Sucesos extraños en la habitación 202

Capítulo 3

---Magpie Bridge Fairy

Reply [13]: Tonight's flower master is Master Zhuo. The madam shouted, thunderous applause, I don't know why they cheered, a man spends a fortune for a girl's chastity. I just turned around and went back to my room, there were two maids inside changing the bedding, they were not Hong Luanxi's maids, this rich man's servants responded to every call, I quietly watched them change the tea set, change the washing utensils, burn ambergris and other things in the room. They said humbly, Miss, fish in spring water, golden night good match. They asked for a reward from me, this rich man even his servants are unusually clever. I casually opened the jewelry box, picked out a pair of jade bracelets, one for each of them, I said, I am not your young lady. From now on, call me Peach Myrtle. They were surprised and happy by the unexpected huge reward, before, in the hands of those courtesans, they could only get a few pieces of silver at most. They shouted, Peach, Peach, Myrtle has much... fortune... longevity. An excited and stuttering tone.

The madam pushed open the door and came in. She said, "Master, I'm entrusting my daughter to you." Then I heard him laugh, at a stranger who was about to lie down next to me.

Finally, only we were left.

The candlelight flickered. He brewed me a cup of tea, his hand moving three times to prepare it, a slender leaf, bitter at first, then sweet. He said, "My beauty, this tea is like your evening, bitter at first, then sweet. I will make you understand in a moment."

I held back my laughter, I held back my tears. "Chuo," I said, "I am the green duckweed you traded for a luminous pearl, serene and beautiful." I wanted to play the part of a virgin, vividly portraying you as another beloved, exchanging tea for wine, softly reciting: "The fragrant scars have faded, the red silk wrists are fresh..." "Chuo," I thought, "we'll take off our clothes and lie down, our hair intertwined, in the dim light. I only need to cry out in pain at the right moment." But he was unhurried, his finger gliding over my body. He said beauty is like tea, to be savored slowly. His soft, moist tongue licked my eye sockets, nose, and cheeks, finally reaching my mouth—a familiar, monotonous teasing. His finger continued to wander, lingering on my chest in an arc, circle after circle, from the outside in. He was a veteran of the pleasure quarters, anticipating my breathing with every thrust. He understood a woman's feelings, wanting resonance—his greed was evident. How could I calmly suppress this tingling sensation? His lips curved slightly at mine, and he whispered, "Are you getting impatient?" His breath warmed my ear, and his fingers moved down again, this time to a pair, teasing and flirting. His unstoppable attack left me defenseless and defenseless. His fingers slipped inside, gently prying, and the hidden wax pill fell into his hand. He said, "Just as I expected." Then he crushed it and threw it under the bed. I was deceiving an expert, a discerning person. I was afraid he would see through me at any moment. Now I wanted to scrutinize his features—his silkworm-shaped eyebrows and crystal-clear eyes in the dim candlelight, his refined and witty expression captivating. I wondered what he would do next? Leave in a huff? Ask the madam for the nine-star beaded ornament back? But he didn't go anywhere, not even wanting to get up, nestled in my arms. He said, "This is better, it makes you even more charming. I don't need to worry about your pain anymore. Myrtle. I'm here."

And so, I laughed amidst the undulating waves of my body, wanting it or not. No matter what. This situation, these words, I had waited so long, so very long, and now, they had come true with a stranger. My eternal love, my everlasting devotion. When he awoke, he cracked two pigeon eggs into a golden cup, swallowed them whole, as a tonic. He applied a plaster made from centella asiatica to the hickeys on my skin to reduce the slight swelling, saying, "My beauty, you are my infatuation, I love you so much yet cannot bear to. I will slowly heal you." A glint of ambiguous gold flashed in his eyes.

He didn't leave until the evening of the next day. He gave me a boat, which was originally a birthday gift for the new courtesan.

Drifting on the middle of the stream, white waves rise; flutes and drums sound, and songs of washing rise. Lingering on the water's beauty, leaning against green and crimson. Who says they don't envy the immortals? In those gentle days, a girl playfully teased my earlobe with her fingertips, saying, "With you, I don't even envy the mandarin ducks."

You are my inseparable pair. Butterflies and mandarin ducks, their melodies rising and falling, create an inseparable rhythm. Like intertwined waves, they stretch endlessly. Mandarin ducks cannot be separated from their mates; listen to how beautiful this sound is. Listen. This man from Jiangnan, his wealth is a mystery, but even though I don't understand his literary talent, I can see his elegance. His subtle luster is never dazzling, like the jade disc that first caught my eye. Warm and gentle, unassuming, his value is a silent foundation. This man, not particularly tall or handsome, is refined and polished. Now he whispers in my ear again, "Mandarin ducks," two words, infinitely melodious.

Chuo's breath brushed softly against my ear, like the gentle touch of his fingers. He spoke of his hometown, a land of romance and wealth, a place of prosperity and abundance. The southeast was a land of scenic beauty and refined culture. He recounted the delicate poems of the Southern Dynasties, poems that had not been destroyed by the iron hooves and swords. "Water Dragon Chant," "Qi Tian Le," "Touching Fish," "Osmanthus Fragrance"—those ethereal and beautiful poetic forms I didn't fully understand. Chuo was a wealthy merchant, yet a corner of his soul carried the melancholy of a scholar in his blue robe. A lingering, subtle fragrance of old books permeated his being. On a misty spring day, carrying a pot of light wine, drifting on a boat on the lake—ah, you can't imagine how beautiful that would be. Chuo's eyes, his crystal pupils, were also shrouded in the misty rain of Jiangnan. Nostalgia and an innate sensitivity led him to savor and enjoy his own melancholy. He said that the beautiful women in the red-sleeved pavilions sang songs like scattered pearls, and the famous flowers and scholars of Jiangnan were elegant and refined, creating a series of poignant and legendary tales. Their quick wit surpassed that of men; they were like celestial flowers from the Jade Pool in the heavens.

With a long, drawn-out tone, he narrated the story of Jiangnan. The beauties of Jiangnan. Those petite, graceful, and ethereal women, each step they took leaving behind a verse of rhythmic cadence. The rhythmic cadence of bygone days. He was lost in the melody, his voice rising and falling, determined to drink until he was completely drunk. "Jiangnan, your hometown's Shaoxing wine, warm a cup, slowly simmering, let me gently pass it to you with my delicate hands and let you drink this exquisite wine, okay?" He was drunk, his jade-like body slumped, laughing and crying as he recited the ancient texts he knew by heart but were utterly useless, to a courtesan who couldn't understand.

In youth, one listens to the rain in a pavilion, red candles dimly illuminating the silk curtains. In middle age, one listens to the rain in a traveler's boat, the river vast, the clouds low, a lone wild goose crying in the west wind.

Spring waters are bluer than the sky; a painted boat sleeps in the rain.

Alas, fleeting years, sorrowful winds and rains, even the trees are thus. Who can summon the red-scarved and green-sleeved maidens to wipe away the tears of heroes?

Chuo, half-reclined on the brocade couch in the cabin, had spilled wine from a golden cup, soaking her amber-colored body in a drunken stupor. Wine stains on her clothes, words in her poems—whose sorrow is whose? Chuo, I don't understand. Am I merely the laughter you bought? The lines of national and familial hatred, the drifting emotions, the broken old love of youth—all that is in your heart, I need not understand. I am the Red Maiden of Hongluanxi, in this scorching, noisy, crowded, and fragrantly vibrant Lingnan city, skin to skin, tongue to tongue. Physical comfort is the most direct, Chuo, in this city, we are both strangers. Why then ask about my heart?

---Magpie Bridge Fairy

Reply [14]: Chuo. I am not the pair of green sleeves that can wipe away the tears of heroes. You are not a hero either. A jade disc that is too precious can never become a weapon. Its precious light is warm and constant, but it has long lost its edges. I know that the best jade and good poetry are subtle and honest without showing off their sharpness. Chuo. You can no longer change. The boat sails on the Pearl River, and the music here is always cheerful. Listen to the melody. Chuo. I am just a woman who does not know the sorrow of a fallen country. On this river, I still sing "The Flowers of the Rear Courtyard" to you. For a long time, I have been like a walking corpse, numb and selfish, strangled by a vine in my heart, trapped by the sea of desire. I don't know what else I can care about except myself. Let us not ask about tomorrow's weather, but drink the wine in our cups, this line of bright light. What is drunk is life, what is dreaming is death, life and death are not as good as drunken dreams. Chuo, my gentle and warm love, let us be each other's love, and forget everything else. This is not the West Lake you dreamt of, there are no osmanthus blossoms in autumn, no lotus flowers stretching for miles. There is no willow breeze that stirs the sleeves of green robes.

To the sound of string and bamboo instruments, I gently pressed my chest against his chest, wiping away the wine stains on his clothes. I peeled a lychee, its jade-like flesh smooth and sweet, and offered it to him. He opened his mouth to take it, his tongue hesitant yet welcoming, lightly teasing the sweet juice, stirring an irresistible itch before departing. He couldn't catch it in time, like a butterfly teasing a budding flower. Ah, you have plucked all my beauty, but do you know that sometimes, when flowers and butterflies are in turmoil, I too can be seduced by you? The flower's heart gently opens, and dewdrops fall as the peony blooms.

"Fairy." He whispered with delight. Forbidding him to move, she parted her red lips slightly, pressing down on his hands that had been so passionate, and another crystal-sweet fruit slid down his throat. "My love, you taught me to eat three hundred lychees a day, and not mind being a Lingnan native forever. Then let me use my fragrant saliva as a conduit to feed you this bewitching sweet medicine, so that in this foreign land, you will never tire of loving me beneath my skirt."

He rolled over me. Like clouds and rain rippling in the boat. He so meticulously manipulated me, with varying degrees of lightness and heaviness, speed and slowness, shallow and deep breaths. The softness was like the water beneath me, spreading in ripples with each movement. He was never impatient. "A woman in love is like a tender, fresh tea bud before the rain; a single steep in boiling water will age her," he said. "A woman is like a fine zither; if the strings are stretched too tight, they will break." The harmonious union of phoenix and dragon should not produce any discordant sounds. He savored the woman and himself, their bodies melting into one another.

"Little Peach," he called me. He said the name reminded him of the peach buds on the branches in his hometown in March. Adorned among the tender green, each one distinct as the spring breeze blows. The bright colors fade as they bloom. Chuo said, "Little Peach, why do you need to understand poetry?"

Why compare yourself to those famous courtesans of Jiangnan? You are a true woman, you know that? A true woman is poetry itself. Xiao Tao, you don't need to understand. Her smooth, jade-like skin was half-concealed, half-covering my body. He then recited that ancient folk song in a melodious voice: "The orchid is beautiful, the chrysanthemum fragrant; I cherish the memory of my beloved, and cannot forget her."

Xiao Tao, where are you from?

I have no homeland. Come, open your mouth, and I'll feed you another juicy, sweet potion. Forget about that. I truly have no yesterday. I am merely the Myrtle of the Red Phoenix, a small peach gently blooming in your palm. Long ago, I no longer had any other name.

In this bustling, crowded, and sweltering city, I've forgotten the path I came from. All those past events, all those past events, can only become narratives within my heart. Regarding yesterday, I'm like a butterfly, fluttering from one embrace to another. All the records and rings of time, the wrinkles beneath the years, reside only within my heart.

Joy turns to sorrow, youth is fleeting, what will become of us in old age? Cho, what sorrow are you reciting? I do not understand. You, a man as pure as jade, and I, a woman like peach blossoms in March, let us embrace in this lonely embrace. What more could we ask for? What more could we ask for? On this river in a foreign land.

Every time he left, he showed reluctance, but he never mentioned the topic of redeeming himself. I'm always traveling around; actually, even if I could be with you every day, I wouldn't want to. Xiao Tao, I'd rather spend ninety percent of my time thinking about you, so that the one percent we spend together will be especially sweet. I'm afraid of eroding the feelings you give me too quickly. Do you know that?

Zhuo kissed my forehead and said, "I cherish you so much that I can't keep you by my side. Do you understand, Xiao Tao?" I took his hand and saw him off. Incense dust filled the path in front of the Red Phoenix Palace; the madam never spared any expense to please her wealthy patrons. Zhuo hugged me tightly and we boarded the Seven Fragrances Carriage. "Xiao Tao, wait for me. I'll come back to find you after I've finished my business."

I fulfilled my duty as a loving pet by bidding my patron a reluctant farewell. Each time he left and returned, he carried with him his unchanging admiration and affection for me. He could never get enough of my myriad forms. Like the gentle caress of my fair body on the bed, he wanted me, and more, and more—it was never enough. Ah, isn't this man now willingly taking me? Now, I am the first peach blossom to bloom in his heart like a gentle spring breeze.

I cherish you so much that I can't keep you by my side. Chuo. I don't believe your words, nor do I want to. Nine parts longing, one part reunion, regardless of whether it truly balances in your heart. I'm not a merchant's wife, yet I speak lightly of parting. I don't care what outcome you'll give me; this Red Phoenix Palace is my refuge. Chuo, Xiao Tao is merely your current favorite. I am a beautiful woman, you are but a fleeting, bewildering admirer by candlelight in the dead of night. The madam is both pleased and worried by Chuo's infatuation with me, fearing I might persuade him to redeem me and lose a precious tree. She subtly hints, "Daughter, Master Chuo truly dotes on you." Like a stone thrown into water, no ripples appear. I comb my hair into a simple, comfortable bun, change into a silk robe, and lie on the half-empty Hehuan bed. Washing away all makeup and cosmetics, my pure white face turns away, unwilling to acknowledge this woman who calls me "daughter." That's the face my biological mother gave me; she doesn't deserve to call me her daughter.

The madam left suspiciously, then obsequiously tucked me in. She tolerated my arrogance and indifference only because Zhuo's ever-flowing wealth was more worthy of her smiles than the affected manner of a top courtesan. Zhuo took care of all my loneliness and joy, spending a fortune to buy out half of the empty love bed when he was away. The embroidered quilt was warm in spring, half in dreams, half at leisure. His fingertips lightly tapped the carved bed railing, the pattern of twin lotus blossoms, as if chanting a song.

Xiao Tao, save this half of the quilt for me.

Yes, that's right. I'll save it for you.

---Magpie Bridge Fairy

Reply [15]: Fourth, possessing the treasure of harmony, the pearl of the bright moon, the sword of Tai'a, riding the horse of Xianli, raising the banner of the green phoenix, and displaying the drum of the spirit crocodile.

It was a dark night in Guizhou. I was wearing an undergarment made of some foreign fabric, toying with a ruyi scepter; the fabric was a yellowish-brown, the jade transparent. Suddenly, the madam shouted from downstairs, "Oh, Master Lian, you've finally decided to come back!" The sharp voice was piercing, directed at me, echoing her previous words about getting rid of this man—a good-for-nothing, a useless man who lived off women. I put on a robe and went out. I saw him dead drunk. I asked for a wet towel to put on his face, but he suddenly grabbed me with the same brute force as always. Lian Lei, his breath like several breaths, impulsive yet selfish. My hands sank into his thick hair, a midnight jungle. He was still dark-skinned and strong, only more prone to drunkenness, and his evil deeds less thorough. He said, "I missed you." Very softly, but I heard it. My fingers traced his lips, and he took them in his mouth like a thirsty baby.

The madam jumped in alarm. "Oh my god! Let him go! What will happen if Master Zhuo sees this!"

Lian Lei's brows furrowed. He shouted, "Get out!" His voice was weak. As he turned his head, I could see the new piercing in his right ear; the engraving on the silver ring was none other than the name "Myrtle." Fu Ji's earring. The tiny, pearl-like beads were the flower's heart. He was reminding himself to always remember me, and every time he left afterward, he would carry my money from selling myself, spending it to pierce the mark onto his body. Old habits die hard.

Hush… pour libation… be quiet… imprisoned tiger and rhinoceros, Shennong, tormented by love, be quiet. And so he fell into a deep sleep, a teardrop at the corner of his eye, falling like a shooting star into his hair, leaving a trail like a snail's crawl, shimmering, glistening. What a beautiful lie, he wouldn't rest until he moved someone; I could only pretend not to see it and pull away from his embrace.

I am a woman who conforms to societal norms and possesses a graceful and elegant appearance, and I live a solitary life.

Hurry. Suddenly, dark clouds filled the sky, and thunder roared from afar, as if the gods were enraged. Lightning flashed, white, pillar-shaped beams of light. The Goddess of Lightning was lonely; who would she punish now? Another bolt of silver lightning struck. I covered my ears and fled to the boat, lifting the bamboo curtain. It was empty. Had the servants all gone to drink? A heavy, panting sound—who was there? I blew on a torch to rouse myself into the boat's hall. Tables and chairs were overturned, and there stood a magnificent horse. Where did it come from? Boom! Thunder roared, a sound that couldn't help but fill me with dread. The horse was on its reins. I reached out to take its reins, but suddenly, someone shouted from upstairs: "Don't touch my Qianli!"

Who? Such hearing, such perception, discerning even the slightest detail. Is it you? No, the voice was as bright as a booming bell. Trembling, I climbed the railing, bloodstains where my hands touched, the tinder flickered and went out. Who? The more afraid I became, the more curious I grew. In that moment of seeing it with my own eyes, I was dazed. The wind howled, the rain threatened to ravage the ship, and a golden-armored god, holding a short sword, stood with his back to me, amidst the lightning and thunder, like a heavenly general descending on lightning, a quiver slung across his shoulder. He turned, and in the fleeting flash of lightning, we saw each other's faces clearly: foreign turbans, he was a Mongol soldier, a first-class man in Han territory, with thick eyebrows and deep, sharp eyes.

He called out, "Ah Gao." He pounced on me, his breath reeking of alcohol. Who was Ah Gao? I had no time to ask, and nowhere to escape. His arms were stronger than Lian Lei's, his bulging muscles like steel. What a heavy body! He ripped open my collar, revealing my shoulder blades, his thick lips sucking and kissing my neck. I pulled one hand away, trying to push away that ruggedly handsome face, my wrist smeared with peppermint oil. He looked up, scrutinizing me again in the electric light.

No, you are not Ah Gao. You are more beautiful than Ah Gao, beauty. Who are you? Tell me, speak quickly, or I will kill you. This violent man was honest, direct, manic, and not good with words. I suddenly smiled smugly. It turned out that my ability to judge people had improved a lot. I knew he couldn't bear to kill me.

General, my name is Myrtle.

Myrtle? Ah Gao… Myrtle? Ah Gao… He was suddenly confused, repeating the two names over and over. I tried to leave his body, but he held me even tighter. He grabbed my shoulders like a hawk pouncing on its prey. He said, “No matter who you are, don’t run away, I want you!” He tore at my clothes, his fingers tearing at my skin with all their might. I had no choice but to suddenly wrap my arms around him, and while he was still stunned, I responded gently, kissing him. I traced the lines of his eyebrows, his straight nose, and his full lips with the tip of my tongue. I deliberately breathed heavily, pleading softly in a tender voice.

General. You have an indestructible body, but Myrtle is a delicate willow that cannot withstand the storm. Please be gentle with me, be gentle, be very gentle, okay? Every word she uttered trembled deeply.

He was captivated by it, and his strength subsided. His tone, however, remained arrogant and domineering. "Myrtle, I can love you. You must love me too! You can only love me!" He pulled away the last piece of clothing from my body and leaped towards me.

When I awoke, he had been watching me for a long time. The clouds and rain had shifted eastward, and the night was fading like a dying candle. We lay naked on the floor; he was so masculine, warming my left side, while the other half was as cold as water. My body felt like it had fought a fierce battle; his careful handling, no matter what, still hurt me. I gritted my teeth, looking at the waning crescent moon outside the tattered bamboo curtain.

His expression flickered with affection, but he bit his lip, proudly refusing to reveal it. He said, "You know what? You look a lot like Ah Gao when you sleep."

Perhaps you love her too much, so you see women who remind you of her.

"No! Nonsense!" he retorted sharply. "I don't love her, I won't love a woman who doesn't love me!"

A-Gao. I could almost hear her breathing, a sight that tormented this golden-armored god. The first Han woman he favored, for refusing to submit, had her legs broken and was forcibly taken to the general's mansion to be kept as a pet. He used the word "keeping" when recounting this, treating women like horses, or perhaps he was simply at a loss for words. This iron-willed general only knew how to say yes or no, but the listeners could not say no or impermissible; people could only obey. I felt sorry for the woman named A-Gao. She ultimately drowned herself in the lake, crawling to the edge of the dead water with her bare hands, taking one last look at her pale, delicate face. Women, trapped in chastity, I have no such sentiments; my body is worth its weight in gold.

Daylight broke. He put on his armor, then picked me up and carried me on his shoulders, his hard bones pressing against my stomach. He said that his father had used this method to abduct women from foreign lands to marry, which explained why he didn't grow up with the flat face typical of Mongolian men; he resembled his mother so much that he became a rare, handsome mixed-race man.

Surile. A name from a foreign tribe, difficult to remember. The pronunciation, seemingly meaningless yet haughty, speaks of an era when foreign tribes ruled the Central Plains. People were divided into four classes, and they were at the very top of the pagoda. A fierce tribe from the northern grasslands conquered vast lands on horseback, unifying the land for many years. Surile, his striking good looks were inherited from the blue-eyed, fair-skinned woman his father had captured during his campaign against the Russians. Golden-brown, slightly wavy hair, a sharp, aquiline nose, and deep-set eyes. Beyond that, all the typical Mongol traits were vividly displayed in him. He was volatile, strong, and fiery like the sun blazing down on the grasslands; his will was boundless, leaving no place to hide.

Sitting in his temporary residence, I didn't ponder what led to this unexpected encounter. What prompted this general, ordered by the emperor to lead his troops south to quell the rebellion in the south, to impulsively ride alone along the riverbank in the dead of night, before boarding a rain-soaked boat? The Goddess of Lightning, feeling lonely, sought to punish someone but instead created a fleeting romance. The wrathful Vajra and the fragrant blossoms met in a wondrous encounter, the heavy clouds and sudden rain a devout offering before a joyful Buddha.

If it weren't for that night. If it weren't for that rain. No, General, my golden-armored god, there are no "ifs," only "it's already happened." My heart was suddenly filled with tenderness; I only believe you are my destiny.

---Magpie Bridge Fairy

Reply [16]: His villa, the Mongols have long ruled the Central Plains but still find it hard to give up their ancestral customs. Nomadic blood flows in their veins. Surile, the general who came from the northern capital a thousand miles away, erected a cowhide tent in Yangcheng, Lingnan, round like the sky above the Chule River. His soldiers, those northern warriors, set up camp in an orderly manner around him, countless tents surrounding the bright and heavy golden dome beneath him. In this land of wild smoke and miasma, his and his clan's unquestionable rule over the Han land was like a blazing sun, domineering and unapproachable, only fit for worship. Ah, who could have imagined that after a night of torrential rain, I would live in this sun, under the golden dome, yet as weak and lonely as the jade rabbit in the moon.

The golden tent made of cowhide is not my Moon Palace. But General, Surile, you are like Wu Gang chopping down the cassia tree, tirelessly wielding your axe night after night, your hardness and strength piercing my heart. Can you see how I tremble for you?

Inside the golden tent, lavish carpets hung, and he reclined, half-sitting, half-lying on the thick, soft mat, drinking wine. Like a mountain, like a rock. The Mongols, nobles, valued extravagance above all else. They poured out their wealth like a mighty river, their fervor as overwhelming as during a plunder, large measures of gold, small measures of silver. This was originally a people who lived like wolves, feeding on predators. Suril, holding a huge golden goblet inlaid with pearls and jade, commanded, "Myrtle, come and drink with me."

His giant hand gripped my neck. The pungent smell of alcohol wafted from his nose, a scent so sharp it stung my skin. "I want you to drink this!" His dark, bluish eyes looked down at me. His golden-brown hair was braided into two long plaits that looped behind his ears, and the fox tail on his hat brushed against my face, a mark reminding me of his status at the top of the pagoda. He was the wind-stabilizing pearl at the top of the pagoda, and I was at the bottom, a demon under its control.

Ah, this iron-willed general, so utterly masculine and powerful. I want you to drink this cup. He said, "I want it." The listener can never refuse, can't he? He carved out a world with force and then established its inalienable rules. The victor is king. I smiled gently at the divine image above me, and parted my lips slightly.

He roughly and urgently shoved the golden goblet to my lips, just as he always did when he wanted me, not allowing time to gently loosen my sash, always tearing the fabric and then, like a dragon soaring into the sky, forcefully shoving his thick flesh into me. A general accustomed to the battlefield, when he wanted a woman, it was like breaching a city gate, charging into battle. The scorching wine inside the goblet felt like a spear thrusting down my throat, this burning liquid gushing into my body like his final bursts. I choked, tears welling up, but I didn't flinch. As much molten copper and iron as there was, come, give it all to me. I was a fire-swallowing ascetic, swallowing this intense heat in large gulps.

He laughed heartily, tossing the empty golden goblet with a clatter. "Good! She's my woman!" He tossed me up in his arms, weighing me as if I were an infant, and made me lie across his lap, holding me tightly. "Myrtle, I haven't been unworthy of your affections. Do you know that if you had cried and begged just now, I would have killed you?"

He told me that the liquor came from the homeland of his mother, a Russian. In that far north, in the icy wilderness, it was the strongest liquor. Sealed in deep snow, it wouldn't freeze; it was a liquid that could burn blood, a pure, blazing fire. I never imagined a Han Chinese woman would have the courage to drink it all in one gulp. He said this strong liquor, called vodka, had always been a luxury reserved for Mongol nobles and mounted generals.

Myrtle, you can only love me! You said you loved me! He came rushing over, panting heavily, like a mountain crashing down on you. It was like driving a stake into your heart. The heat was like the strong liquor from before, thrusting all the way in. Myrtle, do you love me?

General…I love you…ah, please be gentle, so gentle…my general. My soft moans failed to win his pity; this iron man was a beast of the steppe, even his sobs sounded like roars. He said, "Myrtle, let me cherish you, my darling," but the more he loved a woman, the more brutal he became—like with Ah Gao, the caresses of a lion and tiger were heavy blows. Suryl, he loved me like prey. The only way to express his love was to devour. Vodka surged like a raging fire, and I watched this man, his body pulsating, amidst the swirling tapestry patterns. Crimson, bright yellow, deep blue, deep green…his masculinity attacked relentlessly…spinning, spinning, spinning. General, my Suryl, my wolf, I am dying, ah…please kill me! Tears blurred my vision. I knew I was drunk. Drunk to the point of screaming from the depths of ecstasy. Suryl, my general, let me hold your strong back tightly, stretch out my body like a vine to meet you, please give me your burning heat. Give it to me.

Sometimes I can't help but think of Chuo. In the dead of night, his skeleton lies scattered beside Su Rile. His arms are as strong as steel, a restraint, and then I remember a pair of fair hands, fingertips lightly tapping the carved bed railings, accompanied by a melodious chant. The embroidered quilt is warm in spring, half asleep, half at ease. The carving of twin lotus blossoms sets off a gentle face.

Xiao Tao, save this half of the quilt for me.

Yes, that's right. I'll save it for you.

His words still echo in my ears. His voice, like a gentle spring breeze. But now, beside whom do I sleep? The acacia bed is empty, the phoenix nest gone. I will never forget his fingers, like tuning a fine zither, teasing my body with exquisite caresses. His lips, like a piece of fine fruit, feeding me with saliva, the sweet juice lingering on his tongue. He was the one I longed for, nine-tenths longing for him, yet only one-tenth for our reunion. The peach blossoms that bloomed in your heart, once touched by the spring breeze, have already been plucked by another. I miss his whispered mandarin ducks in my ear, but I don't know for whom I can still be so hysterical. What is there to cherish, to give my love that follows the flowing water? Who wants it, who can give it to, it doesn't matter.

People can be so different. Even in the midst of passion, I felt this difference. The tenderness and subtlety of youth are now distant memories. He said women are like the tender, freshest tea leaves before the rain, easily aged by boiling water. Never impatient, he would savor the woman and his man, analyzing them meticulously. But Su Rile was a lion in control. A renowned general with invincible iron cavalry, commanding thousands of troops, his every command precise and efficient; my body was his magnificent battlefield. This domineering, uncompromising man. Trapped in his golden tent, I was his second Han woman, awaiting his return from quelling the rebellion, covered in murderous intent and dust. When we embraced, I felt a suffocating sensation. He said, "Myrtle, I miss you."

---Magpie Bridge Fairy

Reply [17]: After throwing his spear to the ground, he took off his golden armor and put on a silk garment called "Zhisun," which was only worn by Mongol nobles. He wore a red belt around his waist and black cloud-patterned boots, and lay reclining on the felt eating large chunks of roasted meat. He used a silver knife to cut and roast the meat, and a golden pot was full of sour cheese. He used the tip of his knife to pick up a piece of beef and stuff it into my mouth, forcing me to swallow it. He spoke with great enthusiasm about the exhilaration of killing the rebels that day. "Leave no one alive among the captured rebels! Slaughter them all before my tent!" he ordered his soldiers. When the screams pierced the air, he threw down his silver knife and covered my ears. "Myrtle, are you afraid of my flower-like little woman?" "If you are afraid, don't listen."

Nestled in his embrace, those long, mournful screams, one after another, accentuated my pitiful terror. The rebels in the south, the Han Chinese who refused to be slaves to a foreign race and rose in rebellion. My own kind, of the same language and blood, were being beheaded and their blood spilled between us. On the cowhide tent, I saw the shadows of falling blades, blood splattering three feet like a shadow play. I am a heartless woman, clinging to my enemy… but I hold him, holding him even tighter. Suril, my bloodthirsty Asura.

I wonder if Zhuo has returned now, whether he is angry or saddened by my betrayal. But he must understand. In all of Han land, who in the entire realm could say no to the Mongols? They said, "I want it, and you must offer it to me with both hands." Sometimes I smile to myself when I think of the madam of Hongluanxi, that middle-aged woman who called me "daughter," and the blow she suffered from the sudden loss of this precious tree she had painstakingly cultivated. On the Pearl River, I, heartless, still sing "The Song of the Rear Courtyard." But the jade tree of the Rear Courtyard has now been transplanted to the Imperial Garden. I am planted in the golden military tent, no longer bearing ingots for anyone.

From then on, I only bloomed, never bore fruit. The flower was the burgeoning and wasted passion of spring. Such a resolute and blazing consumption. Every night, beneath Surile's magnificent body, I blossomed into a crimson, lascivious flower, moist and intimate. That flower was called Myrtle, but it was no longer the living advertisement of Hongluanxi. I was his personal pet, a beautiful doll, or a captured falcon for training, pampered and kept in the palm of his hand like this fallen land. The madam must be heartbroken and bleeding in Hongluanxi's heart, but utterly helpless. Surile, he didn't even utter a word of redemption, only declaring, "I want this woman." Yes, all the children and cloth of the world originally belonged to them.

One man from Hongluanxi resolutely followed me. That, too, was something I had long anticipated. He fed the Mongol soldiers' horses, cleaned their tents, silently performing all the humble and menial tasks. He shrewdly seized every opportunity to pass by the golden tent, even venturing into this forbidden military territory. Why, Shennong, imprisoned tiger and rhinoceros, tormented by love, did you only want me to see the silver ring pierced your ear? That Fuji earring, its small, delicate pearl is its heart. A finely carved flower, its overly delicate patterns are not suitable for a dark, robust man like you.

He stood before me, his hair strewn with stable straw, his skin darker, his eyes brighter. He looked as disheveled as the day he suddenly appeared at Hongluanxi, saying, "Qinse, I really miss you." Only a small, pretentious mustache remained, its sharp point proudly displaying his petty cleverness.

I rose from the carpet. Gently brushed the straw from his hair. I smiled. Oh, man, with whom I met by chance and formed such an inexplicable bond, you disappear and reappear again and again. The first time was abandonment, the second time pursuit. Do you wish to atone for your sins? No, I know you too well. You would never say that.

He just looked at me with eyes as burning as coal. His chest heaved beneath his coarse servant's clothes. He said in a hoarse voice, "Qinse! You already smell like cattle and sheep... I hate it!" Then he suddenly pulled me into his arms. "Qinse... I miss you, so much." His voice was filled with pain, piercing to the bone.

It was being rubbed against his sweat-soaked, rough clothes. I just smiled. Lian Lei, Lian Lei, you are the only one who still calls me by my old name... Just for that alone, I am unwilling to let go... Qin Se, how beautiful those syllables are, from some ancient book like a sigh... But Lian Lei, my imprisoned Shennong, stroking your rough hair, I no longer want to pursue any of this. You risked so much to pursue it, willing to be its servant. I have long since stopped believing men's words, and I have learned not to believe them anymore. Regardless of whether it is true or false, I know you too well. Even if it is a lie, you have the ability to weave it so beautifully that you will not stop until you move someone... Lian Lei, you should not continue your natural habit with me. You should know that my eyes have long been cold and clear, and ordinary joys and sorrows can no longer approach me. Don't you know that?

Lian Lei. You, a man who dares not face himself, living a life of debauchery, will never change. When deception becomes an integral part of your blood and breath, you are too good an actor to distinguish between acting and reality. Lian Lei, I know you didn't mean to deceive me. You deceived yourself first, believing that you loved me.

My fingertips lightly traced the silver ring on his right ear. The patterns pierced through flesh and blood were engraved with my name. But even I, Lian Lei, had long since lost sight of who Myrtle truly was, that alluring name. I thought Myrtle was merely a beautiful commodity I had created… Lian Lei, we are both equally lost. His breath tickled my ear. Qinse! Qinse, I miss you, I want you, I want you… A sob of pain. This man, so adept at lies, had the mark etched on his body, a reminder of the pain of squandering the money I had earned from selling myself. He solemnly told himself he loved me; such bewildered naiveté brought tears to my eyes, not out of感动 (moved/touched).

...Qin, I want you...right now...