Lo Douleur Exquise (n); French. The excruciating pain experienced when wanting someone you cannot have.

---

Russet-hued pebbles and smooth red rocks tint the eroding river banks in equivocal patterns. The imposing trees hides her away from prying eyes, man-made or otherwise. Mura sheds her stilettoes. Dips her feet into the streaming rivulet. Water caressing her skin like a forlorn lover screaming for attention.

And scream, the river does.  

It’s not a sight she’s unfamiliar. Of upturned fishes. Of hunger-laden weasels. Of fleeing amphibians. Rather, she’s taken by the severity of it. The escalation of decaying health for water coursing across and beyond earth’s surfaces.

A fish—black dots scattered over its iridescent scales—flounders in and about the mud-stained stream. A misshapen dorsal fin. A torn caudal fin. Death will come for it soon.

Another day gone. Another life lost. Bitterness of a defeat creeps around her limbs, binds her tight. To remind Mura of her mounting failures sculptured into a monument of her disappointing failings.

Not today, she protests. Mura bends her knees. Her dress pooling around her, drenched and heavy. She traces a sapphire ring-crowned finger along its lateral line. Leaves a trail of luminescent azure glow behind her. Corrects a deformity induced by toxic chemicals. Heals a ripped fin after a narrow escape from looming predator.

Her burgundy-painted lips curl into a victorious smirk. She snatches the fish back from Death’s grasp. For just one more day.

“Depart from this rivulet at once,” Mura commands at her scaled servant. Her tone softens, as she adds, “Off you go to a river untouched by mankind’s hands.”

The fish blinks its uncertainty.

“I am afraid this creek will cease to support life,” Mura mutters. She catches the moonlit roots—gnarled and old—jutting out from exposed soil. And with that, she sees the fish disappears from her sight, in search of a new home.

Picking her ditched heels, Mura opens her pace on the stream. One step forward. The hem of her dress snags on the fallen branches. She tugs it loose—uncaring that silky fabric tears under her forceful jerk. Ignorant of the price tag attached to her lent dress.

She climbs over a large boulder by the river’s edges. Porcelain shapely legs, long and unblemished, dangling over the rock. The wilderness encasing her surroundings is neither ancient nor immaculate. The once-logged forest now pitifully pursuing the heights of its predecessors.

Mura sets her eyes on the city—neon bright—sprawling below her. Observes the lines between forest and steel concrete blurring. A forest in danger of being gobbled up by humans’ greed. She scoffs to deaf ears; nothing new.

She opens her clutch, wide. Fishes out a square packet; card-sized and the word ‘Marlboro’ written over its lid. Picks a thin cigarette out. Rolls it in between her fingers. Taps the stick against her chin.

Cigarette doesn’t affects her in the same manner as it would to a human. But Mura appreciate the placebo effect of it. That fleeting moment of delusional comes after a puff. Almost allowing her to believe she has not an iota anxiety digging into her bones, her flesh, and her mind.  

The sparkling stars smear the dark skies; scattered and some, Mura reckons, are older than the oldest human in the world. The mere thought of the antediluvian stars, moons, and suns existing before she took her first breath—overwhelms her.

And perhaps, for the first in two millennia, Mura buckles underneath the weight of her actual age pressing down on her spine. Her muscles strained and ached in phantom tension.

Mura lights the cigarette up. Inhales a long drag, menthol out. Smoke floods her lungs, relieving her of her troubles.

She doesn’t track time. Never mind her time are not hers but taken by sponsorships, filming, and what not. Her manger takes care of that. Immortality has a way of dulling a deity’s senses to time. She can’t even begin to recall all those memories made over her long life.

Immortality permits memories—insignificant and lacklustre—to fall through the cracks of awareness and time. And yet, there comes a moment where such miniscule memory comes hurling at you like a silent invisible bullet. Unseen and sudden.

Assaulting one with forgotten ugly truths. Trapping one in a gilded cage of amplified embarrassment. Unloading the weight of a thousand suns on one’s being. And one’s left reeling from the aftermath—perhaps it’s happiness, mostly it’s pain that steals away the peace of mind.

The worst of it; there’s no respite from this. Not when one’s lifespan has no expiration date. Slumber is elusive. And alcohol will not taint one’s conscience.

---

They extolled her in the utmost compliments, heaped the highest of praises—third to the Emperor of Gods and the Ruler to be, Habaek—to her face. Heads bowed to Mura, the newly elected Mistress of All Rivers and Lakes. An unexpected turn of events, given the numerous qualified candidates before her.

She’s not deaf to the criticisms whispered behind her back. Neither was she blind to the envy etched on her fellow deities’ faces. Not just from her fellow Water Clan, but that of the other kingdoms.

They ushered stories of her vapid intelligence coupled with elegance. As though the position bestowed on her, relied solely on her flawless exquisiteness.

Some went far as to paint her as a witch in disguise, hiding her claws and cruel streak beneath the veneer of unparalleled beauty.

Her irrational temper, legendary among the cowering minor deities. As if it’s the only quality they could find in her.

Mura doesn’t play into their beliefs. She held her head high and proud. Owned her position as it was bequeathed to her, not some kind of sympathetic gesture. She’s a goddess and there are no rooms for a weak portrait of their Mura.

The heft of harsh denigrations. Their astronomical expectations of her imminent failures. It burdened Mura to witness how her beauty was exalted. To heed to her tainted reputation marred by vicious rumours and spiteful friends. The greatest strike; her intelligence and dedication overlooked. All it took were a lethal combination of the three. Her confidence ruffled. Her credence shattered.  

Words cut through her walls, deep and lacerated her feelings. And her façade cracked—though she tried to pick the pieces up before others could see. Self-doubt drowned her in misery and Mura entertained the idea her critics might be correct after all.  

---

Her abode is humbled in its appearance. Functional in its architecture. Carvings of water beasts, water lilies and majestic water structures adorned her walls, strikingly captivating artistic styles. An extravagance—the only one—Mura granted herself to have.

She unpinned her updo hair, letting her hair fell onto her shoulders. Discarded her sandals by the door. Her footsteps languidly treaded across polished granite floor.  

She sank into her chair, slumped. Her heavy shoulders wilted from another fresh bouts of insecurity. Mura leaned on her desk. An outstretched hand reaching for a blank scroll. She spread the scroll flat on the table. Pulled the ink stone close. She dipped her brush into the ink stone. Once. Twice. Fifth, until the brush saturated with ink.

A letter of resignation seemed to be in order. Several and she’d be free of her encumbrances Mura incurred during her tenure as Mistress of All Rivers and Lakes. Mura could go back into minding her original domain of waterfall.

The brush, poised over the scroll, hovers a second too long. The ink dripped—blotted her scroll. Mura groaned at her carelessness.

“If the Emperor chosen you over the others, he must have his reasons. I doubt that your beauty was included into his consideration,” a voice deep, like echoes of waves crashing against hollow caves, piped over her door.

His arresting frame filled the door—that his head nearly touched the doorway. His ash-blue locks secured in a twisty braid. He titled his head sideways. His kohl-lined eyes made a sweeping gaze over her quarter.

Mura leapt to her feet. Tucked a wild strand of hair behind her ear. She quickly fastened her hair up. Twirled to face her visitor. Dropped to her knees. A slender pale arm crossed over her chest.

“M-my Lord,” she stammered, mortification descended on her nerves in a pod of whales pouncing on their prey. “Apologies for the mess, I was unaware of your intention to drop for a visit—” her remaining words died on her lips.

“Now, you and I are friends since our youngling days. There is no need for ‘Lord’ this or ‘Lady’ that,” he retorted, a hint of playfulness resonating in his baritone. “Habaek will suffice,” he added, motioned for Mura to rise.

Mura drew to her full height. In light of his imposing stature, Mura felt petite—though she towered over most ladies in the realm. She’s about to fetch refreshment—Habaek raised a hand to halt her in her tracks.

“I will not be long,” he uttered.

Mura folded her arms over her chest. A perfectly arched brow raised. “What brings you here, Habaek?”

His lips twitched into the softest of smiles. “I came here with the desire to convey my sincerest admiration and gratitude for your unflinching dedication and service to the Water Empire.”

“If this is your idea of wit, I find it sorely lacking.”

“Have my lips ever articulate lies?” Habaek challenged, amusement twinkling in his dark eyes.

Mura offered him silence and a generous curling of her lips. She amended, “Crude manners doesn’t suit you. It’s beneath you, but I wouldn’t deny it’s a quality Biryum would have. Aside from his lack of tact.”

“You are too generous,” was all he said. He genuinely grinned; a rare spectacle. “I must depart, the High Priest summoned me.”

“I cannot rescind rumours. Trust me when I say I don’t believe any of them,” Habaek declared, his muscular chest puffed with pride. His lips quirked upwards, embolden by a display of cheekiness, “Saved for your fabled wrath.”

He made his way to the door, paused. Tossed a look over his shoulder. A smile gleaming on his handsome face. “You will always have my unwavering support, Mura,” he said, soft and firm. “I hope that fact will do some good to you.”

And he dematerialised into thin air.

Her scroll remained empty. The ink stone dried overnight. Her current doubts on herself purged.

Mura, Mistress of All Rivers and Lakes, steeled her resolve. She will prove her critics wrong. She will establish Habaek’s faith in her is justified and true.

[She thinks, regularly like hands on clockwork to midnight, that moment was the seed of her devotion to the man who would be Emperor planted deep in the recesses of her heart.]

---

She ran her fingers through the watery curtains. The unyielding force of gushing water matched her racing heart. Her heart beat, hard, loud, proud—peace blanketed her in affectionate embrace. Turquoise droplets splashed against her skin—invitingly cool.

There were no harsh murmurs of spite pecking her hair. Absent were the hardened glares heaped on her feet. Gone the acerbic smiles and false modest compliments skimming across her skin.

Here, by the waterfall, the birds twittered overhead and the water sang soothing hymns. Mura’s at peace. Alone. But cocooned in tranquillity.

Voices. Incoherent, blended in multitude of noises. Not just the voices. But—terror. Fright detonating in her eardrums. Clashing tones, of squeaks, shrills, grew vociferous.

Mura abandoned the serene waterfall. Materialised into the site of helpless cries. The air whirled in a careless dance of destruction. Set in looming twisted columns. Clouds of blue streaks, grey blots, orange smears and all of rainbow’s hue in between.

The gust whipped violently against her face. Her dress clung to her limbs; its hems flapping behind her. Mura squinted across the severe draft. She caught the source of despairs through the translucent tornado. A tornado of this calibre cannot be naturally occurring. She examined the coast—at the corner of her eye, the outline of shoulder-length hair over vivid bornite robe.

She inched closer to the figure. Observed a rather masculine side profile.

His outstretched hands, draped in golden bracelets and silver wrist braces, gestured in all directions. In throes of his whimsical destruction. As if he’s conducting his instrumentalists to a delightful harmonious symphony.

“Desist or I am forced to take extreme measures,” Mura hollered; the tornado swallowed her words, refusing to part.

She tried again. “Stop.”

The trees crackled as the wind tore them from the ground, taking her command along.

Utterly useless. Mura raised her palm, projected water blast. With enough force to rip stones from hardened soil. Water slammed at him, knocked him off from his feet. His face was unfamiliar to her—for she remembered all water deities.

“Hey—” He came to his feet, dusting dirt off from his robe. His hair damp, stuck to his face. Eyes, darkly-lined, tapered at her direction. Poked his tongue into his cheek, took a long deep breath.  

Mura won’t allow him a chance to continue. Both hands poised up. Flashes of water emerged from her hands, formed in streamlined orca-like body. And her projections darted through the plane. Honed on him like he’s a menace.

He deflected it easily, with a flicker of his wrist. Drawing invisible shield at her attacks. His lips quirked upwards, smug. “So you’re a water goddess,” he stated. An amused smile replaced his displeasure. “Pretty. I should have done this a long time ago.” He cocked his head to a side. “That is all you can do?”

Mura snarled. Wished she could wipe that haughty grin off his face. “Want to find out?” she retorted, voice sweet with saccharine mocking.

“Give your best—”

Her retaliation came—tiny droplets of water drawn together in one—slithering across his body. Tightening his body, like a boa constricting its prey. Punching his stomach in small water grenades as they fell off from the watery-scales.

He murmured, flashing a fanged smile, “Has anyone told you that you’re prettier when you’re angry?”

Mura ignored his feeble attempts to philander.

“This qualified as cheating,” he stuttered. He stopped struggling. Limbs slacked. His gaze hardened, the impish glint gone. “But two can play the game.” He snapped his fingers, thunder boomed and lightning streaked the skies.

Electrical buzz, revolving around his arms, crackling. He aimed his index finger at her. The electrical surges bounced away from him. They whizzed through the air, circling her. Each jolt prickling her skin. In continuous streams of irritation.

She returned the favour. Pelted his face with endless coal-stained squirts. As he opened his mouth to taunt; she gagged with brackish water. “Did anyone ever mention you’re prettier when you don’t talk?”

He clapped; a wave of air pushed her backwards, breaking her hold on the water. “Let us fight without this childish tricks,” he interjected.

“Your wish, I will grant,” she replied, a smirk etched on her lips.

She brought on the first assault. He parried it with his forearms. Blow for blow. Strike for strike. They’re equal in their skills, speed and strength. It maddened her. As she gained the upper hand, he snatched it back. Her breathing ragged, attempting to squeeze the air in her lungs. He swiped dripping sweat with the back of his hand.

Mura closed her eyes.

She gathered her strength, drew every water droplet she could muster. Moulding them into a creature. Larger than the biggest whale. Skin coarser than a shark’s scales. Fins, barbed and warped, not fish-like. Claws, jagged and thorny. Horrid and pungent breaths blown through rows of gleaming white teeth.

A breathing Leviathan.

Her opponent’s smirk slacked. He blinked twice. His mouth hung wide open.

Mura smiled. “Teach him a lesson.”

The leviathan roared into the air. Moved one foot. It stopped. Vines restricting its movements. They worked fast to secure it to the ground, to its spot. It thrashed to release itself. It froze. And kneeled. In front of it, stood two men.

Long hair, cascading blue into grey tips, tied loosely into a bun. The other, hair coloured in spring’s leaves, supported a braided topknot ponytail that fell above his collar.

Her rival set his sight on the two men. Rubbing his neck, he muttered, “Joodong?”

“H-Habaek,” escaped from her lips. Mura’s mouth went dry. Her heart sank. Her spine stiffened. The realisation of her spiralling temper dug into her flesh, with prickly little teeth.

Habaek placed his hand on the leviathan’s scaled armour. “Leave,” he dictated. The leviathan melted into water again, wetting the grass. He clasped his hands behind his back.

“Explain,” Habaek instructed in his authoritarian baritone.

“He started it,” Mura confessed, a finger aimed at her adversary.

“Me? You attacked me first,” he accused, glaring. “Not my fault. I was minding my own matter when she interfered.”

“I had warned you to stop,” she retorted, rolling her eyes. She turned to Habaek, waving at the chaotic landscape behind them. “Creating a tornado in my domain, leaving havoc. And for what?”

“I have valid reasons,” he snapped back. “W-wait, your territory is waterfall?” And he chuckled hard.

“And that is?” Habaek prodded, lifted an inquiring brow.

Her opponent scratched his chin, glancing upwards. “To witness some torrential aquatic fauna rain caused by tornado, either fishes or frogs,” he professed, shrugging.

“I was justified in my response,” Mura reaffirmed.

“Really? And the trees were casualties incurred during your experimentation?” Joodong quipped, levelling a hard look at the tornado maker.

“Yes,” he dragged the syllable into a question. He huffed, crossing his arms. “What’s the big deal anyway?”

“You foolish imbecile,” Mura hissed, glowering. “They were scared of your little stunt. They were never meant to be part of rain or the sky.”

“You don’t need to be so rude, a gentle word would do,” he said, one hand placed over his heart. “I was careful. I would never harm a soul.”

“So you just ignore trees?” Joodong flatly stated, lips pressed into a thin line. “How reassuring.”

“As for you, Mura,” Habaek sighed, he clucked his tongue in disapproval. “The extremity of your action is noted and highly chastised.”

Mura averted her gaze from Habaek to her feet. Stinging heat spreading from her cheeks to her neck. clogged, refusing to part with insults towards her adversary. Shame marked her expression, as if the High Priest himself admonished for her childish antic.

Habaek shifted his attention to the other man. “Name yourself.”

“Biryum of the Sky Protectorate,” he offered, his upper lip curled into a supercilious smile.

“Your recklessness in the Water Kingdom for today is forgiven. For future misconduct, it will not be tolerated. You will show some respect to Lady Mura.”

Joodong produced a scroll from his tunic. Handed it to Habaek.

“The Emperor of All Dominions had released a new decree to prohibit the summoning of elemental creatures over all lands. As well as any potentially destructive disagreements will result in the immediate action of stripping powers for a predetermined amount of time,” Habaek read from the scroll.

[It’s been years, centuries even, since she thinks of her first meeting with Biryum and Joodong. Sometimes it feels like only yesterday she tasted shame for the first time. That disappointment playing with the corners of Habaek’s mouth. That guilt eating her up. And she promised that she will not warrant that expression from him again.]

---

Biryum fancies himself as an open parchment His parchment is written in all amusing paints. But beneath each coloured ink, lies invisible ones that marked his thoughts. But invisible ink is still ink. All one needs is the right tools to read them.

Joodong is a picture tablet. Each page is a mixture of print letters and ordinary sketches. Earthly scent jumps off from its pages. It’s a book Mura could easily read. Every thought written on his face, heart on sleeve kind of a person.

Out of all three, she’d known Habaek the longest. She likens him to a scroll written in secret codes that only he could understand. Breakthroughs are rare enough. But if Mura gains an insight, she inscribes the cyphers of his codes in her mind. Over the years, she learnt to decipher it all—only because Habaek’s tired of waiting for her to catch up.

---

A millennia since their creation, five hundred years since her ascension to higher position within the Water Empire, they found their footing.

Biryum and his mischievous smiles pulling pranks. Habaek and his innate curiosity consuming knowledge to understand the world around them. Joodong and his halcyon presence grounding them from getting into too much trouble. Mura and her staunch dedication to Habaek and the Water Empire.

Those days, times were simple.

Exploration of newer lands born out from the sea were abundant. Biryum flew, gigantic wings fluttered as he soared through the skies. Habaek prodded tiny weird-looking creatures crossing new soil, dark eyes gazed intently on each motion. Joodong buried his bare foot into the soil, inhaled the scent of petrichor wafting around. Mura traced swirls on calm water surface, rippling the leaves outwards.

They danced with brimstone ashes and mushroom clouds permeated the air. They ventured on land scorched and revitalised to sustain newer life.

Witnessed stars bloomed and shone for one final time before exploding into darkness. Joodong laid flat on his back, arms beneath his head and eyes the skies with perpetual awe. Biryum sneered at their sentimentality, poke at her shallowness being taken by sparkles. No matter how hard he tried, he can’t disguise the fleeting admiration etched on his face.

Mura drew her knees to her chest, tilting her head sideways. Why stare at the dying stars, when you can gaze at an eternal light that dazzles brighter than any sun or moon?

Habaek folded his muscular arms, chin angled upwards. He parted a glance at her. His lips curving to a picturesque smile. It’s the most beautiful smile Mura had seen on anyone.

(His smile is dimmer now. It is still beautiful as it was millennia ago, and Mura can’t dispute that.)

---

It’s hard to say when her feelings for the ocean-haired Habaek deepens than the pitch-black trench in the moral realm. She doesn’t scrutinise hard on this feeling she has. Their friendship lasted millennia, why ruin it for an answer she might not like—Mura won’t allow that.  

Biryum leaned against the tree, rubbed his chin. His forehead wrinkled. He questioned, “You like him?”

Mura the otter’s coat. Rolled her eyes. She tickled a pup’s belly, smiling at its tiny squeals.

“Why?” Biryum questioned; a finger flickered the wind on the water, sending little splashes at her face.  

“Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be monitoring the skies?” Mura fired back, wiped her face dry with the end of her sleeves. She patted the pup to join its mother in the river.

“Why?” Biryum repeated, stubbornly keeping his distance short between him and her. “What makes Habaek so special?” Biryum jeered, and pouted.

“Habaek and I shared a liegelord-vassal relationship that goes almost deep as love. I don’t fancy him the way you’re insinuating,” she refuted an octave too higher. She straightened to her full height.

“That goes almost deep as love,” Biryum mocked. “He’s been spending too much time with that human, you know?”

She won’t rise to his bait. “Habaek is curious about the human world. Of course, he would try to get straight from the person who lived in that realm.”

Biryum’s hair shook, his lips parted to a smirk. “Right, Habaek is not interested at all in her aside from her human knowledge.”

“Mura,” Habaek’s voice broke their conversation. He waved at Mura, a smile graced his face. He lifted his brows at Biryum. “Birdie.”

“Habaek.”

“Merman,” Biryum countered, his smirk widened.

“Do you have a moment to spare?” Habaek asked, eyeing at Biryum, “I wish to speak privately.”

“I will leave you two,” Biryum remarked, saluting at them both. He vanished from their sight.

“What it is you wished to speak about?”

“I am in need for your service,” he responded, sheepish. A rueful smile tugged the corners of his lips. “To seek your advice, actually.”

Habaek cleared his throat—a nervous tick he rarely displayed. His sight set on the mountains dotting the horizon. His cheeks, tinted rosy, brighter. His eyes lit with a certain sprightly glimmer Mura hadn’t observed in a while.  

And yet, everything took effort. To keep the strained smile on her face, as if her heart is full at his happiness. To not storm off at his approach, like she’s blinded to see his intention. To ignore the growing jealousy nipping on her consciousness, he’s her lord and she his vassal.

“Speak your mind then. What sage wisdom could I impart to you?” Mura jested. She gestured at the stone pathway, leading to the granite-arched bridge.

Habaek led the walk first, Mura trailed after him.

“What gifts a woman would appreciate? Goddess or otherwise. Either way, I want to convey my pleasure for a well-spent evening.”

She mulled over his words. A thousand thoughts fought among each other, screaming in her ears. Mislead him. Don’t answer him. Tell him what he wanted to hear. Mura forced herself to smile. “I think Nakbin would be content with another evening spent underneath the stars.”

He spluttered, “Who told you her name?”

Mura snickered. “I don’t need to ask. News travelled fast.”

“Are you sure Nakbin won’t expect anything more? Grand gestures, perhaps?”

“Don’t go for grand gestures. It’s the littlest deeds that ensnare a woman’s heart.”

He bounced for every step he made, giddy. Like an infatuated puppy. Habaek smiled that exquisite curving of his lips. Profusely thanking Mura for her help. Sang praises for her kindness. Promised to grant any future favours she requested.

Mura held her hand up to stop him. “You have supported me since my appointment as Mistress of All Rivers and Lakes. This is me, merely returning the token.”

“You were always too generous. Shame that no one seen this side of you,” Habaek commented, lips parting to a cheeky smirk.

“Not generous. It’s your privilege, Habaek. Won’t share it with anyone else.”

He pecked her cheek lightly. Whispered a mellifluously ‘thanks’ into her ear. Left upon getting his coveted answer.

[She knew then, as she knows now, it is love. Not ‘liegelord-vassal’ like she claimed. Love is when he threatened to turn her into a fish for deceiving him, and she still wanted him. It’s when his nose’s buried in mountainous pile of scrolls and forgotten about his promise to visit her waterfall, and she still waited for him. It’s when another girl occupied his mind, but she still smiled and uttered the words ‘I’m happy for you’—but all she really wanted to do was cry. Irony is, deities like them can’t shed tears.]

Biryum re-emerged from the shadows casted by trees. His long legs opened large strides. He leaned into her space. His face loomed over hers. His eyes narrowed at her, dropped to her lips. One hand raised to tuck a loose strand of her hair—but then dropped to his side.

“He’ll never love you the way I do,” he declared, any trace of roguishness was missing. His muscle jaw tightened. Held her gaze, firm and intense. “Leave him for me.”

“Give me your loyalty. Don’t give that to Habaek.” She pretended that she didn’t catch the crack in his voice.

She could have slapped him away. She could have lied. She could have ridiculed him. She could have said anything. To put an end to this conversation. To steer herself away from this talk of hearts.

“Sometimes I wish it’s yours,” Mura mumbled into the distance. She brushed his bangs away from his eyes. Her lips twisting to half of a rueful smile. Mura met his gaze and crooned, “But we fall in love with people we can’t have.”

Mura her heels, her robe swayed as she sashayed away. She left the bridge. And Biryum alone on it.

---

Nakbin’s betrayal extinguished the light in Habaek’s eyes. He purged traces of her from the gardens. Banned the utterance of her name. Withdrew himself from societal functions. Morose perpetually makes its home in the curves of his spine. His cheeks hollowed; half circles lined beneath his eyes. Scrolls left untouched, when he used to devour one or ten in a day.

He wandered in the Water Palace. A shell of himself. Draped over his body were dull and unkempt robes. His appearance, a shabby mess. The Emperor himself exempted Habaek from participating grand festivals thrown in their honours.

Mura lost count of tries she put forward—all to return Habaek to the man who smiles sunshine and tosses bookish glances over any novelties that amuses him. She didn’t beleaguer him out from wretchedness. Not the way Biryum would provoke her to get a reaction from her.

She left him items. Objects from the mortal planes. A necklace made from coloured, knotted strings. A moon-and-stars disc. A pair of bronze horse and chariot. Little things to incite his curiosity once more. A stone carved into hammer and runes marked its origin. Sometimes, she managed a few scrolls that described places sounded mystically strange. Manuscripts she personally acquired from gods or goddesses that travelled into the human land. She had no luck.

---

She’s perched over a cliff’s edge. Salt sat at the tip of her tongue. Sea breeze on her hair. Cobalt blue and smears of overcast grey daubed the skies. It’s not a hard guess to predict the inevitability rain soon after. Closed her eyes. Let the vista speak to her through her senses.

“I want to know more about this,” piped an impatient baritone.

A scroll shoved into her face. “Habaek?”

He rushed his words in one irascible breath. Waved the parchment wildly in her face. “This place. How does its inhabitants survived without water?”

She peeked an eye open. “W-what?”

He tapped at the document, rapidly that he almost poked a hole in it. “This ‘place’ had tricked thirsty fools with illusion of water or cities countless times. Mirages.”

Mura took the scroll from him, sneaked a glimpse. “Oh, the desert.”

His eyes never left the parchment. One brow lifted up. He inclined his body forward. Too close she could catch the whiff of his briny breath on her jaw. “Is the words of this scroll true? The sand grains covered a land mass until nothing grows?”

Mura’s hair prickled the back of her head. She took a step backward. Held the parchment over her face, hiding her flushed cheeks.

“Not all deserts are sand dunes, I’ve been told,” she stumbled, “Joodong mentioned lands made of melting ice crystals are as barren as the arid deserts and one couldn’t find trees along the stretch. But the desert depicted in the scroll referred to the sand kind.”

“You’ve been there before?”

“Once.” Mura curtly nodded. “Briefly during the night when it’s cooler. I was scouting for new format—”

“Take me there, Mura,” he pleaded, a tone he’s not accustomed to use. “I want to see this place for myself.”

“As you wished.”

They crossed one of the many Divine Gates erected around the mortal worlds. The dry air warmed their faces and chapped their lips. The harsh sun shone cruelly into their eyes. Mura shadowed her eyes with a hand, on instinct. She peered away.

Habaek remained staring at the golden disc in the cloudless skies. A smile curved his lips. His mouth slacked at his sight. Rows of uneven sandbars splotched the bronze landscape. A gust of wind shifted the wispy sand and another dune vanished, not a hint of it in view.   

They braced the storm whipped from nowhere. Footsteps sank into the soft sand, swept away eagerly by the wind. A few rock formation sprinkled over the vast nothingness. He ran. Sprinted through the desert, his hair blown into disarrayed mess.

Mura kept her pace brisk. Trailed after Habaek’s shrinking form in the distance. Unable to take a moment to fix her glance elsewhere.

He’s sprawled on the ever shifting sandy hill. His lean arms splayed wide. “This land is dead,” Habaek exhaled a melancholic sigh into the parched air.

She sat next to him. Eyes squinted at him. Her hair stiffed from the sandy breeze. The gritty silt rubbed coarsely among her toes. Her body coated with a layer of fine salt particles. A long bath in the waterfall must be in order.   

Protocol drilled into her etiquette through numerous lectures. One should never touch the emperor-to-be. Suhwangmo’s ward, to be exact. Or any deities positioned higher than hers.

Her propriety abandoned, as Mura grabbed his wrist. A grin settled on her face.

“Come with me,” she quipped, getting to her feet. “The desert is not a total loss of life. There are some surprises not even Biryum’s aware of it.” She vanished from the desert, brought Habaek along.

They recurred into the foothills of sun-baked mountains. Sundry shades of green peaking from the bottom of the valley. A trace of the orange sun’s blazing ray reflected on the leaves. She released her grip of Habaek’s wrist. Waited for his reprimand. There was none.

She drew her chiton up to her knees, as she descended the slopes. Tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Some of her hair came loose from the band holding her updo hairstyle, spilled onto her neck.

Habaek and his gangly legs darted across the land with ease. Each step bouncy. Vibrant. Far from the lethargic strides Habaek exhibited in the recent times. He halted in his tracks. Examined a nearby tree. Lips pursed in thought.

“Where are we?” Habaek questioned, hands on his hips. His head tilted to a side.

“At another part of the desert,” Mura answered. “Still the same desert,” she added as an afterthought.

“These plants have no thorns on this,” Habaek remarked. “The scroll described all desert plants are thorny. With needle-like leaves poking out from its flesh. Cactus.”

Mura shrugged. “Around these parts, cacti plants are rare. If I’m not—” She slammed head first against furry chest. She angled her gaze upwards. A pair of long curly eyelashes and large chocolate eyes stared down at her. Slimy liquid dribbled over her face. And it reeked of stale breath. Drool.

Mura flinched. A dolphin-like squeal ripped the air. She furiously scrubbed her face with some leaves. She bent over and spat into the soil.

“You got camel’s spit on your face.”

Habaek laughed. Rambunctious. Melodic laughter that vibrated the still air. She’d almost forgotten how musical his mirth was. He snickered hard, that his voice died out. His robust clapping conveyed the elusive merriment.

She kept the act of displeasure at the hump-for-backside animal. Glared at the oblivious camel. Shot a dirty look at him.

“It is not amusing, Habaek,” she snapped, hugged herself tight.

“You are right. I apologised for my rude reaction,” Habaek returned, his lips bore a toothy grin. “Is this the secret you mentioned?”

Her lips reflected a similar grin. “Not quite. It’s just beyond those palm trees,” she said, pointed a finger over her shoulder. She bunched the hems of her robe in one hand. Made walking easier through the dense shrubbery.

Mura led him into a pathway of lush overgrown palm trees. The faint noise of torrential water flowing onto rocks rang in the air. Pooling beneath cascading rainwater over rocky outcrops was a basin of crystalline cerulean water.

Habaek sauntered to the edges of pool. Scoped a handful of water, and splashed it at his face.

“This is the secret,” she averred. Mura headed for the pool. Each step brought her closer to the waterfall. Until the cloudy streaming water cleansed the dirt clung to her skin.

Behind her, she could hear Habaek jumped into the pool. An explosion of water in all directions, rippled waves swayed her towards the waterfall.

“Even in the desert, there is water. Even though this place,” she cupped the water in her hands, “seemed dead to you. Life has a way to return, as long as there is water.”

“Very apt,” he agreed. The brilliance of his smile discarded the shadows of sorrow etched on his face. She can’t help but to mirror it on her lips.

[That’s the first crack on his grief-stricken shell. In the days that came and flew by, Habaek reclaimed himself in little pieces. But it’s clear to anyone with a pair of eyes, he could never regain his jollity in the aftermath of Nakbin’s accursed kiss. Arresting barbed-wired walls protected his heart now. Exists a gulf between them, and Mura thinks, there’s not much she could do for him anymore.]

---

History is repeating.

Mura is not obtuse. She known Habaek longer than Rome started to consolidate its powers, flourished and fell into ruins. Every purse of his lips. Every line that wrinkle his forehead. Every gaze he direct to something that stirs a reaction. He can’t hide it—no matter how hard he tries. Mura could tell.

It’s happening again.

It hasn’t change since the days of Nakbin’s betrayal. The problem with Habaek is that his emotions run deeper than the deepest ocean in the world. And sometimes it makes him both stronger and vulnerable at the same time.

Soah is a total opposite of him—by the virtue of being a human. Mura thinks, that’s why he fell in love with Soah so easily. Just like he did with Nakbin.

As anthropomorphic representations, their temperaments are dictated by their nature. That he falls in love with things he cannot have—a familiar trait in the Water Kingdom, it seems. Mura’s no stranger to this.

The human spirit never failed to boggle them. No answers could satisfy Habaek’s interest.  

It’s a bitter truth for her to swallow. But Mura accepted it with peace after a long denial. She rather be the friend Habaek needs than the woman who would accept Biryum’s infatuation of her.   

She carries the crux of water in her veins. She’s the river, always flowing, forever seeking out to the ocean. Habaek is that ocean. It’s an actuality that Biryum doesn’t comprehend—he’s of the sky essence, after all.

And now, all these fluttery highs of love and lust clouding his judgement. He will choose to sacrifice himself for love, Mura knows it. She won’t allow it. Not back then. Not now. Not ever.

If Habaek hates her by the end of her mission—Mura will gladly accept his wrath, his pain. She won’t allow him to disappear from this universe. For his existence to wither in the name of love. He is destined to be the Emperor—Mura will be his stepladder as he ascends the Water Throne.

She’ll need a plan to stop Soah from twisting the knife Nakbin plunged into Habaek’s chest. By any means necessary.

The stars recede into the horizon. The Prussian blue skies now soften as apricot hue smudges the clouds. Mists whirl fleetingly around skyscrapers. The scent of fresh dew on leaves wafting around her. The sun’s peeking out from the clouds, warms at cool air.  

Mura rakes her memory for today’s appointment; a photo-shoot by the hotel at nine morning, a filming at two evening and a three hour fan-meeting at eight night. It’s a long day ahead. She must be return to the hotel before seven.

Mura stubs her cigarette in between her fingers. And leaves the forest.