A Song to Drown Rivers

by Ann Liang

beauty is not so different from destruction.

“Fanli,” he replied, and straightened. “Political and military advisor to King Goujian of Yue.”

“Do you have no desires of your own? Have you never wanted anything just for yourself?” His gaze cut to mine.

“Am I hurting you?” I asked, pausing. A silence, before the reply came: “You could never hurt me.”

What a bittersweet fate we shared, balanced so precariously on the fine line between life and death, union and separation, joy and despair.

He is disciplined, Xishi,” he said as his words buzzed in my head like a wild swarm of hornets, “but he is not made of stone.

“Sometimes I swear—I only feel like a person when I’m around you. Does that make sense?”

“Kiss me,” he said hoarsely, earnest and foolish. “Kiss me until I forget everything.”

I’m afraid of how tempting it is, to ignore my own rationale, of how many excuses I can invent just to be closer to you. I’m afraid of how much—how much I want. Of what I want. I’m afraid of how easily my self-discipline slips. How quickly my judgment falters.

“And besides,” he added under his breath, as though speaking to himself, “if for some reason I cannot see you again, then I shall suffer either way.”

What is home, if not you?”

“If I am to die, I want you to be the one to kill me.” His smile widened, like a burst of light in a gray storm, a melting of ice in early spring. And there was the sword between us, the hilt facing me. A choice. An ending. “I want this to be the last of my memories.” “Fuchai—” “Please,” he said. “There can be nobody else but you.”

“He was not killed by the Wu,” she said harshly. “He was killed by the war. By the will of kings.”