remembered it all.

She knew her name before Xianyue. She knew her past before the Prince of Qing. She knew her family, she knew her friends, she knew herself. She was just a simple village girl, one with a happy family of her mother, father, and two younger brothers. She had friends so close that she would call them sisters.

They all knew her in the village. The place was so small that it would be difficult to find an unfamiliar face. She knew the grandmother from next door, who always had some wisdom to tell. She knew the twin sisters from a few blocks down, who always had new shenanigans to play with their similar faces. She knew the farmer and his family, who she always bought the vegetables for dinner that night from. She knew the handsome artisan, who sold clay figures that almost jumped to life. She knew the beauty of the village, who was deemed a flower for her graceful looks. She knew the seamstress with the best embroidery in the village, who was skilled enough to make her mother jealous. 

She knew the beggar who hung around the corners, a retired soldier with a scarred face that would be no prettier unscarred. The children joked of his crooked nose and eyes that seemed too large to fit his face. His peculiar look was enough to make her remember him when she first met him, stumbling into the village with a limp in his leg. Since his leg pained him at every move, he couldn't do any of the heavy work in the village, giving him, an outsider, only an opportunity as a beggar.

When she passed by him, she would give him some leftover steamed bread she had made, or perhaps a few coins from her pouch. He, in return, gave her stories. He said he left the army because that sort of life didn't suit him. She never knew how he found this village, so secluded, so unheard of. But he said he was happier here than any of his days before, even as a beggar. He confided in her his unrequited love for that seamstress. Finding his easy smile and unfaltering honesty pleasant to talk to, she befriended him readily, just like everyone else in the village she found a friend.

He was a good man, one who would even save the children that mocked him upon a time where an unrestrained oxe came charging down the road. Everyone in the village was good, always willing to help out at any time. It was how the village maintained its peace.

She was happy, then. So happy that not a day would pass without something to smile for. It was a simple life back then, but a simple life meant a life without worries. And that was all she needed, back in those days.

Then came the day where she went out to pick flowers. It was a silly pastime, finding flowers in the fields far behind the village.

She knew she would come back to a life no different. Her mother would still be embroidering a new set of clothes. Her father would still be at home, skinning his catch from his latest hunt for dinner that night. Her two little brothers, both of them young children, would still be playing in the front yard. And she would be back with a fresh basket of flowers to decorate the house with iridescent, dreamy colors.

But when she returned, that peaceful expectation was shattered.

The village, her peaceful little village, a daydream, a paradise, was now a hellscape. The wooden walls of houses were splintered, broken into through brute force. The sky was gray, clouded with the billowing curtains of smoke. The dirt paths, bordered with green grass and delicate wildflowers, once laid beneath the feet of villagers happily coming and going. Now, it was all barren, no signs of life in sight. The moment she stepped foot through a rickety wooden gate, she noticed this.

That was when she saw the body. She saw the body before she saw the blood, but when she recognized the red oozing from his neck, she knew it was a corpse. The face of the corpse belonged to the handsome artisan, the one who sculpted life from mud. The air around him always carried the earthy scent of clay and paints. Now, there was only the metallic, pungent tang of blood.

She gagged, stumbling to a corner and leaning on the wall of a house for support. 

What happened?

She wanted to curl up and hide. She thought that if she squeezed her eyes hard enough, she would wake up. Perhaps it was a nightmare. A fever dream. When she opened her eyes, she would be lying in bed, her baby brothers tugging at her hair. 

She opened her eyes, and saw the same. Smoke, dust, blood.

Somehow, she found the strength to keep moving. There was only one thing keeping her going, and that was the thought of her family. They had to be alright. They had to be safe at home. Perhaps it was just an unlucky bandit raid from a faraway mountain. Perhaps it was only the artisan that had died. 

As she passed by more and more bodies, their faces belonging to names she recognized, she could only continue to hope. Perhaps it was only the farmer that died. Perhaps it was only the grandmother. Perhaps only the twin sisters.

It was hopeless faith, but that was all she had left. She could not lose it. 

When she arrived at her home, she was afraid that she might've needed to open the door. Yet there was no need for that fear, for the door had already been broken down, axed and splintered like all the others.

Inside, she saw them. 

Her brothers were clinging onto her mother, who had her arms around them in an attempt to protect them from the inevitable. Her father reached out helplessly, his fingers a centimeter away. They were all lying on the ground, crumpled like discarded puppets.

Red. Red splattered on the walls. Red splattered on their faces. Red across their necks. Red seeping through their robes.

She had been too late.

When even hope abandoned her world, she had nothing left. She sunk to the ground, her vision turning black.

…

The memories that followed this one were ones she knew. Yet now, when she remembered everything else, they weren't familiar memories at all. The truth distorted the past that she once knew. Or was it the other way around?

She thought he had been her savior. She thought that in that moment, the Prince of Qing, with his clean shining armor, the one light amidst the dust, had saved her from the bandit, the one that had assaulted that one woman and rushed to kill her.

But now, wandering in her past, she could no longer see the halo of light caught on his armor. She could only see the coldness, as unmoving as ice, in his eyes. 

In his last moments, he had wanted to save her. He ran at her not to kill her, like she thought, but to keep her from harm. To keep her from the Prince of Qing.

And she had watched him be slaughtered in front of her eyes. She watched Fu Hansong gut that man, his sword mercilessly plunging into the man's c.h.e.s.t, all the while doing nothing. All the while feeling relief that she had been saved, by the very murderer of her true savior.

Looking at her past, she could barely breathe. At this point, she had fallen to the ground again, caught too deep within the overwhelming memories of history.

She had held gratitude towards the prince. She had worked so hard to please him, to change herself to be enough for him. She had loved him— no. She still loved him. Amidst all the hate, amidst all the anger, amidst all the betrayal ripping into her heart, clawing into her mind, she still loved him.

Right now, the pain of this fact was worse than the pain she had felt when seeing the corpses of her family, the corpses of her friends. 

Years. She spent years serving, pleasing, and loving the murderer of every other person she ever loved. She had done so willingly, gotten the blood of innocent lives on her hands for him, carved out her own humanity for him. 

And still, she loved him.

She could not understand herself. She could not understand her mind. The pain in her heart was immeasurable, but she felt less betrayed by him, and more so of the girl that she was, serving him so blindly. 

She was disgusted at herself. She hated him, but at this moment, she hated someone else more.

She cried. For all the tears that she could not shed back then, for all the tears left in someone no better than a monster, she cried.

…

When she went to him, he was reading again. It reminded her of the countless times she went to him in the past, wishing for his approval, his smile. She imagined her past self then, realizing that amidst all the smiles he gave her, how many were true smiles? And how many were smiles of amus.e.m.e.nt, concealed delight at her foolishness?

He did not look up until he finished reading the scroll. And then, he had inclined his head, setting the scroll down with a soft thud.

"My Xianyue, why do you wear such an expression?" he asked. What she thought was once a tone filled with so much gentleness only seemed like cold calculation to her ears now.

"Why?" she managed to choke out, her voice splitting. "Why did you kill them?"

He paused, his dark eyes fixed to her face. She could see the thought travel across his mind, the realization of who she was talking about.

"So you remember," he said.

"Why?" she repeated again. It was the only word that she could make out. She had to know. For what reason did he have to slaughter an entire village? For what reason did he have to take all of those innocent lives, when they had never done anything wrong? 

"You know," he answered, his voice still so soft, "that was so many years ago. I don't think I even remember." He raised another scroll, unrolling it across the table to begin reading.

"My family. My people. You killed all of them… without reason?" 

He looked up again, the corner of his lip curling upwards. "Reason? Xianyue, when did you ever need a reason? Have you not also slit your blade across so many throats, took the lives of so many families, as well?" He paused again, letting the words sink in. "And for what reason, may I implore?" 

She knew this. He did not need to remind her. But her reason was him, was it not? It was all for him.

They had returned to silence. Yet while he resumed his reading, paying no mind to their conversation as if it was just passing idle chatter, she was arriving at another realization.

There was only one way to set this right.

Before she could even think any further, she drew out a blade from its sheath. A dagger that he had gifted her, one gift amidst the countless things that he had taken away. The movement of the dagger in her hand came naturally to her, a motion that she had practiced countless times for him.

And now, she had the blade poised at his throat. 

She leaned across the table, the metal of the knife biting into the flesh of his neck. Now, he was staring at her, expression still unchanging, eyes still carrying those dark irises. The scroll he was reading was still in his hand.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked, unflinching.

She was so close that she could feel his breath. It hadn't changed, still remaining as steady as ever. She couldn't read him. After all these years, she still couldn't. But one thing was for sure: he held no fear.

A light breeze swept into the room through the paper windows. The candle resting on his table flickered in the wind.

"Why are you not afraid?" she breathed, her voice lower than a whisper. When they were this close, there was no need for more than that.

"Because I know you can't. Even if I," he grabbed her hand with a sudden movement, digging the metal deeper into his neck, "tell you to do so, you can't."

She furrowed her brows, a stricken expression across her face. "How do you know?"

"Is it not 'love', what you've been saying all along?" He smiled. "Go ahead. Do it. Kill me, right here, right now. I'm defenseless. Your knife is at my throat. Can you?" 

He knew he was right. He knew the answer. She did as well. 

As much as she held the blade to his throat, as much as she claimed that she could kill him, she could not. For a reason no simpler and yet no more complicated than love.

She thought she hated him, but it was not enough. 

So, as helpless as she was, there was only one other thing she could do. One other person she could kill. One other hatred she could sever.

She flicked the dagger around, the blade spinning to point towards herself. Without tearing her eyes from him, before he could even comprehend what she was about to do, she plunged it into her own c.h.e.s.t, piercing it into her own heart.

She could not bring herself to avenge her past by killing Fu Hansong, so let her kill Xianyue instead. Xianyue, the prince's shadow, the waning moon in the sky, the person who betrayed herself more than anyone else in the world. 

It was odd, how the air in the room stilled. How the realization passed through his gaze, as his eyes traveled from the dagger to her face. How the pain, albeit ripping through her nerves, was not worse than what she felt before. 

In the last few moments before she lost consciousness, she thought she heard the prince clamor out "Xianyue". She thought she felt him grab her as he dropped the scroll. She thought she caught a glimmer of a teardrop in his eye.

But that was probably all her imagination, the delusions she still kept as a fool blinded by love.

He was always right. To yearn was to distract. To cherish was to inevitably lose. 

And so, let her not.