Immortal

37

Afterward, in bed, his fingers traced the length of my body, stirring my hunger with ease. I should have been sated but was far from it; it didn’t seem possible to have enough of him. Zhangwei rose, lighting a brace of candles. They flickered to life, casting a warm glow around the chamber.

As I pulled on a thin robe, he returned to my side and cradled my cheek in his palm. “I want to see your face. I want to see all of you.”

I swallowed, my mouth going dry with desire as his fingers trailed lower. I caught his hand and held it tight.

“You’ve regained your strength, most of it,”

he remarked. “When you were mortal, I was always afraid of hurting you.”

Some men thought of women as delicate flowers to be shielded and tended when it suited them, and pruned when they grew too wild. “How do you feel about it now?” I asked.

His slow smile sent a shaft of pleasure through me. “I like touching you the way I want to, without fear or restraint.”

“I like it too,”

I admitted, lifting my face to his.

His lips brushed mine, softly at first, then more urgently. How I wanted him. As the familiar heat built, I pulled away with regret. There were still answers I needed, and we weren’t out of danger yet.

“I have many questions,” I began.

“I have one,”

he countered. “Do you remember me now, do you remember us—all that we are to each other?”

“That is more than one question,”

I said with a laugh.

“They mean the same thing.”

His expression was grave, intent. After all, he’d been waiting for this answer for a long time.

“I remember you, Zhangwei. I remember us.”

I took his hand in mine. “I will never forget again.”

“What about your fiancé in Tianxia?”

he wanted to know.

Was he still jealous? He had never been in the past, always so annoyingly assured. Maybe our separation had made him anxious, when he couldn’t find me in the Mortal Realm. An urge rose to tease him as my eyes slid to our discarded clothes. “Do you feel remorse now?”

“No,”

he said bluntly, holding my gaze. “Because you were mine first. Because I’d claimed you as you’d claimed me—for eternity—and I will hold you to that.”

I wanted this too, yet something knotted in my chest. “What if I don’t have eternity?”

I didn’t know what awaited me; no one did.

“Then, for as long as we live. Or until the day you want to be released, knowing all we are to each other.”

His tone hardened. “Now, tell me, are you going to marry another?”

The knot loosened, my fears dissipating. “No. I love Chengyin—but as a friend. A brother.”

“Yet you are engaged?”

“It was a ploy to divert the ministers who were trying to marry me off.”

He smiled even as his jaw tightened. “Tell me who proposed a groom, and I’ll silence them on your behalf.”

For a moment, I contemplated the pleasure of unleashing the God of War upon Minister Guo and his allies. Shallow, yet undoubtedly satisfying. But if I didn’t establish my own authority, it would forever be bound to his.

“I can silence them myself,”

I told him.

He nodded. “You never had any trouble standing your own ground, not since the day we met.”

I sifted through the recollections that crowded my mind, filling the void like the strokes of a painting. Zhangwei and I had met when we were students, long before he’d become the God of War. Back then, he was a rival in my studies, the only one who’d matched my ability. Whenever he’d bested me, he’d flick his eyes my way as though making sure I was watching, asserting his victory. I’d loathed him then . . . maybe I would have gone my whole life believing I disliked him, when the truth was I’d thrived on his challenge and he’d fascinated me. For years, I’d ignored my feelings, burying them away—it was easier that way. What a fool I’d been.

I hid these thoughts; he was arrogant enough. “Back then, you were the teacher’s favorite,” I said.

He grinned. “It was the only way to get your attention. I studied hard because I noticed how annoyed you were whenever someone beat you.”

I’d been competitive in my youth—I still was. But I’d wanted to earn each victory, disliking those who tried to gain favor by letting me win. Zhangwei never did, throwing himself entirely into each challenge. Once, we’d sparred so intensely, he’d cut my arm with his sword, though bloodshed was frowned upon by our instructor. I’d left in anger then, returning to my room where I had healed myself clumsily—cursing him loud enough to be heard down the hall, and from the other side of the door that he’d knocked on.

I remembered opening it, staring at him stonily. “What are you doing here?”

His gaze went to the rip in my sleeve. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Oh, I think you did.”

I’d jabbed him in his shoulder, knowing I’d bruised him there earlier. “But I would have done the same if I could,”

I added grudgingly.

He’d looked down then as he shoved a handful of jasmine at me. The fragrance was my favorite . . . had he noticed? I’d stared at them blankly, unsure of myself. “What am I supposed to do with them?”

“I read in the books . . . I thought you might like them.”

I had snorted then, not cruelly, but because the idea of him wanting to please me was absurd. As a deep flush crept up his neck, the wall around my heart cracked. I moved from the doorway. “Come in.”

He hesitated, touching the wound on my arm gently. His energy surged into my body—unfamiliar, yet potent and warm. The pain eased, the wound closing. “I’ve finally found something you’re not good at,”

he said with a smile. “If you ever need healing, come to me.”

“What is your weakness?”

I demanded, annoyed at his sharp assessment.

He looked at me directly. “I thought it was obvious.”

Silence had fallen then. It felt like something new had sprung between us, precious and rare. “Do you play weiqi?”

I shifted the conversation to safer ground.

The way his smile had widened—I’d almost regretted my invitation, even as part of me was eager for a good opponent. None of the other students wanted to play with me after I’d won all the matches. Our game was the first of many—infuriating, demanding matches, where the days melded into nights, when I almost forgot who my opponent was. Respect tangled with frustration, resentment at his skill even as I admired his game. He played like he fought, unyielding and ruthless, his brilliance shining through each move. A victory against him meant something because it was hard-won. Perhaps it was inevitable that after spending all that time together, we had become friends. And then so much more.

I wanted to laugh now, recalling how badly I’d played against him in his library—before I’d known who I was. My pride was still bruised as I nodded toward the weiqi board in the corner. “Do you want a rematch?”

He caught my meaning at once. “This time we’ll need higher stakes, so you don’t surrender as easily.”

“I didn’t surrender,”

I said through gritted teeth. “I was distracted—”

“By me?”

His mouth curved in bold assurance.

“With trying to figure out why you were interrogating me then,”

I retorted.

“I wanted to find out how much you hated me,”

he admitted. “And how I could change your mind.”

“I don’t think I ever truly hated you,”

I said slowly, my mind too rational to blame him wholly for things beyond his control—though I’d certainly disliked him, resented him, and even feared him too.

I paused, then added, “Maybe after you stabbed me I hated you a little.”

“I deserved it,”

he said. “But we were trying to restore you, not hurt you. We’d already procured the Elixir of Immortality and believed it was safe.”

His expression grew thunderous. “We were wrong.”

Even now, the echo of his betrayal still stung. No matter the farce, the emotions had been real. “I wish you could have told me the truth from the start.”

He tilted my face to his. “The Divine Pearl Lotus complicated matters. I could not reveal anything about your immortal life before you gave it to me, because it could have triggered the start of your transformation. You had to surrender the lotus of your own will as a mortal—to love me again, though you’d forgotten me.”

“But you failed then,”

I said, needling him, selfishly wanting to hold on to these precious moments of discovery.

He sighed. “And you said I had the heart of ice.”

I colored at the memory, of all the terrible things I’d thought and said of him. “You were too impatient, too sure of yourself,”

I teased mercilessly. “But I yielded in the end.”

A moment’s hesitation and it might have been too late. Zhangwei, dead. While I would be lost to my own past, never knowing the life I had left in the skies. I shuddered at the possibility.

He lowered his head to mine. “We didn’t foresee the Wuxin’s schemes. If they’d succeeded in spiriting you away, we would have failed you.”

“No, Zhangwei. You saved me, we saved each other. For all the things that went wrong, as many went right.”

As my hand tightened around his, he said, “It should have been me who went to the Mortal Realm.”

I struggled to remember, the memories still blurred. “What do you mean?”

“The Divine Pearl Lotus could only cure one immortal. I wanted you to have it, but you refused—you never gave up on us, researching relentlessly. It was you who learned that a mortal and an immortal could share the lotus. While neither would be entirely restored, while we would each give up a little of our strength—this way we both would live. We agreed that I would descend to the world below.”

Only now did I recall how I’d argued passionately against him, wanting to go instead. He was hurt more than me from the attack; for once, I was stronger than him. While Zhangwei usually yielded to my choices even if they went against his own—when my life was at stake, he became domineering, ruthless, and stubborn. The foe I must outmatch.

“I did not agree,”

I reminded him. “Your injuries were worse than mine. I was afraid you wouldn’t survive the transformation, that you’d die before the lotus even bloomed. It was safer for you to remain with our healers, sustained by the magic of our realm. Don’t forget, the curse carried over into our mortal forms, too.”

The constant fatigue, the deep cold—only dissipating after I took the lotus.

His face darkened. “And so you went instead.”

Our last night together blazed through my mind. We’d been in his home, in the courtyard that had been forbidden to me. “The South Courtyard was mine,”

I murmured in wonder. “All this time, you kept my things just as I’d left them.”

“I would let no one touch what belonged to you,”

he said. “All that is mine is yours.”

The courtyard had been our haven, away from the demands of duty. No one disturbed us there, none daring to incur the God of War’s wrath. We had played weiqi in our room, eaten our meals in the garden. I had read while he played the qin. And at night, we’d slept entwined. There were also quieter moments of simple companionship, the kind when your soul is at peace, when your heart is whole. When you want nothing more from life . . . content to simply exist. This was how I felt when he was with me.

“I couldn’t let you enter the courtyard because I was afraid it would jolt your memory too early. It was also why parts of your mother’s palace were closed to you,”

he explained. “I didn’t expect your mount to break free of its restraints to chase you the day we visited the Phoenix Kingdom.”

The qilin. Recognition struck now: Red Storm had been my faithful qilin since my youth. No wonder Zhangwei had not wanted to hurt her. How loyal she was, helping me flee. How I wished she were here now.

“Once you entered the South Courtyard, it became too dangerous for you to remain at my home. Your mother wanted you back at the palace. A pity, as I’d planned a different courtship.”

“Was Mother very angry—about this, about my leaving?”

I asked tentatively, like I was a child once more, afraid of her disapproval.

“More shocked and scared, than angry,”

he replied.

A half-smile. “She must have been glad to punish me that day on the Dragon Platform.”

“Never think that,”

he said solemnly. “She did everything she could to protect you.”

Something weighed on my mind, unsettling me. The stories I’d heard of her from my people and the Wuxin . . . I had always known she was ambitious but never truly understood its cost. “Mother can be harsh but isn’t cruel. Why did she inflict suffering on the mortals?”

“When Her Majesty lost your father and then you—those were dark days. As the years passed and we found no trace of you, she began to wonder if the mortals were plotting against us. She was furious, unable to control her temper and grief—spilling forth, often without intent to harm. But the slightest shift in the weather in our kingdom bore drastic repercussions upon Tianxia. Something we should have been more aware and careful of, yet our efforts were focused on finding you.”

Mother had not meant it . . . yet those actions had spawned cruel consequences. Many lives had been lost, much suffering wreaked. This should not have happened—and as long as I was the Lady of Tianxia, I would fight to offer my people a better future. How it also hurt that Grandfather had died out of fear of my mother’s reprisal. Guilt stabbed me that both, in their own way, had just been trying to save me. I would never forget Grandfather’s sacrifice; I would honor all my family for the rest of my days.

“I swore to my grandfather that I’d keep our kingdom safe. This vow is as precious to me now as it was then.”

Such bonds tethered our lives, gave it meaning. And I couldn’t help wondering whether I’d have felt the same had I not lived a mortal’s existence—where time mattered, the legacy one left behind.

My hands curled. “Mortal lives are as vital as ours; they cannot be sacrificed upon a whim. Tianxia must be free.”

“I know,”

Zhangwei assured me. “I remember all my promises to you.”

It was what he’d told me before, the true meaning of his words sinking in. All he’d suffered for me . . . no one would ever love me like he did. How hard it must have been for him to pretend indifference, hiding his hurt that I’d forgotten him, that I seemed to no longer love him. The heart could not be guided, forced, or coerced. Love and hate could not be taught.

“That day on the Dragon Platform, the punishment inflicted on you was real.”

I flinched at the memory. “Your wounds, your suffering—why?”

He sighed. “I’m not proud of it, but it seemed the surest way to win your heart. Time was running out. You had already taken the lotus, you’d entered our courtyard—we only had one chance.”

And he was dying.

“You were too guarded around me,”

he continued. “Resentful of what had happened in Tianxia. I had to make you see me in a new light—to help you find your way back to me.”

I remembered how he’d looked the night I left, sleeping so peacefully. I had brushed the hair from his face, drinking in his features, imprinting them in my mind. Soon, I would forget. His eyes had flicked open, his instincts for danger ever acute—but I was prepared. My magic had surged, locking him in an enchantment, and it worked only because he was severely weakened, because I knew him so well. His eyes had blazed furiously, but I was doing it for him.

The God of War protected the realms, but all I wanted was to keep him safe.

“Wait for me. Find me,”

I had told him. “No matter where I am or who I become, my heart will always be yours.”

I had forced myself to walk away then—one of the hardest things I’d ever done. Outside, I’d summoned a cloud, then flew to the Celestial Kingdom. As the Jade Palace loomed ahead, dread had sunk over me. What if our plan failed? What if they couldn’t find me? What if I could never return?

I’d pried away the claws of fear. At least Zhangwei would be safe. When the Divine Pearl Lotus blossomed, he could take it then. He would guard our realm, our memories, my mother—even if I could not. But I would return; I had to believe it.

I’d made my way to the north of the Jade Palace, where the chasm lay, how immortals were sent to the realm below with the permission of the Celestial Emperor. One of the soldiers there had frowned at the sight of me. “You’re early. It’s not yet dawn, as scheduled for your descent.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I’m impatient,” I’d said.

Another had smirked. “To become mortal?”

I had not liked his tone. I didn’t know much of the mortals then, but they did not deserve to be disdained that way. Yet I held my tongue; this was not my kingdom. I couldn’t risk them stopping me.

“The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can return,” I’d said.

They had laughed, waving me through. The ground inside was paved with malachite and marble. Mist rose from the center, coiling in the air. Stepping to the brink, I’d hesitated, staring into the chasm beneath. Swirling lights of amber and ruby, ripples of luminescence. The power thrummed like a hundred lutes plucked at once.

As I looked down, a gust of wind tugged at me. Terror spiraled; the unknown looming, far from my loved ones. Yet it was the only way Zhangwei and I could have a future together. What was a mortal lifespan but a handful of decades? My memories and power would be restored once I regained my immortality. How I’d reasoned with myself then—but the truth was, I had done this because I loved him. I could bear whatever the world below had for me; I was strong enough for us both.

As I’d stepped forward, a desperate cry rang out: “Stop!”

Zhangwei was racing toward me, pushing his way past the Celestial guards. There was no time left, my feet moving to the edge.

He called my name, his voice ringing in my ears. Holding my breath, I took the final step—plummeting into the void of emptiness. The air shrouded me, erupting across my skin. Such agony . . . I flinched from the memory. Hairpins tumbled from my head as the coils of my hair unraveled, streaming behind me like lengths of ribbon, my robe twisted into trails of crimson silk. The pitiless wind lashed my face, my neck—any bared part of me till they were raw. Zhangwei’s roar faded, along with the shouts from above.

My eyes had darted up. Zhangwei was struggling against the soldiers who were restraining him. Had he tried to leap after me?

“Only one can go at time,”

a Celestial told him harshly. “If you follow her now, she will die—you both will.”

When he had stilled, relief filled me—he would be safe. I’d closed my eyes then, my ears filled with the deafening roar of the wind, slamming into every pore. Pain erupted across my body, my power stripped away like a layer of skin. I had clung to the memories of home, my parents, my love—I didn’t want to forget, struggling instinctively—yet they were plucked from my mind like petals from a flower. Tears spilled, a void opening—all of me, all that mattered, swallowed whole. And then it had ceased abruptly, a loathsome peace stealing over me.

Even now my chest ached at the memory. “I did not want to forget you,”

I told him softly.

“I know.”

He pulled me to him, holding me tight. “It was a struggle to keep myself in check, to leash my emotions. Your hostility made it a little easier for me to pretend, to remind myself of why I was doing this. Though there were times I doubted whether I could win your heart all over again.”

I smiled through the tears in my eyes. “But you were never one to walk away from a challenge.”

“I would never give up on you,”

he said steadily.

I rested my head against his chest. “You plotted everything so elaborately, with the precision of setting out to war.”

“This was the most important battle I’d ever fought. The one for your heart, our lives, our future.”

“I’m not immortal any longer,”

I said slowly. “What if I can never return to our home?”

“We will make a new one,”

he replied without hesitation.

He kissed me—deeply, searchingly. My lips met his with equal hunger, my hand pressed to his chest as he clasped me tighter. With a swift move, he spun me around until I lay pinned beneath him. One of his arms was coiled around me, his other hand braced against the side of my face. His mouth slanted over my mine with a languid deliberation. Heat surged, scorching bright. His hands moved to the silk folds of my robe, pulling them apart. I was too impatient for tenderness, my lips moving across his throat, eager to taste him. We were breathing heavily, my insides ragged with wanting as my legs twisted and writhed beneath his.

We kissed again, melting into each other. I should stop, draw away—letting reason prevail. But I wanted to be reckless; restraint was hard after our long separation. After all we’d endured, I was greedy and jealous of our time together. I had drunk deep of the well of loss, and had no desire to taste its bitterness again.