二十六
They laid Zheng Yu's body to rest in the shadow of the moonlit plum trees, where the palace gardens met the wild hills.
The night was cool, and still, the air tinged with incense and the faint, bittersweet perfume of blossoms.
Only four figures gathered: Yue Lian, the White Fox Twins, and Cang Yan, no grand procession, only the hush of grief and the quiet weight of love.
They prepared Zheng Yu's body as was done in the old days: his hair combed smooth, his claws cleaned, a white robe draped over him, and a sprig of plum blossom placed on his chest.
The twins wept openly, their faces streaked with tears as they arranged small offerings, sweet honey rice cakes, dried fish, and a favorite brush, around him.
Cang Yan stood apart, arms folded, his jaw set in a line of silent agony. He did not cry, but his eyes never left Zheng Yu, as if by sheer will alone he might keep him here.
Yue Lian knelt by Zheng Yu's side, her own tears falling freely.
She remembered the tales the orphans used to tell, of souls riding moonbeams to the next world, and recited a soft, trembling prayer: "May your spirit cross the bridge of clouds, may your soul rest in gentle wind, may you find laughter in the next life."
They lit incense, bowing three times in the direction of the moon, and the twins sang a foxfolk song, high and plaintive, a melody for the lost and the found.
Hours passed in silence and memory. As dawn crept through the trees, Yue Lian could no longer contain her sorrow. She leaned over Zheng Yu, her tears falling onto the wounds that had not healed, her hands trembling as she clung to his lifeless form.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "You were my first friend here. I would give anything to have you back."
Her tears pooled on his chest, bright as dew, and then something within her shifted, like a door opening, a song remembered in the marrow of her bones. The tears shimmered with a faint green light, sinking into Zheng Yu's wounds. The plum blossoms stirred, though there was no wind.
The twins gasped, clutching each other, as the light grew brighter. Cang Yan stepped forward, eyes wide, as the wounds on Zheng Yu's body slowly knit together, the blood fading, the color returning to his cheeks. Yue Lian felt a wave of exhaustion and power roll through her, but she did not let go.
With a sudden, shuddering gasp, Zheng Yu opened his eyes. He blinked, confused, and sat up, rubbing his head.
"Why... why are you all crying?" he croaked, voice hoarse but alive. "Did I miss something embarrassing?"
The twins shrieked with joy, pouncing on him in a flurry of tails and hugs. Yue Lian laughed through her tears, relief and wonder flooding her chest. Cang Yan let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his face softening in the dawn light.
Zheng Yu was pale, weaker than before, but very much alive. He looked down at his chest, at the now-healed wounds, and then up at Yue Lian. "Did you...?"
She nodded, still dazed. "I think so. I don't know how, but my power healed you."
He grinned, tired but grateful. "Well, remind me to die more often if it means coming back to such a welcome."
The twins pelted him with scoldings and kisses, and Yue Lian let herself weep a little longer, her sorrow finally giving way to hope.
As the sun rose over the garden, its golden light catching in Zheng Yu's hair, all five of them knelt and bowed once more to the moon, this time in gratitude.
And somewhere deep within Yue Lian, the melody of the lullaby became clearer than ever, a song for the living and the dead, a promise that her power was only beginning to awaken.
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