could you love me more than your guilt? 이제는 알고 있어요, 엄마도 그저 사람이란 것

by wtfoctagon

Summary:

They don’t hear from Celine.

Rumi won’t lie. Despite all her media and PR training, she’s not… she’s not nearly as gracious as she pretends to be. She’s not tempered enough to not want her big, cathartic, vindicating moment, where she gets to be right for once in her life—to see Celine admit that she was wrong, maybe even give an implied apology if Rumi could be audacious enough to hope for it.

But. No. The Honmoon is sealed for good, the world is saved, the ultimate duty of the Hunters fulfilled after centuries—

And silence.

Notes:

Hi. Once again, I usually prefer to wait until I have a longer and more complete work before posting, but I need to strike while the iron is hot. The single-minded, thoughtless villainization of Celine must end. If you're going to hate her, you're going to hate her for the right reasons as the complex character she is and I'm going to fucking enlighten you.

Chapter 1: alone, scared, and wounded

They don’t hear from Celine. 

Rumi won’t lie. Despite all her media and PR training, she’s not… she’s not nearly as gracious as she pretends to be. She’s not tempered enough to not want her big, cathartic, vindicating moment, where she gets to be right for once in her life—to see Celine admit that she was wrong, maybe even give an implied apology if Rumi could be audacious enough to hope for it. 

But. No. The Honmoon is sealed for good, the world is saved, the ultimate duty of the Hunters fulfilled after centuries—

And silence. 

Not a single text. No acknowledgement that they did what Celine has trained them for. That they surpassed their training and accomplished the impossible. 

“Don’t waste your headspace on her,” Mira spits with venom, pulling on Rumi’s hair a little too harshly. “It’s her fault things went down like that—wait, oh fuck, how do I—”

“Here, here—” Rumi winces as she feels Zoey grab her braid from Mira. “When you run out of hair to pull in from the scalp, you gotta switch it to… uh… like this?” 

(They’ve been hard at work teaching themselves how to deal with Rumi’s hair, despite the fact that she’s more than capable of taking care of it herself. It’s something they’ve always been dying to do, apparently—something about always being kept at a distance and never getting to do “fun sleepover” stuff while living together. These days, Rumi almost can’t get a moment to herself after getting out of the shower on account of two grown women pouting if she tries to do her hair treatments without them.) 

“No, no, see—it’s getting all messed up here—” Another yank. Rumi bites back a hiss. “Crap, pass me that hair clip—”

(It’s… nice. Really touching, after all the years she spent thinking they’d be disgusted by her. And she’s grateful, she really is, it’s just—

God, it’s their sixth attempt and she’s been sitting here for like an hour when she could have finished it herself in fifteen minutes…) 

“Anyway.” Yank. “You don’t owe her anything, Rumi. Honestly, if the first thing out of her mouth isn’t an apology, she doesn’t get to talk to you.” 

Rumi smiles—even if they can’t see it (and it turns into a wince anyway). 

“Thanks, guys.” 

***

They love her. They mean well. That’s why Rumi doesn’t tell them—it’s not that easy. How is she supposed to just stop thinking about the person who shaped her entire life? The person who held her hands and taught her how to walk, how to speak, how to live. 

She sits down to eat, and it’s Celine who taught her how to hold her utensils. She sits down to work, and it’s Celine who taught her how to hold her pen, how to write out each letter with penstrokes in the right direction. She steps into the studio to sing, and it’s Celine who taught her how to hold her breath, how to use her lungs as an instrument, how to create a sound that fills entire stadiums with just the small space inside her chest. 

And, in the end, it’s still Celine who taught her how to braid her hair. Who wove the strands so deftly, firmly, but never tightly enough to hurt. Who sang to her, told her stories about her mother—

(Rumi wonders when she realized that Celine was trying to keep her mother alive by shaping Rumi in her image. It wasn’t a sudden revelation, a moment of heartbreak—just a slow recognition, year after year, that all the love and tenderness Celine showed her always had at least a little bit to do with her mother. That maybe, that love wasn’t for Rumi at all, just the reflection of Ryu Miyeong that she was trying to preserve.

And maybe that should make it easier for Rumi to hate her. To stop caring. If Celine’s love for her was fake, then so was Rumi’s, because she loved the woman who took her to the teddy bear museum and held her when she cried—not out of obligation, not to get her to quiet down, but out of real affection and worry. If Celine isn’t that woman, then Rumi never really loved her either. That’s how it should work.

That’s how it should work.)

Alone, finally, Rumi looks in the mirror at her misshapen mess of a braid. A creation of real love, despite all its clumsiness; an effort from the people who will always claim her the way she is and nothing more or less. 

Her scalp stings as she undoes the slightly matted end and quietly brushes it out. 

***

In the end, it’s Rumi who goes running to Celine first. 

(It was always going to be. She’d have realized that if she stopped deluding herself long enough to think.)

It wasn’t Celine’s total silence towards her that finally broke her—it was the realization that no one had heard from Celine since the incident. Not Mira, not Zoey, not anyone at their record label, who were also tentatively confused because their CEO had just up and vanished. 

And then Rumi remembered the last time she had seen Celine. Where she left her. Alone, defeated, thinking that the Honmoon had been destroyed and Rumi had become a demon after all, all hope lost, nothing to live for.

She leaves without saying a word. Even with her demon powers, she can’t get there fast enough—the terror that Celine hadn’t lived long enough to see the Honmoon restored, that she died thinking the world was over and she had failed them all—

It’s as much relief as it is pain that kicks her knees out from under her when she finally makes it to Celine’s yard—the light is on. The doors are illuminated with a soft glow that frames Celine’s silhouette against the wood and paper. 

She’s alive. She’s sitting there, her back to the doors, sitting at the living room table having her evening tea as always. She’s alive, she was alive to feel the Honmoon remake itself entirely— 

And she still said nothing. 

Rumi falls to her knees, sobs already rising in her throat. Celine’s silhouette freezes. From hearing Rumi in the yard, she supposes. Probably preparing to fight an intruder. Still a warrior, even after passing on the mantle so many years ago. 

“Ce…” She almost chokes, her voice as rough as the dirt and gravel cutting into her shins. “Celine…” 

Celine doesn’t move. Rumi watches the outline of where she’s sitting with her back to the doors, how she doesn’t even turn her head after hearing Rumi’s voice. 

Just more silence. 

It hurts. 

“Celine, I… I did it,” she croaks out. “We did it. Gwi-ma is gone, the Honmoon is sealed, and—and I couldn’t fix me, but Mira and Zoey, they…” They understood. “They took me back.” You were wrong. “They saw what I was and they still took me back.” 

Nothing. 

“Please…” Her voice breaks. “Please say something.” 

Bugs chirping and buzzing in the distance, the wind rustling through the trees, but nothing, nothing from Celine’s shadow cast by the old living room lamp. Just silence, and Rumi left out here on her knees in the cold of the night. 

“Please,” she whimpers. “Please!” 

Why, why won’t she say anything? Rumi did everything she could. Rumi did everything right. She achieved the impossible, she made a new Honmoon, for goodness’ sake, conquered her demon side and defeated the monster that’s haunted humanity for millenia, and still it’s not—

It’s not good enough for Celine. 

She slumps over, gravel cutting into her palms, her braid thumping to the ground beside her. 

Nothing she does will ever be good enough for Celine, will it? 

Because, no matter how much she tries, no matter how many impossible things she manages to pull off, how many times she saves the world—the fact of the matter is, she can’t be the one person Celine actually cares about. 

And that? That’s something Celine will never forgive her for.

(But Rumi knew that already, didn’t she?)

She digs her fingers into the ground, feeling that uncomfortable fill of dirt under her nails before she slowly sits upright. Straightening her spine, lifting her chin, glaring at the silhouette with eyes that she just knows are half glowing in demonic yellow.

“Fine. You know what?” Rumi rises to her feet, one at a time, stumbling as she feels the blood rush back into her legs. “Go ahead. Stay here. Wash your hands of the—the children you turned into weapons—the second they’ve outlived their use. The Hunters before you must be so proud of you for that.”

Rumi’s breath starts to run ragged with every word. Her patterns glow and burn with a raging purple hue, pouring from her body and staining the Honmoon threads beneath her as they ripple with her anger—

“Stay here. Stay here for the rest of your life, pining for a dead woman who left you and all you stood for just so she could have her demon man—stay here, think about how you’ve wasted your life cleaning up the mess she left behind—because I’m not sorry. Do you hear me?” she snarls, the gravel in her voice rumbling along the Honmoon’s threads— “I’m not sorry that Ryu Miyeong is dead!” Her roar rips along the Honmoon in massive violet waves, crashing through the fence and into the forest before it reaches the mountains themselves—“She’s dead, Celine, she’s never coming back, and I’m not sorry you couldn’t turn me into her even after ruining my life to do it!” 

She stomps, the sound of it thundering through the forest, clamoring through the Honmoon like an earthquake—but, would you look at that? The Honmoon doesn’t collapse. It doesn’t even fray, not like it did when Rumi tore it in half with nothing but her despair dragging behind her. 

Now, it’s stronger than ever. Because violet is just one of the many colors it’s made of, because it knows and accepts what anger and hatred feel like, woven together with the strength of all that it means to be a living, breathing thing—even the ugly and violent parts. Especially the ugly and violent parts. Now, there’s no amount of faults and fears that could ever leave even the smallest tears at its weakest edges. 

Rumi stares at the silhouette. The way its shoulders slump, having felt that wrath pulse through the Honmoon. 

Good. Rumi hopes it hurts. 

She disappears in a flash of demonic smoke as loudly as possible, because she hopes it hurts to know that Rumi’s embraced the demon in her that Celine tried to kill. That it was a good thing, that it was what saved the world from the ruin she nearly destroyed Rumi to prevent. She hopes it hurts to know that she failed so completely at everything she tried to do—failed to protect the Honmoon, failed to honor the last wishes of the dead woman she’ll never stop wanting like a pathetic, simple-minded little—

***

Rumi cries alone under her comforter, curled into a ball. She thinks of the horrible things she said, the horrible things she thought, that she wished on the woman who raised her. The woman who gave her everything she loves in her life—her music, her friends, her power to actually make a difference in the world. The woman who taught her what grace and perseverance look like, what it means to endure in the face of hardship and still come out with honor and dignity kept alive and well in your heart. 

Even if it hurt, even if it nearly killed her, she owes so much of herself to Celine—what kind of person could do that? Would do that? To gloat and flaunt the death of someone your guardian loved—your own biological mother, no less—just to hurt her as much as possible—it would take another level of cruelty, you’d have to be a—

Rumi clutches her head. Digs her claws into her scalp until she can feel little beads of blood squeezing out around her fingertips. 

Maybe Celine was right after all. Look at her now. A demon, cowering from herself under the sheets—glowing patterns, blood-tipped claws, fangs cutting into her lips as the very top of her forehead aches with growing horns.

It’s almost funny that it’ll be gone in the morning. The horn bumps will settle back down. Her skin will lose that ashen shade of lavender, her patterns will dim into a subtle iridescent shimmer, her teeth and nails will shrink back to their normal size, but—

But the memory of what she’s done will always remain. 

 She clutches her head harder. Grits her teeth until she can taste blood seeping from where her fangs dig into her mouth. It’s quiet. It’s lonely. It hurts. 

Outside her window, the city goes on, the world keeps turning, and Rumi—

She’s exactly where she deserves to be. 

Chapter 2: The other side of the door

기어이 이렇게까지 상처를 주고

이제 와서 미안하다고 

잘못했다고

용서해달라고 빌 자격이 있겠느냐?

차라리 조용히 원망받아야지.

그래. 원망하거라.

원망하고 

나를 잊고 

잘 살아야 하는 것이다. 

너무나도 빛나고 자랑스러운 우리 딸.

너를 딸이라고 부를 자격도 없는 나는 평생 

네가 행복하기만을 빌고 있겠다.

Notes:

(한글 읽으실 수 있는 여러분
최선을 다해 써봤지만... 역시 한 번도 한국어로 이렇게 글 쓴 적이 없어서 좀 웃기거나 오글거릴 수도 있습니다 ㅎㅎ
용서해 주시고 ㅠㅠ 혹시 조언이라도 있으시면 언제나 감사합니다 ^^)

Edit: I wasn't gonna say anything in English as an Artistic Statement or whatever but WOW the built in Google translate sucks ass and actually reverses the meaning of some of the lines. Highly encourage you to copy paste to another translator or even the translator that pops up on Google search itself.

Edit 2: find a rough translation here https://www.tumblr.com/wtfoctagon/790929764467736576/chapter-2-the-other-side-of-the-door-after-having?source=share

Chapter 3: an incomplete picture

Notes:

Note: There are parts of this chapter that are in serif font to signify actual spoken English. It should work fine for the most part, but if you're viewing this on an older phone or chromebook, there's a chance they may not show up for you. Apologies if so!

Cicadas wailing in the distance. The sun scouring every inch on the front side of your body. Sweat dribbles unceremoniously down your scalp and hairline, one droplet settling uncomfortably in your left earhole. The way your training scrubs stick to you, it feels like you’ve been dipped in a pool of lukewarm bathwater and left out to dry.

Mira’s not doing so good, either, sprawled out to your right. Zoey’s still up—she’s always the last to go down just because she’s so fast. But fast only gets her so far, and all Celine needs is one hit to send her flying. With a thwap, yelp, and thud, you hear Zoey land somewhere on your other side. 

End of the round. 

You should… you should get up. Dust off your clothes and sit down properly to hear Celine’s review. Even more so because you’re not sure where you went wrong—you were doing well, you think. Moving in sync with the other two, finding and striking openings when you could see them…

“Well done,” Celine says. “That was excellent.” 

You blink. A quick look to the side and Mira meets your eyes, just as astonished as you are. 

“But…” You hear Zoey weakly scrape herself off the ground. “You kicked our butts again…” 

“Because I’ve been a trained combatant since before you were born.” You heft yourself on your elbows to find Celine putting her wooden shortswords away on the weapons rack. “It would take you many more years before we would be comparable in a fight. However,” she says, rolling up her sleeves. “You’ve mastered the most important part of your training: how to move as three parts of one whole.” 

She turns to face the three of you, and she’s—she’s smiling. Which isn’t rare, exactly, but she’s usually so stone-faced during training, stern and uncompromising. 

“The greatest strength of a Hunter is not her own prowess in combat—it’s her ability to fight in tandem with her comrades. To anticipate one anothers’ movements and respond in kind, covering each others’ weaknesses while bolstering a collective strength. You three,” Celine continues, folding her hands behind her back. “Have finally found perfect harmony with one another.” 

Your breath catches as you scramble to your knees, trying to sit up right. 

“You mean…” 

Celine nods. “You’re ready to manifest your weapons.” 

Zoey squeals—barely a second later, you’re bowled over against Mira in some haphazard three-person tangle of Zoey trying to hug you both. You laugh, even as her happy wiggling knocks her arm right against your throat and Mira’s knee is digging into your side—

“We did it, guys, we did it—” Zoey laughs and tries to hop with joy despite the fact that you’re all half-sprawled in the dirt. “We did it!” 

Celine clears her throat, and all of you untangle on reflex, jumping apart to kneel in a neat and evenly spaced row. 

“Thank you, Celine!” you shout in unison, hands on your thighs as you bow once. It’s hard to keep all the energy under your skin contained as your heart tries to beat out of your chest—you did it, you finally did it—

(No more waiting at home, hoping Celine won’t be so hurt when she gets back. No more feeling useless as you’re not even allowed to help bandage bleeding cuts and broken ribs, no more standing back as Celine shoulders the burden alone.)

“We will hold the ritual at dusk, just before dinner. You are dismissed until then.”

Zoey perks up just beside you. “We have the rest of the day off?!”

Celine nods, smiling. “So long as you’re back before six.”

Neither Mira nor Zoey hesitate. As soon as Celine turns to reorganize the training equipment, you’re practically hoisted off your knees by both arms, laughing as they drag you to your shared room. 

“Slow down, it’s only a ten minute walk into town—”

“No, you hurry up! I haven’t had a chance to wear normal clothes and makeup in forever—”

“Don’t forget your wallet—wait, we need to redo our sunscreen before we go—”

***

Rumi wakes up to a big pile of purring blue fur in lieu of a blanket. 

“Good morning,” she croaks, running her fingers across the side of his head. “All cuddly now, huh?” she laughs. “Could’ve really used it last night…” 

A nice reminder that not all demons are soul-sucking monsters. It wouldn’t have helped her feel any better about what she said to Celine—

I’m not sorry Ryu Miyeong is dead!

Rumi winces. No. She can’t—she can’t think about that right now. It’s too soon. 

“Alright, big guy,” she groans, patting his side. “Up you get, I gotta start my morning.” 

He lets out a pitiful rumble and flops over to the side as the magpie chirps in protest and evacuates to the nightstand—Rumi laughs and pokes him in the paw before scooting off her bed and stretching as high as she can. 

Crackle, pop, pip—her bones complain all throughout her body as she resets them, leveling any leftover misalignments from going all… demon-y, for lack of a better word. One check in the mirror says, yup—skin’s back to normal, patterns iridescent again, and no forehead bumps or glowing odd-eye. 

A little tired-looking and puffy from crying, but she’ll take it. It’s good enough for her to head out to the kitchen without burying herself in a hoodie first. 

“Hey,” Mira says, wiping off the espresso machine. “You’re up late.” 

Zoey’s there too, sitting at the kitchen counter and stuffing her mouth with pancakes as usual. It should be a familiar sight, a comfortable vibe with the two of them there. Mira, diligently babying the delicate machine that provides her lifeblood. Zoey, still indulging in that strange American habit of having something that sickly sweet as her first meal of the day. 

Rumi glances at Zoey’s chipmunk-in-headlights look, then Mira’s stiff shoulders and refusal to make eye contact, and sighs as she walks into the tense atmosphere clogging the entire kitchen. 

“Had a late night.” Which they obviously heard, from the way they visibly flinch at the mention of it. Rumi opens the fridge and reaches for the cold brew. “We didn’t have anything scheduled today, right?” 

“Nope.” Mira swipes at the spotless metal tray. “Whole day off.” 

“Cool.” 

She makes her iced coffee in silence. Mira keeps cleaning the sparkling espresso machine. Zoey doesn’t take a single new bite of her pancakes in the entire time it takes Rumi to fill up her glass with filtered water and extra ice before putting the cold brew back in the fridge. 

“How’s your morning been?” Rumi asks as she reaches for a straw. 

“Good.” 

“Okay. I’m glad.” 

“Yeah.”

“...”

“...”

Rumi sets her glass down on the counter without taking a single sip. She can’t do this. 

God—why are they doing this to her? Bad enough that they heard her coming back upset and didn’t do anything—which is, like, fine, it’d be insane to ask them to come calm down a raging demon, Rumi doesn’t expect that—but now they don’t have the grace to stick to to their guns and give her a normal morning like they actually heard nothing out of the ordinary. 

Mira is the first to crack. 

“So, uh…” 

What? Rumi thinks a little too aggressively, aimlessly stirring her drink. She doesn’t even want to look at Mira while she waffles, trying to beat around the bush like she’s not the one forcing the issue.

“Something happen last night?” The milk frother clacks as Mira swings it back into place. “You look a little rough.” 

What do you care? Rumi just continues to swirl her coffee, watching the ice cubes clatter against each other. “Gee, thanks.” 

“I didn’t—” Mira sighs. “You know that’s not what I meant.” 

That’s true, Rumi supposes. She grimaces. 

“I went to check on Celine.” She’s not entirely sure why she’s even telling them. “She’s fine. Just been ghosting everyone the past few weeks.” 

“What—” One of the milk jugs clangs onto the counter. “What did she say to you,” Mira snarls, as if she didn’t leave Rumi alone to scream and howl and claw at herself last night. 

“Nothing.” Rumi idly takes a sip of her coffee. “She ignored me too.” 

“Of fucking course she did.” Mira mumbles some not very nice words under her breath. “Why did you even go?” 

“I don’t know,” Rumi hisses, scowling. “Maybe I wanted to make sure she was still alive?” 

“What, her? The woman who could single-handedly pummel all three of us into the dirt?” Mira scoffs. “If she was stupid enough to get herself killed while we were dealing with the worst of it, that’s on her—”

“Mira—” 

“What?” she snaps at Zoey, fully fired up. “Oh, I’m so sorry that I don’t have any sympathy for the witch who lied to us and taught my best friend to hate herself her entire life.” 

Stop coddling me, Rumi tries not to say, gripping the edge of the counter. We all know Zoey’s your best friend, don’t patronize me—

“I know, but—she’s still Rumi’s family, don’t…” 

Stop it. I can speak for myself.

“Ugh. Whatever. Fine,” Mira growls. “The hag is still alive, yippee.” Don’t call her that. “Don’t go there anymore, okay?” Don’t tell me what to do. “We all know how she is, you’re basically setting yourself up to get upset—we’re all better off just forgetting about her.” 

Rumi grits her teeth. The top of her forehead starts to prickle again, and she can feel her nails start to scratch into her glass. 

“Yeah,” she manages to say without sneering. “You’re right.” 

She turns and heads back to her room. She tries not to slam the door, but the sound of it booms through the apartment anyway.

***

When you get back, you find Celine standing by the river. 

It’s a little strange—she’s usually at home or at the grove, with hardly any variation except for when she takes the truck into town to buy groceries. Sometimes you’ll find her meditating somewhere nearby, so you assume that’s what she’s doing—until you notice that she’s holding her sword in her hands. 

Not one of the training swords—the real one. One of the twin blades gifted to her by the Honmoon, glowing with the soft, shifting hues of a Hunter’s weapon. 

You’ve only seen them a handful of times in your life, and never for more than a few seconds. It was only when you were ambushed outside the grove that she’d manifest them to cut the demons down—and she was always quick to dismiss them after, as if she didn’t want you to see them. 

But now, she’s standing still, just holding one of them. It’s your first time getting a steady look, and it’s—it’s beautiful. Single-edged and curved, glowing with the soft colors of the Honmoon, and with three golden bells hanging off the wide, rectangular handguards. Celine is grasping it by the hilt in one hand while gently touching the blade with the other, forehead pressed to the flat side with her eyes closed. 

Maybe—maybe some kind of communion? She’s never said too much about the actual workings of Hunter weaponry to you, saying that it would all make sense once you manifested your own. You wonder if this is preparation for tonight, or some kind of daily ritual she’s never done around you before—

“Rumi.” She doesn’t move or open her eyes. “You’re early.” 

“Yeah, I…” You start walking closer to her and gesture in the general direction of the main trail into town, realizing a second late that she can’t see it. “I left Mira and Zoey to enjoy a few more rounds of karaoke.” They pouted and complained, but you managed to shake them off. “I thought I’d come early and help out with the ritual.” 

You can see her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, even though she still doesn’t move otherwise. 

“That isn’t necessary. Your role in the ritual is to participate, not to prepare.” 

“Still…” You rub your own arms, not sure what to say. “I can help carry stuff to the grove, at least.” 

“There is nothing to carry. The ritual has no material components—all that it needs is the three of you to be present and ready to sing.” 

You frown. “But then… Why did you say you needed to prepare?” 

She opens her eyes, finally, though she still doesn’t look at you as she suddenly pulls her sword apart—they seamlessly separate into two almost identical blades, pulsing different colors with two bells on the left and one on the right. 

“I am the one who needs preparation.” 

You wait for her to explain more, but she doesn’t. She twirls her swords once with the finesse of a master swordswoman, staring at the way light trails in the wake of the blades as the bells chime with the motion. 

“Go,” she says simply. “Rest your voice. I will meet you at the grove when it’s time.”

It’s not an order, but you still recognize a dismissal when you hear one. All you can do is bow and leave, still wondering what she meant. 

A look over your shoulder, and you catch her in motion—moving through her sword forms like a dance, with perfect, unfaltering grace. You’ve never seen her move so deliberately and methodically with her weapons. She's only ever summoned them in the face of a threat, and it was always over in a flurry of slashes and kicks—but now, there’s a rhythm, a melody as the bells ring softly with each sweep, harmonizing with the faint whistle of the blades cutting through the air. 

It’s beautiful. Awe-inspiring, even, to watch her dance to her sword-song with the beginnings of a golden sunset glimmering in the river behind her—but it starts to feel like an intrusion, somehow. Something not quite meant for you to see.

You turn and hurry up the hill back home, still wondering what she meant. Does it have something to do with the ritual? Will you know once you’ve manifested your own weapons?

(Will she teach you how to dance like that, when you finally know what it feels like to hold a sword of your own?)

***

It takes a long flight over the mountains with the tiger before Rumi feels like coming back to the penthouse. The wind on her face, the sight of the Honmoon shimmering all the way to the horizon and beyond—a reminder that she made this iridescent tapestry, that a little part of her stretches across the sea to keep millions of people safe. Irrefutable proof that she wasn’t a mistake. That she did well, that she didn’t need to carve herself in half to deserve the Honmoon’s trust. 

Sunlight drapes itself over the mountains and skyscrapers alike, the river shimmers with reflections on its blue-jade surface, and she’s home. She belongs. 

One soft landing later, and she’s sprawled in the shade of her garden with the tiger curled around her. Nestled amongst her plants and in soft blue fur, she takes in the earthy smell of loam and admires the way the Honmoon caresses the swaying leaves. The bird, for some reason, gets off its usual perch on the tiger’s head to sit on her shoulder. When she turns her head a little to look at it, it refuses to make eye contact. 

“Are you…” She furrows her brows. “Trying to cheer me up?”

It chirps once, nestles into her hoodie, and looks away almost pointedly. 

Rumi laughs and settles in more as well, feeling the tiger rumble happily against her back. It’s… kind of an odd feeling, sitting here and doing absolutely nothing. Before, a moment she wasn’t productive was a moment wasted—even when Mira and Zoey observed their sacred Couch time, she was downstairs in the recording room or dance studio, practicing and working on their next concert, next song, next big accomplishment. 

Now, without the sword of her patterns hanging over her head, it’s… it’s just kind of weird. Nice, but weird. There’s a part of her that itches for something to do, even as another part of her craves the relaxation and wants it to never end. It’s not that she’s unaccustomed to being pulled in multiple directions, but—

A door slides open on the upstairs balcony. Rumi doesn’t move. 

“... Yeah, I—I can talk right now.”

Huh. Why did Zoey come all the way outside to take a call? In English, too—something to do with her family again?

“No, I… I don’t know.” A pause. “I’m… sorry. I really don’t feel comfortable answering that without her permission. I think it’d be best if you asked her yourself.” 

Rumi frowns. She’s never heard Zoey sound this… formal. Detached. Robotic, even. Is she getting some kind of offer from an American company? 

“... Are you serious? Is that—is that why you didn’t—” A harsh inhale. “No, that’s not fair.” 

Okay. Not a business call. Zoey doesn’t lose her temper during business meetings, no matter how dickish the other side is being. She sounds pissed. 

“I—I’m sorry, but—with all due respect,” Zoey spits, sounding like she’s holding back anger and tears and fear, somehow. “That’s not your call. Why doesn’t she get to have a say in this? Don’t you care how she feels?” 

Who the hell is she… Is this her dad? It’s weird, she seems to be talking about someone else, as far as Rumi can tell, but she’s not too sure—is she arguing about her mother?

“You don’t know that,” Zoey says, sounding so defeated. Who is this, that she seems so angry at but also… deferential, so scared of talking back to? “Please, I—I know it’s not my place to say anything, and I’m sorry, but please… Please stop making decisions for her. Let her choose. If you’re really that sorry, then—then you owe her at least that much.” 

She sounds so sad, like she’s pleading on behalf of someone really important to her—it has be an argument about her mother or her older sister.

“Then why are you giving up on her?” The anger is back, even as Zoey’s voice shakes like she’s trying not to cry. “Yes you are—I’m sorry, I know I’m overstepping, but—please…” Her voice cracks. “You can’t just—walk away from her like this. That’s not fair, you know that’s not fair.”

She sounds so beaten down—Rumi scowls. It’s not her business, but she can’t help but think, what now? Bad enough that they put Zoey in complete tatters over their divorce a few years ago, now they’re drawing her into something again?  

“I… No, not yet, but Mira said she was going to order something in a little bit, so… Yes, I’m—I’m doing fine. Insomnia hasn’t been so bad lately.” Is she being asked about how she’s doing? Well, at least her father has enough decency to do at least that… “Yes, I’ll be careful. Please take care of yourself too. I know it’s usually a little warmer down there, but still… Yes. Okay. Bye.” 

A deep, shaky sigh. Rumi frowns to herself. Picks at her sleeves a little as she listens to Zoey sniffle.

She didn’t—she didn’t really leave on the best note earlier, and it’ll be awkward, but maybe she should—

“Hey…” It’s Mira. “You okay? What was that?” 

“It’s…” Another wet sniffle. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it…” 

“Sure didn’t sound like nothing.” Mira sighs. “Look, I’m not gonna make you talk about it, but… you know I’m here for you, right?” 

A pause, then the sound of soft collision—Zoey sounds muffled, as if pressed into fabric.

“I know,” she says, “you always have been.” 

“Always will be.” That warm tint to her deep voice, when that usual gruff sarcasm melts away from just looking at Zoey— “C’mon. I’ll make you a hot chocolate out of that fancy new Belgian stuff Bobby got for us, then we can watch that… turtle compilation, or whatever.”

Their voices fade away, unintelligible after the door slides shut. Rumi looks down at her hands. 

Right. Of course she didn’t need to worry about Zoey. What was she thinking? Mira’s there for her. Mira—she tries way too hard to take care of all of them, yeah, but especially Zoey, who she basically never says no to. Even though all three of them are tied together by the Honmoon, there’s always been a stronger, brighter thread between those two that Rumi’s never been able to touch. 

It comes with spending all of their time together, she supposes. Sharing dressing rooms, spa days, and everything else Rumi couldn’t join because of her patterns—because Celine told her to hide, and that meant keeping a part of herself away from them for so many years, and now—

Now, it’s too late. Yes, they’ve been trying their best to bring her into the fold, so to speak, but that’s the problem—they already have something, something they’ve built for years without her. It’s not the same when she’s there, when they’re thinking on the same wavelength and basically finishing each others’ sentences while Rumi bumbles around inside jokes and shared habits and so many other things she’s never been a part of. Yes, she’s building something new with them, but she’ll never get to have what they already have with each other. 

It’s too late. It’ll never be the same. And it’s…

It’s not fair. All that talk about harmony, about how their bonds are their greatest strength—and she was kept from it. Generations and generations of Hunters who got to live as three parts of one soul, tied together with a bone-deep connection, and she was the first to be kept from that guaranteed covenant—her birthright as one of the Honmoon’s chosen. It’s not fair, it’ll never be the same no matter how much she plasters a smile on her face and acts like everything will be fine now—that she can just be with them so seamlessly, like she was never kept from them at all.

It’s too late. It’s too late. She’ll have to live the rest of her life as a failed, half-formed Hunter tacked onto the other two like a malignant growth, like a broken bone that never healed right. That’s all she’ll ever get to have, and—

She fists her hands in the front of her hoodie, biting back tears even as they burn in the back of her throat and behind her eyes. 

That’s all she’ll ever get to have, and she’s tired of pretending she’s okay about it.

***

The ritual is short and simple—it starts with you, Mira, and Zoey, standing in an inwards-facing triangle slightly too far apart to hold hands. You recite your oaths, then sing the ancient hymn with your arms outstretched in front of you, listening to Celine’s instructions—to feel the strands of the Honmoon being plucked with each note, to hear and drink in the harmony of each others’ voices.

(You do your best not to show how terrified you are. You know Celine would never put you in this position if she thought you weren’t ready, but—what if the Honmoon rejects you? What if it refuses to acknowledge a half-demon as one of its keepers, what if nothing happens and it’s all your fault—)

Light and warmth circles your ankles, then spirals up to enclose the rest of you in a soft embrace. The Honmoon ribbons forward to grasp your hand in greeting—you grasp it in turn, accepting and grateful, inviting it as it flows into you and awakens every atom in your body. Welcome and well met, it tells you, in the voice of every Hunter before you and with every song sung in its name—

“Open your eyes.”

The glowing strands of the Honmoon in your hands are gone. Instead, you’re holding a sword—a double-edged, one-handed sword of perfect size, weight, and balance as you flourish it, with constellations dotted along the shining blade. 

A Fourfold Tiger Blade. Just like your mother’s. 

“Woah…” 

You look over to find Mira holding a glaive, giving it a small, experimental swing as if to test the weight. It suits her almost too well—tall, imposing, and lethally elegant. On the other side, Zoey holds two strange, hilt-less daggers in each hand. For a moment, she stares at them in confused wonder, the glow of them glimmering in her eyes—but then, without warning, she presses her thumbs against them as if to spread a hand of cards, and they splay out into three blades each. 

“Wow…” she breathes. And as if the duplication wasn’t enough, they start to float just above her hands and spin gently, like a kaleidoscope lighting up her enraptured grin.

It doesn’t occur to you to ask her how she did that—standing there together, bathed in the lavender glow of the Honmoon, you know for a fact that they’re feeling what you’re feeling. That your weapon feels like an extension of you, immediately expanding your spatial awareness to its edges—that it's the perfect weight to add momentum without hindering you. You already know how to summon it, dismiss it, and use it to your whims as if it were an instinct that was buried in you. 

And it’s not just that. You can feel each other, as if your weapons create a new link between you all. Even without looking at her, you can sense where Zoey’s aiming and how many blades she’s throwing—same with Mira’s glaive. You just know where they’re going to be before they get there, and it’s…

Your cheeks hurt with how widely you’re smiling. You give your sword a few swings and feel the way it moves with you—Zoey laughs as she starts juggling her daggers, throwing them high up into the air before calling them back—and when you meet that exhilarated gleam in Mira’s eyes, you both fall into a sparring stance without hesitation. She twirls her glaive as if she’d been training with it for years, easily bringing it up to parry you as you dash and leap towards her with a downwards sweep—

“Enough!”

Celine’s voice cracks through the grove like a whip. Both of you freeze, your weapons almost dissipating from the shock of Celine’s sheer outrage. 

“You do not,” Celine growls, emphasizing each word as she steps towards you. “Ever raise your weapons against your fellow Hunter.” 

“But you said…” Zoey starts meekly from somewhere behind you. “They can’t hurt anyone that isn’t a demon.” 

You look down.

“That is not the point.” Celine hisses, that last emphasis feeling like a slap. “Your weapons are a gift from the Honmoon—they are created from the harmony between all of you. To wield them against one another is anathema to our creed.” Celine stops with her hands grasped behind her back, glaring down at you and Mira. “Swear to me now—you will never so much as wave your weapons at one another ever again.” 

“Yes, Celine,” you all say in unison, heads bowed and weapons dismissed. “We swear.” 

Dry bile rises in your throat as you hear the chastened disappointment in Mira and Zoey’s voices. You swallow it down, and say nothing else.

***

In the end, Rumi goes running to Celine again. 

A little bit because she couldn’t stand being in the penthouse anymore, stuck in her room while Mira and Zoey bonded even more just outside her door. But mostly, it’s that she knows she owes Celine an apology. The things she said last night—they weren’t okay, no matter how angry she was. 

And, maybe… maybe, they could talk this time, if she doesn’t just go at Celine like that. Showing up in her yard all of a sudden, out of breath and very obviously upset—that doesn’t really form a good basis for a conversation. Maybe, if she’s better this time, softer, more respectful, then… 

She goes to the grove first—just in time to see Celine at the top of the stone steps leading out to the main trail. 

“Celine!” Rumi jogs up the steps, stopping hesitantly a little bit away. “Celine, I…”

Celine stops, but doesn’t turn around. That’s okay—Rumi expected this. And besides, she’s so used to talking at Celine’s back by now, it’s just par for the course. 

“I—I wanted to say I’m sorry. For last night.” Rumi swallows thickly. “I shouldn’t have said any of that, I was—I was being horrible to you, none of it was okay, and I’m…” She starts fidgeting with her hands. “I’m so sorry.” 

Celine says nothing. Rumi takes another step. 

“I was just—I got really worried. You hadn’t said anything to anyone in three weeks, and I was so worried that something had happened to you that I…” She gestures haplessly. “I really freaked out. And I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have let it just… snowball like that, no matter how upset I was.” 

Still nothing. 

“Listen, I… I know you’re not happy that I’m showing my patterns now, but—can we please talk about it?” She takes another step. “Yes, my demon side came out, and it’s… kind of exactly what we were trying to avoid, but…” And another step. “But I can control it—everything you taught me helped me control it.” And another. “Please, give me a chance to prove it to you—I’m going to be okay now, everything’s going to be okay now—”

“That’s enough, Rumi.” 

Rumi stops. Why does—why does she sound so tired? Rumi hasn’t been talking that long, it’s not like she’s been hounding Celine for days, it was just last night and now—

“Go home.” Celine’s shoulders fall. “There’s no reason for you to be here.” 

And then she—even though Rumi apologized, even though Rumi begged and tried to be agreeable, tried to be careful, tried to be good—she just—

She walks away.  

Rumi’s throat tightens. Her lungs refuse to work. The sight of Celine, walking away—not just ignoring her, letting her scream and cry to herself, but leaving her here—it runs right through her chest with serrated edges and stays there, not even letting her bleed the pain out of her body. 

She walked away. She walked away, just like that. Like Rumi meant nothing to her in the first place. Like she has no use for Rumi now that the Honmoon is secured. A tool, discarded after it outlives its purpose. 

Trees and trail blurring together. The grey of cloth as it fades away. The grey of stone, broken only by the whites of her shoes. 

Something turns her to the side. Pulls her along in tottering, pathetic little steps. Deposits her on the rocky base of a well-kept grave. 

Fresh flowers. Newly lit incense sticks in clean vases. A plate of four golden pears, stacked neatly in a small tower. 

류
미
영
의

묘

“This is your fault,” Rumi hears herself say, trembling. “This is your fault!” 

She screams, knocking over the vase of flowers and incense, taking the plate of pears and throwing it as hard as possible—it’s not fair, it’s not fair—why does she get to have all this love and care from Celine, years after she died? 

“You left her,” Rumi shrieks, slamming her fists against the stone steps. “You left her, you did this to her—why?!” Her voice shatters, broken bits of it tearing up her throat. “Why does she still care so much about you when I—when I’m the one who’s been here, I’m the one who had to make up for you after you forced me on her—why?!” 

Everything—Rumi did everything Celine asked, no matter how hard, no matter how much it took from her—she did her best, she did her best to make sure Celine wasn’t alone, to fill the hole her mother left behind, because she knew that she had so much to make up for. She knew that Celine never wanted her, never wanted this life, that it went against everything she believed just to raise her—

Another scream, and a pulse of red ripples through the Honmoon.

“Why couldn’t you just do the right thing? Why—why couldn’t you just get rid of me—why did you make me clean up after your mistakes, your selfishness!? You knew what I was going to be!” she howls, punching the stone dais until it cracks. “You’re the reason it ended up like this—you’re the reason I had to hide, you’re the reason she could never—” she wails, letting the reds and purples pour out of her like poison— “I hate you!” 

Her fault, her fault—she’s the reason Rumi had to live like this, pulled away from everything she loves—one foot chained outside the door, kept half an arm’s length away from Mira, Zoey, Celine, the Honmoon itself. Not a demon and not a Hunter, not herself and not her mother, never good enough to be anything at all even if she broke herself trying—doomed to this isolation and half-existence where no one can touch her and everyone leaves—

“I hate you. I hate you,” she cries, sobbing quietly into the stone. “Why couldn’t you get rid of me? Why…” Her chest heaves as she whimpers, curled up against the altar. “Why didn’t you take me with you?” Tears fall onto the crack she made, sinking into the earth below. “Why did you have to leave me too?” 

***

It turns out Celine lied a little by omission, once again—the ritual itself needed no preparation. But the incredible feast that Celine somehow pulled together on her own, that’s something you could have helped with if you’d been allowed to. 

An improvised barrel grill, two platters of premium meat, lettuce and ssamjang, a whole spread of banchan and even bowls of dwenjang stew to go with it all—you wish she’d told you so she wouldn’t have had to do it all herself, but…

That’s how it’s always been, you suppose. Always being taken care of without being allowed to help. And if it’s not Celine, it’s Mira—she takes over as soon as Celine finishes her portion and excuses herself to let you celebrate. It’s all hisses and growls from her after that, your hands getting slapped away every time you so much as poke at the meat. Mira accuses you of finding her grilling inadequate and all you and Zoey can do is raise the white flag and let her spoil you, all of you laughing and stuffing your faces as the night goes on. 

After all the meat is gone and you’re left with another of Zoey’s quirky anecdotes over the last of your food, you excuse yourself as well. Sweet charcoal smoke clings to your clothes as you walk up the hill, the trees rustling at your sides as you trudge along the trail. 

At the entrance to the grove, your sneakers land soundlessly on the stone steps. You squint to see Celine sitting on the stone bench by the tree, carving out what looks like the head of Mira’s glaive from a chunk of wood. 

“Celine…” 

Celine stops. Her head turns slightly towards you, but she doesn’t rise from her seat. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, continuing to carve. “You should still be celebrating with the others.” 

“It’s fine, I told them I’d be right back…” They complained, once again, but this time seemed more amenable to you going to talk to Celine—you’d at least keep her occupied while they swiped a few soju bottles. “Are you making new practice weapons?” 

“Yes. You may continue using the wooden swords, but Mira will need to repurpose some of the quarterstaves,” she sighs, “and I will have to find something suitable for Zoey.” 

Right. It’d be hard to make an equivalent out of wood, when she can summon as many of them as she wants and levitate them. 

“Can I help?” 

“No, Rumi. Tonight is supposed to be a celebration for you. Go back to the house—I’ll be back before long.” 

“But…” You grab your arm, just over the patterns. She wouldn’t have to do this if it weren’t for you. “I just wanted…” 

To make up for it, in any way you can. Now that you’re a fully fledged Hunter, you can accompany her on patrols, help share the burden, and maybe…

You summon your sword. It shimmers, singing to you with its light even in the silence.

“Sparring with our weapons is an expression of kinship,” you recite, holding the blade gently. “A dance of sisterhood, a reaffirmation of our bonds.” 

Celine stops again. 

“Where did you hear that?” 

“I read it.” You grasp your sword tighter, one hand pressing against the smooth but matte, jade-like texture of the blade. “In one of the old annals—at your office in Seoul.”  

Celine sighs before setting aside her carving knife. “I’ll have to lock those away.”

That sour feeling roils in your stomach like sandpaper against your insides. 

“Do we really have to lie to them like this?” You grimace. “I mean, it’s just sparring, it—”

“No.” You almost flinch at how harsh and final she sounds. “All it would take is one accident, one misstep—I won’t allow it.”

You look down at your sword. You—you hate it, how much you’re lying to them, but Celine’s right. And… it's okay, for now. That’s not really what you’re here for, what you’ve been waiting for this whole time.

“Celine…” You take a step closer. “Will you spar with me?” 

She says nothing. 

“I know—I know I can’t with the others, but—I don’t need to hide it from you, so…” Your sword digs into your fingers as you grip it too tight. “And I—I have the same sword as my mother—I know it’s been a while, and it won’t be the same, but, I just thought… since you’ve been on your own for so long…” 

It’s funny—you’ve wanted to ask her this for so long, you should be more articulate. You should know how you wanted to ask her, down to the exact order of every word. But here you are—stumbling over everything trying to make its way out of your mouth, not even sure if you’re making much sense. 

It just hurts. It hurts to think about her being the only Hunter left in the world for so long—twenty years of carrying on a duty she was never meant to shoulder alone. Even if it’s not the same, even if you’re not your mother, if this is one thing you could give back to her—to really prove she isn’t alone anymore—

“No, Rumi.” She sounds tired as she takes her knife again. “I cannot.” 

“But—” It’s been years since you’ve spoken back to her like this, but you can’t help it— “I’m a Hunter now, too, you could—”

“Enough.” You flinch—she doesn’t snap at you nearly as loud or harshly as earlier, but it still stings. “A duel between keepers of the Honmoon is a sacred rite, only to be shared between fully realized Hunters. That privilege will go to your comrades, once your patterns are dealt with.” She sighs. “Do not ask this of me again.” 

Oh. 

But you—you just wanted…

“Go now. The others will be waiting for you.” 

You look down. 

“Yes, Celine.” 

You turn, dismissing your sword as you trudge up the stone steps. It’s… fine. You should have expected this. Why would Celine want to share a cherished Hunter’s tradition with a half-demon? You might have your mother’s sword now, but you’re not there yet. You’re not a fully realized Hunter yet, and you won’t be until you seal the Honmoon—you just—

You just need to try harder. It’s fine. You’ll get there. You will. 

You will.

***

Hours later, Rumi stares at the grave of another woman who left her behind. She quietly rights the incense and flowers, collects the pears, and sets it all back as it was. There’s a crack in the altar, petals scattered, a broken stick of incense—it doesn’t look the same. No matter what she does to put it back together, it won’t be the same—

Rumi looks down and summons her sword. The big, bright blade weaves itself together in her hands, weighing down with a new heaviness. There are no more constellations, just the same winding patterns as Mira’s gokdo and Zoey’s shinkal—curling threads in the colors of the Honmoon, weaving all the way from the hilt to the curved and tapered end. 

No more constellations. The sword she inherited is gone. A part of her mother that lived on in her is gone for good. 

Rumi rises to her feet, sword in hand, and spares the grave one last look. The final resting place of Ryu Miyeong, the woman who brought her into this world knowing what she would be. Who sentenced her to a life of isolation and couldn’t even stay long enough to help her through the worst of it. 

Celine can do what she wants, Rumi thinks at the name carved in the stone, just before she turns away. But I won’t let you haunt me anymore. 

***

[Hi Bobby, could you call a meeting with our Marketing and PR people for me?]

[Uhhh]

[Can do, no problem, but what’s up?]

[I’m going to cut my hair]

[Just wanted to give everyone a heads up so it’s not a nightmare to handle brand image and fan reaction and all that]

[How short are we talking?]

[Above the shoulders.]

[Oohhhh yeah. That’s a big one. I’ll get that set up ASAP.]

[You want Mira and Zoey there too?]

[Yeah, I guess they should be.]

[Alright! And don’t worry about it, Rumi, we’ll figure everything out - everyone’s gonna love your new look!]

 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Sad Korean Girls Club (I'm not sorry so go fuck yourself)