Xiyu lowered his head to take a sip of soup, and suddenly remembered that version of himself who had once crouched by the inn gate on the Gobi Desert, watching caravans pass by.
Back then, he felt the world was so vast that he had no idea which way to go.
Now the world was still vast, but he knew exactly where he was headed.
He tilted his head slightly to the right—Que Zhi was sitting right beside him.
“Tomorrow we’ll go to the wild apricot grove,” he said.
“Mm.”
Que Zhi smoothed down the corner of his robe that the wind had blown askew on his knee, with the same meticulous care he always showed when straightening his hem, tightening his wrist guards, or tucking in the corner of his blanket.
“The day after tomorrow I want to see the apricot blossoms. Batu said there are little white apricots in spring.”
“The day after tomorrow, Little Snowball needs new horseshoes.”
“Then the day after that.”
“Alright.”
The moon rose between the tender shoots of the old poplar tree, flooding the entire courtyard with bright light.
The moss on the stone well rim still held the day’s moisture, glinting with a dark green sheen under the moonlight.
Inside the house, the white wolf pelt was spread across the low couch.
By the bedside sat the wooden comb Que Zhi had given him when he first arrived at the royal city, the embroidered pouch and felt ball Batu had sewn for him, and the dagger he’d carried all the way from that border town—
Que Zhi had sharpened its blade anew with his curved saber, and in the dark of the room after the lamp was out, the thin edge would occasionally catch a sliver of silver light.
Outside, the grass roots, soaked through with melted snow, were quietly turning over in the soil, and the faint sound of the new irrigation ditch could be heard.
At some point, a tiny insect awakened from hibernation had alighted on a bud of the old poplar, its wings giving a slight flutter in the night breeze, shaking loose a dusting of fresh pollen.
Xiyu squinted his still-enticing peach blossom eyes in the moonlight.
He had a home now.
The wild apricot grove lay east of the northern slope, past one more low ridge—about half a day’s ride on horseback.
Helü Tao said that grove had been discovered by his father when he was young—no one had planted it, it had just grown on its own.
Every spring, the whole mountain would be covered in white blossoms, looking like unmelted snow from afar, but up close, you could tell they were alive.
Batu said he’d gone with his father to pick wild apricots as a child—they were so sour they made your teeth ache, but boiled into apricot jam and spread on flatbread, they were delicious.
The day they set out was a clear, bright spring day. The snow on the grasslands had mostly melted, with only a few thin patches lingering on the shaded slopes—like handkerchiefs winter had forgotten to take with it.
Tender grass shoots poked up through the brown earth, so vividly green they felt soft as wool felt beneath your feet.
Little Snowball carried Xiyu at the front, its hooves leaving a brisk trail of prints on the freshly greening grass.
It was especially excited today, ears swiveling this way and that, occasionally letting out a snort—probably because it had never been to this hillside before, and even the air smelled different from the creek valley it usually visited.
Xiyu leaned down to pat its neck, signaling it not to run too fast, and Little Snowball obediently slowed its pace.
When they crested the last low ridge, Xiyu reined in his horse.
The wild apricot grove grew in a gently sloping hollow. The tree trunks were dark brown, roughened and gnarled by an entire winter’s worth of wind and snow, but the branches were laden with blossoms.
Not just a few, not just dozens—the entire hillside was drowned in a sea of snow-white flowers.
The apricot blossoms clustered thickly on the branches. Looking closely, each had five petals, their stamens a pale, delicate goose-yellow. When the wind blew, the petals cascaded down in a rustling shower, falling on the grass, at the horses’ hooves, and onto the shoulders of those gazing up at them.
There was a faint, subtle sweetness in the air—not overpowering, as if diluted by the spring breeze, but just enough to linger in your memory.
“Even prettier than snow.”
Xiyu swung down from his horse, handed the reins to Que Zhi, and walked a few steps into the depths of the grove.
Petals landed in his hair, on his shoulders, on his cuffs. He didn’t brush them off—just tilted his face upward to look, his hat brim slipping to the back of his head, the silver hairpin catching the sunlight with a faint gleam.
Batu poked his head out from behind him, already holding several intact fallen blossoms in his hand, saying he wanted to take them back for his mother to make dried apricot flowers.
He asked Helü Tao when the apricots would be ready to pick.
Helü Tao answered, “In summer. Last time my father brought some back, a sheep stole a few and ate them—it shook its head so hard from the sourness.”
Batu immediately shielded Halbala’s ears, telling him not to listen.
Que Zhi tied up the horses and walked along the edge of the grove, past the scattered petals, to Xiyu’s side.
Xiyu lowered his gaze from the trees, took two steps back, tilted his head, and brushed a tiny petal from his eyelashes.
Last year, by the frozen river, he’d made Que Zhi remember that place—so they could come back every winter.
Now it was spring, and it was time to remember a springtime place too.
“The wild apricot grove. I’ll remember it.”
“Not the wild apricot grove,”
Xiyu picked off the petal that had been swaying on his shoulder for so long, and placed it over the base of Que Zhi’s thumb—right above his ever-present old wrist guard. “This place—where you brought me to see the apricot blossoms.”
Que Zhi looked down at him.
The petal rested on his palm, thin and delicate, quivering slightly in the wind—like a freshly fallen flake of snow.
Last year on the frozen river, he’d said the same words—remember this place, so we can come back every winter.
Now the river before him had melted into a handful of apricot petals, and he was still the same man who remembered every single thing Xiyu had ever said.
“Every year. We’ll come.”
By evening, they had set up camp at the edge of the grove.
Batu gathered a pile of dry apricot branches and built a campfire. The flames licked at the apricot wood, releasing a gentle, woody fragrance even softer than pine. Helü Tao unloaded the saddles and set them beside the tent, tossing a handful of hay to Little Snowball and Halbala each.
Xiyu sat by the fire, a bowl of hot tea in his hands, Que Zhi’s outer robe draped over his shoulders.
Occasionally, a fallen petal drifted into his tea bowl. He didn’t fish it out—just watched it float and swirl gently on the surface of the brew.
Batu and Helü Tao were debating why Halbala had been sneaking off to the kitchen so often lately.
Helü Tao thought for a moment: “It’s definitely because the old cook’s been secretly feeding him carrots.”
Halbala lay by the fire, chewing his cud with an innocent look on his face, his bell glinting in the firelight.
Xiyu turned his head to look at Que Zhi, who was examining the fresh leather cord wrapped around his wrist guard—the one Xiyu had replaced for him that morning before they left.
Last year, when he’d bought this wrist guard in that small town, he’d only wanted to shield Que Zhi’s hand from the wind and sand. Now the guard was still there, and the old scars were nearly faded.
Xiyu turned Que Zhi’s hand over, placed the petal from his own palm into Que Zhi’s, and said—this year’s flower, and next year’s too, and every year after that.
“I’ll pick them for you every year. Liangzhou melons, raspberries, wild apricot blossoms—and I’ll be there with you.”
Que Zhi closed his fingers, gently folding them together with the petal inside, and pressed a slow, steady kiss to his knuckles.
The night deepened, and the campfire burned bright.
Batu had fallen asleep leaning against Halbala, still clutching that handful of apricot blossoms in his hand.
Helü Tao added a few more apricot branches to the fire. The flames leapt up and then subsided, casting shifting light and shadow across the faces of those gathered around.
He’d finished carving the sheep-herding staff. Before sheathing his knife, he turned the wooden handle over the fire, muttering that the first staff of spring needed a good roasting to make it strong.
Xiyu leaned against Que Zhi’s shoulder, tilting his head back to look at the sliver of starry sky visible through the apricot branches.
Spring nights on the grasslands were different from those on the Gobi. Out there, the stars were cold, and the winds across the open plain swept away all warmth.
But here, the stars were like candle flames freshly bathed in apricot rain—spreading a warm, golden glow across the entire hollow.
Tomorrow, he wanted to go see the irrigation ditch on the northern slope again—to watch the water flow into the new pasture, to watch those herders who’d once been too afraid to speak up move their flocks to the ditchside.
He wanted to ride across the first new pasture of spring, with the reins looped half a turn looser.
“Tomorrow I want to take Little Snowball to the new ditch, let it step in the spring water. Then I’ll go to the hunting grounds and ask Uncle Helü for a few bowstrings.”
Xiyu turned his head and straightened the half-loop of leather cord that had shifted on Que Zhi’s wrist guard.
Que Zhi pulled the outer robe back up over Xiyu’s shoulder and said, “Alright.”
The moon climbed above the apricot grove, and the wild apricot petals continued to drift down through the breeze—settling on the tent, beside the dying fire, and across the scabbard of Helian Xiong’s curved saber, resting next to his sheep-staff.
The black horse and Little Snowball stood side by side, heads lowered, grazing. Halbala had rested his chin on his front hooves and was fast asleep.
Xiyu leaned against him, his breathing slowly blending with the scent of blossoms in the evening wind.
Tomorrow, there was still the new ditch to see, bowstrings to ask for at the hunting grounds, and a long road ahead—a long spring to live through.
And their spring had only just begun.
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