The celebratory feast in the great hall of Mount Hua was a loud, joyous affair. I was toasted as an honored guest, a friend who had fulfilled an ancient promise. But my mind was elsewhere. It was on the quiet, resolute woman who sat beside the elders, her face a mask of calm composure, and on the cold, lonely path she had just chosen for herself.
Later that evening, long after the last of the disciples had retired and a deep silence had fallen over the mountain, I found her. She was not in her own quarters, but in the simple, spartan guest room that had been assigned to me. She stood by the open window, a silhouette against the star-dusted sky, a simple silk robe wrapped around her. The cold mountain air drifted in, carrying the scent of pine and frozen stone.
I came to stand behind her, my hands resting on her shoulders. She leaned back against me, the warmth of her a stark contrast to the chill of the night.
