by Vy Lieu

Kissed first by the ocean and then the sun, the descendent of the dragons, Lạc Long Quân, clenches the sea pearls between his claws. Each pearl was handpicked from the finest of oysters within his watery realm. He then strung the pearls, perfect spheres as designed by his waters, onto a handwoven rope.

It is his gift to her—his wife and the gentle daughter of the tiêns¹, Âu Cơ.

Her huddled figure rests in the farthest corner of the cave they call home. After she gave birth to their children, the family moved here as a compromise: a home close enough to the ocean so Lạc Long Quân and the children, who still resided within the egg sac at the time, could hear the waves crashing against the beach, but also a home far enough from the sand.

Âu Cơ, his beloved wife from the mountains in the north, hates the sand. She’s hated it ever since she descended the mountains to marry him, hated how the grains entangle themselves into everything, everywhere. No matter how many times she soaks in the water, they never completely wash away.

Until now, Lạc Long Quân has never realized how much he misses feeling the sand between his claws. But even if a home without the sand feels foreign, he is willing to trade the sand for barren rocks if it means Âu Cơ will be comfortable.

He settles beside her and runs a hand through her hair. “Feeling better today, em²?”

She groans. Her chest still rises and falls in time with the tide. “Please don’t look at me.”

Lạc Long Quân shakes his head. “Nonsense. You just need to get out of bed, swim a little, relax. Let anh³ brush your hair.”

Huffing, Âu Cơ sits up and hands him the bamboo comb, one of her prized possessions.

The strands of her hair, between Lạc Long Quân’s claws, are coarse and weighed down by the sea water and sand. The back of her neck has been burned by sun, and her hands that no longer hold her love or any of their children, are pruny and gaunt.

And her eyes—

Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t meet them. His wife is not the tiên he met from all those years ago: graceful, powerful, and so light on her feet, the sand could hardly capture them.

Back then, she didn’t need any protection. She was already transformed into a crane, ready to escape when that monster ambushed her.

Still Lạc Long Quân threw the rock and when the monster launched its stinger in her direction, he took the monster’s stinger to his chest. She scolded him and insisted on checking the wound afterwards. Her hands, sweetened by the mountain soil and the fresh water that flowed through, brushed against his scales. As she treated the poison, she told him about her home—the jade undergrowth, the golden meadows that grew out of the rocks, the fresh water that cut through the rocks in rivers and waterfalls, the buckwheat flowers that bloomed despite the weak sunlight, despite the barren land.

“They won’t grow anywhere else,” Âu Cơ admitted to him when she finished bandaging him. “They need the mountain soil to thrive.”

Lạc Long Quân fell in love with her at that moment. Saw himself in her too—for the ocean was his home and he could never leave it for anywhere else. Even if he understood all the wonders she saw in the mountains, it would never compare to the coral reefs of ten, twenty colors, the fish and the sharks, and all the life that thrived beneath the surface and even the warmth of the sand.

How it glimmers within a shred of sunlight.

Brushing out the last of the knots, Lạc Long Quân picks up the pearls. He grips it tightly, rolling the beads between his fingers.

And then he lets go.

“Em,” he says, softly, adoringly.

She looks back at him. “Yes, anh?”

He loses his breath. She may not be recognizable now, but she’s just as beautiful as the first time he saw her. Lạc Long Quân swallows the lump in his throat.

It is not just the sand that she cannot live with—it’s the salt in the water, it’s the harsh sunlight, it’s the creatures that take both for granted. Maybe it’s even the ocean itself.

“Do you want to go back home?” Lạc Long Quân forces out, calmer now.

Âu Cơ stills. “What do you mean?”

“If you wish to, I will not stop you.”

Âu Cơ faces him fully now, cautious. Hopeful too. “But what about you and the children—”

“If any of them wish to go with you, you may take them. I will not ask you to return either.”

“…Are you sure?”

The last time he got her full attention like this, he had gone inland and came back to their family with buckwheat flowers. She treasured the bouquet, even more so than their own children, even after it wilted.

A buckwheat flower cannot stay in the ocean, let alone salt water, if it is to bloom.

He nods with a heavy heart. “Yes, I am. I want you to be happy, em.”

It is small, but a watery smile appears, a single buckwheat flower within an ocean. She takes his hand and leans into his shoulder. “Thank you, anh. Thank you so much, my love.”

And though the grief tastes sharper than the salt in the water, Lạc Long Quân knows he has made the right choice.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Translation Notes:

¹ Tiên: Vietnamese version of an immortal, think of a giant as an example.

² Em: Gender neutral pronoun for those who are within your age bracket and are younger than you.

³ Anh: For males who are within your age bracket and are older than you.

Vy Lieu (they/them) is a Viet-American writer based in NYC. Their work has previously appeared in Variety Pack and The Hemlock Journal. If they are not stuck in a narrative or making art, they are paying compliments to their cat, Layton. Catch them on Instagram @tvy.lieu.