Disclaimer: now would one even go about owning a legend, anyway? But I have, I confess, taken great liberties with this particular legend, and it's probably unrecognisable by the story's end. Especially since I got it from a specific episode of a Chinese drama (I only watched 3 of the 60ish episodes) and then realised it relates to the entire plot of the Greek play Antigone, and then I messed with it, so…I'm not sure it belongs to anyone now.
WARNING for literal skeletons in this story. If bones freak you out, please don't read. And for family murder. Which is a terrible thing, and treated as such.
Every nation has a fate feared worse than death. In some it's isolation, in others a living hell—but in one particular place, to die and have one's body unburied, forgotten, is worse than any death. For then one becomes a wandering ghost…
It had taken months to persuade his men, his lieutenant and aides with their fierce loyalty, not to bury him. But as he opened his eyes and found his own body a transparent grey, fingers barely visible, stained uniform moving even as he lay on the dirt—he knew they had obeyed.
At last, his task for his people was over. He had died. He could give them no more. He fought with all he had and failed in the end—but the failure was inevitable, and he accepted that. It was easy to move on.
At last, he could find her.
He did not know where to begin, but already the urge to move rippled like wind through his limbs, shoving ceaselessly. No rest, no purpose, and no end. Since he had someone to look for, he did not mind the urge. He tried to get up, to push himself off the dirt, but he only drifted.
Of course, he thought. Ghosts do not walk. But he could move, and he thought he would begin—where?
Where would he find her?
Perhaps on his own battlefield. Perhaps she had been watching him.
After that, the cottage where they spent their first two married months together. Her ghost might long for happy memories.
After that—
There was an obvious place to go after that.
And after that horrific ground would come the place where they met, the inn where the general had first mistaken her for a travelling, poverty-stricken beggar, and he'd tried to give her a coin. Where she stole his purse, called him stupid, and returned it to him. Where he'd tried to pay for her dinner because he thought, she has nothing but is honest anyway, and she'd mocked him again.
After that—
He had a list. He had eternity. He would find her somewhere.
She was not at the battlefield. He did not want to linger, for though the bodies of his brothers and followers had been removed and buried, their blood still stained the ground. He did not know what happened after death, did not know where they were; he could only remember that he failed them. This was the place where he'd led them to their deaths. Yet he drifted across the entire field, back and forth, for two days, focusing on anything but his own memories. Looking for movement, for a restless spirit like his own. He could not afford to miss her, if she was here.
He found nothing.
No ghosts at all. His brothers had gone on, at least. He felt a little lighter. The Monhellian King was not known for punishing enemy soldiers by denying them burial, even rebels, but…
The King had already proved to be cruel.
He had done to his daughter what he had not done to his enemies. The general's ghostly body turned a few shades darker and his fists clenched as he thought about what that King had done, the day he'd heard the news—
Enough. He knew this would not help him find his wife. He circled the field one last time. This time he deliberately remembered it all, committing to memory the feeling of watching his brothers fall one by one. They had marched knowing they probably would not win—but that death was preferable to giving in once more. Their people could not support the taxes of the King. If he had fewer soldiers, he could enforce fewer taxes.
All of them had done all they could.
The general turned to go.
She was not at the cottage. He knew that before he entered the gate. A house does not feel empty as long as it has a ghost. The general stood outside the bamboo-pole fence, gazing at the garden. The once orderly rows—his, for he knew more of plants and of healing than she did, warrior though he was—had rioted into a tangled mess of herbs and weed. Her flowers all lay under fallen leaves. No one cared for any of it now. But the flat stones from the gate to the three wooden steps still shone brown in the sunlight. The covered outer hallway, wrapping around the entire building, had a few leaves blown onto the polished wooden floor—and no lights shown through the paper door panels or the windows. Everything was still.
She would not be here.
He thought of going in, of relieving those sweet, sweet memories. He had to go somewhere, he had all the time in the world, he could go inside—it felt so appealing, especially as the ghostly drive to move became stronger. It would be pleasant to relive that time. Both of him and his wife thinking peace had been made, that her bringing him before her father had won freedom for them both and for the general's little nation. They'd promised little tribute from the general's land, but offered instead a dedicated army to defend the border, a loyal force. The King had said little in response to his daughter's fierce arguments, but had granted the peace. The general had barely waited till the large doors closed behind them before sweeping her into a kiss; she had punched his shoulder.
He had married her that night. He had brought her here, to the home he'd left as a small boy to study martial arts. Together they had repaired it, her stubborn determination keeping her apace of his more knowledgeable hands. She learned quickly, glad to learn. Glad to love. She had not been a princess then, only his wife.
The general could not stay still any longer, and drifted into the garden. He missed her.
He loved her.
He wanted her back.
Those months were as sweet as his first few years with the old hermit as a child—before the soldiers came, the time when everyone had enough. But both times ended. The soldiers came. Later, one of his men, a man he trusted, had broken the promise, attacked the King—and the King had proclaimed the general a worthless traitor.
As his wife, the princess became worthless as well. She had gone back to her father, gone back to plead—and she had not made it through her father's gates. He had not seen her.
The general could not go up the steps of their house, this house. He had failed her, failed her worse than he'd failed his brothers and his nation. Not then, of course, but later. Then, he had not wanted her to go back to her father's court, but he could not divert her purpose. He'd spent five weeks waiting, pacing, waiting for news. Every dawn, every dusk, he'd walked miles down the road to see if she was coming. When at last she appeared, sandals covered in mud and the time near midnight, she had said nothing to him. Her hot and angry tears told him what she would not voice, that there was no peace. That her father had left her to the consequences of her choice. The general had held her, asked her to stay with him, promised to keep her safe, offered all he was to atone for all she had lost. Even then, he'd felt keeping the promises would never be enough. She had loved her father, her nation, and now his nation.
The general could not make himself drift up the steps, into the house where he had made those promises. His people would have food, and peace, thanks to his sacrifice. His wife was dead. He could keep none of the promises he made her.
He hoped she hadn't darkened, hadn't become a monster. If she had, he would bring her back. He would help her find herself again.
If she was a monster, he knew where it was likely that she raged.
The next place to look—he was not exactly sure where it was. He had only heard what had happened, not where.
The dying soldiers had laughed as they told him what had become of his love. How her father had sent two of his generals to capture her, drag her to the camp, and then stab her through her heart with his own hands. He'd hung her body on the tree in front of all the soldiers, letting them know what he would give for his empire. Such a king is worth following, another soldier had sneered, then coughed, choking. "She died a week ago," the first soldier added. "Her body's rotting, still there on the tree. She's a wandering ghost now."
He had left, running, running hard for the cave where he had left his wife. She was not there. When he came back, his army had buried the enemy soldiers' bodies. But he had not been able to find his wife's.
He had died two days later.
Now he had to find out where her body had been hung, or where her father stabbed her. The general closed his eyes, body turning nearly black. This monster of a king, monster of a father—
Power began to strengthen him, power he was already trained to seize and use, power enough to kill—
He paused.
Soldiers kill when they must. But if he became a vengeful monster, he would no longer care about finding his wife. He could offer her nothing but companionship now, and possible healing, if she'd become a monster herself. He could offer none of that if he gave into rage, if he killed from it. He remembered what the old hermit had taught him: wounds will not heal without forgiveness.
Forgiving this felt impossible. He did not think he could. But he would not dwell on his hatred. He would not let that anger take root. Instead he breathed deep, though his lungs no longer needed it, and listened, listened to the sound of wind and plants, insects and birds. Life was greater than hatred. Opening his eyes, he looked at the terrain. He would remember the position of the enemy camp better from his favourite mountain, the peak he once climbed each morning.
The enemy had been at the top of another mountain, he remembered, those five days ago. He spent two days travelling towards their old camp. A wandering ghost travels without rest but also without haste, no matter what speed his spirit longed to set. Sometimes he felt his spirit pushing against the drifting pace; sometimes he thought he went a little faster when he willed hard—but not enough to make a difference.
Still, the pace let him watch for other ghosts along the way.
For two days, there were none. A part of him was glad—and glad to be glad, for compassion kept him from the monster he might become—but he found it took all of his training and self-mastery to keep his longing for his wife from growing into a demand, and from a demand unmet, into hatred.
Day and night, he travelled.
The third morning, he saw her.
It was a glimpse of flickering grey, as translucent as clear water, much farther down his road. He lost it a moment later as the road curved; when he turned the curve himself, there she was.
At last. She was not at the old camp, not near her body, and not—not anywhere he expected. He called to her at the top of his voice, her name spilling out of him with all his strength—and only a breeze-quiet whisper sounded in his ears. She was too far away to hear. But he would catch her. All of his will, bent for years on training his body and mind, demanded he hurry, he move himself forward—and he did. His speed was now faster than that of a turtle, but not reaching to a man running. Still, he kept her in sight, following her as she followed the road. One hour passed, and another; he was perhaps three steps closer to her than he had been.
He would chase her through all of eternity, if he needed; but he hoped to reach her soon. He'd found her. She wasn't a monster, she was just alone, and he wanted to offer her all that he had, give her more than she expected, in this death her father left her with. He could not bring her back to life, but he could make her death better. He could love her. He repeated it to himself every time his heart ached at her translucent form, at the way his voice would not follow his command. It would have to be him who gained her attention. Like all of her life, his wife did not look back. And like all of her life, he thought with fond weariness, she did not realise things like she was a ghost, and nothing in the forest could hurt her. Wherever she was going, it would be faster to go straight, rather than wend with the road. So why follow it? But she did.
Perhaps once an hour, he tried calling again. By the time the sun climbed to its height, he was only five wagon lengths behind her. And he had realised where they were going.
She was headed to the border. She was leaving.
Did she not wish to stay in even his kingdom? He knew she loved him more than she loved her father, but—did she want her own kingdom back now? Did she want to go home?
If she did, she would leave. He knew her.
And if she left, now that his kingdom had no claim on him, so would he.
The afternoon came and went, and he drew a little closer. When the sun reached the level of the treetops, she slowed. And then she stopped.
He did not. He had to catch her. But as he drew near, he realised she had stopped at the border, her feet continuing to shift back and forth as her nature demanded she move. But she did not step over the line of tiny rocks that marked the end of his kingdom. She did not leave.
And then she looked back.
Not at him; not at first. Her grey face looked towards the mountains, the forest, the setting sun, the kingdom behind them. Then she saw him.
She could not run anymore than he could, but between the two of them they met in seconds. His arms were outstretched, ready to hold her—
And her fist passed through his face. She drew it back and stamped the ground in frustration.
"Why are you a ghost?" Her face contorted as she yelled, but like his own voice, hers had no volume.
"Because I wanted to find you." The urge to move had him circling her; she circled with him, facing him, as they went round and round.
"You idiot! For that matter, why did you still fight? All that death—my father would have accepted our deaths, and perhaps your highest followers—not an entire army and a half! What did all that death accomplish? And what if he had decided to burn the kingdom as an example?"
The general shuddered, his pace slowing to a drift. "We had a choice between dying by starvation or this."
"And you think the kingdom is so much better off with only women to farm in it? Only the women alive?"
"Min, did I really follow you to this afterlife just so you can yell at me?"
She crossed her ghostly arms. "I'm still mad at you for dying. And for this! Any afterlife would be better than this one. Why did you have to pick this one? You can't tell me this wasn't your choice. Everyone who knew you loved you; they'd never leave you unburied unless you insisted."
"I wanted an afterlife where I could be with you."
Her hands raised to cover her face. He could alway manage to break her anger. "And that love is what I never found anywhere else." One breath—he could hear it clearly; it seemed that any sound that left their mouths had just one volume. They had as little control over that as sitting still. She let her hands drop. "As honest as daylight." Her smile was a sad thing, as if water rippled into an arch for a moment and vanished. "I wish father could have believed you were honest."
He reached to take her hand, and watched helplessly as his hand passed through her wrist. "Minhael."
"I'm all right."
"You are not—"
"I do not want to talk about it."
Silence fell between them, and the pace of their circling slowed to a snail's.
"Where were you going?" the general asked at last.
"Court. Since you couldn't get justice here, I thought to go see what Father meted out there."
"Would you like us to go now, then?" The General looked down at the border of pebbles in the road, and then further down it, before looking at his wife again.
"You would leave your kingdom?"
"It does not need me anymore."
"Yes, it does, more than ever now; but you're right, there is little you can do for it. Yet—" She too looked down the road. "I think I was going because I wanted justice for you. I still think you're an idiot for picking this afterlife, but I—" she stopped again. "I think I needed you more than I could admit. I saw you fall on General Derrick's blade—he stabbed you from behind, the villain, I wish I had him back at court!—and there was nothing I could do." She looked down the road one more time. "I don't need to go there anymore. I have you. That has always been enough."
"Then where do you want to go?"
She shrugged, her pace picking up again. "You pick."
And he smiled, a smile that he felt stay on his face; a smile she echoed back. "Let's go see how our neighbours are doing."
She wasn't a monster. She wasn't leaving.
She was smiling.
He couldn't hold her hand as they walked, but he could make her smile.
They wandered together easily. She followed him when he led through the forest; when he teased her about it, she responded tartly that she followed the road so she wouldn't get lost. But now she could wander with no qualms. They walked through the night, into the morning, speaking only about their living neighbours. When he brought up the past, his brothers, or the war, she'd look away; when he brought up her father she'd shake her head. So they spoke of the dawn, the trees, the streams, and their plans for the near-future.
His former people were doing well, for the most part. The war was over. Families had come back to their homes. There were no pillaging bands of soldiers, so perhaps the King of Monhell had believed the kingdom innocent. Even if he could not allow a failed assassination to go without severe punishment.
"There doesn't seem to be any fear," his wife noted as they drifted past a village. Laughter as well as arguing could be heard from the houses, and at least one worker whistled in the fields.
"I think we bought peace." The general waited; perhaps this would be enough to let her speak about it.
His wife looked away. "At a high price. Even if father knows there is no threat here, and meets out no punishment, you and the rest are still dead."
He wished he could take her hand, draw her eyes back to his by a touch. "I am sorry, Min."
Her head snapped around, and her ghostly waist-length hair drifted behind her. "For what?"
"I promised to keep you safe, and I didn't."
She waved one hand dismissively. "It was war. I do not blame you anymore than I blame my father."
"That does not change my broken promise." He'd rather have her honest facing of the pain, her anger, and then her healing. But he would also have to let her arrive there on her own, and he could see in her face that she'd had enough for now. He couldn't help smiling at her next words, though.
"Let's speak of something else. For instance: we walk through stone walls, wooden fences, and I tried passing through a tree and could—why can we walk on the ground and not sink through?"
He looked down at her feet, noting that he could only see the tops of them. "We even sink through the grass."
"But not the dirt." Her face became thoughtful, and he slowed his pace, knowing she would match it unconsciously. How he loved watching her piece things together. "Dirt. Of course—of the dirt we were made, and to it our bodies return."
"The last rites?"
She glared at him. "Do you have a better idea for why this happens?"
Seeing a pile of dirt in a nearby field, piled beside a water rivulet, he sped up his pace—as much as he could. "I know a way to test it." He drifted over the dirt, and just as she had expected, he went higher, rather than ghosting through. "That at least is right. We can't pass through dirt."
"Get down off of that." He tilted his head but did as she said, and watched as she sailed up the pile and smiled down at him. "Now I'm taller than you."
It made him laugh, and though the laugh was whisper-quiet, the sound grew a little louder when she joined him.
He had all the time in the world to give her. He would wait.
Three days later, they found the soldiers. The general had been circular in their path, walking first inward, then spiralling out towards the edges of his kingdom. He and his wife were enjoying the quiet, and had been for the past few hours, when they heard the muffled crying. It was the work of moments for him to locate the child, huddled by a log; his wife looked beyond the child to the way the boy came, and followed it.
There were seven or so soldiers, and a very familiar general. Three of the soldiers were cutting the bamboo walls of the largest house to splinters; two stood by General Derrick's horse, and a few more could be glimpsed through the house, grabbing things and smashing them. The villagers huddled outside, as far from the horse and rider as they could.
The general could only watch the fear on their faces; he could no longer do anything about it. Or so he thought. But one of the villagers made a break for the woods, Derrick kicked his horse, and before the general realised his own actions he stooped to the ground. The stones he passed through, but he quickly scooped dirt around one so he could lift it—it felt heavier than his sword had ever felt—and heaved it with perfect precision at Derrick's head, the dirt falling away as the stone flew. A loud clunk sounded; a moment later Derrick fell off. When he hit the ground he did not move. The horse galloped away, leaving absolute quiet behind.
"Who did that?" one of the two soldiers called sharply. They whirled on the villagers. "Who dared to raise their hand to our leader?"
"Not us!" cried a woman, but the soldiers ignored them as they began to stalk forward. From the corner of his eye the general saw his wife stoop down and try to pick up dirt on her own; he copied her, selecting another stone and wrapping it in dirt. His wife's barely flew past her outstretched arm, but his hit the soldier who spoke, and their enemy fell.
"Get the third!" his wife hissed, even as he bent for another stone.
"I do not think I can lift more than five," he panted; already the dirt felt heavier than a spear and sword combined.
"Then there are too many soldiers. You throw!" His wife drifted swiftly forward, ignoring the stone that flew through her, and began calling to the villagers, "Leave! Leave now!"
Though they could not hear her, half were already running towards the woods as the remaining soldiers spilled from the house. The general stooped for a fourth stone, panting. When he straightened, six soldiers were headed for the villagers who had not fled. The air filled with the sounds of metal being drawn from sheaths. His wife turned to face them.
"Leave them alone!" Her colour grew darker, her outline more pronounced, her voice louder. "I said leave them alone!"
The closest soldier dropped his sword, backing two steps into the soldier behind him. The general's wife did not notice, growing still darker, louder. "Do not bring your killing ways here!"
"The princess," a soldier whispered. Then, "The princess!" he screamed, pointing. "The dead princess!"
As dark as murky water, the princess took a step forward. All six soldiers broke, running past their fallen soldiers and out of the village.
"Enough!" the general cried to her when she took a step after them. The stones rolled away from her feet. She did not hear him, and he drifted into her path, arms reaching for her first, then waving in front of her face when he remembered he could not touch her. He had to bring her back. "Minhael, enough! They are gone. The villagers are safe."
Her eyes stopped seeing through him; they looked at his face. Her own grew lighter, more ghostlike, and less angry. She turned and saw the villagers, huddled away from her now. But safe. She blinked, and faded to her ghostly grey again.
They stayed in the village only long enough to see the villagers return, safe and sound, and to make sure the first child made it back as well. The villagers checked the soldiers, and found two still alive. They buried Derrick and the other; his wife saw the bodies being dragged to their last rites and turned away. A ghostly shudder shook her shoulders. She drifted out of the village.
He followed. He'd saved her from being a monster, but a shudder shook his own body as he looked back at their fallen enemies. He wondered, Why is mercy only given to murderers? How could that be fair?
They checked the remaining villages at her insistence. Apparently only Derrick had decided to raid and punish, much to the general's relief. He was not sure it was wise to play with becoming a monster, even to save people.
It was that evening that he noticed the wound. There had been a shadow of it before, a slight cut in her clothing right above her heart. But now the material around it was dark, as if stained with blood. It was the place where her father stabbed her.
Her face as she turned away from their enemies' last rites burned through him, and when he looked down, his own hands were clenched and navy.
He forced himself to open his fingers. He could not dwell in the anger, but he could not let it go entirely, either. He had to find a way to bring justice for the two of them.
Perhaps, if they could lift dirt—if they could lift what their bodies were made of, they could lift their bodies as well.
Perhaps.
Hope filled his heart, but he cautioned himself against it. It was too soon to trust the idea. He should ask his wife what she thought.
"Min," he called to her, as gently as the ghost's voice allowed.
"I do not mind our slow pace."
"What?"
"You have walked at a turtle's crawl ever since you have lifted the dirt. I do not mind. I will keep this pace forever, if it means you will not leave. But—don't leave. Don't let yourself fade. You are too strong for that." She looked right at him, eyes turning completely white, bright in the darkness. How often her love made demands he loved to meet.
Laughing, even though it would make her scowl, the general shook his head. "How long do you think a ghost needs to rest to recover his strength?"
"How would I know?"
"You're the scholar, O Princess."
"No one's ever had the chance to ask. At least, not anyone that could write the answer down."
"Fair answer. But that was not what I was going to ask."
"What is it?"
He tried to keep his tone calm, unbiased. "Should we bury ourselves, and give ourselves the last rites?" He loved her sharp mind; he can see the thoughts turning over in her head.
"You think we can move our bodies?" Her voice no longer rang through the air like a hunter's horn; only a whisper of it could be heard. But he could still hear the hope in it.
"Together we should be strong enough. Two can do what one cannot. We've proved we can move other things; why not a body? Why not dirt to cover it? It may take us years," he warned, "but I do not think either of us will mind the time."
She looked at him a long moment, eyes still, ragged clothing fluttering more and more. "Together," she agreed. "As long as we are buried together."*
They retrieved her body first, travelling for another week to reach it. It had been hanging the longest, the general argued, and would fall apart more easily. They moved through the trees together, gliding like silent shadows. She led him to the right tree with no hesitation, a towering pine. He wondered, for a moment, if she still had a tie to her body, that pulled her back—but no, he did not have one to his own. She remembered this place for other reasons.
He glanced at her, walking two trees away, and saw that the wound on her heart was more visible, and grey liquid fell slowly from it.
The wound her father had given her.
She had watched her father's soldiers drag her body here; watched them tie a rope around her neck and hoist her up.
Her ghost now knelt and began collecting bones. She moved them easily, as if they recognised and came willingly to her hands. He knelt beside her, trying to lift one; he couldn't.
"Let me."
Her voice—he had known a whisper could scream with pain, but he had not known a ghost could weep. Like her blood, her tears faded to nothing as they fell from her cheeks.
He might owe her more than a burial. "Do you want revenge?"
"What?"
"On—if you wanted to travel back to your palace first…no soldier could stop us. We can move a dagger, if we surrounded it with dirt. A thrust to his heart…"
She bent to begin collecting bones again. "For what?" She swept her arm bone into her skirt. "I was a traitor. He executed me. He had a kingdom to rule, and could not afford a loss. One cannot revenge when nothing was done wrong."
He rested a hand on her ghostly shoulder, very careful not to let it go through. "Min. He was your father."
"Is." Her whisper broke on the word, but her next sentence was firm. "Some ties do not end in death. I am still myself. And so I am his daughter."
Once again, she would not face this. It had taken a long time, when they first married, to show her that it was okay for her to come first in the general's heart. Now he watched her ghostly hands collect the thin finger bones, and realised once again she was not ready. So he replied to her identity instead.
"You are his daughter at least for now," he offered. When she twisted to look at him he added, "We do not know what happens once we are buried."
"Then it's time we find out." She stood. "I have enough."
She turned away, but he stayed. "We should gather all of them."
"Why?" she demanded impatiently.
"Because we can respect what others did not."
Perhaps he imagined it—but he thought the blood from her wound slowed. He hoped.
She collected the rest in silence, as he wandered around, unable to stay still any longer.
"Shall we get yours, then?"
"Let's take yours to the place we will be buried, and then go fetch mine."
"What place do you have in mind?"
He walked forward, almost smiling, rather than answer her. The reminder would be better if she did not brace herself for it. "Are they very heavy?" he asked instead.
"Lighter than in life. Unlike the dirt we'll have to lift."
He took her back to their garden, their house. She carried the bones all the way, and he wondered, if they had stumbled upon any living person, if the person would see the bones. But they did not have a chance to test the theory out.
She slowed as they reached the bamboo gate. "Here?"
"You do not like it? I'm sorry, I thought you would."
"We lived here." She looked down at the bones she'd collected, nestled in her skirt. "Why would we want our deaths to taint it?"
He drifted through the bamboo. "There is still much that lives here." He swept his hand over the mint plants, now flowering in tall stalks, mixed with a leafing vine. "This is what we died to protect. It's still living." When he turned to look at her, a small smile rested on her face.
"How like you." She drifted through the fence as well. "Very well. Have you chosen a place?"
He led the way to the flower garden he'd been going to plant her, along the back fence. A stone path split three ways, leading to a back gate, a tree with a swing, and a small pool. The flower bed had small rows already dug out, with piles of dirt piled neatly beside each. "This should lead to less digging on our part."
"Your pace picked up, this past half-day, but we'll have to be careful not to exhaust ourselves." She knelt, letting the bones spill from the skirt and onto the closest stone. "I'm not digging till we get your body as well."
A part of him wanted to protest, to tell her he could care for her and then take care of himself—but she would never agree. And, he admitted to himself, the days without her would be heartbreaking and lonely.
"I don't really know where my body is," he told her. "I think I was unconscious for a while before I died."
"I know where it is," she answered, unsmiling. "I watched them. I watched it all. Though I did not see your ghost fall out when they dragged you. I think I was crying too hard."
"I'm sorry, Min."
"Never mind that. Let's get going." She was through the gate and into the woods before he could answer.
He caught up—after several minutes, he missed being able to run—and told her, grinning in anticipation, "You're going the wrong way."
She brought herself up short, double checked the mountain behind them—and then hit him.
Or tried to.
She hadn't really been able to in life, either; he was a martial arts master, and she knew it. It had been a game they had played. And it was worth it, to see the smile trying to break through her face now.
To give her what little healing he could.
It had been two of his soldiers, his wife told him, who dragged his body into a cave and filled the opening half-full of stones. It would keep most animals away, but without the closed entrance, it would not count as a grave. They had been weeping as they worked, one with a single unwounded arm. They had said his last rites in front of the cave, bowed, and left.
The stone was easy enough to drift through, but the interior was very dark. The bigger bones were easy to find, gleaming white** in the light, and untouched by creatures. They were as light as a single feather. He also just grabbed the largest ones, meaning for that to be enough, but his wife insisted they get all his bones as well. She scooped up dirt and used it to push a few of the stones from the opening before collapsing, panting. It let in enough light he thought he found all the bones; his, at least, were together. He carried them in his shirt, the bottom pulled up like a sack.
They made their way back to the road. They walked the same way without comment, but the general wanted to see his kingdom one more time, before moving on, and thought his wife might feel the same. She'd been an exile here, but he hoped it had become home. And now he hoped he could bring her a little peace. Seeing their legacy, at least, even if he couldn't heal the wound in her heart.
Hoofbeats interrupted his thoughts, and instinct had him dropping the shirt and bones, desperately trying to shove his wife to the side and out of sight. His bones all clattered to the ground and he went right through his wife.
He landed under the bushes.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
"Habit," he grumbled, moving back towards the bones. Her hand waved in front of his face, and he looked up.
"Leave them. If others can see them, and someone is coming—"
"They might bury me and I would have to leave you," he realised. He shoved his bones further into the bushes and stood, refusing to give in to the urge to dust off his clothing.
"I was thinking that whomever was coming might be terrified when they see a bunch of bones floating in the air, but I love you for thinking of that other reason." She looked down the road. "They're coming at a plodding pace."
"A travelling pace," he corrected. "What?" he asked when her hand went through him as she tried to shove him. "You've travelled often enough to recognise it. I had horses for us sometimes."
She was still laughing when the rider came into view and a cold wind blew through him. The wind was called memory, and it hurt.
Their first visit to court, it had been her older brother, the prince and heir, who let them in. The prince watched him with wary eyes, saying nothing beyond the greeting—though he'd given his sister a warm hug. It had been the only time the ice had left his eyes.
The general hadn't held it against him. His sister's eyes had held the same ice, the first few months of their acquaintance. Back at the inn, she'd come to make peace. But she'd expected to carve it out of the ruthless and treacherous, using her wits to beat them at their own game, balancing power against power. It was what she knew.
The rider on the road, with ice-cold eyes and broken face, was the King's heir. The general looked at his wife.
Not a sound left her lips. Her eyes stayed, fixed, on her brother as he rode slowly past, her head the only thing about her that moved.
How strong was her pain, that it kept her ghostly body immobile?
Or it might have been her bones; since he carried his own body, the general noticed the ceaseless urge to move had grown lighter and quieter. He only shifted from foot to foot while his wife watched her brother.
When the trees hid her brother from sight, his wife roused. "Take your body back to the house. I will follow him."
He moved in front of her. "No."
She shut her eyes in frustration. "I cannot—I must know why he's here. He's—I have to know."
"I will go with you." He paused, and added more gently, "I cannot let you leave me any more than you can refuse to follow him."
"But we can't leave your body here! It could be found, it could be scattered by animals, we could never find it again!"
"Then I will carry it with me." He bent and picked up three bones at once, sweeping them back into his shirt.
"He's already out of sight—"
"He will have to rest for the night. He'll follow the road, and we will find him. We do not rest."
"You're right." A pause while he got his leg bones and one arm bone, and then, "Thank you."
"He is your brother still."
"I need your common sense. I—often I did not know what to do, before you joined me. I felt so helpless."
He got the last two bones and straightened. "Let's be off," he said, smiling at her.
He only hoped he could pick up the pieces from whatever happened next.
They caught up with her brother a few hours after dark. He'd dismounted, tied his horse loosely to graze, and wrapped himself up in a dark green cloak, his back to a tree. There was no fire.
"Speed and secrecy." The general turned from the trees he'd been hiding behind, to find his wife standing still between two trees, looking at her brother. Her voice was ghost-quiet, but calm. "We travel like this—no fire, plain food, and only a single horse, when what we want is speed and to go and be back secretly." She drifted a step closer. Though her voice was calm, she did not seem able to look away.
"Do you think he comes to check for new rebellions?"
"I am sure he used that excuse with my father. But if that were so, he'd be much more poorly dressed. People tend to ignore the poor."
"Hence the beggar I met at an inn."
"I was never a beggar!"
"You looked like it to me."
"I never begged."
"You pick-pocketed."
"You left it—wait. You're a martial arts master, though I didn't know that then. There is no possible way you did not notice me lifting your purse."
"Hmmm."
"Why didn't you stop me?"
"I wanted you to have a good dinner."
She laughed, though the quiet sound was bitter. "Your strength is always greater than mine."
His own bitterness coated his tongue. "It was not enough to do the tasks assigned to me."
She turned when she heard it, his pain greater than her fixation. Her entire body revolved in the moonlight, shining like the light itself. "Your people are at peace."
"You are dead."
She turned back to view her brother. "That is my family's fault. Not yours. And my father did what he must."
"How can you still call them family? Look at what they did to you!"
She walked towards her brother; the general had to restrain himself from going after her. He watched as she knelt, looking at the grieving face. "My father would have noticed his clothing too," she explained softly. "He let my brother come, for whatever reason he is here. Probably to say goodbye to me. He always let us make our own decisions, as long as we understood the consequences." Her voice grew pain-bright. "He probably suffered more than I did. He did not cry, when—but I saw his face. I saw his suffering. I am better off than he is, for I still have you. And he only has his son now."
"That is still more than he deserves."
"Yes. No. We are—princes and princesses do not—to have a father who is a king—"
He does not speak. She has to face this. She reaches out one hand to stroke her brother's hair, though he cannot feel it. "My heart screams he could have found another way," she whispers. "But at least I can understand the one my father took. As I understand my brother's coming without an escort." She stood up and moved back to the circling general's side. "I was always a princess before I was a daughter. Until I met you, and became your wife before I was a princess, I did not know any other way was possible. I like to think—maybe—my father never learned that. That he does not know a better way than the one he took."
"He is a poor king."
"He is a good king, only a bad father."
"Can a man be a good king and a bad man?" The general shook his head, and suddenly, for the first time, the bones felt heavy to him. "I do not think so. Evil cannot create good."
"Sometimes it unintentionally furthers good's cause. And my father is not evil."
"Your father executed his daughter—perhaps you can understand that—and left her ghost to wander. However much you understand the killing, understand also that this was wrong. Actions also have consequences, and evil may create a strong kingdom, but not a lasting one, nor a good one. Not unless a much better king is found, that second generation." He sat, the bones clinking, and the prince started up, going through his sister's arm. His sword was already in his hand. She did not move.
Shifting from side to side, the general watched. The prince checked his surroundings—the general hurriedly shoved the bones under a bush—and saw nothing, so he settled back to sleep. His sword remained in his hand. And his sister remained at his side.
They travelled after the prince all hours of the next day. The general stripped off his shirt and tied it around the bones, keeping them low to the ground. He stayed far enough back that the bones weren't noticeable, but close enough he could still see his wife. She had walked beside the prince at first, but his horse spooked. After that she walks a few paces behind.
It does not take long to see where the prince was heading—a familiar mountain, with a familiar pine tree.
"You were right," the general said. He dropped the bones by a memorable rock, next to an old campfire, and watched the prince ride from pine tree to pine tree. "He came to mourn you."
His wife said nothing. The general wondered if it was hard for her, to see her brother choosing other than their father had done. If it drove home to her that yes, another way was possible.
The prince found the right pine tree, one with a rope still hanging from a high branch. He dismounted. He looked at the rope first, his face turning pale, and then looked at the ground.
He started.
He bent closer, knelt, and ran his hands through the grass. When he found only two stones, he threw the stones away and ran his fingers around again. Finding nothing, he stood and walked back and forth, back and forth, under the tree.
"It must be here," he choked out. "It must. They said they saw her ghost—"
"He is looking for your body," the general said to his wife. He had liked the prince better than the king.
"Minhael! Where are you!" The prince dropped to his knees, his shaking hands covering his face. "I have to bury you, I have to put you to rest, even a few bones would be enough—"
"Get your bones," his wife said suddenly, sharply. The general walked back to the campfire and picked up the bones. "Bring them here." When he brought them, he allowed her hand to guide where his own went; she led the stack of bones, in their invisible ghost shirt, to dance right before her brother.
He noticed only when the general shook them a little to make them clink. The prince wiped his eyes and uttered a shaky, "Minha?"
The general dipped the bones up and down, but pulled back when the prince reached for them.
"You don't understand—I came to bury you."
"Should we let him?" his wife murmured, her tone remote.
"I am not leaving you alone here." The general dipped the bones up and down again. He would not leave his wife when her wound was so visible, her spirit so restless. "And you wanted to be buried together."
"Minha, can I see you?"
"That is not a good idea," the general warned. He did not like his wife so close to the edge of being a monster. Especially not when her brother's actions provided such a contrast to her father's, when her justifiable anger might be building.
"Bring me back, if I go too far. And at the moment I have plenty of anger. My father may have destroyed us both when he stabbed me. I hadn't thought about what it would do to my brother." Already her wound was darkening, flowing, her hands growing darker shades of grey. She was barely navy when her brother gasped and scrambled to his feet.
"Minha?"
"I'm here."
"I'm so sor—the soldiers said you were a ghost. Father didn't tell me that he didn't bury you, but I will, I came—and he knows I'm here. He didn't eat, the night the soldiers came back and told us that snake was dead, that you had killed him, that your ghost wandered."
The general felt his own anger growing as he thought of it, of how the prince and princess still defended their father; in a few moments the prince's eyes flicked from his sister to the general. "You are both here."
"We are."
The general let his wife speak. Reigning in his own anger, he breathed slowly and deeply. He could not help his wife if he was consumed by his own rage.
"Get away from him! He killed you!"
"Our father killed me." The rage in her tone—she was facing it now.
"Minha, he—he had to."
"That may be, but do not blame my husband for our father's choice." She paused. "And he left me unburied."
The prince wanted to argue—the general saw it in his eyes. But he knew his sister well, and did not. "Let me bury you, Minha. Let me send you on."
"Not here."
"You want to go home?"
"Yes. And this is not my body." She grew even darker, and she closed her eyes, trying to follow her husband's example and breathe. "I cannot stay like this. Anger is poison to us. But follow the bones, and I will lead you to my body." She began growing lighter as she said it.
"I will." The prince used the edge of his cloak to dry his face, and swung himself on his horse. "Lead the way."
It's not the same as travelling with just his wife. She's not the same. But the general is careful to keep the bones visible, and to be at the side of his wife. The prince said little, other than asking, "Are you here?" every night. The general's wife took to throwing dirt at her brother every time he asked; after a while the prince just raised his arm and his cloak after asking.
She does not have much to say.
The prince did, haltingly, speak of home. He told her that her friend had gotten married; that all the servants mourned her; that many sticks of incense had been lit after her death. He told her that their father, having punished the offenders (he said it soberly and sadly), was keeping his agreement to take no large taxes for the next five years. He told her the soldiers were punished for raiding, given justice in the dungeons of the King. And he told her about his own marriage, settled by their father two weeks ago.
"Do you approve of the choice?" the general asked his wife.
"It is less politically motivated than I would have expected. She will be good for him, a loving and faithful wife. He needs to be loved."
"Then there is perhaps more hope for the empire."
"And more hope for my brother." A little of her greyness lightens into white as she says it.
They reached the small house the next day. The prince dismounted, tied his horse to the ring in the fence, and leaped the fence when the ghosts went right through it, the general holding his bones high.
"He could have taken the gate," his wife muttered.
"I don't think he wants to lose sight of the bones." It made the general feel a little better, that his wife had someone in her family who loved her like that. He led the way to the back of the house.
The prince sucked in a quick breath when he saw Minhael's bones, still undisturbed. He knelt and quickly gathered them. She watched, and grew a little whiter, face soft, at his grief.
Then he began to walk back to his horse.
"What is he doing?" his wife hissed. She and the general both lunged and grabbed for a bone; his hand went right through them, but she pulled a shinbone out of the pile, and the prince was so startled he dropped the rest.
"What are you doing?" he hissed, and the general had to smother a laugh. He knew it wasn't appropriate—but the two siblings sounded very alike in that moment.
"Minha, I'm taking you home, what—"
"Oh," his wife said at the same time as her brother. "You lovable idiot," she added. Drifting back to the flower bed, she stuck the bone in the ground.
"Here?" the prince asked. He glanced around. "But father will be expecting—"
His wife did not like that. Grabbing another bone—a rib—the general's wife stuck it in the ground as well, a white and gruesome marker.
"You're so stubborn!" The prince gathered up some of the bones. "I'll leave some here, with your husband, but I must take you home."
Minhael grabbed an arm bone and bopped her brother on the head with it.
"You—" The prince grabbed his nose between two fingers and took a moment to breathe. "I can't believe I missed you," he muttered. He looked up. He, too, knew what would speak to his sister. "But I do. I need you home, Minha. I need some part of you near me." He swallowed. "Let me take you back."
The general watched his wife pause, and the arm bone lower. But she didn't give it back.
"Can't you become visible again?"
She looked at the general, and he shrugged. She sighed. "I'm not really angry at him. He's hurting."
"I know."
"So how do I become visible?"
"Think on your father's actions."
"I feel like that's playing with fire. Minkep's compassion—if he'd been at that camp, I never would have died. My father had another choice; and he—was wrong. To leave me unburied. I'm not sure I can keep half-calm."
"Then find something else to be angry about."
"How about impossible choices?" she muttered, but she closed her eyes. After a few moments she very gradually started to darken.
"There you are," her brother said softly. He lifted a hand up to touch her hair, but Minhael moved away.
"I can only stay visible if I'm angry. Don't make me sad, or happy, or anything but angry. I'm angry. I'm angry you think you can make choices for my burial." She stamped her foot, but it was unconvincing. "I'm angry," she repeated, and that was a little better. "This is my home. This is my husband. Bury us both, here, together—I made my choice, Minkep. This is where I belong."
"But—"
"You really want a reminder, all of your life, of how terrible our family is to each other?" She grew darker, her feet almost black. "Because both of us know this was wrong, or you wouldn't be here. My body will only be a reminder of how I died. You want that a daily sight in your home?"
"No." The prince looked towards the mountains. "But I want a reminder of you. I need something. I can't—I need more family than father." The general moved closer, just in case that made her too angry, that her father had done this to his son as well—but the prince's pain seemed to keep compassion close enough she managed. "I can't go through life with him being the only one."
"Then have some kids," she muttered, and another stabbing pain shot through the general. That was something he could never give his wife now.
He paused, and breathed, and fought for control. He would pay the cost, to love his wife and be her sanity.
His wife had already moved on, still speaking to her brother. "Take another keepsake. There, that's our house. Remember the jade bracelet you gave me, on my tenth birthday? It's in there; in a vase near the chairs. Take that. It'll also be easier to carry than a bunch of bones. And prettier."
The prince was silent for a moment. "What of something for father?" he asked, very softly.
"What?"
"Listen, my sister, listen. I think he will need something, some token of your forgiveness, if he's to survive the coming year. I think he destroyed himself when he killed you."
Colour swirled within his wife, white compassion, grey pain, and black anger mixing like a stream being stirred. The general moved up beside her. She leaned into him, or tried to. "I can't make this decision." He could see her hands shaking. "I'm not—I'm still not clearheaded. What do you think?"
The way she asked—the pleading for an answer, the trust that he would be the better man she always believed he would be—made it easier to find his answer. To speak over the prince.
"I think I want him to have nothing of you. But I think forgiveness helps you heal, and perhaps will change him, if your brother is right. I think we should remember you, too, asked for forgiveness from your father. And I also think you will face whatever comes next better if you have forgiven him. We will be at that point very soon." He paused. "Even if your emotions do not forgive him, it would be well to try by your actions."
"Who are you asking?" The prince glanced at the space she was looking at, eyes passing right through the general. "Your husband? Don't ask him, he—"
"There is a fan beside the bracelet that one of my friends here gave me, with a tiger on it. She said the tiger reminded her of me. Take that for father. He should have something from the kingdom he didn't trust."
"Your answer is—yes?"
"Idiot."
The prince took that in. "What did your husband say?"
"Is that any of your business?"
"Minha."
"That forgiveness is a good way to enter into death. Even if it means the cost of the crime falls on me. That I also needed forgiveness." Her tone was brusque, but a little proud. "And he's right. Like he is far too often."
"If he can help you forgive—" The prince looked away again. "He really was a good match for you, wasn't he? But Minha—can you forgive?"
"Looking at the full horror of his actions, acknowledging the evil, and yet not hating, still loving—I suppose that's what true forgiveness is. I don't know if I can. But this is me trying." She fell silent for a moment. "Don't ever do something like this to your children. Even for the throne, in the middle of rebellion. It is very hard to forgive. If you have to give your version of justice, make sure it's just. Don't make them examples, don't leave them to a horror of wandering, knowing victory was more important than love."
"Even if they're fighting to take the throne? I don't know what to do, Minha." The pain in his voice resembled his sister's ghost-whispers as she gathered her body; hearing it, Minha could not hold on to her anger. "Father might put himself together again and be just as hard and brilliant and strong as ever, or he might—which one do I wish for? That he's punished for his actions, or that he ignores them?" He turned back, but she had faded from view. She was gone.
"I suppose that means I need to find my own answer." His sister looked at him, at the tears falling down his cheeks, and bopped him on the head again, though much more gently this time. And he didn't laugh. "Let me bury you—both of you—first." He went to his horse (through the gate this time) and took a small shovel from the roll behind his saddle, then collected the bones in two nearby piles.
"He may be a good king," the general acknowledged, drifting in a slow circle around the yard, face always inward.
"I hope so." His wife drifted opposite his circle. "Do you think my forgiveness will mean anything to my father?"
He looked at her. Grey was her predominant colour now, the grey of grief and pain. It'd be nice to tell her it made a difference, that the cost she bore would work a change—and a part of him wanted it to, because it meant that he'd be helping his wife heal.
But all healing had to begin with truth. The truth of the evilness of her death and cursed wandering, but also the truth that her forgiveness might change nothing. "I do not know. But I would say what you did was well done, and what is well done is worth doing."
The laugh that left her ghostly lips made him wince. "All at court would disagree with you. There, it is only results that matter, not the heart, nor the action."
"I have never pretended to be a member of your court."
"If you had, I would have loved you less. None of them would have told me to forgive, either." They both watched her brother take the shovel and begin digging deep into the flower bed. Tears fell as he dug, and the general's heart ached for him. He knew what it was to lose this jewel, this woman who was his wife.
"Thank you," she said. She still watched her brother, but her words were not to him. "It is—I am better. You were right, there is no way to heal without forgiveness. And doing the right thing, knowing I am about to go into eternity having done it—that is good. Regardless of what it will bring about." She stopped circling, moving instead towards her brother. The grave was ankle deep, and the prince still dug. "It is somehow easier to love him, now."
"And me?" the general asked, hoping to lift a little of her sadness. Her laugh this time was free and clear.
"You are always easy to love." She stooped, picking up a little dirt and throwing it at the general. "I must have been too, for you to love me this much."
The prince spent the next hours digging; the general's wife amused herself with occasionally sending dirt raining down on both her loved ones. The general let her, playing back. The prince did not notice. When the grave was waist deep, he climbed out and began to lay their bones inside.
"I don't want to do this," he whispered. Both the princess and the general became quieter, watching. "I didn't think I could see you again. A part of me wants to take your bones, and even your husband's, and only bury them when I'm buried." He wiped his eyes. "But that'd be showing favouritism to a traitor and terrify everyone at court, and I can't. As well as making your forgiveness harder. And you need to be buried." He took the first shovelful of dirt and laid it down on one of the skeletons. It was one of the general's; he knew, because as the dirt covered it, more of the urge to move left. He drifted to the side of his wife. He would stay by her till they found what came next.
As he looked at her he noticed she was whiter, and more filled with light than she had been before. He wondered if the content he felt was just from the dirt covering their bones. He had bought peace for his people, and now he would see his wife put to rest, after she had forgiven. Or tried to. Either way, the wound above her heart was closed, and the cloth above it light and barely ripped.
"It's over," she whispered, closing her own eyes as the crying prince buried one of her bones. "No more war. It's all over."
"No," the general murmured. "It is a beginning." His eyes began to shut as the dirt covered another bone; the last thing he saw was the peaceful face of his wife. "Goodbye, and if heaven exists, see you again."
Sometimes anger is the only thing that allows you to be heard.
Sometimes anger makes you deaf and blind to the world.
"Be angry
and do not sin"—
can you hear the wisdom of that word?
*This would ensure they would be together in the afterlife as well, or together in the next life, depending on the legend's theology.
**I checked, and in the right conditions, a skeleton can be the only remains within two weeks. They've been travelling together for at least that, so…if you're curious (and a bit morbid; if not, don't read this) humidity and/or water slow down decomposition, while air speeds it up (so burying slows decomposition as well). Hence, the general was in a dry cave with a partial opening to let in air. Also, skeletons take about twenty years to decompose, if left alone and unburied. I do wonder what happens to the fictional ghosts once the skeletons dissolve? Maybe the dirt gets buried, and the ghosts can finally move on.