--

The early days were the best days. Absolute freedom, unbridled carelessness that comes with youth, and the happiness of frolicking about between heaven and earth; and by occasion—well, if Irene felt like strolling by the odd-colored gardens and picking up rare flora—the underworld.

It was what all young gods do. To taste the nearly absolute power and privilege their beings bring. To flirt with humans. To get lost in lustful affairs with dryads. To dream to take over the world—and ultimately fail in doing so, because the Great One would never allow it.

To be a god meant doing whatever one pleased.

Irene vividly remembers how her youth, her freedom, all came shattering down.

It was an end of an era of happiness the moment she was summoned to the Hall whilst in the middle of strolling through Junmyeon’s private gardens. In the blink of an eye, the image of Junmyeon and his gentle smile and the soft light filtering through the foliage disappeared, only to be replaced by the harsh brightness of the Hall of the Gods.

She had hurriedly fixed her rumpled tunic and her disheveled appearance, albeit, knowing that it was all in vain. The Great One sees all. Surely, he would have known what she was doing prior to this summoning. Yet, it wasn’t his presence that bothered her, but rather, of the council of the gods sitting before Irene. All austere. All old. And most scarily: all powerful.

“A pretty one,” someone had commented. A wizened old man, with hair as shiny as the silver coins deep within the wells in Sooyoung’s temples. “If not for the five thousand others, I would have taken her for myself.”

  Another god waved him off. A funny-looking one, but Irene recognized him nonetheless as one of the kinder gods. It helped distract her from what was to be an expression of revulsion at the obscene—though not entirely unfamiliar—comment. “Ah, to hell with you and your ersions, old man. The Great One has reason for us to summon her here. We are to act upon his request.”

“Very well, my lord.” He turned his lecherous gaze, a look Irene had long since gotten accustomed to receiving from many, back to the young deity in the middle of the hall. “A shame.”

A goddess, a beautiful young woman with flowers and vines running up and down the lengths of her arm, spoke out. “Oh, hush you two. She must be terrified; aren’t you dear? Especially since,” she smiled, a thin, cunning one; eyes roaming up and down Irene’s body, “it appears that we have torn her away from her lover.”

However, her eyes, from cold ebony, softened to warm coals, upon taking in Irene’s terrified form. An emotion she tried her hardest to hide with her chin tilted up, and her face made into a stoic, cool expression, as she regarded the assembly before her. “You will know in a moment’s time, darling. The Great One has spoken, and the Great One we should follow.”

A plethora of questions bubbled up within Irene. She curled her fingers over the hem of the thin fabric of her tunic, wishing more than ever that Junmyeon were her to comfort her. He would hold her hand, and kiss her, and then everything would be alright.

But before she could voice out her discomfort, the doors to the Hall burst open, and in came a half-dozen armored guards, forming a vanguard of some sort. They drew nearer, and a strange observation struck Irene, as they halted right beside her, in the center of the Hall; all the while drawing out the feeling of odd loneliness within her.

They were all nymphs, as was apparent in the odd color of their skin; it looked as though they were an extremely malformed variation of plant when struck by sunlight. Their weapons and armor were fashioned from wood, and Irene realized, with a gulp in her parched throat, that they all towered over her.

A squeak came out of , when they all took a solid step, to part away from their rigid formation. And then, in one fluid motion, they knelt before the council, ignoring the tiny snickers floating around the room.

An . Irene realized, that was what they were, as she stared at the girl who was hidden by a sea of trees (both in a figurative and literal sense) a moment prior. The only one left standing in the party. She was rather normal-looking, so to speak, amidst her companions. She was petite—a slight bit taller than her, Irene wagered, and without the strange green skin of the dryads. Her features, however, gave Irene a similar feel to that of a nymph’s—piercing and sharp, and admittedly, very pretty.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she, Irene?” The crone piped up again, breaking her off her reverie. Immediately, Irene’s eyes flitted off back front, to murmur a soft yes, and then back to   unconsciously staring at the newcomers. The girl’s curious gaze quickly met hers, warm brown, before turning away.

An airy giggle was let out, as the goddess grew a vine off her throne, plucking out a bunch of fat ripe grapes to roll between thin elegant fingers.

It is a memory Irene remembers very well. All the words, all the images, all the scenes of what happened next; she commits it to her mind and heart. Back then, it left a bitter taste in whenever she recollected upon it.

“Then all is well! We wouldn’t want you to spend eternity with an ugly wife, would we?”

It was an end of an era, an end of her youth, the moment she met Seulgi.

(It didn’t matter if she was pretty or not. All Irene knew was that her existence was the reason why the bonds of eternity were pressed and weighted down against her.) 

 

--

 

Seulgi is part nymph-part god. Her mother, she had explained, was a tree spirit who had caught the attention of her father, a passing god of wind.

The way she spoke was gentle and airy, her voice melodious, but neither that nor her story, touched Irene. Rather, furious thoughts of indignation ran rampant in her mind. To imagine that her, a true-born goddess to two well-respected gods, get carted off to marry some demi-god!

(It didn’t matter that she was an immortal in every right. Irene was young, and believed she had every right to be furious at all the petty reasons.)

Furthermore, her ego was significantly bruised, upon finding out that Seulgi had not even touched her thousandth year. Yet, she let these troublesome thoughts float and boil within her, never voicing it out to the unsuspecting Seulgi. Irene knew her social graces, and she knew never to oppose the Great One: for what he says is law.

“I can’t see you anymore,” Irene woefully declares, as she stares up at her companion. She runs a gentle hand through floppy dark locks as equally dark eyes gaze down at her. Confusion clouds it at first, before a knowing look slowly takes its place.

“Because of her?” Junmyeon whispers sorrowfully. Irene nods. “I’m getting married.”

To say that they were both upset was an incredible understatement. Parting with him, Irene realizes, is an impossible task to ask of her. To be without Junmyeon is akin to being without a limb. They have known each other for as long as Irene has remembered and to know that she can no longer be with him sends a fresh wave of sadness coursing throughout her body.

She pulls him down for one last parting kiss (it isn’t), and he whispers a promise against her lips. “I’ll always be here for you.”

Those words, said to her privately and secretly, Junmyeon fulfills. The week after, when Seulgi and Irene get married in a lavish ceremony; the halls packed with dryads and gods and woodland creatures, and somehow, he and Irene manage to sneak off to his private chambers. Several years later, when Seulgi is off canoodling with humans down below, and Irene goes under the guise of visiting a long-time friend; which was not entirely untrue, other than the fact that said friend is her lover.

But eventually, in more than a thousand years’ time (gradually at first, and then all together), it ends; because Irene falls in love—just not with Junmyeon.

 

XX

 

It isn’t uncommon for gods to have affairs. Irene is never one to be jealous—or so she likes to think—and Seulgi is gracious enough for her relationships with the ones down below to be kept under the wraps.

(Irene knows, of course. What other reason does Seulgi have, to spend so much time down on earth?)

Irene doesn’t have a say in the matter of Seulgi and her utter fascination with people. After all, she has Junmyeon to speak of, and their illicit affair. On most days, as she wakes up to an empty palace, she thinks about her wife—no sign of her, but of the faint scent of grass, that seems to be apparent wherever and whenever Seulgi appears.

Curious thoughts, wandering to and fro of what Seulgi is doing, what she is thinking of right now; and the ever growing suspicion that she is secretly, part-human, frequently bounce back and forth in her mind. Irene supposes it is only natural as it has not been long since she’s met Seulgi—the other practically a stranger, despite their newly-wed stage. Yet, these thoughts that plague her only disappear upon leaving her home—she guiltily admits—as she resumes her daily life, as though nothing has changed (Irene has always been one of the more subdued godlings), even after marriage.

Irene wakes up to the scent of fields and flowers tickling her nose.

It’s an odd feeling, and that feeling is heightened when she feels warmth draped over her. Too entirely used to the light and cool texture of her sheets. For a moment, Irene panics and thinks that she must have slept over at Junmyeon’s—but the body lined up beside hers is too soft, too pliant.

She opens her eyes, and shifts away in surprise when an image of a sleeping Seulgi greets her. Her eyes slightly open, and mouth ajar. A soft whistling noise comes from her nose, a brief hitch in melody due to her scrunching it up and unconsciously wiggling it. Her arm rests lightly over Irene’s waist. A doing of her subconscious mind, Irene is sure, because they hardly ever touch each other—much less engage in small talk; other than what should be necessarily said.

Wisps of Seulgi’s hair tickle Irene’s nose, and she sneezes.

The quick jolt that runs through Irene’s body is more than enough to serve as a catalyst for Seulgi’s awakening, and in a frozen rapture, Irene watches her wife wake.

A furrow of her brows, a slight tightening of her hold on Irene’s waist, and the languid way she presses herself up against Irene’s body and stretches fascinate Irene. Like a feline, Seulgi’s eyes blearily blink open, sleep clouding it, before ultimately being replaced with utter surprise at the close proximity of Irene’s face.

“Oh.” Seulgi says in a rather adorable manner. “I apologize.” She makes for a rueful smile, but doesn’t relinquish her hold on Irene. Irene thinks it may have to do with her half-asleep state, but oddly enough, she doesn’t mind.

Irene smiles. “It’s alright.” Gently, she removes Seulgi’s hold on her body. The thin veil of awkwardness they can’t ever seem to break is still apparent, and Irene is eager to evade it. She leaves the sea of cotton and silken sheets and pads away to start her preparations for her day. (A short visit to Junmyeon’s place, and then perhaps she’ll spend the rest of the day in one of Sooyoung’s temples, or bother Yeri at her shrine.)

A moment later, Irene comes back to the sight of her wife curled up underneath the covers; as though wishing to disappear beneath it, and taking the chance to do so since Irene has left their bed. It is another thing to add to the growing list of oddities that has occurred in Irene’s day. She tilts her head quizzically and frowns. Irene has never seen her so subdued.

Briefly, she considers taking off right then and there.

“Seulgi.” She calls out, half expecting a gale of energy to respond. Instead, all Irene gets is a low hum, barely audible to her ears, and a faint breeze—no, it is barely a puff of Seulgi’s breath. Curiosity and unease rise within her, but habits are hard to break—even for immortal deities—and the urge to be out and about wells.

Irene settles for a soft “Goodbye,” waits for a moment, (there is no response—other than another puff of an exhale) and then she leaves.

 

--

 

This goes on for a couple more days, and then a week. It’s an anomaly in Irene’s schedule—not unwelcome, but an anomaly nonetheless—and every single day, she wakes up to Seulgi beside her.

It doesn’t strike her as particularly strange behavior on her wife’s part. Irene chalks it off to it being Seulgi’s whimsical nature. Perhaps she has grown tired of flitting around between worlds and places where she does not belong. Nymphs are flighty, and Seulgi certainly is. What bothers Irene is the thought that follows her around, the constant nagging feeling that tells her she has a wife waiting for her at home whenever she so much as passes by Junmyeon’s palace (it’s even harder to ignore when she’s with him—even when she tells herself that there is absolutely nothing wrong). Seulgi has taken to spending her days at home, doing gods know what to amuse herself.

(Just the other day, Irene swore she caught Seulgi holding a conversation with a palm tree; and when asked, her wife had blushed and said she was watering it. Irene knew better.)

It is a brief visit, and a conversation with Sooyoung and Yeri that alights her; that possibly, something might be wrong.

“How is she?” Sooyoung asks, one fine afternoon, as Irene watches her friend idly drawing coins from a well in her garden, her perch underneath a willow tree shading her. They are in Sooyoung’s manor, the younger having insisted they come here instead of her much more glamourous temples. Irene didn’t question it and Yeri was eager for a change of scenery.

Who? Irene thinks, frowning slightly in confusion, as she watches Sooyoung toss the now-empty wooden bucket to the depths of the well, watches her muttering how there is “Too much copper, not enough gold. Ah, mortals think they can downsize their offerings to me?” And then it hits her.

“Oh. You mean my wife. Seulgi.”

Sooyoung briefly pauses to give her a distracted look, as if to convey the message, Who else? Irene should have known; momentarily forgetting her marital status. Irene formulates a response in her head (She is wonderful. Sweet. Kind. Possibly having an affair with some human; not that I’m any better.), but before anything comes out of , Yeri beats her to it.

“How is she doing? She must have taken it hard.”

Irene does not expect the questions, and does not expect the look of compassion and pity to drift upon the duo famous around the realm (and below) for their mischief making. Confusion fills her when Yeri skips over from where she was tinkering around with one of Sooyoung’s numerous valuables, this time: an ivory carving of a satyr from a well-off devotee, now laden with scribbles and vandals. She joins Irene under the shade, and rests a comforting hand over her arm.

“Do stay strong, Irene,” she says so solemnly, that all traces of humor that Irene swears are ever present in Yeri’s eyes, are gone. For a moment, silence envelopes them; only to be broken by the clinking of coins as Sooyoung brings another bucketful up, and Irene finally gives off her reply.

“What are you talking about?” She gently extricates Yeri’s hand away from her arm, uneasy with the sudden physical contact. Yeri frowns at this and Irene doesn’t know what to feel upon seeing her childish friend so serious. Yeri then looks away, to where Sooyoung is; empty-handed, the deity of fortune is stalking over to where they are now.

“Do you not know?” Yeri softly asks, eyes flitting back to Irene.

“Know what?”

“She doesn’t.” Sooyoung answers for her, upon reaching the two. (The response comes after sharp eyes cunningly scrutinize her for a second, before the forming the rash—but accurate—conclusion.) “I should’ve known,” she lets out a mirthless laugh, eyes gone of its usual glitter. “The moment Irene knows remotely anything about the humans, is the moment she breaks her affair with that river god.”

Irene bristles at the attack, but she doesn’t get to lash back. Yeri snaps out sharply to Sooyoung. “Now isn’t the time, Sooyoung.” She tilts her head upwards, in an attempt to meet with Sooyoung’s imposing height. “I know our friend’s choices are rather … questionable … but none of this is her fault.”

“And whose fault is it?” Sooyoung spits out, all venom and poison—the change from the sunny trickster she was a moment prior is palpable to Irene’s eyes. Irene dutifully keeps shut; even if it ires her to no end to have someone hundreds of years younger than her speak to her that way. Something is wrong.

Yeri doesn’t answer. Sooyoung stands stock-still. And then, with a vague clench of her jaw, she disappears—marching down the garden path and into her home; pausing only to stop by the well and in a fit of anger, throws the mounds of coins aside to scatter among the grass with a sweep of her hand.

“What crawled up her—“

“There’s been a conflagration.”

Yeri moves away from Irene, her tone grave and eyes downcast. The insult falls short in Irene’s lips, and she waits for Yeri to continue. A cold feeling permutes the air, seeping into Irene’s skin and resting rather heavily on her abdomen. “Great fires have ravaged the earth, burning temples, shrines, monuments dedicated to gods to the ground.” Irene takes Yeri’s hands within her own, “I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

A sad smile graces the younger’s lips. “We couldn’t do anything. Gods guide humans as well as they could, but in the end, the decision falls on man’s shoulders. And well, don’t listen to Sooyoung, ‘rene. A huge number of her temples have been razed and sacked and understandably it’s—“ she sighs, shoulders slumping “—affected her.”

“Men and their petty wars,” Irene snorts in disgust. She looks at Yeri in askance, tone softening to something more soothing, “I apologize for my … ignorance. I take it you aren’t—“

Yeri shakes her head and raises a hand to wave away Irene’s question. “I’m fine. I am the deity of vows and promises, it would take more than that for men to forget the true-held value of a covenant.” She fixes a knowing glance upon Irene, “And as for you … peace comes before and after war; and how can husbands forget their wives and children; farmers their hovels; nobles their coins; and the dandies their brothels. Besides, you were never one to associate with trivial matters that did not directly involve you.

“But for the others—the ones whose existence centers upon the sole belief of life within physical objects—it’s difficult. For every tree cut down, a dryad vanishes; for every river swimming with the blood of men, a naiad drowns. The other gods are afraid, Irene, of fading.”

An uncomfortable feeling settles in her. Irene swallows, feeling her parched throat, as she looks into Yeri’s weighted gaze. She feels guilt, and with horrific realization, she finds that tears are beginning to well up on her eyes. With a determined nod, she wills those tears to disappear.

Yeri allows a moment to pass, stares at the distance where the piles of coins now glint softly against the afternoon sunset. A hand goes to her neck, where she touches a steel link—a part of the many chains woven around her neck— interwoven with green stone: jade.

The melancholy of the moment becomes too much. Irene stands, “I should go,” and is relieved when Yeri does not object. The shadows grow longer by the second and Irene no longer feels the comfort of the shade they are underneath in. “Will you pass my goodbyes on to Sooyoung?”

“Oh, I’ll tell her.” She giggles, acting more like the Yeri Irene knows very well. “I don’t think Sooyoung should be seeing anyone as of now.”

Irene smiles. She closes her eyes and the sound of wind and Yeri’s snickers fade, to be replaced with sound silence broken by the echoes of a beautiful voice singing a haunting tune and Irene knows she is home.

 

--

 

Irene wakes up in the middle of the night, to the intermittent sensation of warmth coming and going as it coils around her body. Bafflement turns to full blown panic when Irene stretches, expecting to meet the solid heat of her wife only to feel … nothing.

Irene wakes up to the sight of Seulgi fading.

It isn’t apparent to the eye, but under the pale moonlight, Irene knows better. She sees the absence of color, flickering to and fro in Seulgi’s body—as though it is deciding whether to stay or leave for good in search of a being to occupy while its current owner dozes unknowingly.

Seulgi flickers transparent, and Irene quite nearly loses her wits.

She shouts for her servants, panic and volume increasing with every second. A god can’t die on her, much more her own wife. The wife she promised, she is supposed to take care of. She had only seen this once—heard of it more like; this unfortunate circumstance befalling upon her own father. (What comes with the emergence of new gods and the eventual forgetting of the old ones.)

She swabs Seulgi with their sheets, searching for any semblance of warmth and comfort, and draws her into a tight embrace. Irene tucks Seulgi’s head under her chin and speaks out in sharp commands once her household starts drifting in their chamber. (A combination of aurae and dryads, courtesy of Seulgi’s parents.)

She sends the aurae off to “Do something!” and tells the dryads to sit in vigil with her and pray.

“To whom, my lady?” One meekly implores, stepping forward in behalf of the rest. Her skin is green, and Irene raises her head defiantly.

“The Great One.”

Her servant pales, and the rest break off into hushed whispers. Irene tightens her hold on Seulgi protectively. “S-surely such matters w-would not f-f-fall under his—“

Irene thinks of Yeri and of the chains and links she wraps around her neck, weighing her down for the rest of the world. She fixes a steely glare, a threat veiled underneath the glamorous obsidian, and she pulls Seulgi closer. The nymph simpers under her gaze, and then she goes off to instruct the others.

The chants begin, and Irene joins in the prayer. (She prays not only to the Great One but also to Yeri, and Sooyoung, and to everyone she knows. Even for and to Junmyeon who, it occurs to her, may not be in the best of all places.)

Seulgi wakes when sunrise come, eyes blinking owlishly against Irene’s pale neck and feeling very, very warm. Irene nearly cries with relief and exhaustion, and she dismisses her servants, who look like they are nearly about to collapse. Seulgi’s response is to wind her arms around Irene’s waist, as she slumps against her.

“Thank you.” Seulgi whispers to Irene’s: You were gone—almost, that is. I’m tired. She doesn’t expect a ready response, her wife won’t be going anywhere for today, but Irene presses her lips—almost absent-mindedly—against the bare skin of Seulgi’s shoulder.

She rubs her nose against the spot she kissed and Seulgi wonders.

And so a tentative friendship blooms between them, among other things. Irene and Sooyoung kiss and make up, with Yeri being more than happy to be a witness and a mediator. Irene goes to Junmyeon and holds him for a night.

And then, she comes back home.

 

XX

 

Things fall under scheduled routine in the next few hundred years or so. However, the practiced greetings and underlying animosity is gone (on Irene’s part) are replaced with genuine smiles and sincere concern for the other’s well-being.

The continuous visits to earth and to Junmyeon do not end. Yet, somehow, Seulgi learns to leave after Irene does; having caught on to her wife’s distaste at being left alone so early in the day. Irene’s visits to Junmyeon’s dwindle down to every shift of the waxing and waning moon—more so for Seulgi’s sake, than her own.  Unknowingly, an aspect of their lives have shifted to make room for the other.

(Gradually at first, and then, eventually, all together.)

The afternoon sun turns the marble floors a sea of gold, broken only by the branches of leaves that rustle through the breeze, and the single lone shadow that makes its way across its home.

The light strikes Irene’s profile in such a way that if anyone where to see, it would be a cause for songs and poems to be made. Warships would be launched, and battles would be fought, just for a glimpse of pure beauty—if Irene was not a deity of peace and tranquility; but she is, and perhaps that is why she was wedded early on to Seulgi, to ensure a prevention of discord amongst gods and men who would do anything to have her hand.

Light footsteps sound. Irene makes her way into her private chambers, wearily sighing and loosening the travel cloak she has on. There had been a light skirmish among some minor war gods, nothing too serious, but the situation had quickly fallen out of hand—the young ones are certainly too feisty (and full of themselves)—when landscape was destroyed, and several satyrs and nymphs were displaced. It had taken nearly a whole day for the situation to be fixed, and even Minseok had to be brought in to placate—and put into a pleasantly dazed stupor—the riled up crowd.

It was a rather long day, and Irene is more than glad, she thinks, as she quickly runs through her hair with a hairbrush and contemplates calling one of the servants for a quick massage, to leave it all behind.

Imagine her surprise, when she turns to trot to her—their—bed, only to find a small child—an infant, really—hovering and gurgling five feet above the pristine sheets.

opens, and a shriek is let out. Irene’s hands fly to in shock, and she watches as the compressed pocket of rabid wind—an aura’s doing, she is certain—that the babe is floating on (much like a make-shift cradle), stutter.

She stares in shock and horror as it—the baby!—begins to fall, her mind and limbs sluggish with utter confusion.

A Pop! resounds and then Seulgi is there to catch and hold onto the falling child. The air suddenly smells of wildflowers, and some part of Irene that isn’t submerged in bafflement wonders if it is summer down there, where the humans live. From across the room, she sees the infant’s face contort in Seulgi’s arms, and in a second, a high-pitched wail escapes.

Too much is happening at once, and Irene grasps for a thought and says the only rational thing she can think of:

“I don’t suppose you know wind nymphs aren’t suitable nannies.”

Seulgi is bouncing the baby worriedly, a little too roughly and a little too unrefined than it is used to, Irene is sure, judging from the increased volume of its cries. Seulgi gives a forced smile, her full cheeks quickly wearing it down into a pout as she faces the dilemma before her. “I apologize for … causing trouble,” she murmurs, quieting into a sudden hum in an attempt to placate the child. It doesn’t work.

Certainly not after an unwanted trip through the air, Irene bites her lip.

Confusion makes its way to a grudging thought as Irene takes in the scene before her. Memories of mornings and afternoons alone flash through Irene’s head, the growing suspicion of Seulgi’s absence, and the eventual acceptance. She approaches the duo, and even before she reaches them, before she gets a better look at the child to cement her hypothesis, she knows.

(Oddly enough, that knowledge feels like a ball of slime sitting on her belly. Waiting to be regurgitated.)

Irene touches the child. The rocking stops as Seulgi curiously, with bated breath, watches her. The wailing quiets to a sudden silence, as the baby stares wide-eyed at Irene, fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically, involuntarily. Irene draws her index finger over its forehead, down to its nose, and then, coming to a rest on its lips.

It remains there for a second. “A human,” Irene says, more so to herself, than to Seulgi.

She removes her hand, and the baby resumes its cries. Irene refuses to look at Seulgi, but her gaze remains on the tiny being of flesh and bone. Delicate. Fragile. Mortal. She contemplates, and then decides to raise her palm to hover over it.

She isn’t as good as Minseok, but she passes a hand over its tiny face—imagines the ones he had sent to a deep slumber only a few hours ago—and in no time, the babe is asleep, eyelids drooping (eyes that are eerily similar to those that Irene wakes up to daily), cradling a fist to its chest, and on its thumb.

“Gods. Thank you.” Seulgi smiles, more genuinely, gratefully now. She sets the baby down on the bed, on Irene’s pillow of all places, and watches as it squirms around, before falling into deep peaceful slumber.

A turmoil of emotions run through Irene, but she wills herself to remain stoic. After all, is she not doing the same? Yet, she wonders how a mere being restricted to a life ruled in spatial and temporal terms, can ignite such feelings of rampant betrayal.

“Is it…” Yours? Irene dares not finish, convinced that the familiar warmth and power that she had felt emanating from within the babe told her of its parentage.

Seulgi stares at her, and Irene pretends not to see the look of guilt and sadness, mingled with penitence, behind it. But Seulgi nods and lets out quiet ”yes” and what Irene had hoped to be the painful first and final end of something, was merely the trials of the beginnings of eternity with Seulgi.

 

--

 

“I’ve upset you.”

Seulgi begins meekly. She tentatively reaches out to take ahold of Irene’s hand, heart bursting with relief and joy when her wife does not pull away.

They’re at the veranda. The cicadas are chirping and fireflies flickering and Irene has been upset all evening. Seulgi knows because the doves, Irene’s sacred animal, are preening and molting through their feathers at the corner of the ledge in their cage, mimicking their mistress’s displeasure.

Irene does not object to Seulgi’s statement, and Seulgi’s heart drops just as quick when she is met by mute blackness enshrouded in a cool gaze. She had sent a dryad to care for the baby—her daughter—and with the peaceful silence engulfing them, it is not difficult to focus on other matters.

The servants have come and gone to take away the remains of what was a half-hearted supper. The absence of the usual small talk apparent with the near-hostile atmosphere. Seulgi’s stomach had refused to ingest more than five bites of nectar-infused turkey; something about seeing Irene’s lifeless eyes trained listlessly on their meal, and the fact that she hadn’t seen her take as much as a morsel to her lips, had bothered her.

“I’m merely tired, Seulgi.” Irene makes for a chilly smile, with a resigned twitch at the corner of her lips. Her eyes don’t change, and Seulgi feels a pang of hurt, for some odd reason. (Even more so when Irene twists her hand away from Seulgi’s grasp.) “I’ve had a long day and …” one of the doves squawk out and there is the sound of wings fluttering and beating wildly, feathers flying “…I’d like it if—if I could retire for the evening.”

Oh. Seulgi nods in acquiesce, eagerly grasping for an opportunity to communicate. “Oh! Well then, I’ll come with you! I should ask the aurae to draw our bath—“

  Irene raises a hand to stop her. Seulgi’s halfway from rising out of her seat, and she sinks back with the lethal combination of the silent command and another wave of dread, like a leaden ball, tethering her down in place.

Irene looks at her, expressionless, façade of pleasantries gone. “I would rather do it alone.” This time, the look of utter hurt is quite apparent in Seulgi’s face— it’s harder to ignore this time around—and Irene nearly falters with her next line when she sees her lips jutting out and her forehead crinkling.

“I take it the room is empty?”

Seulgi remembers sending the baby off to one of the empty chambers, vaguely recalling telling the servants to furnish the room for something more appropriate for a child, and she nods.

Irene leaves without saying goodnight, doves quieting down; and somewhere far off, Seulgi hears the cry of a child.

 

--

 

“Is there something wrong?”

Rough hands cup Irene’s flushed cheeks. The gentle touch, the solid warmth, combined with the familiar sensation should have brought comfort—instead, it serves to make her chest burn with the odd, misplaced emotion of anger, and Irene remembers why she came to Junmyeon.

She pulls away, the sole purpose for forgetting the cause of her displeasure has gone down the drain, and she bunches up the sheets between them, covering her bareness and all the while carefully avoiding Junmyeon’s probing gaze. Before anything else—before they knew of romance and lustful urges—Irene knew Junmyeon as a valued companion, and consequently, as all good friendships go, it is difficult to keep emotions and thoughts from one another.

“I’m just upset.”

A hand her shoulder, and Irene leans away from the touch. Junmyeon shifts backwards, sensing the heavy change. “And why is that?”

Irene huffs and gives Junmyeon a glare, eyes meeting those that many say are much like hers. His gaze is unwavering, and Irene thinks that one distinct trait that sets him apart from her—though their alikeness has always been something that has brought great comfort to Irene—is his patient nature. Much like the rivers he protects: calm, flowing, and steady.

“It’s Seulgi,” and Irene pauses, gauging his reaction. He doesn’t waver, and with a heavy sigh, she continues. “She brought a child home.”

“Is it her—?” He lets the question hang, and Irene nods vigorously. The sheets feel heavenly cool weighted down against her body, but it does nothing to tame the fires of Irene’s utter displeasure. “Yes! It’s her bastard child! Why do you think I’m so—“ She lets out a frustrated noise, a mixture between a groan and a whine, and she runs one hand through her disheveled hair.

And then, with a determined huff, Irene rises, letting the sheets fall off to reveal her ness. She climbs on top of Junmyeon and kisses him; determinedly ignoring the raw hurt she mistakes for anger at Seulgi and her child.

 

XX

 

Hurt eventually makes way for reluctant acceptance, and Irene, whose inner good has always prevailed over evil thoughts that tend to come to those who have been wronged—or those whose spouses think it is a brilliant idea to shove into their faces a living and breathing evidence of their infidelity—learns to let go of her rage.

Ah, polygamy. A concept so strange, yet comes so natural to immortals—celestial beings who are surely prone to bouts of sudden lust after years and years of existing.

Seulgi is meek and mild, and entirely too kind for Irene to stay mad at. She never raises her voice when Irene becomes purposely difficult, somehow always shuts down the beginnings of a fight whenever Irene so as much eggs her on, and always seems to be in a state of constant penance.

It makes Irene feel guilty because she knows she should be doing the same.

(She knows it isn’t Seulgi’s fault. Gods are naturally polyamorous, and Irene, for all her talk of staying away from earth-borns, is not the epitome of a perfect wife.)

 When the child is at the age that it begins to babble in stringed, incoherent syllables and laugh and drool, Seulgi decides to give it—her, Irene knows at this point—a name.

Ahreum.

“Beauty,” Seulgi says the name’s meaning as she carries the babe in her arms around their palace. And Irene, for all her worldliness, cannot see that trait in the child’s shapeless pudgy cheeks, her pasty appearance, and the ever-present slobber decorating the sides of . She has Seulgi’s eyes, though, and Irene supposes that makes up for the unfortunate genetics she must have gotten from the low-life her wife had slept with.

The baby laughs and shows off her toothless grin. Clumsy fingers trace Seulgi’s face, eager to feel the smile of her own mother. They enter the dining hall, and Ahreum, amidst the bustling servants, spots Irene alone eating her breakfast at one end of the huge mahogany table, and shrieks happily. She squirms and her hands move away from Seulgi’s body, her torso following, and Seulgi struggles to keep her child at bay. The whimpers urging her to move quickly towards her wife.

“Ack!” Ahreum greets Irene.

Acceptance gradually comes when it becomes evident that there is no getting rid of the child, Seulgi is adamant on this. Why her? Why now? Irene had asked, overwhelmed with confusion; her emotions getting the best of her. Her venting out to Junmyeon had only served to fuel her ire, and how was she to know that kind and gentle Seulgi would ever do something like this?

Yet, children, Irene had soon learned, are not hard to love and care for. They are pure and have the most innocent of souls. Irene knows it is of no use to hold a constant grudge over a child who knows of nothing but its own comfort and needs to be taken care of. And though it may not be her own, she cannot help but find the sight of small hands reaching out for her endearing.

And so she reaches out, and holds it.

 

--

 

“Ahreum likes you.”

Irene’s eyes flutter open from her doze as she hears a soft voice sound behind her. She feels Seulgi’s back against hers, and Irene lets out a soft hum of response.

“I’m sorry for bringing this upon you …” Irene does not dare move. She watches the pale lavender curtains fluttering in the breeze, hears the faint murmur of the servants milling in the palace, and watches the stars shining pale and bright outside. It’s odd to be talking at this hour with Seulgi, who is usually rigid with getting generous amounts of rest. “… and not … elaborating upon it…” She sounds sluggish, as if she longs for sleep. “I can only imagine how ... you must have felt.”

Irene struggles to form words. The comfort of sleep and her conscience weight her down in conflict. “I understand, Seul—“

“No, you don’t.” Irene feels Seulgi shift and turn, and soon she feels her warm breath tickling the hairs at the base of her scalp. She shivers and closes her eyes. “You’re hurt and having my child here must be…” she breaks off and Irene feels Seulgi move closer.

Irene bites her tongue and resists the urge to talk, all the while clamping down the feeling of guilt threatening to choke like bile. She resists the urge to tell her how doing all these: tolerating her child, taking care of her; is an act of penitence for something she knows Seulgi might never forgive when she finds out.

A hand settles lightly on her waist, she hears a deep breath being drawn, and then Seulgi tells.

The words register slowly in Irene’s sleep-induced, guilt-laden mind, but she hears the gist of it. How Seulgi had fallen for a man—her words—and promptly had Ahreum, unbeknownst to the man’s true nature as a philandering outlaw who had his way with multiple women, and left them with a broken heart, figuratively, unless, you are unlucky enough to be involved deeply in his affairs that your heart does stop beating quite literally. It didn’t take long for Seulgi to take back one of the numerous blessings she had gifted him with: a child; upon realizing his true nature.

“I forget that men are better than gods at creating masks and hiding and lying. I suppose it’s one thing they have beaten us at,” Seulgi murmurs softly, and Irene’s heart lurches painfully—guiltily—when she feels Seulgi hold her from behind, the warmth from her palm on her stomach spreading, and it intensifies when she hears the words: “They say that human children are a good judge of character. I’m glad Ahreum likes you, Irene.”

 

--

 

All good things come to an end, and the abrupt peace that had settled over the lives of Irene and Seulgi slowly dissipate as Ahreum nears the age of five.

Irene is basking in the waning afternoon sunlight, head tilted upwards and eyes closed, when she feels more than hears the coming of the human that has practically become her foster-child by now. A tiny body barrels into her stomach, high-pitched giggles sounding from the offender.

“Guess who?” And Irene bites down a smile when she hears the silly question. She chooses to indulge and go along with the game, and lets out a contemplating hum. She feels silent laughter overcoming the newcomer’s body as Irene says, “Are you Seulgi? No, you smell too nice…. Then, perhaps, Yeri? Well, I’ll have your head for breaking in—”

“No, Irene! It’s me!” And at that, Irene finally opens her eyes to the sight of Ahreum, red-faced with laughter and hair sticking all over. She climbs on the lounge chair, still giggling when she realizes she cannot fit, what with the meager space, and clings onto Irene, who places a protective arm around the little girl. “It’s me! Ahreum!”    

Contrary to what Irene had thought, Ahreum’s odd clinginess to her does not wane through the years. And Irene, like any god, has never learned to shy away from any form of love, reveled and basked in it. (Though she would never admit that out loud.)

“I thought you were with Seulgi,” Irene tries not to wince when Ahreum scrambles to drape herself over her torso. She sits up with the child in tow, tiny arms encasing her neck in an embrace. She hears her doves cooing and Irene wonders why they hadn’t alerted her to Ahreum’s arrival.

Irene hears the pout in Ahreum’s voice.

“Mama got busy talking in the marketplace. I saw Mina walking,” referring to one of their servants, Irene recalls her to be a shy and withdrawn dryad, soft-spoken and gentle, “and she was shopping and I decided to go with her!”

Irene raises a brow. She withdraws her probing gaze from Ahreum’s rambunctious face, and searches for any stray servants within the vicinity, she catches the eye of a passing wind nymph—Jisoo—who gives her kindly smile, before fixing a reprimanding glare upon the child in her arms, and then gusting off. Irene sighs, heaving a breath, ready to tell Ahreum off for causing trouble when—

Pop!

 Seulgi appears in the middle of the porch, hair mussed up and eyes a little too wild for Irene’s liking. Wildly turning this way and that, she finally spots Irene, blanching for a second, before an expression of utter frustration gradually takes over her face upon spotting the little one in her wife’s arms.

Irene feels Ahreum turn to bury her face on her neck, muttering, “Mama is mad at me.” Irene tries not to outright laugh at that, even more so with Seulgi stomping over to where they are; her normally placid face taking in a dangerous-red color. Her cheeks are puffed out, and Irene can’t help but think that her resemblance to a bear cub is incredibly uncanny. Moreover, Irene expects her to start growling and griping upon reaching them, but all that comes out of is a soft whine of frustration.

Irene finally laughs, and later on, as all is settled, she thinks it was a moment she would have wanted to preserve forever.

But, as Irene and Seulgi sit in silence, alone in the chamber of worship dedicated to the Great One, she thinks of how temporary these emotions are. The firelight from the sconces do little to provide her warmth and Irene longs to shuffle closer and hold Seulgi in her arms. She settles for holding her warm hands and listening to what private message her wife has to tell her; for no one would dare eavesdrop in what is considered an extension of the Great One’s hall.

“I met Yeri in the town center, right before I lost Ahreum,” and Irene, whose thoughts were drifting to Junmyeon and how she hasn’t visited him in a while, snaps back to the present. She squashes down the feeling of guilt (ever present, but sometimes, it gets rather hard to ignore—much more when it seems that Seulgi’s been trying to be a better partner now) when she sees the troubled look in Seulgi’s eyes. “She tells me that it is about time to send Ahreum…” She trails off, filling the air with the hanging implication.

“…away?” Irene supplies, though is clogging up, and her heart is beating fast. Seulgi doesn’t answer, and there is a pregnant pause between them. “It isn’t as though it is an absolute necessity—”

“Oh, but it is.” Seulgi sighs, and Irene can clearly see the sadness in her face, palpable even to her eyes. “She may have lived here for most of her life, but that does not change who she is: a mortal. Ahreum does not belong here, she never did. And if Yeri had taken it upon herself to talk to me about it—the being of vows and one of the direct mediators to the Great One—then, then that must mean—”

“—the Great One is evicting her,” Irene concludes. Seulgi’s lips twitch downwards, and her brows furrow.

The hall smells of incense and dried lavender as the night crickets chirp, and for the first time, Irene sees the lone track of a tear race down on Seulgi’s face.

 

--

 

The base human emotion of sadness shakes Irene’s body as she and Seulgi, along with the rest of their household, gather around their courtyard. The breeze has gone, the willow branches still, and somewhere far off, a roaming tiger cub—another of Seulgi’s sacred animals—sits to solemnly stare at the ceremony happening from his perch atop one of the many boulders scattered around.

  “O human,” Irene steps forward, voice stern and cold and her eyes carefully trained on the bewildered form of the child before her. “Your unworthy eyes have befallen on the forms of holiness.”

She hears a strangled sob. The nymphs chant an echo, “Unworthy, unworthy human.” Irene does not have to turn to know that there are down-cast eyes, eyes that belong to those that have cared for, looked after, and even loved.

 Irene breathes in, a deep shuddery inhale, and raises her right hand, channeling age-old celestial power. She sees more than feels the light encasing her being, and forces herself to look straight ahead, and beyond the tears of the terrified Ahreum.

“Choose.” The light shines brighter, and Ahreum glubs through her tears. Irene’s heart aches. “Atone for your sin or face the consequences.”

The girl is full on crying now, and Irene looks on with a mixture of fondness and pain swirling in her chest. The light grows brighter. Irene repeats the command. “Atone for your sin or—”

Ahreum blubbers out a hurried apology. She is rapidly shaking her head back and forth, shakily and rubbing her crumpled tunic over her face. Her face is red and wet with mucus and tears, and Irene’s heart cracks upon recalling the utter innocence of the child before her. Possibly coming to the horrible conclusion that she is in for severe punishment for something she had done wrong.

Irene walks towards the girl. She stoops before her, and with careful hands, holds her face.

Gently thumbing her tears away, Irene gazes once more at the pudgy face, the squash nose, and the eyes that sparkle and remind her so much of Seulgi. She feels her trembling and Irene retracts her hands, to hold out her index finger. And then, very much like her first encounter with the child who was a babe back then, she draws a path from its forehead, sloping over its nose, and coming to rest on its quivering lips.

“Then,” Irene says to the human that has wormed her way to her heart, the baseless meaning of the words she says next fill her with immeasurable remorse, “you are forgiven.”

Ahreum bursts in a sea of golden light.

 All that is left is a silver thread of memories curled enticingly around the end of Irene’s finger.

 Without further ado, she lifts her hands up and releases it, watching it slowly float away and disappear. Never to be seen again.

 

XX

 

“Once, she mistook me for her mother.”

Seulgi falls into a deep funk right after the Ahreum fiasco. Such, that she reverts back to her flighty ways, coming and going often at the most unexpected of times. Irene, too, to answer to her growing frustration at how things turned out—a selfish part her, a part that she is incredibly ashamed of had expected that things would turn out for the better, now with the absence of the bastard child—goes to seeking frequent solace in the confines of the arms of a certain river god.

Junmyeon is asleep: eyes shut tight, hair falling in artistic waves over pale smooth skin, and breathing in deep even breaths. His image, Irene thoughtfully ponders, is the complete contrast of Seulgi’s: skin that often glistens with sweat when nights are particularly warm, snoring and muttering occasionally in sleep, arms and legs akimbo—appendages that like to wrap themselves around Irene in their owner’s sleep; much to her amusement, for Seulgi is never one for public displays of affection.

Somehow, the comfort she got from the simple touch, the warm embrace, the kisses of her Junmyeon has waned, to be replaced with the odd sense of emptiness from within, and the slippery-like feeling of betrayal bobbing in Irene’s throat. Even when Irene throws herself with uncharacteristic aggressiveness at him.

“She was nearly a year old, and I had decided to care for her for a bit.” Irene chuckles at the memory, and at the presently ridiculous context of telling this to a sleeping audience. Propping herself up with one arm and staring at Junmyeon’s face, she continues, “Seulgi’s a … wonderful person … though she knows nothing of caring for humans, and even I, a goddess who barely has anything to do with that race, know that leaving a baby to the care of nymphs and aurae … is not right.”

A tongue darts out to wet parched lips. “Did you know that when humans are born, they are helpless lumps of bone and flesh, physically and mentally incapable of fending off for themselves for a number of years? I, myself, sprung out fully grown from the womb of my mother, and tales of Sooyoung’s misadventures have surrounded her ever since the day she was born.

“The baby had taken a liking to me, since the beginning, for reasons unknown. And it was, in one those days of spending time with her, amidst the meaningless babble of sounds she often used to communicate, she called me ‘Mama’.” Irene laughs quietly, a hand reaching up in an attempt to stifle it. “Needless to say, it was rather amusing. Explaining it all to Seulgi when she got back.”   

Her laughter dies down and Irene closes her eyes, her anecdote falling on deaf ears. She allows the sound of the flowing stream and the chirp of the crickets to lull her to a deep sleep; silently longing for the familiar sound of whistling snores, and the wife who smells of grass, and flowers, and life.

 

½

 

In the end, Ahreum becomes a distant memory of Irene’s. She was never able to locate the girl she once cared for afterwards, Irene is certain that the Fates had a hand in ensuring that she would never do so, and subsequently, it was difficult for her to find any of Seulgi’s children.

Once, Irene came down from the heavens, disguised as a ragged old hag to mingle amongst the common folk. She had gathered information (although extorted may be the proper term) from several nymphs, who all told her that their mistress, Seulgi, rarely had relations with those who bathed in wealth and privilege, preferring those who toiled and labored.

“Mistress has always claimed that there was beauty in rough patches,” an elderly nymph with sea-green hair shrugged, replying offhandedly to Irene’s questioning, prior to her earthly visit. “Who was I to question her, a goddess of the arts? Her father had a terrible temper,” she shuddered, teeth clacking, “I’d rather be sent to the depths of the Underworld than to ever be on the receiving end of his daughter’s wrath.”

From what Irene had seen, she believed Seulgi would never hurt a fly. But then again, perhaps the fears of a nymph are different than those of a goddesses’. Perhaps letting a dozen muddy warhorses bathe in a naiad’s river is as painful as the sound of someone cursing her name.

The town was dank, cold, and quite chaotic. Irene felt the cold seeping into her form’s ragged bones, and she drew her cloak around tighter. The air felt heavy—everything felt heavy: from her feeble body, the jostle of the crowd from all around, and the loud human displays of emotion—anger as the local butcher shouted at a young thief; desperation as a starving mother, a ling infant held abreast, begged for scraps among virtual strangers;  and lust, among others, as a drunken young man seated in front of a tavern aggressively d and kissed a busty lady.

The nymph had insisted this was the last earthen dwelling she had seen Seulgi visit several years ago, and as Irene passed by a huge building—a temple of some sort, perhaps dedicated to Sooyoung, if the huge pile of kiwis set on a make-shift cart in front are any indicator—she wrinkled her nose.

The building was in a state of disrepair. Chunks of marble had fallen off. Gold, that had once gilded the misshapen metal statues, had obviously been stolen. Fruit flies surrounded the fruits in the cart. Irene saw a bald flabby man, clad in fine viridian vestments—the temple’s priest— waddle, with his huge belly jiggling, out of the depths of the temple to head over to the fruit cart. He then proceeded to pick a fruit out of the top of the pile, and right there, for everyone to see, peeled the fruit and ravenously began to eat it, juice dripping down his chin, as greedy pig-like eyes scanned the throng of commoners and pick pocketers everywhere, as though daring them to approach him.

Irene was certain Sooyoung had cursed the place.   

With a determined huff, Irene turned around. Bunching up, with veiny and trembling hands, the dusty travelling cloak she wore and prepared to begin her search somewhere else, Irene fell.

It was a bunch of children, Irene felt and heard it: the strong life-force emanating from within them, and the loud, pitched voices. Pick-pocketers perhaps, and if her bones hadn’t ached so much, Irene would have eradicated them then and there. Alas, she was far too stunned at the pain her temporal body brought upon her than to think of murderous thoughts unbecoming of a deity of peace.

“Come on!”

“—jest leave ‘er behind! We ain’t got—”

Loud footsteps scampered off, and as Irene was and groaning, she felt someone gently prop her up against the stone steps. Her eyes, which had been closed at the unforeseen pain, gradually opened, and Irene had to bite back a gasp of shock.

It was Seulgi.

“ ’ighty sorry about dat ma’am.”

Or rather, it was a boy, who had her eyes, her cheeks, and when he grinned, a tiny apologetic one, Irene could even see a snippet of her wife in his smile. He brushed back a soot-stained hand over the hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Da Goddesses’ ‘emple ain’t a place for crones like ya. I’d apologize fo’ my friends, but you see, we ain’t got mech time—”

The boy yelped as a huge hand grabbed him by the collar. It was the butcher, red-faced, sweaty, and heaving. “Thieves! I’d ‘ave yer ‘ands chepped off! Yer eyes gouged out! Jest ‘wait ‘til I’m den wid ya!”

And with that he lumbered off with the boy in tow, begging for mercy.

Though, if one were to closely observe the scene, right before the butcher and the boy disappeared within the crowd, a faint glow of light could be seen surrounding the boy, along with the foreign scent of lavenders. And if you were to turn to the hag, you would never dare to blink, because if you do, you would miss her.

You would stand and stare and wonder what just happened. You would forget.

Someone would push you, tell you to get a move on. Life would go on.

 

XXX

 

Eventually, the dark times take on a gradual change for the lighter. Unlike humans, gods tend not to brood and dwell upon things, as is the effect of eons of constant existence. Irene and Seulgi’s life somehow reverts back to the ordinary, or at least, how things were, prior to the existence of infant demigods. It takes a while for it to happen, but it is apparent on an unsuspecting morning.

These days, Seulgi stays more often now. Smiles more, and consequently so does Irene.

(Later on, Irene would reflect and think that she should have seen it coming. From how attuned they eventually became to each other’s emotions.)

Irene is alone, eating her breakfast by the spring and watching the fish flit to and fro. Darting in and out of rocks, and glinting gold and yellow upon hitting the various patches of sunlight that makes its way through the willow branches.

Irene senses Seulgi’s coming as she is buttering her bread, and she closes her eyes, hating the sudden sense of vertigo the sudden appearances always seem to bring. As though, out of nowhere, something suddenly exists. Nymphs are fond of making this sort of entrance, it seems. Seulgi knows of this dislike, and Irene wonders if she is here to test her patience.

Without opening her eyes, Irene pops the loaf in , carefully chewing and savoring in the taste. She hears a lilt of gentle laughter, and Irene finally blinks her eyes open to the sight of Seulgi making her way over to her, bursting with unconcealed excitement.

“Irene!” Seulgi shouts. The fishes scatter at the sudden interruption to tranquility. Inaudibly, Irene swallows, and is about to open to question her wife’s abrupt arrival when she is engulfed by a sudden embrace, an act that gently leads her to a stand.

It is a strange habit of greeting—a human habit, her wife had once explained when Irene asked—that Seulgi has somehow adopted. However, for all the habit’s foreign origin, Irene quickly grew accustomed to it. It is hard not to, not when it involves close physical contact with certain deities that are the walking embodiment of sunshine: from the comforting warmth that emanates from within Seulgi’s body, down to the bright smile that never fails to bring homely comfort and instigate an odd cadence of thumping from the depths of Irene’s chest.

 “What has gotten into you, today?” Irene asks, and almost immediately she regrets doing so when Seulgi pulls back and steps away from her. Her wife’s smile widens, and Irene can see the dips at the side of deepening, drawing her full cheeks upwards, making an adorable sight. It is then, that Irene notices that she is holding a plant of some sort. It is long and green, ending with a huge, colorful blossom.

Seulgi laughs once again, bouncing lightly. “Today, I bested Wendy in archery!”

“Oh?” Irene raises a brow, mentally trying to connect the dots between the said sport and the Muse of Music, who is a close companion of her wife’s—idly remembering that neither of the two are particularly good in it. However, Seulgi, seemingly unfazed by her partner’s momentary buffer, barrels on.

“She promised! Wendy promised she’d give me a flower for when I defeated her, and she did!” Seulgi giggles, and gingerly holds out the stalk in her hands, showing it to Irene. Her hair is wind-blown, skin lightly tinged with a healthy flush, and Irene wonders when was the last time she had seen her this happy. (And over a plant, too. The wonders.)

“Well, then, I suppose—” Irene begins awkwardly, fishing out for an appropriate reply. It seems that a simple “Congratulations” would not suffice, judging from the state of Seulgi’s excitement. Luckily, the younger deity interrupts her once again, twirling in delight, clearly lost in the bliss of her joy. “Oh! How wonderful it is to have your own things.” The head of the plant bobs dangerously, and Irene cautiously takes a step back, confusion rearing, along with another unpleasant, darker, feeling she would later come to acknowledge as the beginnings of petty envy and jealousy.

“I finally have a flower to put in all my temples!”

Oh. So this is what it is all about. Irene raises a palm over her heart and presses it to the smooth skin. She wills the beating to cease its frantic pace, and she breathes in deeply, allowing the calming scent of the lavender bough on the tabletop, her own sacred flower and one of the many bundles she had insisted on placing all over their palace, to calm her. “I am happy for you.”

Irene knows how important it is for certain deities to have claim on objects that strengthen the bond between them and the mortal world. It is, after all, the basis of their existence, and the sole connection and belief: their lifeforce. Although gods that preside over virtues, much like her and Yerim (what with peace and commitment), have no cause to cease existing so as long as humans believe in the good that is there to balance out evil, a huge number’s existence is tied with certain elemental attributes. Irene is aware of how Junmyeon ensures the streams and rivers that source its waters from his own palace are secured tightly by naiads and fish-folk, as if it is his own home, knowing that if something terrible were to happen in one location, it would indomitably come to bite him back in the end.

Irene still remembers how Seulgi had almost faded out on her. Though that does not stop her from teasing, taking advantage of the pleasant mood, “And would that championship suffice for the tales and legends to be told among mortals?”

A lip juts out, and Seulgi becomes even more of an endearing sight as she catches on quickly to Irene’s jest. “I’ll have you know, Wendy is a talented archer!”

“Alas,” Irene sighs in exaggeration, “how could I ever forget the discus throwing event on the Day of Fortune…” Seulgi groans out loud at that reminder, recalling that rather disastrous sporting event a half century or so back. It was an incredibly, incredibly lucky matter that Dongyoung’s, the young master of scrolls, head had merely flopped over to a nearby chariot field, and not down on earth. The god was rather miffed at having his head unceremoniously dis-attached, even by a beautiful Muse at that, and everyone promptly decided that any of the Nine Muses were better off to attending to less physically-exerting activities in festivals.   

Taking mercy on the younger goddess, Irene plucks the flower from her grasp. She leans up to sniff its petals, all the while asking, “What is it called?”

Seulgi beams. “I call it sunflower. I saw, with my very eyes, how Wendy fashioned the blossom from sunlight, and the stem from the shaft of my winning arrow.” She steps closer, and tilts her head, “Isn’t it pretty? You can eat the seeds, too, Wendy says.”

“It is,” Irene agrees, however, a light frown mars her brow. “Odd. I don’t smell anything.” She wonders if their lavender-scented home may have a ploy in this, but Seulgi shakes her head in agreement to her statement. She scratches her cheek sheepishly, and she ducks her head.

“I asked Wendy to make a blossom that cannot be smelt. I thought that you might not take it so well, having a bunch of odd-smelling flowers next to your lavenders.” Seulgi takes the flower back from Irene, fingers brushing hers, and grins, one last time, before turning around, muttering something about getting a move on to decorating her temples, and making her way to their manse.

Irene turns to gaze at the half-eaten breakfast before her, watching a yellow butterfly landing lightly on the urn of goat milk. She walks to the water’s edge, the golden and silver fish have started to gather around once again, and looks down and sees the red splotches on her reflection’s watery cheeks.

 

XX

 

Sooyoung is in a mood today.

Irene knows because she has done nothing but groan, gripe, and mutter under her breath all afternoon. Sooyoung says things she thinks Irene can’t hear as she plays with Seulgi’s tiny tiger cub—it’s odd how it never seems to grow—but they are in Irene’s home so she might as well have been whispering in her ear.

 “What’s gotten into you?” Irene finally asks, rolling up and tightening the scroll she had been poring over. It’s a rhetorical question, of course, because Irene knows what is twisting Sooyoung’s silken robes before Sooyoung even looks up with an ugly scowl to grimace at her if the constant angry voice whispering phrases of “Stupid Yeri”s and “Rear-headed brat”s are of any indication.

“Nothing,” Sooyoung rebelliously answers, turning her attentions back to preening the cub’s fur with one hand, and popping a slice of orange—courtesy of Seulgi; though how Seulgi got an orange when the world is wrapped in a blanket of winter down below stumps Irene—from the fruit bowl beside her, into .

Irene rolls her eyes and holds out her hand. Immediately, the feline bounds to her, eyes alight and glittering, as if being in the arms of a goddess of fortune was not enough. In one powerful leap, it lands smoothly on the arms of Irene’s chair, and dropping itself to curl up on her lap. Sooyoung grabs the fruit bowl, cradling it in her arms protectively, as if daring Irene to whizz it away from her.

“Tell me about Yeri.” Sooyoung’s lower lip juts out and she concedes, albeit grudgingly. Today, her hair is golden and glitters like the towers of golden coins Irene had seen once in her fabled safe hidden deep within the mountains. She runs her fingers through silky locks, and tosses it back in a wave of liquid gold, haughtily pointing her nose upwards. Irene watches in bored fascination—having seen this a hundred of times before—as the waning sunlight seems to catch at the tips of her tresses, expanding upwards in a fluid motion, gold turning scarlet, until a flaming torch seems to burn ablaze on Sooyoung’s head. It reminds Irene of the red-gold dwarves like to make, and it makes Sooyoung look terrifying and older.

But Irene had been born a thousand years before her. Primordial power lies dormant, stronger than even a thousand prayers, and Sooyoung, for all her bark, is as soft-hearted as anyone would be for the goddess of peace. 

And so Sooyoung concedes. She slumps down and tells all: how Yeri has left her to go trotting off with some new deity (“Her name, is Saeron,” she reluctantly lets out when Irene prods her over who she is, “and she is pretty.”), leaving dust and barely a word said behind.

Irene wants to laugh, but Sooyoung looks so down-trodden and heartbroken that all she can do is reach out to and smoothen the red hair behind her ears. Sometimes, she forgets how endearing the two can be with one another, when not off plotting one else’s demise.

So, Irene coos and coddles her, but she can’t resist adding one last jibe to the devil. “If I recall, Yeri wasn’t the one who kissed Wendy that one time…”

Sooyoung gasps and pulls away, scandalized. “Irene! It was the Autumn Equinox! Festivities were abound, and good fortune lay all over! I was drunk with cherry wine and the Muse of Music enraptured me with her captivating voice—"

“Oh?” Irene raises a brow. “I forget. Seulgi told me that you two did more than kiss that night.”

Sooyoung flushes. Ears turning pink. Irene is never one to meddle with drama between the immortals, but this is too good to miss out on; the longing Sooyoung has always tried to mask in the mischievous and playful nature of her companionship with Yeri. It is reminiscent of her youth long gone, and Irene revels in being a witness to Yeri’s obliviousness, and Sooyoung’s pining.

“It was a mistake. And all I got out of it was a song depicting the vapid nature of a god’s life, and how briefly the flames of youth and lust give it color.” Irene outright laughs at that, and Sooyoung continues, “I had to bribe Wendy to pull that off right away—a hefty sum, I might add—lest the humans catch on; immortalizing it in their scrolls and legends.”

“And why not?” Irene frowns after a brief silence, genuinely curious. “Wendy is a deity with a considerable reputation among our circles. It wouldn’t hurt to be associated with her, at the least.”

“Oh please. I can’t have Yeri thinking I’m as promiscuous as all goddesses go.” She winks at Irene knowingly. “Not with the company she has around.” 

It is said in jest and laughter bubbles out of Irene’s throat, though more out of force of habit, rather than anything else. Affairs are as common as birds in the sky in their society, and Irene is certain Seulgi is not entirely oblivious to her wrongdoings—as she is with hers—but for some inexplicable reason, the thought of Seulgi being fully in the know brings shame strong enough to prick tears in her eyes.

She blinks it away. Goddesses don’t cry.

 

XX

 

One night, Seulgi asks her if she’s ever been on earth, before.

They are in the outdoor pool. The waters are warm enough to lull Irene into a light doze; the scent of lavender petals calming her that at first, she doesn’t hear her wife’s inquiry. When she does, it startles her. Bathing is an activity that requires no talking in all the years she has been with Seulgi, both coming to terms that some things are better off in comfortable (mostly) silence.

Irene’s eyes shoot open, and she looks across the water to Seulgi.

“I—” she stutters, and then chooses to shoot a question back. “Why would I go there?” She promptly decides that it would not do good to admit to Seulgi that she has been descending the earth to look for and bless her children. It’s too odd a situation that even Irene can admit to, but she mostly dreads the vulnerability she would be leaving herself to when confronted with the deed.

(Because it may or may not have to do with Ahreum, and these odd, fluttering feelings that warms up Irene’s being.)

“I do not have any particular attachments to the beings down below,” Irene insists, going with the half-truth in a voice of conviction. It works, and Irene sees a look of resignation drift upon Seulgi’s face under the dim moonlight. (In a way, Irene has always been thankful for the lack of conversation in these moments. Seulgi’s body is too beautiful, and it’s been so long—too long—since they have touched each other.)

Suddenly, Seulgi dips and submerges underneath the calm surface. Irene watches as a dark shape swims its way towards her, before Seulgi finally pops out—hair plastered to her face, smelling like lavenders, and so, so beautiful that the sensory overload sends a wave of want awash over Irene’s body.

 “I have a favor to ask of you,” Seulgi quietly tells her. Her eyes are darker than it usually appears to be, and Irene chooses to focus on them, lest she would be caught ogling her wife’s bare body. A dim voice in the back of her head, sounding suspiciously like Yeri, mocks her.

In all sense of the expression, they’ve only slept together once. During their wedding night, to cement their eternal bond in marriage—and though Joohyun would be lying if she would admit to being privy to certain urges when around her wife, she has always done a wonderful job suppressing it. It nearly happened again once or twice, they can only take so much of fooling around, after all, but those days had quickly left during the banishment of Ahreum.

Irene raises her brows. “What is it?”

Seulgi wets her lips, and if possible, Irene thinks the utter desire in her has been amplified. “I’m sure you are aware of the names Kai and Kyungsoo?”

A brief silence encompasses them, a frown settling on Irene’s face, before she answers. “Ah, the war gods, you mean? Kyungsoo, the Strategist, and Kai…” She trails off, barely familiar with the personality.

“Jongin,” Seulgi helpfully supplies. “Though these days he goes along the name of Kai the Destroyer.”

“Is he not the one who had been sent to live on earth for a hundred years for attempting to steal the Great One’s cattle?” Seulgi lightly giggles at that. “Jongin the Disgraced, he was called.”

“The very same, though he means well, that one.”

“Well, what about them?” Irene is eager for this banter to be over, at the same time never wanting it to end. She hates how gods, for all their omnipotent power, are still subject to the same emotions that humans feel—lust, anger, happiness, a thousand times more.

Seulgi runs a hand through her wet hair, flinging it over her shoulder, and sprinkling droplets over the warm stones surrounding the pool. “The sons of Kai and Kyungsoo have never gotten along. For years, there have been skirmishes between the two parties, and though it was nothing too serious—those two gods, in fact, encouraged it! By gods, saying that it helped hone their sons skills in battle—it came to a point, that well…” Seulgi grimaces, “To sum it all up, war is brewing, and if nothing will be done to put it to a stop, blood will be shed, and the ancestral lines of those two gods may be …”

Erased. Eradicated. Gone.  And with that, Irene knows that will put their life forces in the danger of fading. Otherwise, if worse won’t come to worse, it will incapacitate them into a vegetative life state; an immortal pine tree, perhaps?    

“And why would you need me?” Irene asks, despite knowing the answer. It isn’t something she is eager to get herself involved into, so she stalls, dreading Seulgi’s request.

“Please, Irene.” Seulgi wades nearer, and Irene suddenly she wishes that they were back to talking from opposite ends of the pool. Seulgi touches her waist, and Irene feels another tinge of desire run through her. It’s been so long.

“Jongin is my friend. I would hate for something to happen to him; for him to go through what I once did,” Irene feels gentle palms, settling on her waist holding her, reminding her of the disaster they avoided by a hair strand in the early days of their marriage. “If you weren’t there, I would have faded a long time ago.” Those hands travel upwards, ghosting over pale skin, and cupping Irene’s cheeks in a plea. Seulgi looks at her so tenderly that Irene swoons.

“Of course,” Irene finds herself saying. I would do anything for you, she would have added, but she stops herself in the nick of time. The broad smile the lights up Seulgi’s face is enough to rival the sun itself, Irene thinks, smiling lightly, in spite of herself.

The words slip out of Irene’s mouth before she can stop herself, too caught up in everything that is Seulgi. Her warmth, her face, her touch serves to addle her mind.

“Tonight, I want to touch you.”

Seulgi reels back flustered: confusion and embarrassment evident, but Irene does not mistake the lingering look of desire she tries to hide in her eyes. She draws her hands back, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Uh-Oh-well, I—”

Irene feels embarrassment creep up in a flush over her body, distracting her from her rather carnal desires, but it is too late to take it back now. She settles for turning slightly away, and in a small whisper, she says, to justify her statement, “It’s been so long, since we’ve … done it.” Too late, embarrassment sinks in, and she adds, in an even smaller voice, “I … have needs too.”

She expects Seulgi to formulate an excuse of some sort: to swim away to the deep end of the pool, to leave the bath, to vanish and disappear. Inwardly, Irene berates herself for being so selfish. Is her affair with Junmyeon—though as of now, their relationship is seemingly stuck on a limbo—not enough to sate her desires?

Solid warmth envelopes her hand. Irene looks up, surprised to see Seulgi so close. Her gaze lingers on her lips, and the pure feeling of wanting swirls within her. Seulgi’s thumb rubs soothingly over the back of her hand, leaving her free hand to touch her waist in a gesture meant to comfort.

Seulgi smiles apologetically. “I am sorry. I forget, sometimes. Being with you is just so … easy and comfortable.”  

Irene shakes her head, a shy grin gracing her face. “I feel the same.”

And with a tug of her hand, she lets Seulgi lead her out of the bath with a light heart.

 

XX

 

It has been so long—a hundred years, perhaps?—since Irene had descended upon the earth that she does not expect the feeling to weigh her so.

When they materialize, she would have collapsed to the ground, if Seulgi were not there to catch her. Her mortal body drags her down, limbs heavy, and it feels as if her all her power has siphoned off her. It is a feeling Irene could never get used to.

“I’m alright.” Irene assures Seulgi, though a variety of sensations assault her: the horrid smell of her surroundings, the heaviness of her body, and the cold. She shivers and Seulgi holds her close, rubbing her arms, and then pulling away. Warmth surges through her, and Irene knows it must be of Seulgi’s doing.  

“Come. Let us hurry.” Seulgi murmurs distractedly. (Irene is glad, for she is transfixed staring at Seulgi’s face, similar but with human qualities. The freckles. The dips on her cheek. The red on her nose. All apparent.) “The human world is a dangerous place. It would do no good for us to reveal ourselves.” 

They pull away with Seulgi casting her blessing of warmth on herself. Irene clutches Seulgi’s arm, and follows her lead, as she listens to her wife saying, “It isn’t too far from here. The tavern where Jongin and Kyungsoo are, I mean.” They burst out from the alley.

Glancing beneath the hood of her cloak, Irene sees it. It is the same, yet different.

There are more animals. Men riding on great hooved beasts—horses. Wheeled carriages in intricate designs. Lavish uniforms of red and gold. A starved child zipping to and fro, invisible among the rich silks and jewels, pickpocketing. A man dragging a sobbing, scantily clad woman with him to an alley. Irene is apprehensive when Seulgi braves the crowd, her hand now reaching to wind their fingers together.

  Irene sees it now. The tavern. Loud and rowdy with a ruckus of a hundred of men. The sign hanging outside shows a sloppy painting of a half- woman. They hurry up the stone steps, and enter the establishment, the volume increasing by a hundredfold. It is warm inside, and full of leering men, who turn to gaze lustfully at the two goddesses.

They spot a flight of stairs going upwards, and they make their way towards it, with Seulgi saying she can practically feel their presence calling out to her.

Irene feels a rough hand palm her bottom and she yelps. She turns and sees a man, beard wild and grizzly; the glazed look in his eyes, and the rancid smell of his breath indicates that he is beyond drunk. True enough, he slurs a series of inappropriate comments, as he leers at Irene; much to her growing anger.

But before she could do anything, the man suddenly shouts, loud and wild. He waves his hand around wildly, as if burnt. Confused, Irene steps back, and into the arms of Seulgi. “What in the world…” she turns to ask, only to see a golden ember color dying in her wife’s eyes. Her jaw is clenched, and when Irene looks at the man, she sees blisters appearing on his palm.

“We must hurry, for they must be waiting for us.” Seulgi says, turning away from the scene, and they do. They ascend the flight of stairs and walk past closed oaken doors. It isn’t as loud up here as it is down below, but by then, Irene knows that they have walked into a brothel, more than a tavern, judging from the noises coming from behind the doors. Seulgi’s mood has considerably turned, and she mutters under her breath (something about stupid mortals and those fools), until they have reached a door at the end of the hall.

Irene raises a hand to the brass knocker, but Seulgi pushes the door open, forgoing pleasantries. Her arm is still hooked around Irene’s waist, as if daring any mortals to come near.

Irene dreads what they would chance upon within the room, when Seulgi marches inside. Instead, they are greeted by a rather pleasant sight.

It is a massive chamber filled with tomes and scrolls. Shelves run from ceiling-to-floor, filled with age-old books in leather covers, scroll stacked neatly in one end, and trophies … the hilt of a sword, a foot soldier’s helmet, and (with Irene stifling a gasp) a withered hand, among many others. The room is lit with torches on every column. Upon closer inspection, Irene realizes that it is hellfire, after realizing that the flames do not seem to flicker.

Irene notices the two occupants too late, taken aback with the sudden change of scenery to see the centerpiece of the room: a massive round table, where two men hunch over a map, their respective weapons strewn across the smooth wood.

A man, the taller of the two, notices them first. A howl of laughter keening from his mouth, startling the other, as he excitedly bounds over to the newcomers. Irene stiffens, while in contrast, Seulgi relaxes, though the surly look on her face does not change.

“Seulgi!” He booms, “You have arrived! Kyungsoo,” he turns and grins toothily to the other man, “help is here.”

“As is apparent, Jongin,” the god named Kyungsoo smoothly shoots back. He straightens the lapels of his outfit, a handsome blue uniform, before striding stiffly towards them. A tiny grin makes its way on his plain face. “Salutations, goddess of the arts. Goddess of peace.”

“Salutations.” Seulgi and Irene reply.

“Please! Let us forgo the formalities,” Jongin cuts in, voice loud, and eyes glittering excitedly. He adjusts his fur skin cloak, canines glinting underneath the firelight. “We are all allies—friends, are we not?” He looks expectantly among each other, in a boyish demeanor.

Kyungsoo’s brow twitches, as he replies rather curtly to Jongin. “I believe that that pleasure has only been extended to the goddess of the arts, Seulgi.” Swiftly, intelligent eyes hone in on Irene, as he bows. “My lady, I am Kyungsoo, the Strategist.”

Jongin follows suit. “I am Kai, the Destroyer.”

“I am Irene,” Irene bows, graciously, “the goddess of peace. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

 Seulgi’s hip nudges hers, and Irene looks up, relieved to see a familiar smile gracing her wife’s lips. “You can call him Jongin,” much to the god’s indignation. “Everyone does.” Seulgi grins mischievously as she looks at him. “You did say to forgo formalities.”

Irritation appears in Jongin’s frown, though it quickly disappears within a hearty bark of laughter as he concedes. Kyungsoo ushers them further in the room, and they follow, the atmosphere light despite Seulgi’s complaints of the location of their meeting.

 “You do know that the Great One does not like it if we meddle in human affairs, yet, you choose a brothel, out of all places.” Seulgi grumbles. “It’s hard enough remaining inconspicuous.”

“Well!” Jongin declares, “I’ll have you know! When I was banished to live here on earth many years ago, no one bothered to take me in. Nothing, but a simple inn, who had no rooms, no chambers to offer, but their stables. And so, when my immortal status was restored, I blessed that inn and turned it into what it is now: an immensely popular establishment!” He spreads his arms in pride.

“This brothel,” Kyungsoo clarifies.

“I have sired many children in this very room!” Jongin states proudly.

Irene blanches, taking a hasty step backwards, and closer to Seulgi, who gives Jongin a dirty look. “What he means to say, my lady,” Kyungsoo quickly comes to rescue, “that without your help, which I dearly hope we would be getting in discussion to, many of the places that we deem are sacred will be destroyed. This brothel, ironic it may seem, is sacred to Jongin, a place where he can tie his power down to.”

“Destroyed?” Irene asks.

Kyungsoo nods solemnly. “War is brewing between our children. A mistake that we sorely regret preventing from all the years of skirmishes and mock fights. Humans are incredibly… unpredictable… and for all the years I have been with Jongin, well, war has always been good—for us, at least.”

“New lands to conquer; more money, more power.” Jongin adds. “It has always been a massive game of tug-of-war and we had thought that the children would be better off left alone. We gather power from every victory dedicated to us, that we hadn’t noticed more and more of our kin were dying.”

“This war would leave a thousand casualties, and more,” Kyungsoo says. They reach and surround the table, where a map has been spread out. Blue and red flags, Irene assumes that those symbolize Jongin and Kyungsoo’s respective parties, are placed strategically over the map. A miniature timber wolf prowls over a jut of land, a mountain, and as Irene watches, a miniature soldier, standing not too far from the beast on another mountain, notches his bow, and sends a few arrows flying the beast’s way.

It sends the wolf sprawling, though it rises back as quickly. Jongin and winces, placing a tan hand over his chest. “I am sorry, my friend,” Kyungsoo mutters grimly, though Jongin shakes it away with a wave of his hand. “Ah, it will pass.”

“Those must be your armies,” Seulgi comments. Jongin nods in affirmation. “Not the entire one, I’m afraid,” and he points out the figures of even tinier wolves and soldiers hiding and prowling around forests and hills, “though these two huge ones symbolize the bulk of it.”

 “Can’t you stop it?” Irene questions. “Surely, your very own children must listen to what you have to say.”

“It’s far too late, now.” Kyungsoo explains, eyes glittering with sadness and knowledge. “Both sides have lost too much, too many. Neither will back down.”

“The Great One has always stuck through his rules.” Jongin circles the table, finally bending down to pick up the gray wolf, its fur in comfort, as it howls mournfully. “He has never blessed a marriage—never allowed it— between a god and a human, and so, he views demigods as scum; lower than any mortal, any animal, any plant. In every great city,” he spits out in arduous venom, the mirthful image gone, “the slums are filled with the children of the immortals.    

“Gods are not allowed to interfere with their children’s affairs; and it is only through sheer luck and certain attributes they have gotten from their godly parent, that they manage to truly live.”

“We reach out, of course,” Kyungsoo states, eyes still trained on the battlefield before him, bent wearily. “There are priests, seers, and fortune tellers who are our medium for our messages. Communicate to them in prophecies. Tell them who their family is. But words can only do so much. It cannot stop war and blood from shedding.”

Seulgi is dutifully keeping silent, though her arm still encircles Irene’s waist. Irene senses the somber change in her mood, however, because the sunflower in the vase of flowers the war gods had set at the corner of the table as a form of warm welcome to the goddesses has visibly wilted.

“Goddess of peace,” Jongin grabs his weapon from the table; a scythe with a leather black hilt, and a blade as silver as the moon in the night sky. Throwing the scythe to the floor, he bends down on one knee, head bowed, before looking at Irene imploringly. “We beg of you. Save our children. For I, Jongin the Disgraced, and Kai the Destroyer, will forever remain in your service.”

A polished longbow is laid carefully on the space before the couple, before Kyungsoo, too, bends. He settles his quiver of arrows beside it, and Irene remembers the old stories of how armies trembled when his arrows whizzed past the sky, reminiscent to eagles soaring towards their prey.

“And I, Kyungsoo, the Strategist, will forever be indebted to you.”

Seulgi’s arm slips from her waist, and she is about to walk away, save for Irene catching her hand. Irene ignores the surprised look set on her face, merely squeezing her hand, finding comfort in the gentle palm.

Irene’s voice comes out strong and assured when she accepts the plea of the two gods.

 

XX

 

“I’ve never done this before.”

“You haven’t?”

“Well, with mortals. And in such a large scale, too.” Irene scoffs, trying to mask her nervousness, though coming to naught with the statement that follows: “Surely, the Great One would catch wind of this.”

They are standing at the edge of a hill, overlooking a wide expanse of flatlands: the apex of what is soon to be a sea of blood if things will not go as planned.

The earth shakes, tiny tremors running through it; and Irene’s ears hear rumbles from both sides of the field, as though a great tsunami is passing through. The breeze picks up, and Seulgi wrinkles her nose in disgust, having picked up on the scent of unwashed men and animals.

True enough, the first ones who come within their line in sight are the children of Jongin: as is apparent in their fur-clad attire, and the standards they bear—great heads of wolves mounted on spears and poles. Beasts prowl beside the men marching on ground, ranging from wolves the size of a small hut, to lean mean-looking hunting dogs.

“Now?” Seulgi turns in askance, shuffling closer to Irene and taking her hand in hers. Irene shakes her head, frowning slightly. “We must wait for the other party to arrive.”

As the army marches closer, Irene dearly hopes the other would show quickly. It’s hard enough masking their presence, even with the help of three other gods (Seulgi had insisted on enlisting the help of the aurae and satyrs; saying that they had magic to obscure)—certainly, ten thousand men, and the amount of power Irene is about to let out, would be difficult to conceal.

A hunting horn sounds.

Seulgi whips her head around, and so does Irene. The sight that greets them gives her a strange feeling. A whirlwind of nervousness and apprehension, combined with sound relief at the predictability of action their plans are centered on.

On the other side of the plain marches the men in blue uniforms, much like the ones Kyungsoo adorns. Blue flags on silver poles flap in the wind. Men ride on great white destriers, and the many that are left on their own two feet march with uncanny synchronization. Irene spots the longbows on hand and she clenches her teeth.

“Are you afraid?”

Irene wants to laugh. “Nervous, more like. Afraid? Perhaps, of banishment from our world, once he hears of this—” Irene’s sardonic—albeit a tad bit hysterical—comment is cut off when Seulgi suddenly leans in. Irene’s breath hitches when she touches her forehead to hers.

“Have courage, my wife.” Seulgi’s eyes stare deeply into hers, before closing. A sense of calm flowing over Irene as she suddenly becomes hyperaware of everything: the underlying scent of lavender petals surrounding Seulgi, the luscious color of Seulgi’s lips as her tongue darts out to wet them, and the battle cry of thousands of men as they surge for each other’s blood.

Something within her grows and expands, and Irene closes her eyes, too, to allow the power to flow out of her.

 

XX

 

The first snowfall is the day of Minseok’s feast.

Celebrations dedicated in the name of gods are no longer as extravagantly celebrated as they used to be down below (Irene predicts that in another hundred years time, they would be completely defunct. She blames humans and their constant search for true knowledge.), but up in the heavens, traditions are traditions—or rather, parties will forever be parties.

Seulgi had disappeared as soon as they had encountered Wendy and Sooyoung (It was very, very difficult for Irene not to openly gawk at them—it didn’t help that Sooyoung was steadily reddening under Irene’s curious gaze), youthful laughter had graced Irene’s ears, as she remembered the brief period of time she had to get to know Seulgi right before they were married, and with that, they had parted ways.

The Day of Rest, the feast for the god of slumber, is not quite as extravagant as other celebrations. Though the food and drink are plenty, it lacks the flare and pizzazz associated with festivals. Personally, this feast is Irene’s favorite. There is certain peace and calm amidst the joyful atmosphere; calm that cannot be brought in the presence of pyrotechnics, loud songs, and exuberant dances. Irene had successfully untangled herself from Jongin’s excited hold a few moments prior, the younger god having taken an immediate devotion to her after her “awesome display of godly services,” after Kyungsoo spotted them and, taking pity on her, dragged Jongin away with the lure of drink and ruckus. (‘Oh, is that grape nectar I see?’ ‘Where!?’)

A tap to her shoulder brings Irene out of her reverie, as she ponders on what to do.

“Hello there,” a pleasant, yet familiar voice calls out. Irene jumps, whirling around to good-natured chuckles.

“Junmyeon!” Irene voices out in surprise to see the river god, standing a comfortable distance away from her. A crown made of green stone adorns his close-cropped hair—though Irene still sees a hint of a wave on his locks—and the earrings he adorn seems to be made of the same material. His cerulean blue robes appear to shimmer, with a school of silver fishes travelling from one part of the robe to another under the firelight as the cool breeze shifts the material this way and that.  

He a brow. “It’s been a while, Irene.” He laughs, again, and Irene watches as the fishes make its way from his shoulder to his hip. “I had hoped I would be seeing you here.” Junmyeon breathes in, leaning back and pretending to take in his surroundings. “Minseok’s feast has always been your favorite.”

Irene smiles, shaking her head, ignoring the feeling of mild panic setting in if Seulgi were to chance upon them. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh!” Junmyeon tuts, boyishly. “But where are my courtesies? You look absolutely beautiful tonight.” He grins expectantly, waiting for Irene to reciprocate, but she only smiles back. A flicker of disappointment makes its way to his face, along with a bitter, yet sad, smile.

“I was hoping to talk to you.” He offers his arm, the sad smile shifting into a confident grin, that Irene wonders if it was a trick of the light. Sensing her hesitance, Junmyeon jests, “Do not worry. We will do no talking of the scandalous kind.” His smile grows when Irene playfully rolls her eyes, but takes his arm, curiosity having overpowered her fear and rationality.

Junmyeon leads them away from the festivities, to a more private, quiet area. The path is not unfamiliar to Irene, having had hundreds of years to grow familiar with the forests of their world, that she does not flinch when she sees a hellhound lope in play after a poor satyr. Gods of the underworld are often invited on days of feast, she supposes it is only fair that the invitation is extended to their creatures. Patches of moonlight light their path, and Junmyeon hums an unfamiliar tune. Occasionally, he’d pat the hand Irene had placed on his arm, as if to assure she is still there.

 The copse thins out, and in no time, they are walking along the shore of the river. Strolling along like they have all the time in the world, Irene carefully pulls her hand away from Junmyeon’s grasp. A couple of naiads are chatting among themselves on the rocks, and when Irene turns to look at them, they catch her eye, before quickly plunging into the depths of the river.

“Don’t worry,” Junmyeon says upon seeing Irene’s discomfort. “They’re one of mine.”

“Nymphs gossip,” Irene reasons out.

“What is there to gossip? That two gods, childhood friends, have been caught talking amidst a busy festival?” Junmyeon throws his hands up in frustration. Irene turns away, arms crossed in a protective stance.

“Affairs are an open secret, and what you and I have—”

“Had.” Junmyeon cuts in, Irene turning back to him in surprise. “What we had, Irene. I may not be entirely perceptive in so many aspects, but I know myself, and my people well. We were friends before,” he sighs, “well, we threw ourselves in this, so I like to think that I know you. Too.”

“What are you talking about?” Irene asks.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Junmyeon says, not missing a beat. “For quite a while now, and though it seems to be only yesterday that I’ve had you in my arms, I am entirely, perfectly aware of how much time has passed since we last, truly, saw each other. As immortals, it may not seem much, but…” he takes a step forward, eyes pleading “… for humans, for a heart that yearns, it was a lifetime.”

“Junmyeon …” Irene takes a half-step towards him, maintaining appropriate distance. Not even attempting to deny his words. “I’m married.”

“You are.”

“Then?” Irene huffs, eyes flaring in sudden anger. She forgets how exasperating Junmyeon can be, when he wants to. “What other reason do you need? Now, pardon me, I believe it is best that we return, lest someone might—”

Junmyeon steps forward, close enough to thwart her attempts of escape. His eyes are intense with emotion, and the crown perched above his head gives him an imposing look. “We have known each other for eons, Irene. I know you are aware of what I am getting at.” He gently gets ahold of her shoulders, and stares at her. Ebony on obsidian.

A moment passes.

Junmyeon bursts out laughing.

It’s a pure sound, sounding clearly over the still water. Junmyeon doubles over in laughter, and Irene takes the chance to slip away from his hold, brow wrinkling in confusion. She pushes him in mock anger, and he topples over the pebbled shore. The fish disappear behind his back, as he lays down, spread-eagle.

“Have you gone mad?” Irene asks once he manages to calm down a bit, chest heaving. The change in mood isn’t exactly new to her—gods after all, tend to have schizophrenic tendencies—though Junmyeon has always had a relatively stable nature. She sits a little ways away from him, watching the crazed smile on his face gradually slip away.

“No. It’s just, when I looked into your eyes,” Junmyeon sits up, emerald crown disheveled, “I remembered the numerous times we were told we could pass off as siblings.”

Irene picks up a pebble, and flicks it towards him, intrigued at the sudden deviation of topic.

“You are the most beautiful goddess in my eyes. We grew up together, played together, fought. I was coveted by many, and so were you. We were perfect together. Well,” he turns to look at Irene, “that is, until you were wedded off.

“I was young. Convinced that that you were the one, I swore off all possible marriages, believing that we were star-crossed lovers. I did it all thinking, that one day, this will be more than just an affair.” He looks away and takes off his crown, smiling ruefully to oneself.

Junmyeon flings the crown to the river. Before it disappears in its depths, Irene sees it morph into a large fish, aquamarine scales glinting as the moonlight hits it before it submerges.

“But now, I know that it is merely a dream—a wish that can never come true.”

He removes his earrings and does the same; two silver fishes swim into the river’s depths; his robes, and Irene watches the fabric drizzle away like liquid water, the school of fishes following forth. Water drips from Junmyeon’s toes as he stands and turns to Irene, bare and , and before Irene gathers the courage to ask, a huff barely leaving , Junmyeon beats her to it.  

“You don’t have to say anything.”

He walks closer, close enough for him to cup her face. His hands feel cool. “I know you, Irene,” the river god, repeats, eyes glistening strangely under the silver light.

And then he melts, like ice caps under sunlight. The image of his dark eyes and sad smile burns in Irene’s mind, along with a final kiss and his parting words:

“You have fallen in love. Just not with me.”

The river gurgles. The whispers of what can only be naiads gossiping can be heard, along with the muted sound of festivities from far off.

Irene is alone.

 

XX

 

“I know your secret, Irene.”

They are nestled underneath a tree overlooking a vast sunflower field. Irene was leaning against the trunk, occupied with braiding Seulgi’s hair, her wife having drifted off into a fitful doze, head pillowed on her lap. She had giggled as she braided another blade of grass into her hair, unaware that it caused her wife to wake from slumber.

Irene looks at Seulgi in surprise, brown eyes blinking slowly, and mouth turned downwards in a solemn expression. She Seulgi’s forehead, finding the sight too adorable, as if willing her to fall back into sleep. Irene coos, “And what might that be?” with a light heart—the fluttering feeling blooming within her; it seems to be a common occurrence these days. (These days, Seulgi holds her hand a lot more often than necessary. Smiles to her. And of recent, has been taking her along on her trips down on earth; at first, on a pretense of insisting that Irene mustn’t let the air of earth, during the occasions that she has to appear down below, weigh her, insisting that she has to get attuned to being “earth-lagged.”)

(Irene knows better. Seulgi brings her to turbulent seas, peaceful mountains; shows her the brilliant orange of a sun sinking on the ocean, and Irene wonders if, as Junmyeon says, it is really love within her.)

But this feeling, that Seulgi can easily bring out with merely a tiny smile or a tug of her hand, she too, can easily quell with a simple frown, or even with the right combination of words.

“I know about you and Junmyeon,” and Irene’s smile fades, her stomach clenches, and her spirits sink lower than it has ever been.

The shock silences her, and she offers no resistance when Seulgi sits up, grass tumbling down to her shoulders and arms, and if it were any other moment, Irene would have laughed outright—if the guilt did not consume her so.

“I…” the apology lies on the tip of her tongue, as Irene stares into Seulgi’s warm eyes, flecked with gold, much like the petals of a sunflower. She wonders what would Seulgi do. She has heard, of course, of estranged spouses stemming from a variety of reasons: infidelity, illegitimate children—a norm, perhaps, in their society (and their marriage) but Irene wonders what would pure, flighty Seulgi’s next move be.

Irene watches Seulgi’s hands—deft and elegant—pluck a wildflower off its roots. With a few twists and turns, she fashions it into a clip, and reaches out to pin a lock of Irene’s hair to the side. Today, Seulgi’s hair is brown, symbolizing the warm sunbaked earth. and Irene longs to thread her fingers around its locks, once again.

“You don’t have to apologize.” Seulgi smiles, a tiny grin, and Irene’s heart thumps wildly in her chest. “I have known for a while; and, well, I too, have my share of faults.” 

“Then… why do you speak of it?”

Irene doesn’t admit to the truth yet, curious as to what Seulgi has to say, and overwhelmed with the onslaught of emotions assaulting her. Relief and joy, mingled with a shadow of doubt and disappointment at her wife admitting to her own infidel.    

“Ah…” A flush spreads throughout Seulgi’s cheeks, and Irene warms at the sheer emotion in her eyes. Seulgi shuffles closer, and Irene clasps both of her hands in anticipation. When Seulgi speaks, it feels like a balm to the turmoil in Irene’s heart.

“I just thought that you should know,” Seulgi takes Irene’s clasped hands in hers, and holds them close to her heart, wisps of brown floating to and fro in the light breeze, “that in the midst of it all, I will forever uphold my duties to you, as wife.”

She grins, and Irene knows she has fallen.

Irene looks down at their joined hands and tries not to pretend it is her whole heart encased within Seulgi’s pretty fingers.

She wonders if she holds Seulgi’s within hers too.

 

XX

 

Seulgi brings her home—rather, to one of her earthly homes—one evening.

By then, earth has changed drastically, as compared to when Irene had first stepped her godly foot on its soil. The buildings are taller, more symmetrical. They jut out of gray, hardened ground, like vertical bricks. And there are more people.

Men and women travelling in moving boxes—Seulgi calls them cars, and explains that they are designated to work like carriages, sans the animals. People walking. Chatting.

The noise. Irene winces at the onslaught to her ears as they appear in the alley. The bark of a dog and the yowl of a feline chasing each other, screams and shouts from a crowd of drunken men, and the honking of the so-called cars.

Travelling on earth with Seulgi usually involves peaceful landmarks; an ocean bay, an oasis, a sunflower field, that on the rare occasions that they do travel to cities, it comes as a culture shock to Irene. The sheer lack of the presence of the gods causes her skin to tingle in discomfort, but Irene has come to the understanding that these areas are notable places when one wanted to get away from the Great One’s eyes.

 Irene follows Seulgi closely, as they walk swiftly out of the alley, ducking her head low. Her mind is abuzz and tingling with questions, but she saves it off for later, when they are under the safety of Seulgi’s abode. The shine of streetlamps lighting their path aglow under sickly-yellowish light. It is another world to Irene, and she deflates in relief when she hears Seulgi say that they are merely a few steps away from their destination—though Irene can see nothing but boxes and boxes of buildings all around.

Seulgi veers off-course, bewildering Irene into a brief stop upon seeing her wife enter a building, climbing up the set of stairs. Irene quickly follows, before Seulgi can disappear from sight. They stop before a set of double-metal doors, before getting in, Seulgi telling Irene that it is a device, of sorts, (an elevator) that allows one to scale up the floors of this building quickly.

“Is this your home?” Irene asks, eyes enraptured with the digital numbers in the display, vaguely gesturing all around. She has never been to any one of Seulgi’s earthly homes, and she is curious to see its appearance. Would it be as extravagant as she has seen the other gods’ home to be? (For one, Irene knows that Sooyoung has a mansion filled with all the offerings she had deemed unworthy for her godly residences somewhere in the western desert.)

 “Part of it,” Seulgi chuckles, somewhat amused by her wife’s curiosity. “I’m merely renting this apartment—oh, that’s a series of rooms that comprise my living space, by the way.”

“Renting?” Irene frowns in confusion as the doors ding open, leading to another hall, this time, more cozy, and private. She follows Seulgi out.

They walk for a bit, door after door, before stopping in front of one. Plain, nothing special or extraordinary to indicate that a god lives there. “It means that I pay a certain amount of money to the landlady—the owner of this building—in regular intervals in order for the ownership of what is beyond this door,” she sweeps a hand in front of her while altogether procuring a key out of thin air, unlocking the knob, “to remain mine.”

Seulgi opens the door, sweeping her arm for Irene to come in, but she doesn’t budge, entirely too bewildered.

“Why would you bother, when you can own a hundred buildings of this size?” she asks. Seulgi waves her hand and the key vanishes. Rolling her eyes affectionately, she gently prods Irene inside, before safely locking the door.

The interior of the apartment is smaller than anything that Irene has been to—well, by godly standards. And out of context, Irene blurts out: “But this is the size of a broom closet!” before blushing in embarrassment at seeing an exasperated Seulgi. She pulls Irene and seats her at a wide, cushiony chair; Irene too engrossed at the oddness of her surroundings. Every object is in such close proximity that she wonders how clumsy Seulgi manages to get around without hurting herself.

“I knew this was a terrible idea, bringing you here.” Seulgi shakes her head in mock disappointment, standing before Irene, before she is hit on the stomach by her wife. “My humble abode can never exceed the standards of the great goddess of peace!”

She hits her again, and Seulgi pretends to keel over in pain, laying until her hair splayed out against the carpet. “Oh! The great goddess has come to conquer this poor deity’s useless space of land! Ah, life, if only you would not be so cruel to me in the midst of facing impending doom in the darkest depths of the underworld…”

Seulgi laughs when Irene pushes her down, the joyful sound of happiness itself, and butterflies of joy flutter and bloom within Irene’s stomach, tickling the depths of her heart. Smiling, Irene climbs over her wife and holds her down, sitting well on her stomach, knees bracing her sides.

She holds Seulgi’s face, her full cheeks softly, before leaning down to plant a gentle, lingering kiss on her red lips. Her hair obstructs her view, but she feels the pressure of Seulgi’s lips as she eagerly kisses back, and then, everything seems to fade away.

(It does not matter where they are—be it their luxurious manse or the dingy apartment Seulgi likes to call home.)

 (Irene knows she is in love.)

 

--

 

Hours later, they find themselves on the couch—that is what Seulgi calls the cushioned lounge chair—limbs tangled, and bare as the day they were born.

They are lying sideways, Seulgi nestled in front of Irene as she talks, and talks. She has moved on with the apt descriptions on the various appliances located in her home, upon finding out that Irene barely knew what any of them were for, and is now avidly describing one of the lives she leads, in this very place, masquerading as a human being in this apartment.

Irene is barely listening, gingerly tracing her fingers along the freckles dotting Seulgi’s back. She thinks that learning whether or not the lady a few doors down is or isn’t having an affair with the gentleman settled directly across Seulgi’s room is too trivial for her taste; but regardless, she loves hearing Seulgi talk. Irene loves her gentle voice; its melody, its lilt, its very sound. Her hand moves to Seulgi’s front, trailing across her torso, before finally settling on palming her . Irene nuzzles her nose in Seulgi’s hair, relishing on the pleasured sighs coming from her wife.

“Is this why you insisted on coming here?” Irene sees the smirk on Seulgi’s face as she turns in her arms. “To gather the pleasure of having your way with me in the walls of my own home?”

Irene a brow at the ill-concealed boast. “In this marriage, what is mine is mine, and what is yours has always been yours—well, save for our home up in the heavens. But since you insist on getting your answers straightaway, I’ll have you know that it occurred to me, in the midst of that party Jongin hosted just a few hours back, that I have never been to any one of your earthly homes. With that in mind, I jumped upon the chance when I heard your suggestion of stopping by—” She is silenced when Seulgi presses her lips against hers, so warm and comfortable that Irene practically turns to putty.

Before it can get any more heated, Seulgi pulls away, lips swollen. “I get it. You were curious.”

Irene frowns, frustrated at being left wanting for more. “You do that a lot,” she complains, picking on a habit she has noticed of her wife’s as of late, “kiss me and then pull away. I thought you said you had had enough for one night, yet, here you go taunting me.”

  Seulgi laughs, wrinkling her nose. She settles for nuzzling against Irene’s neck, before drifting off to slumber—although not before pressing one final smooch against the fair skin of her wife.

 

XX

 

Irene materializes in her private gardens, startling an aura into dropping her watering can on the rose bushes. “L-lady Irene!” the nymph stammers out, stray leaves and twigs fluttering around her in a flustered frenzy.

“The intruder! Where is he?” Irene frantically asks the servant, having sensed an unknown presence in her home during her excursions maintaining peace amongst the immortals. The aura raises a shaky finger, pointing in the direction of marble walls and platinum arches. “T-the central h-h-hearth. But, my lady—”

Irene vanishes in a lavender-scented breeze, hastily travelling past bustling servants, past ivory statues. She can make out whispers here and there. The melodious sound of her wife’s voice, along with the gruff one of a stranger’s.

Seulgi doesn’t blink when Irene materializes right in front of her, barely moving when her wife steps protectively closer to her.

“Goddess of peace, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

The god before them bows, and when he looks up, Irene feels a wave of anger hitting her upon recognition.

“Taeyong, the Berserker of the Netherworld,” she replies, not returning the courtesy of bowing. “What brings you to intrude in our home?”

She has heard all about him, of course. He was borne, not too long ago, carved from the spirits of Anger and Hatred by the hands of the Great One himself. The firelight of the hearth glints darkly upon his dark red hair. Handsome he may be, it does not deter the fact that he brings despair and rage wherever he goes, and Irene cannot quell the rising feeling of anger coming from within; despite knowing that it is the presence of the Berserker himself bringing it out of her. 

 “I—” he falters, slightly. “Forgive me for the intrusion. The entrance of your home was left unguarded, and after much contemplation and severe patience, I decided to invite myself in.”

Irene flares up, the desire to use her powers kicking within her. “Do you not know your courtesies, or is the Netherworld devoid of that, too?”

“My wife,” the god is saved from responding by the gentle coo of Seulgi, willing to calm. “The servants all fled upon sensing his presence, and it is only when he stepped foot on our threshold that I was able to attend to him as our guest, having felt his aura.” She touches Irene’s arm, and it. “He did no wrong.”

Irene huffs, haughtily giving him a once-over. Taeyong stonily stares back, stalks of flowers wilting in his presence, and shriveling up. “Well, if you insist. Then I should be heading back—”

  The god clears his throat, and interrupts; speaking in a surprisingly light, youthful voice, unbefitting of one of his fearful reputation. “If I may, my lady. Given that you are here, I might as well ask you—both of you—to hear of the word the Great One brings.”

“His word?” Seulgi tilts her head. “Do my ears deceive me, or is the famed killer of a thousand wyverns acting as a meager messenger of the gods?”

Taeyong bows his head in acquiesce. “I see no wrong in doing what the Great One has told me to do. However, I understand if you do not share the same sentiments.” He shrugs carelessly, sending another wave of negative energy radiating off his body. “Unlike many, I was made from the hands of the Great One himself, and consequently, my purpose for existence is nothing but to serve him. But I digress.”

He straightens up, obsidian armor glinting. The red blade of the curved sword hanging by his waist glows ominously, and Irene tastes the bitterness of pure dislike on her tongue. 

 “The Great One sees all.” Taeyong declares, as though he is reciting from a scroll. “He warns you of your violation of the fifth Ancient Law, under the section of human affairs on the winter of the year seventeen hundred fifty-eight—”

 “Nearly three hundred years ago,” Irene waves. “I had pleaded my case to him not long after that, with the Strategist and the Destroyer by my side.”

“—and numerous cases before that, and several after. This includes reports of the bearing of illegitimate demigods, coming into inappropriate contact with earth-dwellers, and…” and he pauses, cocking his head in curiosity, at what he is about to say next, “and…”

Irene maintains a stoic face, freezing up at the casual mention of Seulgi’s infidelity towards her. She senses Seulgi’s discomfort, prickling her skin. “Old news,” she snaps, “or has the Great One gone senile? Now, pray tell, what have you truly come here for?”

Taeyong looks dubious, at having been cut off so suddenly, but he concedes after a few seconds. “Very well.” He pulls off a leather glove off of one hand and holds it out. His hand bursts into purplish flame, giving a ghastly shade to reflect on Seulgi’s and Irene’s faces.

“The Great One has spoken. He has chosen to bless the home of the goddess of the arts and of the goddess of peace, two beings who have been bonded for four eons, with the gift of child.”

It takes a moment for the news to be fully comprehended, shock running through Irene’s system at the words said. “A child!” Seulgi gasps, out loud. Suddenly, it feels as though all the residue anger has melted away, giddiness and excitement gradually replacing it. Her lips are curling up in the beginnings of a smile when Irene watches Seulgi bounce in happiness: “An honor! What an honor!” Though she forcefully tears her eyes away from her beloved, sensing that there is more to the message.

It seems that Taeyong had sensed her unease. He flexes his open palm, and the purple flames expand, a sudden cold feeling permuting the room. “However, there is a condition that must be fulfilled,” he speaks slowly, carefully looking between the two.

“And what is it?” Seulgi asks, smile still apparent.

  Fearsome maroon eyes hone on Seulgi, as the flame grows. “The Great One disproves of ichor, the blood of the ancients, running through mortals. It should be ensured that the ichor—the power, the parentage—that runs through the child must be his, and his alone.”

His words hang heavy over the chamber, chilling their bones, and stunning the couple into a brief silence. Finally, Seulgi speaks in a quiet tone, smile finally slipping out.

“You mean to say, a child would not be born if its parent’s demigod children would continue to exist?”

The berserker nods. “As morbid as it may sound, my lady, there is reason for this decree. Mainly to avoid power ploys, war, jealousy, and whatnot that may cause havoc and eventual bloodshed.” He draws his sword, touching the tip lightly with his hand aflame, allowing the purple fire to travel across the blade, lighting it up like a deadly torch.

Irene is quick to catch on, sneering distastefully at him. “I suppose that is why you are sent here? To kill when you are ordered to.”

He replies offhandedly, voice devoid of emotion or hesitation of any kind. “You would not be the first immortals that I have lent my service to.” The fire on the central hearth has stopped crackling, flames moving as though Irene is looking at them through amber: slow and constant. “You would be surprised at how much immortals are willing to snuff out the lives of their demigod children for a child they can freely raise and pamper. A child that lives up to godly potential.”

Irene shakes her head. “Then I am afraid the Great One’s offer must be declined.”

A sliver of shock makes its way across Taeyong’s face, before Seulgi cuts in, tugging on Irene’s hand.

“That will not be necessary, Irene.” She smiles as a form of reassurance. “Who am I to pass upon this rare opportunity? I know you have desired a child since—,” she falters slightly, and Irene knows she is referring to Ahreum’s brief stay with them. “I may be a lot of things, but I am not cruel enough as to deprive you of what you want.”

 Irene pales. Her hand goes slack in Seulgi’s grasp, and Seulgi lets go. “What—what are you saying? Are you willing to allow your own children to be murdered in cold blood?”

Seulgi doesn’t answer, instead turning to Taeyong, who has been patiently waiting all this time. The words that she utters next baffle Irene: “There is no need for your services. I have no children to speak of.”

A million thoughts run amok in Irene’s head, though the utter silence that encompasses the chamber greatly contrasts it. “Very well.” Taeyong sheathes his sword—the fire dying as soon as the blade touches the scabbard—and extends his hand aflame before him. “Step forward, my lady, and place your hand on mine. The flames of justice will do no harm to those who speak the truth.”

“And for the false?” Irene asks, finding her voice.  She is wary for Seulgi’s wellbeing in spite of the utter confusion of the situation.

“Well then, I suggest you choose an arm you can do without,” Taeyong replies.

Irene’s heart crawls in as Seulgi moves forward. She watches, with bated breath, as Seulgi gingerly takes ahold of Taeyong’s hand, ready to knock one of the most feared deities of the realm down if he so much as harms her wife. Irene gasps when Seulgi flinches, at the first contact with the flames, before seeing her firmly grasp Taeyong’s hand.

The purple fire flickers wildly but Seulgi remains steady.

Finally, Taeyong lets go. Seulgi walks back towards her, flexing her hand. She attempts to give Irene a consoling smile, but Irene ignores her. Taeyong requests, “And may I ask of the same, Lady Irene?”

Irene shakes her head, lip curling at the thought of touching the Great One’s demon spawn, but she moves forward and takes his hand. There is no use in arguing with a loyal dog, much more one as ominous and dangerous as this.  

Irene feels nothing that reminds her of flames. However, she feels the vast magical energy swirling and pulsing at the palm of her hand, threatening to overcome her were it not for Taeyong; much like the sea wall holding back the immense ocean.

Taeyong nods in finality at her, and he slowly opens his hand, allowing Irene to slip hers out. He clenches his palm into a fist, and extinguishes the fire. He steps backwards and gives a deep bow. “The Great One will be pleased to hear the news. Congratulations, for surely, a blessing will be bestowed upon you. Lady Irene, Lady Seulgi, I take my leave.”

He vanishes in the blink of an eye, taking with him his strange magical flames, and the horrible feeling of despair and rage. The fire in the hearth now crackles lively, and Irene turns to Seulgi, questions running through her mind.

“How did you do it?” Irene asks. Seulgi avoids her eyes, walking over to a bough of wilted sunflowers and lavenders set at a table nearby, and waving a hand to unfurl its withered leaves, bringing color back. Irene follows her.

“Do what?”

Irene watches the flowers fully bloom. “Lie. Those fires were riddled with primordial spells and runes. It would be impossible to find a loophole around it.” She allows Seulgi to tuck a sprig of lavender behind her left ear. The look on her wife’s eyes is unreadable, and she knows she must be patient.

Slender fingers tug on her ear gently, moving down to skate across the column of her neck, before resting lightly on her shoulder.

“I spoke the truth, Irene.” Seulgi tells her, solemnly. “I only have you.”

 

XX

 

Irene wakes up to the sensation of leaves and petals tickling her nose.

She had fallen asleep on the balcony. A cushion, which she is certain hadn’t been there when she slept, gives a semblance of comfort to her back. An array of purples and yellows greet her eyes. Sunflowers and lavenders. Beyond that, as her vision clears away the haze of slumber, she sees the face of the love of her immortal life.

“What are you doing here?” Irene yawns against the bouquet of flowers, and Seulgi smiles. She takes the liberty of placing them on Irene’s lap, as the goddess straightens herself out.

“The curse you’ve placed on me wore out.” Seulgi seats herself beside Irene. “I must say, forbidding me to step foot on our home for a week seems a bit too much.” She gingerly holds Irene’s hand, the other unable to hold back a sigh in delight at the dearly missed touch.

Seulgi smiles knowingly. Irene rolls her eyes.

“Does this mean you are no longer mad at me?”

“Where did you go?” Irene asks, ignoring her question. She dearly hopes it wasn’t at one of her homes on earth, and nearly breathes out a relieved Whew! upon hearing that Seulgi had been at Seungwan’s.

“Grateful I am for her generosity, I can say I’m glad to be back home. Sooyoung has been coming over nightly, and well,” she blushes, and Irene’s heart thumps rather painfully at how beautiful Seulgi can be, “they make a ton of noise.”

As the sun rises over the horizon, they sit in comfortable silence. Irene takes Seulgi’s other hand, and in turn, Seulgi swoops down to press a lingering kiss at her cheek. It warms Irene to her very toes, and after a few moments, she chooses to speak up.

“I’m sorry for banishing you.”

“I’m sorry for keeping things from you,” Seulgi whispers. “Although, I must say, that I spoke the truth. I have no children to speak of.”

“Seulgi…”

Irene eyes her warily. Seulgi shakes her head, gently using her free hand to tilt Irene’s chin to face her.  

“You must be wondering: how can that be so when I have bestowed blessings on every one of them?” Seulgi tilts her head. Upon hearing her wife’s words , it is as though a huge weight has fallen on Irene’s stomach, knocking all her breath out. Her cheeks color and her pride burns at what Seulgi must think of her now: a childless goddess desperate for a semblance of the faux motherhood she once had with her wife’s illegitimate offspring.

Seeing Irene’s wide-eyed demeanor, Seulgi chuckles, and affectionately squeezing Irene’s hand.    

“You may be a powerful deity, yet you are too oblivious of the changing world below.”  

She looks away, the sun reflecting its glow in her eyes. Irene gulps inaudibly. “Immortals have never payed much attention to time. What use is it, when we have all the time in the world? What can be a week for them, may be a year that passes by on earth.”

Seulgi turns back at Irene, irises glowing brown, as though the essence of the sun has seeped within them. “Tell me, when was the last time you and I have travelled on earth together?”

Irene tries to think. She scrunches up her brows, and conjures memories of tall box-like buildings, and the cramped living space Seulgi had called home. “A few moons ago, or so,” Irene guesses.

It takes for a while for Seulgi to respond. Her stare has never unnerved Irene, but now, an uneasy feeling sits within her.

“Ten years have passed.”

“Oh,” is all Irene can say.

“Then,” Irene softly speaks out, “how long has it been since I—you know—have gone to …” She trails off, far too embarrassed at the awkward situation presented. The memory of a little girl, a toddler, with features that bore great resemblance to Seulgi’s, confined in a cramped orphanage surfaces. She remembers the pudgy hand reaching out to take ahold of hers, and the smile that had lit up the once-desolate expression on her face. It was as though she knew the goddess of peace had bestowed upon her a blessing of protection.

“Two centuries,” Seulgi answers.

Dead, the little girl must be, and Irene swallows, and tries not to think of that. She tries not to think of Ahreum, and how centuries have gone by as she wanders down in the underworld. She tries not to think of the bones of mortals buried beneath the earth, eroding, and turning to dust.

“It must be cruel,” Irene comments, squeezing her wife’s hand. “To see your children fall victim to time and age.”

“It is,” Seulgi exhales, and suddenly she leans into Irene’s space, resting her head on her shoulders, “incredibly heartbreakingly cruel.” She laughs a bitter laugh, and Irene is struck by the urge to kiss her on the head, so she does.

“You hated me, didn’t you? When we got married eons ago.” Irene rests her cheek on Seulgi’s hair, as Seulgi’s breath warms her collar. She mulls over her question, and Seulgi continues. “It must be cruel, too, to be chained down to someone you barely knew of.”

“It is.” Irene agrees, cutting back on any remarks.

“I, too, was … upset, when I was given to you. I was several hundred years old—a child, by our means—barely able to witness the pleasure of summertime affairs, pure unadulterated freedom, and the romance of life.

“For some time, I didn’t know what to feel for you. I knew of your affair, since, since… the beginning of our marriage—aurae are known gossip-mongers. But I could never blame you. You were beautiful, perfect—you saved my life once, even if my disappearance could have been a possible gateway to a life that you have always wanted and dreamed.

“You were beautiful. But cold. Very, very cold. And I supposed that was what led me to seek warmth amongst the humans, who greet gods with open arms and revelries; and though I knew it was temporary, it made me very, very happy.”

Seulgi’s fingers play with the petal of a sunflower on Irene’s lap.

“I would have wanted it if you, too, had children. If you had fallen for a human. Countless of them.” Irene’s heart stings at the blunt confession, the ache dully throbbing. “If then, I wouldn’t have felt so evil as to have you look after my own children.”

“It was of my own volition—” Irene tries to soothe, only to have Seulgi interrupt.

“Can’t you see? It is that, that! It makes me feel like a devil!” She cries out, eyes glazing with unshed tears. “I couldn’t bear to stomach the guilt—‘how can I do this to the one I love?’ I often asked myself—so I took a vow.” 

“A vow?” Irene can only say, ears ringing and heart pounding at the sudden declaration of love. Vows are never one to be taken trivially among gods.

Seulgi nods, and she leans forward to whisper a promise against Irene’s lips.

“I swore to have no children other than yours. To love no one else, but you.”

Their lips meet, and suddenly, as though the stars and the planets have aligned, everything falls in place.

 

2/2

 

Bare feet touch the soft surface of the carpeted floor. Irene lands with barely a thump in Seulgi’s darkened apartment.

She can barely make out the dark shapes of furniture as she makes her way to the bedroom. It’s more spacious than it had been when Irene first came to visit—Seulgi had bumped her hip on the edge of a table, once, and Irene had panicked and became immediately set on clearing up the “clutter.”

A door is ajar, noise and light from within drifting out. Irene huffs in impatience, Seulgi must have left the television on.

She enters the room, and rolls her eyes at the sight: the shopping channel is playing on the screen to a very much asleep Seulgi. Irene can make out a can of chips nestled haphazardly at Seulgi’s side, as her wife, propped up against the headboard, snoozes. Irene grimaces, dreading having to sleep on a crumb-scattered bed.

Padding softly, so as not to wake the slumbering goddess, she tiptoes towards the bed, snapping her fingers and effectively shutting off the television—Irene is too tired to locate the remote. She clambers on the duvet, slowly, shuffling over to mold her body against Seulgi’s. Irene’s fingers ghost over the swell of her wife’s stomach, plucking the can away from her grasp, and setting it on their bedside table.

Seulgi mutters something in her sleep, a light frown set on her brows, and Irene cuddles closer.

Her arms snake to Seulgi’s front, her palms pressing up against her abdomen.

She thinks of sunshine, of flowers, of sweet smelling breezes; the pleasant memories conjuring a wave of tranquility and lethargy to flow out of Irene’s hands, and like a sponge with water, to soak up within Seulgi.

A ball of life rolls and pulses through the skin beneath her fingertips. Seulgi sighs and her head lolls to the side, mouth hanging open, and frown finally gone.

Anytime now, Irene thinks.

A god will be born, and an era will end—this time, with an eternity for Irene to look forward to.

 

--

 

Author’s note:

A Seulrene Arranged Marriage AU just had to be done.

So, this is a trope I’ve been interested in writing for a while now. A while back, I remember reading something in the internet that went along the lines of: “Polygamy comes natural to mythological gods.” I thought it would be interesting if I were to write Seulrene in a Gods/Goddesses Alternate Universe (more like a hybrid Greek Mythology AU) with that particular “trait” in mind, knowing that, mythologically, although gods are often depicted to have human traits, they lead their lives very complicatedly differently. And, um, this fic is not meant to promote and support cheating of any kind. 

Anyway, thanks for reading this mildly-messed-up-spiraled-out-of-control-with-20k Seulrene fanfic!

(The title of the story and the chapter are inspired by NCT 127’s Heartbreaker. A song that depicts unhealthy love? Sign me up! Lol kidding aside, I thought the way love was portrayed as an unpredictable rollercoaster ride in the song fit Seulrene in this story.)

Okay, now it feels like a ball of darkness has been lifted off me and I can now, probably, focus on making more light-hearted fics.  

Also, thank you for all the upvotes, comments, and subscriptions to my other stories! I’m really, really glad for the support :’)

(… and thank you for listening to my ramblings!)