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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.) 

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