Long ago, when Han was too young to fight a war, and just old enough for the world to declare one, her family made her attend the Festival of the First Blossom. They pulled an awful chrysanthemum dress over her head, brushed her hair until it was long and wavy, and kept holding her hand even when she asked to go race the other kids around the entire village. No, they said, we have to pay our respects at the village shrine. No, they said, we’re eating now, and you’ll upset your tummy. No, they said, and she wasn’t listening then, because whatever the reason was it was going to be stupid. 

So she didn’t think much when a priestess in a flowing blue dress stood up in front of everybody, her veil glittering like starlight. She yawned, rather than wonder what the name of the stringed instrument the attendant was plucking at, or why she only needed to hear each string once to tune it properly. The priestess took a big breath, opened her mouth, and Han crossed her arms sulkily, determined to ignore whatever she was about to say.

The Festival of the first Blossom, as it so happens, commemorates the story of the First Flowering Tree. The legends say that, in the middle of a glade, there stood a single tree, with branches stretching out to the mountains, and bark as hard and bitter as her heart. No flower could grow beneath her thick cover, and she liked it that way. Couldn’t stand the flowers, their thoughts all empty fluff, pretty sweet nothings with no root. Not like her. Her branches were wide, to catch the ever-falling rain. Her roots were deep, to withstand the driving winds. When all flowers were gone, she would remain, and this would be her victory.

Then one day, the clouds parted. For the first time in her long, lonely life, the clouds parted. There in the sky hung the Sun, in a dress of radiant, translucent gold, her hair flowing wild and free down her back, a song of the stars dancing upon her lips. In her radiant light, all the tree’s good sense evaporated like the morning dew, the bitterness of her heart clearing like so much fog. All at once, her limbs blossomed into flowers of every color. Reds and blues and violets and greens, stripes and spots and starbursts, everything she could think to be and everything she didn’t know she could be. All at once their petals opened to drink in even more of the Sun’s glory.

Was her display of love enough to catch the eye of one so far above her? Do the trees blossom so, even to this day, because they have not yet told the Sun the full depths of their love? There are many tellings of the tale. The high, clear voice of the Priestess sung them all, and sung them none. For the song of the First Tree is a song of longing, and not one of finding.

Han stormed out of the room before the applause had died down. Later that evening, a flowerless tree fell in the woods, punched until its trunk split in two. And in the memory of its shade she curled into a ball, the rain soaking her horrible new dress, and there she remained until morning.

This, then, is the song that she hears in place of thought. A priestess’ song of years ago. She remembers every word.

Han stands before Lotus of Tranquil Waters, daughter of the Sapphire Mother of Lotuses. She does not remember standing. She does not remember walking. Ah, ah! Do you see my flowers, oh Lady of Heaven? I will reach my branches to the skies, that you may see them. That I may see you. That I must see more of you. More of you! More of you! 

Han’s gaze drifts up and down the waters of her body. She can count the stones around her wrists. Pink petals stretch themselves across her chest, suggestions of shape. She counts the stones hanging around her perfect neck. Any moment, the wind will catch these sleeves, and she will dance on the air. Why do no flowers bloom where her feet meet the floorboards? Her shoulders glow where sunbeams kiss her skin. Her face. Her face. Her face. Hide not your face from me again, or I shall surely wither. Memory alone could never sustain me.

Han steps no closer. For you are of heaven. And I am cursed to root in the dirt. There is a sky between us, that I cannot cross. Her clothes are bitter rags, well-worn in travel, crusted with mud. Her skin reeks of battle and grime. Her tongue is crass and foolish. This is as far as a dragon may approach a demigod. Her worship must be from afar. Though my life began when I beheld you, though I will surely die without you, what use have the Heavens for a bitter, ugly tree?