[NOTES] Inspired by Tomm Moore's 2014 animated feature of the same name. (Such a lovely film!) Ozai/Ursa is my everything.

SONG OF THE SEA
Once upon a time, there was a man...

oxo

Once upon a time, there was a man. A fisherman by trade, hardened by rock and glacial as the waters he lived for. Once upon a time, he loved Undine.

But now there is no man. There is a pillar of lichen and salt, shaped cruelly by the Eastern winds and the Northern moon, and there is a story. One of love and heartbreak, of lessons learned. It is like many other stories, teardrops of glittering dreams falling into the universal basin called time, but for a while the story was his. And the story was real.

The story, they said, involved love.

It started with a man with a heart so cold not even the Moon's winter snow could chill him. He toiled all day, and slept dreamless at night. He cared for no one but himself, and no one cared in return. But one day, his foot slipped and fell into the stones, and found a mermaid. A flower of the sea, the daughter of the Golden Dragon. Long black hair fell about her shoulders. Her skin, he noted was unmarred. A face so sublime he wept.

Twice he called upon her.

Stay, he begged. And stay she did.

They lived like husband and wife, and life was good. She gave him gifts, as faerie wives were famed for, and dove into the ocean without his behest, breathing in the waters that birthed her and her kind. Ruby necklaces and mother-of-pearl combs. Curios from the deep that slumbered within the rotting wood of broken sails and sailors pleas. Because she loved him so, because she had seen the contempt in other human eyes that walked down muddy streets who spoke only in the language of wealth.

Ursa returned to the sea often but took no other husband. Webbed hands clasped her sisters as they sang for her. She lived in the light of the sun and her skin, once so pale and translucent, turned golden brown. She welcomed the change and called herself Woman.

The sailor prospered. Blessed with a happy life and happy wife, prosperity blew through the door like a gusty wind. The wet currents he navigated became earthy rivers of brick and stone, and his bare foot, the one that slipped, were clad in shoes of polished leather.

The Yellow God appeared.

His calloused hand, stained with dirt and blood, led hers away from the sea. He gave her a palace instead of a hut, a feather bed instead of straw, and sable furs to wrap her arms in. He lay beside her every night and called her mine. Called her love. Called her wife.

Very soon, Ozai titled himself a prince. No, not a prince. A king.

Ursa bathed merrily in a turquoise room, tiled floor to ceiling in echoes of seaweed and shells. In heavy silk dresses she learned to dance as gracefully as she swam, and Ozai kissed her wrists. She took up the inkwell and learned to speak in the language of sums, and Ozai kissed around her neck. She sang to him and to him only, her heart in her throat, and Ozai kissed her crown.

He favoured her with gifts like she once had with him, the sentiment returned thrice over. Perfume for her wrists, jewels for her neck, and a circlet of beaten gold upon her brow. A fisherman's wife no more.

And the Yellow God grew.

In the slow, languid heat of a summer moon, Ursa kissed gently. To the mellifluous song of cicadas, they turned naked together on a feather bed. Breaths taken and held, bodies trembling and shared. A legacy was borne that night, and secured. A son, then a daughter, with temperaments as different as the celestial spirits in the sky, and were named prince and princess.

Ursa's brow furrowed. The titles did not sit right.

And the Yellow God grew. And the Yellow God demanded more.

Because she did not need wealth, she did not understand. Because she was at truth, not human, he could not explain. Gold beget gold, and there was always more to partake. The dread settled now, the fisherman forgotten. Ozai's golden eyes looked upon her and saw only Queen.

He worshipped the Yellow God now, the one that remained in all men's hearts, the one that beings of her like, borne of air and sea, do not need. The pull was stronger than the tide, and the only thing that appeased the Yellow God was more of its kind.

The King was far beyond her reach, nestled angrily in his hoard of gold and jewels, and Ursa knew her voice would no longer be heard. She crept back into herself, head hung low, and told her children stories of a life under the water. Wild. Free.

The wind wailed for her, howling in sorrow outside the single window from whence the bathtub stood. Autumn crept into her bones, seeped into her like a chill that curled golden leaves and darkened the skies. Her sisters cried into the storm. So many lives taken at the hands of men, so many voices lost to ocean foam.

Come back to us, they sang hauntingly, and their words throbbed in their husky throats. Come back to the sea. If you come back to us, you will be free.

Ursa turned her head away from the autumn rain and listened to the sound of her children. Their pelts stowed away, their earliest memories take from them. Golden children of her womb, blood of the Dragon. A pang of guilt struck true, and by nightfall the Queen melted away into the darkness, leaving behind watermarks of salty promises running down childish cheeks.

And so it was, they said.

The King raged in despair, chest heaving with emotion as chairs tumbled down and servants bowed in supplication. He beat his chest and rent his fine clothes as his heart tore in two. A heart he had sacrificed, he realized, to the embrace of gold coin. He opened the jewelled chest of his soul and found it dying.

From here the story stops and splits in half depending on the mood of the teller. The children disappeared, led by their mother to fathoms below. That is known. Ozai, having truly lost the only wealth he had in the world, ran down to the cold waters, tearing his clothes. The salt of the wind shed tears on his face, his bloodied feet bare once more.

Ursa gave a hollow laugh, and it came out a sob.

Maybe he took to the wind, a perfect storm, and sailed to the bottom of the sea. Maybe the Golden Dragon, aching from his daughter's cries, transformed him to stone. The story does not end happily, not for him. Because the mystery of a human is their heart, that immortal soul, and Ozai had squandered his.

(Oh great king - Vain, foolish and true. Caverns of sword and treasure cannot fill the void in you.)