The Princess and the Province

The wedding was held within the moon. Princess Jinhua had a soft, quiet beauty. There was a solemn weight to her, one that felt odd for someone so young. She treated her new husband gently and carried real wisdom. She’d learned all the lessons meant for princesses since childhood, and she had a sharp, sensible mind.

Chunyu Fen had spent most of his life in army barracks and taverns, and this whole world left him stunned. He loved her like a man finding deep love for the first time in middle age, a fierce feeling that even surprised him. For the first time ever, he learned to be careful. He avoided drinking at court. He only spoke when spoken to. He no longer mistook good fortune for something he’d earned all by himself.

Before the year ended, the king named him governor of Nanke, the kingdom’s southern province. It was a wealthy land, fed by slow-moving rivers. Towns thrived, and farmers paid their taxes without complaint. The king sent him off with full ceremony. His young bride rode beside him, and a team of seasoned officials came along to help him rule.

He ruled the land well. He had the good judgment many capable men lack: he listened to the older officials who’d served his father-in-law before him. When harvests failed, he lowered taxes. When crops grew plentiful, he raised them only by a small, gentle amount. He built a bridge where travelers once relied on a ferry. On market days, he sat in the open hall of his yamen, heard villagers bring their disputes, and judged them fairly for the most part.

The princess bore his children. Three boys and two girls. They grew up inside the governor’s mansion in Nanke, taught by the finest tutors the kingdom could find. Chunyu Fen watched them grow, and a deep, unfamiliar pride swelled in his chest. He’d never known he could feel such a thing.

He exchanged letters with the king. The king’s notes were warm. He asked after his grandchildren, and sent gifts from the capital. Every autumn, Chunyu Fen and his family traveled back to the royal city. The princess sat beside her father, while the two men shared wine and talked over the year’s harvest.

Trouble still came. A neighboring realm, a rough nation of riders known in records as Luofeng, raided the southern border. Chunyu Fen had once been a soldier, so he was ordered to lead troops out to meet them. He put a man named Zhou in command of the army. Zhou was brave, but reckless. He attacked without waiting for orders and suffered a defeat. Following the kingdom's laws, Chunyu Fen took responsibility for his general's mistake and asked the king to recall him.

The king did not call him back. In a private letter, he wrote that a governor willing to bear blame for his officers was worth ten governors who only got lucky. He sent extra troops. The border was secured again. Chunyu Fen had expected to be disgraced, but instead his standing at court grew stronger.

As those years passed, he started to believe this was his real life. He told himself he was a fortunate man. He had a wife he loved, children he was proud of, a province he’d helped prosper, and a father-in-law who trusted him. The reckless drinking of his old days was far behind him. The joy of this new life was calmer, rooted in steady governance; it no longer clouded his senses.

In those busy years, he rarely thought of the sour-date tree standing in the yard of his small house on the city’s southern edge. He forgot, or chose not to recall, that he’d once been a disgraced officer who drank himself numb every afternoon. He was the Governor of Nanke now, and the Governor of Nanke had no time for those old ghosts.