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“if for some reason I cannot see you again, then I shall suffer either way.”
If you had asked me to describe it, I might have called it beautiful. Beautiful not in the way of a painting or poetry, but a natural disaster: a storm, or a falling comet. The intensity of it drew your eyes in and held you there, the sheer scale of it breathtaking.
“At least you admit you feel something for me.”
“Please,” he said. “There can be nobody else but you.”
How could I ever forgive him? Yet how could I ever fully hate him?
The king of Wu crumpled, and then he was no longer a king at all, but a boy, bleeding against my robes.
“He was not killed by the Wu,” she said harshly. “He was killed by the war. By the will of kings.”
“Isn’t it funny? I used to dream of changing the world. Of working for the greater good. But what good is the world,” he asks, “if she is gone?”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again and again as he holds my body one final time to lower me into the ground. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Xishi,” he whispers. “Please, believe in me. I will come find you.”
