My dearest Yuzhen.
I'm finally writing your name again. It's been two years and forty-two days since you last spoke to me. Are you well?
This winter's colder than most. I remember you telling me you first met your master at this time of year.
That lonely little girl, glaring at the smiling, white-bearded old man. But her glare didn't drive him away. Instead, he became her master, her grandfather.
You called him grandfather in earnest, and he gave you the sword you loved most.
Later, he left, taking the sword with him. But you didn't glare at him this time, because he said that sword would be yours one day, that you would become the Greatest Under Heaven.
But when I met you, your hands were empty.
You were just a weeping, helpless little girl. You had traveled so far, only to be stopped by the mourning banners at the gate.
You would never see your grandfather again. But your sword was waiting for you, inside that small wooden box.
They shoved you out, threw you to the ground, but you stood back up and walked forward, again and again.
"That's my sword," you cried. "Grandfather said that's my sword!"
I watched a thin, tiny nail being driven stubbornly into the snow.
In the end, you left. Because you met her.
She told you that only what you can hold onto is truly yours. Crying and begging gets you nothing.
I was standing right beside you, and was suddenly afraid. I didn't know whether to hold your hand tighter, or to let it go.
You departed for Mount Mang, after climbing into her carriage.
And then came that night. I waited for you outside the palace until the funeral bells tolled. You finally emerged, walking forward in silence. You kept walking, and I followed close behind.
We walked all the way to the edge of a cliff. The moon had set, and you said, "Yao, why am I always too late?"
You never had the chance to do anything for her. The woman who once held the world in her hands, yet died alone in sickness.
My master always said that ailments of the heart are the hardest to cure, for they run long and deep. You didn't believe it. You found someone you thought could cure you: Princess Taiping. Her daughter.
The Princess said, "You and Master Wuliang are just like me and the Empress." You caught the faintest glimpse of her mother in her, and threw yourself right in.
Yuzhen, you've always been smarter than me, a better swordswoman, stronger of heart. So why were you content to go from wielder of swords to a sword wielded by another?
That snowy winter night, when the world was a void of white, you staggered out of the Princess's manor, drenched in blood. I put so much medicine on your wounds, threw so many words at you. Words of pain, words of anger. Words meant to hurt. Words of no avail.
But you just hung your head in silence.
I knew then I couldn't cure you. So when the snow stopped, I left.
The winter sun burns like fire, shining on all the lovers and grievances in the world. But, Yuzhen, it no longer shines on me.
Two years and forty-two days have passed. I've dried many herbs and healed many people. Then, word of your duel with Hu Lingfei reached me.
And suddenly I realized, I still miss you. I still worry about you. I thought, maybe... you might need me.
Before I knew it, I had already written this much. And I was already on my way.
Can I come see you? If I do, will you speak to me? If I do, can I speak to you?
And if we do speak, what would we even say?
Perhaps nothing at all. Just like the first time we exchanged names. Just the two of us, gazing quietly at the frozen lake, for a long time. Then, you will suddenly draw your sword, and with a single slash...
...pull a lively fish from the icy water. You'll turn to look at me, your nose red from the cold, and ask softly, "Would you like some fish?"
I would, Yuzhen. And I always will.
Letter