XII

                                    

                                          
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 cocks 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.