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There is much discussion among her captors as to what to do with her. After all, she is useless as a sword if she will not be wielded by another. Any glory that could be claimed in the killers of her master using her as they will is lost. At most she can be displayed within her simple sheath, an everlasting monument to Wei Wuxian

She does not care at all about their disappointment in her choice. Her master is gone from the world, and she will accept no other but him.

Sword spirits linger after the death of their wielders unless they are shattered and melted down. There is a time where she wonders if that is what they will do, splinter her body and cast out her spirit as they did with her master. But instead she is taken away from the keening spirits up on the mountain as a prize to be displayed. A trophy for the killing of her great love.

She is locked in a gilded cage on a stand made for honoring fallen fighters and sealed away from the world. No one can come in but the poisonous one who claimed her as his trophy. Sometimes he attempts to draw her, as if her love could be so easily bought by ownership. He does not understand the relationship between a sword and her wielder. She refuses him every time.

Somewhere far away under lock and nail she can feel a similar energy to hers keening. It is too far away to tell what sword it is, but she knows that as certainly as she does, it hurts. It cries out for the loss of all they knew. Their pain is shared. 

Were they together perhaps the pain would be lessened. Grieving alone is a heavy burden, one that can only be taken on by one who understands it. Perhaps the long years ahead would pass by faster, with a companion to share memories with and remember the man who gave them their soul.

But alone there is nothing they can do but wait.

Suibian dreams away days, months, years, but it is not a peaceful sleep. Her rest is disturbed by her keeper trying to draw her, the dark, twisted cultivation that his lackey uses to try and break her grip, and the dismembered spirit he adds some time down the line, bound by eyes and mouth and ears to keep him from seeing, hearing, naming evil.

Across from her, the severed head dreams and thrashes in his sleep, a resentful energy as dark as the Burial Mounds all by itself burns and taints the room. His soul is so angry, it disturbs her sleep regularly.

Stop it , she tells him, but he is a severed head, he could not hear the song of a sword spirit even when he still had the rest of himself.

His bitterness leeches the good from her dreams.

Still, she sleeps patiently, waiting for that single thread waving in the wind to reach back out to his soul. His spirit had not shattered on death. She knows he will return to her some day. It is a truth as unshakable as her sealed sheath.

Sometimes distantly she can hear another sword, one that smells of delicate flowers nourished in blood, but it does not reach out, and in truth she does not want to listen to that sickly sweet sound. She misses the feeling of dancing under the moonlight, her master's errant thoughts catching on hers even if he never heard her opinions.

She misses feeling alive. She misses the misty whisper in the air, the loss of gravity and time when they talked.

She misses.

Years pass and the world shifts around her. Suihua sometimes hears her sleeping song, but she never wakes in time to respond to him. If he would even do such a thing. He has taken a new master, one who chases his father's ghost through ghosts of rumors and hates, hates, hates. Late in the night, she hears his sorrow that he has not learned yet how to temper his steel, that he runs headfirst at danger in a desperate attempt to be seen for himself and not as a tool to be pressed and molded into a jagged blade against the dead.

If she could bring herself to reach out to him, she would offer him words of comfort, but there are none she can think of to give. His master is dead by hers, her master is hated by his. She does not begrudge him his emotions, but it feels a betrayal to cross those lines when their masters are at such opposites.

One night, she does feel him brush against her energy, and feel her resistance. He slowly backs away and doesn't call out again.

It feels like sorrow. It feels like sorry.

She wishes she could say she knew the second her master returned to this world, but well...in truth she had been sleeping. She doesn't actually know for a while, until during one of the many resentful tantrums the severed head in the room with her disturbs her rest enough to realize that the cobwebby thread of empty spiritual energy has caught on something again, the seed of a new golden core.

She tries to reach back out, but the thread is too thin and the distance too far. Her master cannot feel her subtle pulses, most likely does not know to look for her. The distance between them is as wide as ever.

But he is alive.

He is in this world again, and something tells her with time, their paths will cross once more. If only because she knows him better than anyone in this world and he would not walk away as easily as he thinks he could.

Later, she hears Suihua's confusion as he tries to soothe his young master's fury and fear, whispering softly to him even if he cannot hear. His voice is louder than usual, and she wonders what must have happened to cause such emotion.

He says nothing to her, but after that day, everything changes.

She still dozes on and off, he comes nearer and farther but never close enough until one morning her awareness is full of him being near, coming closer and closer.

Master! She calls, and calls for him, but his core is still so weak and fragile, though brighter than when she first felt it, now like the light from the crescent moon on a cloudy night, dim, but steady.

She can hear the discontent in the sugared poison blade, apparently their master is upset beneath his veneer of calm, and the spirit is so tuned with his inner emotions that they thrum with veiled anger, dismay and a thin line of fear, almost too buried even for her to sense. Their master comes in and out of the room three times, each time more upset.

Then, barely a breath after the last time, she feels her master's soul coming closer still, this time not shielded within a new body she does not know yet, but bared to the world. Were it not for his golden core, she would have thought he was dead again, his spirit wandering.

It is not so different in the end, he falls through the strange mirror, looking at papers and then being caught by the severed head before she can warn him. Far away, she can feel someone else's panic, too unclear to feel who it is, but it is strong and clear and twinned.

As she adds her call to the other two, she hears the poisoned call, this time a warning.

Sword spirits have an easy time sensing other spirits.

When her master pulls free of the head, the sword and their master are waiting. There is hunger in the air, a feral excitement. Tell me! Tell me what to do , she calls out to him as loudly as she can. Let me help you!

There is a shiver in the air. There is the pause of the moment as something snaps back into place between the two of them.

Her master floats rapidly over to her and lands on her sheath and calls Suibian! Come forth!

She needs no further instruction as she snaps free of her sheath, shattering glass with one half-thought, his eyes and her strength in harmony once more. Fight with me! He tells her, but of course she would have even without his request.

She was born to dance with him.

The poisonous sword wraps around her, clinging like a strangling vine, but she has a purpose again. His golden core is not as strong as they used to be, but she already knows his plans even without him consciously thinking them. He is a fool! The other sword hisses as she twists to hold them in place. We will still catch him!

Try me. She sings back triumphantly and burns with the strength of the infant crescent moon, just barely waxing. Even now, they could begin to challenge this sword and their master.

Her master slips away while she has the sword twined around her, flying on thin paper wings towards the bastion of safety she can sense now that they are bonded again. It is so bright, almost as blinding as the sun and just as warm.

It is familiar. They are familiar.

Before she is able to sense them fully and be sure of what she feels, the connection breaks as he returns to his body and she tumbles to the floor, the other sword still wrapped around her. Despite it being technically a defeat, she calls it a victory. Her master escaped unscathed. He knows where she is. He called to her and heard her answer.

The other man in the room stoops and picks her up, turning her this way and that. “Has he really returned?” he asked her rhetorically, “No one else could draw this sword.”

Swiftly, he sheathes her and returns her to the cabinet, a name disappearing as he sets her down and she can no longer hear him.

It does not matter, her master is already returning for her.

It is all chaos, shouting and fear. Bichen is a steady hum of serenity in the center of the storm, fighting in perfect unison with their wielder. Her master is weakening, his thin golden core only enough to slow the bleeding, not close the wound.

She would help if she could. But he cannot command her to fight when he is unconscious. As it is, the best help she can offer is to listen to the other spirits around them and call out warnings to Bichen.

The poisonous one is gleeful, victorious, she calls out to the other sword, I fear there are still more coming.

She can feel Bichen's gratitude, even if they do not respond. It is understandable, they and their master are fighting for all of their lives. Sword spirits around them keen when their masters fall, but there are still so many.

Then there is a moment of stillness and even without her master's senses to notice them, she can feel the roar of anguish ripping through the night. A sound that brings fear to the other spirits and curious hope to Bichen.

She knows at last the energy of the spirit that leaps into the fray alongside them. In a way, she and the fierce corpse are similar. They both have waited for Wei Wuxian to return, they both can hear the calls of his spirit where no other could. She can hear the same song from all those years ago in him now. They have waited, they have bided their time, they have returned to the side of the man they love.

And they both would do anything to keep him alive.

More sword spirits wail in despair as the last ghost of the Wens falls upon the slaughterers of his family and rends them limb from limb, Bichen dancing wildly alongside him as their bearer lifts her and her master up onto his back and flees as swiftly as the wind.

Before they are out of range, Bichen returns to them and snaps into their sheath with a weary sigh. Suibian , they call to her, voice barely shaking despite the weight of the battle they have been in, your master yet lives?

She cannot help but smile. Even if it strains, she can feel his new golden core fighting to keep him breathing, keep him alive. Now that they are no longer in battle, he is no longer in danger. He still breathes, he is simply resting in dreams .

The wave of relief from Bichen is nearly dizzying to feel. We will not fail him again , they say as the air ripples around them, nearly a windstorm of force. We will not hesitate to do whatever it takes. As long as you are still in the world, we will fight every battle and walk every road to see you safe and happy again.

If she were a human she might blush or swoon at it. As a sword though, it is comforting rather than overwhelming. Spirits can lie and deceive, but she knows Bichen. And she knows that they speak from the heart. If they speak it, then it is real.

And her master will never be in danger or alone again.

They are in a quiet place, a hidden place. Bichen’s wielder tucks them all away in a place no one will come and no sword spirits casually brush her mind. Only Bichen and later Shouyue are aware of her, and Shouyue rarely speaks at all beyond their pleasant greeting. 

Bichen talks to her though. Over the days that her master sleeps and heals, they tell her of all that has changed and gone by in those long years. 

There is a weight and a song to their voice that they did not have before. There is loneliness abated, there is grief that lingers. There is the softness of the singing stream. 

It is strange, but beautiful. Bichen still whispers softly, but there is more than before. The richness of years lived. 

You have grown, she tells them late when their masters lie in dreams together, scant cun separating them. Her master sleeps deeper, more soundly when theirs is close. The feelings she knew of when they were young and alive the first time bloom in vivid spring. 

We have lived with our regrets , Bichen tells her quietly. Their presence is so strong in her senses. A wellspring of light and warmth and love. We will not make the same mistakes again. We will always be there when you call. 

She thinks no matter how far away they could be she would know where to find them again. They shine that brightly. It is stunning to feel it on her spirit. 

She is happy. For so long her world has been naught but dreams and despair. But her master lives again, she has escaped the shadowed palace. Where they will go from here, she knows not yet, but it is certain they will not be alone. 

I missed you , she whispers as they watch their masters sleep peacefully. When I dreamed, I dreamed of you.

Bichen seems to shudder in spirit, long ripples of intense emotion almost strong enough to batter her senses. For a long time, they say nothing. The things they are feeling are too strong for words.

She knows very well that some things cannot be easily said

At last, nearly at the breaking of dawn, the other spirit hums softly, a drifting, pleasant melody. Soothing to the ears, soothing to the soul. The song feels as if it could carry her away somewhere peaceful, where there would never be another battle to fight.

I missed you , Bichen says in it, I missed you more than there are words to speak.

I missed you until I heard you singing again.

Her master awakens, he takes her in his hands again. Somewhere in the deepest space of his spirit she can feel his joy to once again hold her.

He is bewildered to find out that she is sealed. He hands her to Bichen’s master to prove it. His energy is far more pleasant than those that have touched her in the many years, a marriage of moonlight and frost to temper the burning flame beneath.

He is still not her master. She will still not unsheath herself for him. She knows her master’s core and soul and no matter how much more pleasant his energy is, nor how much of it currently circles through her master’s body, she will remain as she has. A promise is a promise.

Bichen laughs when she smugly informs them of this. He would not expect you to change your mind so easily, they say in amusement. A loyal sword for a loyal heart.

She huffs as her master takes her back, feeling the steady pulse of his core. They are together once again. Even should he never take her back into battle, she would have no regrets herself. 

A sword too has ideals. A loyal sword is born from a loyal heart. His strength and spirit becomes hers. 

It is only that same strength and spirit that will ever call her forth.

She does not expect to be drawn soon when they set out on the road. With her master’s present state, she does not even expect to be brought along. Bichen had spoken much of the stand they rested on when at rest and she had considered it a vast improvement over being stuck next to a seething mass of rage.

But Bichen’s wielder tucks her away within his sleeve and takes her along at her master’s behest to Bichen’s great delight. For them, they speak much of how journeying along them has been since her master has returned. Of the things they have noticed and the amusement they have at the way their wielders interact together now.

It is scant seconds before she understands what they mean. She is well acquainted with her master’s heart and thoughts. Even though she cannot see what he sees, she knows what he feels in each moment. His heart is spilling over with a warmth that could burn out the sun, his thoughts are a tangle of memory and wonder, twisting about in consideration of the changed world they have been given.

Every bright flash of emotion, every wandering thought; they are all turned towards Bichen’s wielder.

Bichen’s enjoyment tugs at her mind as she sorts through the deluge of feeling her master is sending towards her. He is so very happy, they tell her in confidentiality, for no cultivator has ever known how much their swords gossip when given the opportunity, it is as if the sun has returned to our world.

Perhaps it has, she says, thinking of the comfort her master draws from looking over and seeing Bichen’s wielder at his side, over and over again, unchanging. He is no longer fighting alone. He has a companion to stand at his side in every battle.

There is a spike through Bichen’s spirit as they recall the last time the two of them met, back in a distant cave when they thought the future they had lived through to be the worst nightmare birthed within minds that had survived a war. There was much we did not understand then, they say quietly, their voice nearly swept away on the wind. Things we had much time to think of after, and regret that we acted as we did.

The words are thick and heavy as winter mud clinging to the soles of shoes, dragged up out of a decade past. 

We do not blame you for what transpired, she offers as her master’s soul stings at an old wound - a scar that would never close. He would make the same choices again, knowing what the outcome would be.

Bichen sighs heavily, I think mine might do some things very differently, they say with the dry humor of those that have spent rather a long time considering exactly what they might do. As he is doing now.

Suibian thinks of the things he has done since she was returned to her master’s side, the glow of happiness as warm as his golden core whenever he looks at Bichen’s wielder. Unlike before, there is no lingering sting of fights never resolved, the quiet pain of knowing that their paths would never quite cross.

My master is happy now too , she tells Bichen, hoping that it will remain true. That their wielder will continue to make her master bloom like spring sunlight every time they look at each other.  

He has been through much. She has spent every sleepless night with him, every day with worries hidden so far down that no one but her would know they exist. There is no one who knows his heart better than her.

Such happiness blooming within, without hesitation or fear, she wants him to have it for all the rest of his days. All the rest of his lives.

Bichen is not pleased at being used to sunder the earth to dig graves. They are less pleased when her master wields her at long last… to slice open a melon. 

Whatever , she tells them with a laugh, it is more use than I have gotten in a very long time. 

Bichen concedes the point and proceeds to grumble about their wielders being far too similar in ill treatment of innocent swords for the rest of the day. 

Sadly, their peaceful days come to an end quickly. A walk with ghosts, the challenge of the fevered and the hungry, she cannot help him.

He draws her and gives her to the ghost of the Wens to free the children and their baby sword spirits, all squeaking and chirping in delight with voices not yet fully formed at their experienced wielders coming to rescue them. 

When the dead come, Bichen stands alone against the tide, a single sword dancing through the blood and guts and years and years and years of bitter resentment clogging up the world. The ghost of the Wen howls and her master fights with the tools open to him to protect every frightened person and their silenced sword trapped within the cave until the battle is won at high cost.

Secrets cannot stay buried even when the bodies are hidden. The young sword spirits share their wielder’s confusion and betrayal.

The ones she heard years before who cut down the innocent cannot speak a word in their defense. Any that try are silenced before they can pretend there was any justice to their actions.

When they descend, it is no longer the peaceful quiet of the open road, but the thick clinging fog of shame and guilt. 

Yet not all is shadow and disillusionment. Bichen is weary, but triumphant. Her master swoons into the arms of Bichen’s wielder and finds himself safely caught and carried, no need for his worn feet to touch the ground.

Suihua sings to his wielder, the child full of questions that have been given the wrong answers, trying to calm his pain. A father quieting his child before the humans step in to care for him. 

It is only when her master is calm and resting and the sword spirits no longer crowd the air around them that she realizes Sandu is nearby. Strange, that she did not sense him before. They are brother and sister, forged by the same master, grown in the same water and winds. His betrayal runs deep, she does not want to speak to him, but it is strange that his voice and his spirit are absent from the chaos around them even as the other swords shout loudly in confusion at all that has happened.

It is strange and concerning that she hears nothing, but soon her concern is eased by Bichen’s gentle brush on her presence. Your master can rest easy , they tell her, evidently having been keeping a careful eye on their wielder, the fighting has ended.

Yes , she says with a smile, he is comfortable, at ease. She considers how much to reveal, and then remembers that this is Bichen and Bichen can be told anything. 

Almost anything, that is.

His soul is sad to see the end of the ones he loves. She says quietly, thinking on the thread of melancholy. There is quiet in knowing now that they are at peace, but still he mourns them. The child most of all. He had barely begun to live

Bichen’s comforting aura is shot through with surprise, then a realization and a delight that breaks free like the sun through storm clouds, watery and tremulous, but the promise of new light. You do not yet know? The child still lives!

Suibian finds herself momentarily lost for words even as she reminds herself that Bichen does not lie and they would not tell her such a thing without good reason. Is he safe? Is he happy? She asks, trying to keep her own emotions from spinning up into her master when he needs his rest.

He is safe, Bichen reassures her, pride shining through their voice clear as sunlight through crystal waters, he is happy. He is brilliant. He is our joy to have watched grow. 

You have met him before. He is the child that the ghost of the Wens watches over now.

She feels her master collapse, his spirit thrashing in turmoil before all goes dark in his mind. His qi is a broken guqin string rattling in her mind, waves of tortured sound echoing through her spirit as she tries to reach out and sooth it even at their distance. 

The ghost of the Wens feels it too. As if he can hear her desperation he leaps to the sky and runs to them with Suibian still nestled safely in his sash. 

Here she can hear Zidian’s unbridled anger and Bichen’s winter fury embroiled in battle. There are no clear words, only the emotions of a fight long overdue, of a simmering hatred given the strength to be named. 

Her master’s heart is still in turmoil and she reaches out to help in any way she can. She has already lost him once, it will not happen again. 

She is wrapped up in him when she feels familiar hands wrap around her hilt. Her master’s spirit calls to her, his powerful golden core giving her strength. 

There is something strange. Something that should not be. But she knows her master’s energy when he calls on her to be pulled forth. 

She once swore to be only drawn by him, to seal herself away from all others in his memory. 

Only when he calls to her does the seal release. 

It is only once when she is drawn and Bichen’s shock crosses her mind that she understands. 

The hands touching her are not her master’s, but that of Sandu’s wielder. But she can feel him as if he were her master. His thoughts race through her being, his shock, his fury, his disbelief. A connection springing up between them as potent as the first time her master held her within his hands.

She knows what she feels. Her master’s golden core spinning wildly within another. 

Suibian knew many of her master’s secrets; how he had given up his golden core, that try as he might he could not fully let go of the loss. That there was a bitter betrayal whenever Jiang-zongzhu brought Zidian down on someone. That so many years ago his touch had felt familiar in a way she could not name. 

The hints had been there. And now she cannot say if she had simply missed them or if a part of her had not wanted to know. 

In this world there is no one as good as her master. And now it shines over her blade for all to see. 

Zidian’s spark fizzles out in understanding. Sandu says nothing. Does nothing. She cannot even sense his spirit even as his wielder quakes beneath unwanted understanding. 

Sandu , she cries out, did you know? Where is your voice now? How is it that you knew and said nothing ?

He has no answer for her. He has no answer at all. It is with the slow chilling as her master’s spirit settles slowly that she realizes that Sandu is beyond the ability to hear her. 

He had once been quiet. Even before they’d left he’d rarely spoken, his whispers drowned out by Zidian. But now it is not just quiet, but silence. Even if he wished to speak he could no longer.

There is no poisonous hiss. There is no silent bitterness. There is simply nothing.

The blade lingers, but there is no sword spirit dwelling within. He is no more. Sandu’s spirit has been choked out by the poisons he is named for. 

The grief that settles within her as Jiang-zongzhu keens at the rebalancing of his world and her master lingers in dark slumber is cold and unexpected. They had long since been severed in connection - even before their masters were.

But that did not mean that she’d ever wished for his death . Try as she might, her heart was not as solid as her blade.

Suibian , Bichen calls to her, barely an ephemeral whisper of dust being swept from empty halls. I am so sorry. He is so sorry. The grief at her master’s sacrifice, the guilt of so many wrong assumptions, it all piles up like snow on a sagging rooftop. We have erred in all of our judgements.

If she could shrug like her master does, she would. His choice was for it to never be known, she tells them at last. We knew what the world would think and accepted it.

Still… Bichen begins and trails off again. They seem to lack the words to express all that lies between them, all that they feel.

We have long since made our peace with it, she offers them gently, letting the spring breeze run through her voice. He would not want you to feel sorry for him.

Bichen seems to be bereft of words entirely, bowed down by their own and their wielder’s intense emotions. All they can manage is a brief brush of their essence against her own, as soft and sweet as a stolen kiss. 

It is potent enough to ground her again, steal her against what they know is coming.

The ghost of the Wens challenges Jiang-zongzhu to test the accusations, to offer her up to every other person he sees and see if they can draw her from her sheath. She can already feel the boiling defiance in his heart and mind, a need to try and prove a lie.

As much as it galls her she will not be able to deny him his fury. Her seal is imperfect. It will answer her master’s golden core no matter where it lies.

Her master will be safe with Bichen’s wielder. Already they are walking away. Away from Lotus Pier, from Jiang-zongzhu and his venom and his dead sword.

She can hear Bichen’s grief that once again they are walking away from her. And as much as they hope to meet her again, who knows what Jiang-zongzhu will do.

Only time can answer their fears.

He rampages through the night. So many hands lay upon her sheath, yet none can pull her forth. His confusion and rage lingers bitter on her senses, dulling out the irritation of everyone who is not her master laying hands on her.

When the answer has been confirmed even beyond reasonable doubt, he screams and throws her into the wall of his room, leaves her lying there on the floor with all of his rage and growing guilt.

He hates the guilt more than he hates her master. He hates the feeling of inadequacy wrapping around him like a shroud.

He hates that he can no longer close his eyes and scream like a child at the world as he closes his eyes and screams like a child at the world.

Her master drifts away further and further from her senses, she senses him come to and his spirit settling. It will have to be enough.

Suihua and his young master argue with Jiang-zongzhu and run off. Then later Jiang-zongzhu follows them.

And what happens afterwards she knows only by the panicked whispers of sword spirits in and around Lotus Pier.

Time passes slow as syrup dripping from the end of a spoon, but peacefully so. Suibian marks it solely by the whispers of the swords taking up the night watch. Lock away in Lotus Pier, she once again waits in a place she is not meant to be, locked up away from her master. 

But at least this time her connection to him is not severed. She can feel that he thrives even though she is not with him. Oh he shines so brightly she could burn up in his joyous light.

Jiang-zongzhu comes and touches her only once, only long enough to place her upon a stand where she is out of his sight, his thoughts filtering dimly through her master’s golden core. He knows he cannot keep her. He knows she must go back to her master once more. 

Eventually, eventually he will do it. The thought is too loud a discordant song in his mind to be so easily forgotten. 

She has already waited many years for him to wield her again. The days it will take Jiang-zongzhu to return her to where she should be will be nothing in comparison. 

She will never lose her voice and spirit as Sandu has. He could not take it from her master, he will not take it from her. 

She dreams of the day until it arrives at last, when Suihua interrupts a nice nap by complaining in concert with his young master about the visit, Jiang-zongzhu’s attitude and how they just saw her master and told him they would be doing so, so why did he not ask this of them sooner?

It is all very amusing. Somewhere along the way Suihua has learned to whine. It gives him character he sorely lacked. He continues to complain as Jiang-zongzhu at last hands her over and they leave him and his dead sword behind. 

A part of her feels sorry for Sandu, that in the end he was drowned out by the poisons he was named for. But then he came to kill the people her master loved and bore no regrets then, so she can only feel so much sympathy for him in the end. 

You must have known, Suihua says in confusion as they ride together, borne along by the young boy who is no longer filled with such anger in his heart. There is no one who knows their masters better than we. Yet you never spoke a word. 

Suibian sighs. While she will make her peace with him now, she has never forgotten her and her master’s dislike of the one who wielded him first. Would you so casually spill your first master’s greatest secrets to any spirit listening in? She asks somewhat coolly, letting her voice be a warning as much as an answer. I will not name what he does not wish to share. 

Suihua sighs too, pride somewhat diminished, like a peacock caught in the rain. Still, such things might have changed what happened. There would have been those who would have acted differently

Would it have? She asks, considering all that happened, how so many people and their sword spirits shrieked of bitter envy, grudges grasped onto tightly even though the original person was long gone, the hunger to climb atop the world and be adored by all. Some stones cannot be stopped by simple words, they must roll until they crash. Would your first master have listened if mine had said anything, or would he have continued as he always had, without regard for those he did not care for?

Suihua sighs again, considering his master and their disputes in another lifetime. Perhaps he would have not, he conceded. It is difficult to imagine him changing as willingly as Young Master has. 

It is not given to us to see the changes that might have been, she offers more kindly, all we can do is love them as they are. 

And scold them often , Suihua says in good humor, clearly thinking of his young master. A sword spirit knows them better than anyone, so it falls upon us to remind them who they can be. 

Suibian laughs with him, even as her memories turn to another sword, scolding their wielder for being too quiet; too afraid to step forward. 

They have all grown in time, even though their journeys have been very different. Her master cares very much for Suihua’s young master. It is likely that they will meet again someday. 

To meet Suihua in the future again would not be a hardship. His amusement at the thought tells her the same. 

In her master’s first life, they parted ways as enemies. Now, when his young master takes her in his hand and she hears Suihua gently coaching him through speaking to her master, they part as friends. 

And when Suihua’s voice fades from her mind it is replaced with the warmth and joy of a sword she knows and loves better than any other. 

It has taken them long enough, gripes the voice of frost and dust, but it is colored with joy. It is good that you are at last free of that scum. 

Bichen , she scolds with a laugh, unable to contain her delight at their everything. What would your wielder say if he could hear such things?

He would agree , Bichen says smugly, he often thinks worse of that man. 

Her thoughts are interrupted by her master drawing her briefly, running his fingers along her blade as if to check for damage. But truthfully Jiang-zongzhu had done nothing worse than not polish her for the long weeks she had to wait. Nothing that a little time and care will not heal. 

He is glad to have her back again, for all that his words are light. His fingers run gently over her hilt before he tucks her away for the ride home. 

And she is glad to be back with him again. Even should he never draw her in combat, a promise is a promise. She was born to be his sword and his sword she will always be. 

And at last, with farewells said and hearts warned, Bichen carries them all home. 

It is a day like any other, she wakes late after hours of Bichen’s urging her to rise so they can spend time together again, she touches her master’s spirit to feel the warm happiness that infuses all his days and bolsters up his growing new golden core, that steady swirling summer sun that will soon glow so brightly it could never go out again. 

It is a day like any other in which Bichen’s wielder tends to both of them kindly. Perhaps someday she will allow him to draw her as well, but that day is not now. He still has to bring her to her master to draw her so that he may clean her blade. 

It is a day like any other when it begins. 

But then in the afternoon her master picks her up willingly and takes her outside. There is a flicker of nerves from him, quickly quashed beneath growing excitement. Bichen is trying to demand answers from their wielder, their voice growing in confusion as the four of them all go outside together. 

In some quiet part of their home, far away from other spirits or people, it is only when their masters stand across from each other that she and Bichen understand at last what is happening. 

It is to be a dance. With an energy she has not felt in him for a lifetime, he draws her from her sheath and holds her at the ready as he once did. His joy is so bright it could outshine the sun. 

Bichen’s shared happiness is just as bright. Suibian , they call out to her, bright as fresh fallen snow under the moonlight. Suibian. 

She glows back at them, a light summer breeze over grassy fields and cool waters. Bichen, will you dance with me?

And as their masters surge forward to meet blade to blade once more, they do. 

Finito.