#the title is a reference to lu you's poem 'ode to the plum blossom' which i read today

[jar-of-vicissitudes]

But his fragrance will endure

The night is still. Even the snow has stopped falling. There is only a black figure near the trees, walking slowly under the bright moon. Only the white sword on his back separates him from the darkness. The snow is crunching under his stiff steps, breaking the quiet of the frosty night. No voice, no word, no song, no other sound.

Nothing is alive. Not even him.

The silence does get to him, sometimes. Song Lan regrets being so greedy with his own voice, his own words. He regrets the last words that he gave to Xiao Xingchen. He regrets not telling him to stay. He regrets that his own last words were to someone not deserving the solemnity they should have had. He mourns the what-ifs, knowing that nothing can change anymore. He is trapped in time and silence, condemned to err in loneliness.

Maybe he is not really alone in this, but his companions could hardly pass for more than mere immaterial presences in their pouch most of the time, lost somewhere between the Earth and the Heavens.

A-Qing is remarkably active during the day, and never during the night. Song Lan likes to think she is maintaining her old human habits and has a hard time giving them up, the same ones he himself abandoned years ago. But they both know it is not the truth.

The night belongs to Xiao Xingchen.

Sometimes Xiao Xingchen is hiding in the moonlight. A soft wind delicately brings back the memory of his voice, long since distorted by time. Song Lan swears that the pouch is warmer when it happens. Most of the time, there is nothing. No sound. No movement. Just the bitter cold. However, on three occasions, Song Lan heard a heartbreaking scream. He knows he will hear it again, probably countless times in the future.

Song Lan may be the only one with a body, but he is not the only one imprisoned in a never-ending cycle.

Between A-Qing the undead dead for good, Xiao Xingchen the broken soul, and himself the undead corpse, Song Lan ponders if the situation aggravates his loneliness. They all exist in an obscure territory, at various levels. They probably broke their own life cycle, and none of them would be reborn. At least, Song Lan selfishly thinks, Xiao Xingchen and he would never be separated further. Not that it means anything when Xiao Xingchen does not tenderly smile at him. When their arms do not brush against each other. When Song Lan does not hear “Zichen” in Xiao Xingchen's soft voice. When Song Lan is a walking corpse. When all that is left of Xiao Xingchen is a spirit torn in too many pieces.

Tonight however, Song Lan finds comfort in the silent winter night. A gentle breeze caresses his face. He closes his eyes, stops walking, lets the delicate wind embrace him. It nearly feels warm against his cold body. Song Lan puts his hand against the pouch.

Tonight, Xiao Xingchen is here.

Song Lan would smile if he was able to. Instead, he opens his eyes and holds the warm pouch against his frozen heart. He glances at the white plum blossoms piercing through the snow. Song Lan wishes he could whisper Xiao Xingchen's name one last time. But he can only keep walking for the both of them. For A-Qing. For the three of them.

And so he does.