Chapter Thirty-Five: Mother’s Expectations (4k)

Zhang Ximiao was exhausted by the time she reached this point. Ever since she had awakened, she had been recounting the past without a moment’s pause; it had been over four hours now. The sky had darkened, a deep, bruised purple dome pressing down upon the mortals below, so suffocating that it left Liu Xian, sitting beside her, gasping for air.

Lines of ink in history books are easily skimmed over by readers, even when they record the deaths of thousands. But for those who lived through it, the suffering and blood contained within could not be told even if one were to drain the lakes and seas. Though his mother’s recollection was not exhaustive and she had tried to downplay the cruelty, Liu Xian could still feel, through her tone, that this history had frozen her life in that moment. The millions of souls who died that day surrounded her, holding her spirit captive.

Was the Duke of Anle the same? Liu Xian wondered. As his father’s bleary, bloodshot eyes surfaced in his mind, his anger faded, though try as he might, he could not bring himself to forgive him.

Liu Xian rose to light a candle. As the flame filled the room with light, shadows danced in the breeze, and the chirping of the warblers outside the window suddenly ceased. Ah Chun brought in a bowl of steaming mutton soup, finally dispelling some of the chill. Liu Xian filled a bowl and fed his mother, spoonful by spoonful. Sadly, Zhang Ximiao’s appetite was poor; she managed to drink half a bowl before reaching her limit. It was clear her condition was not improving.

After the evening meal, Liu Xian hoped his mother would rest, but she insisted he stay to conclude their conversation.

"Can you answer many of your own questions now?" she asked.

"Your father was the sixth in his generation, and not born of the primary wife. By all rights, the title of Duke of Anle should never have fallen to him. But your grandfather, feeling guilty about the circumstances and mourning your eldest uncle, insisted on passing the title to your father. Your uncles, because of this, not only refrained from contesting the title but also consistently gave way to your father."

So that was it. Liu Xian had indeed been confused as to how Liu Xun, given his character and status, had won his grandfather’s favor. He had his answer, but this was a minor matter. He had more pressing questions:

"But Father—did he actually manage to reach the old troops of the Great General?"

"Although I never asked, as far as I know, he did not."

"My teacher says the Great General Jiang Wei died in the chaos at Chengdu and never left the city?"

"That is true. He and his old subordinates like Zhang Yi were all killed that night. The Wei army even cut open the Great General’s chest to inspect his gallbladder."

"And the Han army outside the city? The Great General had over fifty thousand men. With the original garrison of Chengdu, that must have been sixty or seventy thousand. Were they all slaughtered by the Wei, or did they surrender?"

It was a brutal end. Zhang Ximiao answered slowly, "They could not have all been killed. In fact, some of the Great General’s old subordinates did escape the city that night. They led the majority of the soldiers across the Changsheng Bridge under the cover of darkness and fled toward the northwest."

"But it was a desperate measure. Without the imperial court, there was no support, and most of Shu was already under Wei control. It is said they fought as they fled, losing more than half their numbers quickly. By the time we were relocated to Luoyang, fewer than twenty thousand remained. Two years later, there was no word of them at all."

It was the expected conclusion—no miracles, no surprises. The final spark of Jiang Wei had been extinguished. Liu Xian thought of the swordsman he had met in his childhood, who claimed to be an acquaintance of the Duke of Anle before dying in front of their gate. His father’s temper had only worsened after that. Who was he? What was his connection to his father? Was it true, as the investigator claimed, that he was Zhuge Zhan? Liu Xian asked his mother.

The answer came quickly. Ximiao sighed, "Wang Fu was a guard for your eldest uncle in his early years. When your father was about ten, he was transferred from your uncle’s side to protect your father. They were like brothers. When your father went to meet your uncle, he took several guards, including him. But he never returned with your father, and I assumed he had long since died."

"Years later, word reached us that he had found the last remnants of the Han army and falsely claimed that Zhuge Zhan was leading a rebellion. It was suppressed within a year. The current court never caught him, but I never expected him to turn up in Luoyang..."

"Why did he come?" Liu Xian asked.

Zhang Ximiao shook her head. "I do not know. Perhaps he was at the end of his rope and hoped for your father’s protection... But in reality, we could barely protect ourselves; how could we shield him?"

So that was it. All the puzzles were solved: his father was a pathetic man who craved a restoration he could never achieve, living in self-deception and destroying himself, as well as the loved ones around him. His grandfather was an incompetent ruler who relied on sycophants and hindered the wise. His teacher was a man who carried guilt while selling his conscience and his past to advance his career.

Compared to their ancestor, the Illustrious Emperor, and the Great General Jiang Wei, everyone else was merely mortal.

Yet, everyone had once held a touch of legend: his father had tried to shoulder the weight of destiny on that rainy, moonlit night; his grandfather had once worked in harmony with wise ministers to create a golden age; his teacher had campaigned in the south with Jiang Wei’s army; and there were those like Wang Fu—whose names or faces he could not recall—who had given their total loyalty to the nation.

But the cruelty of this world lay in the fact that those legendary aspects were over for him, relegated to the past. All he could feel was the decay of reality, which continued to crumble around him. His mother wanted him to forgive and understand his father, but with his father’s mental state, how could he endure it? Even his mother could not.

Regardless, this was Liu Xian’s burden to bear. The long tale had reached its end, and for now, he had to satisfy Zhang Ximiao’s request. "Mother," he asked, "aside from this marriage, what do you hope for me in the future?"

"Piji, I told you at the beginning!" Zhang Ximiao reached out to stroke his face, smiling. "My winter has arrived, but you are still in spring. I leave you with seeds."

"I have no other requirements. I only hope that when you face any opportunity for happiness, you do not turn away. You must grow strong, grow with all your might. You are a sapling now; I hope you will become a towering tree. You must live out the happiness I lost, the happiness your father lost, and the happiness of the brothers or sisters who were never born."

"Perhaps a person’s life is not in their own control, and all efforts may come to naught—just like the Great General. But at least I hope you have tried. Do not waste your time."

His mother’s request was simple, but life is complex; the simpler the request, the harder it is to fulfill. Liu Xian understood this, but he also felt his mother’s deep attachment to the world and her love for him. As she spoke, he felt as though part of her spirit had entwined with his own. He began to understand the burden she spoke of; he felt that if he did not do or say something, he would collapse. Only by standing tall could he be a true man.

Liu Xian grasped her hand tightly. "Mother, I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to become a towering tree."

Seeing the solemnity in his eyes, Zhang Ximiao felt a momentary trance. She felt as though she had returned to the state of meditation she knew before his birth, hearing someone speak, promising to help her fulfill her wish:

"Madam."
"Yes."
"Your wish will be granted."
"Yes."

Over the next dozen days, Zhang Ximiao’s condition deteriorated rapidly, just as the physician had predicted. When she first woke, her face had been pale; now, a deathly, bruised blue-black hue seeped beneath her skin. Her eyes grew dim, and she lacked the strength to speak, pausing for breath after every word. She tried to stop Liu Xian from visiting, but he forced his way in to fulfill his final duties as a son.

To accommodate her, Liu Xian kept the curtains drawn, leaving the room in shadows. Since speaking exhausted her, he let her remain silent, and the two stood quietly in the dim light. Outside, the ice had melted, and the chirping of sparrows and warblers filled the air.

"Have you found your father yet?" she asked.

"I have looked everywhere," Liu Xian lied. "I hear people have seen him, but there are too many distractions in Luoyang; every time I follow a lead, he has already moved on." In truth, he had not looked at all; he wished Liu Xun would just die out there.

"Do not look anymore," Ximiao said, shaking her head heavily. "He is only afraid to see me. When I am dead, he will naturally return."

A while later, she asked, "Did Master Ruan help you with the betrothal gifts? Is it done?"

"It was finished yesterday," Liu Xian replied. "The sheep, geese, cattle, wine, millet, and grain have been sent. The teacher was worried that the Duke of Juancheng might change his mind after hearing of our situation, but fortunately, he held to his original plan. He wanted to wait until I reached adulthood in four years anyway, and said that my three-year mourning period would not interfere."

The topic was too sensitive, and neither spoke further. Moments later, the birds outside stopped chirping. "I think I smell flowers," Zhang Ximiao said suddenly.

"It must be the peach blossoms in the courtyard," Liu Xian said.

"I would love to see them!" she smiled, then immediately stopped herself. "No, my body is too weak to rise."

After a long rest, she whispered, "I long to go home." She was thinking of the Chengdu of her memory. Liu Xian could not imagine it, having only heard her descriptions: Chengdu had long summers and short winters, a mild climate, no scorching heat, little frost or snow, surrounded by mountains and jade-green rivers—a paradise. Luoyang, though the old capital, had long, harsh winters where the Yellow River froze, which caused Ximiao great discomfort.

Liu Xian could offer no comfort, so he simply added more charcoal to the brazier, hoping to warm the room and drive away her chill.

"It is useless," Ximiao sighed. "They say life is but a few decades, but how many live to fifty? My great aunt, who was Empress, only lived to thirty. I have lived over thirty years and enjoyed wealth and honor; it is already a blessing from the Bodhisattvas."

Liu Xian felt a pang of sorrow. He noticed her pointing behind her pillow. He reached out and found a small green silk pouch. Opening the golden thread, he found a talisman and a piece of jade carved into a Buddha.

"This was a treasure your eldest aunt and I sought for you when you were born," she said. "The talisman was drawn by the Celestial Master Zhang himself, and the jade was carved by a monk from the White Horse Temple. You didn’t like wearing it when you were small and often dropped it, but I kept it. Keep it as a memento."

Mother and son fell into a long silence. Ximiao slept for a while, and when she awoke, her spirit was better. Seeing Liu Xian in thought, she called to him, "Piji, if one day you can go to Chengdu, remember to look at the western suburbs. See if the manor where your father and I lived still stands. I buried three jars of wine under the largest mulberry tree. They might still be there."

"Chengdu? Yes!" Liu Xian made a silent vow. He would find a way to reach Chengdu one day.

In the evening, Zhang Ximiao had a small appetite and managed to eat some porridge. The next morning, the weather was clear and blue, with sunlight spilling through the curtains. Ximiao was happy and wanted to see the courtyard. Liu Xian helped her to the door. She stood there, leaning against the frame, gasping for breath. She had hoped to go further, but had to give up.

In the following days, Ximiao drifted into a stupor. One afternoon, she suddenly woke and saw Liu Xian sitting nearby. "Have the loquat flowers bloomed?" she asked. Liu Xian did not know how to answer, for there were no loquat trees in the yard. She sighed softly and whispered, "I smell the scent of loquat flowers."

From then on, she could not eat at all. Five days later, she passed away. When she died, her cheekbones were deeply sunken, and her body was frail. According to her wishes, they did not invite many guests, simply asking a monk from the White Horse Temple to pray for the departed.

The day before the funeral, Liu Xian kept vigil in the mourning hall. He could no longer hold back his tears, sobbing in the empty night. He told himself silently that this was the last time he would ever weep; according to his promise to his mother, he would never cry again.

On the day of the funeral, Liu Xian walked beside the coffin. After today, he would leave Luoyang once more to build a hut and observe the mourning period where she was to be buried. The site was on a small hill called Bianshan, between Mount Wanan and Longmen. Backed by green mountains and overlooking the Yi River, it was a place she had chosen herself.

And there, Liu Xian would spend the next three years working through the shadows.