The Lanterns of Thang Long
Thang Long, the Year of the Tiger, 1044.
The capital shimmered under the moonlight. Lanterns floated along the Red River, carrying prayers for victory to the gods above. The scent of burning jasmine drifted through the air, mingling with the soft sound of drums from the imperial palace.
Lady Linh stood on the balcony of her family’s manor, her silk sleeves catching the wind. Below, soldiers marched through the streets, their armor glinting like liquid bronze. Tomorrow, they would ride south to the battlefield. Among them was the man she loved.
General Tran Khai had risen from a humble background, a soldier who had earned his place through courage and loyalty. He had served three kings, led countless campaigns, and never bowed before fear. But that night, as he rode through the gates of Thang Long, his heart trembled at a single thought that he might never see Linh again.
She met him in the courtyard, her eyes bright but unyielding.
“You should not be here,” she said. “The Emperor forbids visitors before a campaign.”
“I came to return something,” he replied.
From his cloak, he pulled a small paper lantern, its surface painted with two cranes flying toward the sun. “You made this for me when I left for the northern border,” he said. “It kept me alive more than any blade.”
Linh smiled softly. “Then why give it back?”
“Because I need something to return to.”
She took the lantern, her fingers brushing his. “Then promise me one thing, Khai. If you survive, come back before the lanterns fade next year.”
He looked at her as if trying to remember every detail of her face, the curve of her lips, the glint of light in her hair. “If the heavens will it, I will.”
The next morning, the army rode out under banners of gold and scarlet. The city walls echoed with the sound of drums, and Linh watched from her balcony until the dust swallowed them whole.
Months passed. Letters came, then stopped. Rumors arrived instead, of fierce battles, of victories, of losses too great to count. Linh waited by the river each night, lighting a lantern and sending it downstream, whispering his name into the current.
One winter evening, a messenger arrived. His armor was dented, his face gaunt. He bowed before her.
“My lady,” he said softly, “General Tran Khai fell at Ninh River. He held the line until the Emperor’s banners were safe.”
Linh said nothing. She walked to the balcony and looked toward the south, where the stars flickered faintly behind the clouds.
That night, she lit one final lantern. On it, she painted a single crane flying alone beneath a crimson moon. She carried it to the river and set it gently upon the water.
As it drifted away, she whispered, “Then fly home, my love. Even if I cannot see you.”
Years later, when peace returned, travelers told stories of a lady in white who wandered the riverbank at night, her hand holding a lantern that never went out. They said the flame was not fire but memory, the light of a promise kept between two souls bound by fate.
And when the spring festivals came, people still painted cranes on their lanterns and let them float down the Red River, believing that somewhere beyond the mist, two lovers still watched over Thang Long together.