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Celine’s love ebbs and flows with the leaves of the weeping tree in the middle of the training grounds.
The talismans hung from the branches flutters in the wind as she stares past them and into the blinding sun. She finds herself doing that often, squinting as if to see if she could outlast the burning sphere in the sky. It would only take her a few seconds before it became too much, thus making her squeeze her eyes shut in pain.
It was useless, she thought, to even bother trying. She knew she would succumb to the searing sun rays eventually.
Celine takes out a talisman—which was earlier crafted in the quiet of her small bedroom—and ties it to a low-hanging branch. The Honmoon shimmers blue for a split-second, accepting her protection.
There’s a soft sigh that Celine doesn’t realize is from her own mouth as she watches the ripples take effect. It reflects off her pale skin and into her eyes as she moves to sit down.
The garden was quiet at this time, no one else would ever be there to bother her as she closed her eyes and hummed. She tells herself that the quiet singing was more so to protect herself rather than to calm her down.
Behind her, she can feel the wind on her loose cotton clothes running through her back. Celine shivers at the feeling, pressing her hand into the dry ground in annoyance. Her brows furrow as she attempts to maintain any resemblance of focus.
It had been a while since she got any alone time; from taking care of the garden to communicating with locals on the demons that often bothered them, she had never been able to rest. Most of her days were spent doing work, over and over again. It became a repetitive schedule in a way, which didn’t bother Celine as much—she had gotten used to it, anyway.
There had been a time where it wasn’t so bad, but she’s sure Gwi-ma had sensed that there was only one of her now. She had taken it upon herself to protect the people she dearly cherished. It’s not like she didn’t have help, but at every offer she would answer them with a simple, hard: no.
Celine wouldn’t call herself stubborn, but that’s what the others would whisper when they thought she wasn’t listening.
Either way, that’s how her days were: train, check-in, fight, sleep, repeat. She didn’t think this would be a solo job, but there was no time to think about what could’ve been.
Sometimes the thought does thrum in the back of her head, like a drum in the background of her music. It would remind her of memories that she had worked so hard to shut away, ones that only came back when she yearned. She was above begging though, unlike how she was in those first few days of aching pain.
Those days, where the sun had peeked between her tall bedroom curtains as if it was beckoning her outside, where she had spent her time crying in her own arms, where she had thrown her belongings at the newly empty penthouse.
And oh, how grueling and quiet that penthouse was. Celine is sure she used to talk about how small it was, how close she felt to the other girls, how glad she was that they were together. Those small moments she had taken for granted had seeped into the night, teased her out of her conscious and left phantom echoes of their voices every time she did anything.
She made sure to move out as soon as she was granted the opportunity, packing her bags as if she were running from a storm.
It made her feel nauseous, to remember how pathetic she had been. How often she had gone to bed thinking of whether or not she deserved to wake up. She used to pray to whoever, asking them to take away her pain and bring them back, but it was to no avail.
(You don’t have the right to feel this way, right, Celine?)
A soft, high-pitched laugh behind her cuts her thoughts away. Celine is met with small fingers that lay over her shivering back, now pressing up against her at the base of her nape. She hardly flinches at the contact, turning around to get a better look.
Rumi giggles softly as Celine is met with shining brown eyes and bright skin. She moves swiftly to Celine’s front, splaying herself over her lap.
The small girl bares a bright grin, her long purple hair flowing all over Celine’s loose pants. Rumi’s hyper and clumsy movements contrasted with Celine’s stiff pose, emphasized in the small hand that now tapped at Celine’s arms.
Despite herself, Celine smiles.
“And what happened to your hair?” She muses, moving her long fingers through the girl’s locks.
Rumi giggles in that same tone and it was so unfortunately familiar.
“Braid it for me!” She says, ignoring the question and instead holding a lock out of purple in front of Celine.
The woman chuckles, moving the kid to sit up in her lap. She holds her out under her arms, giving her a look of faux-frustration as she huffs out.
“I thought you’d learn by now,” Celine teases, “didn’t you tell me you were a big girl earlier?”
She can practically see the gears turning in Rumi’s head as she processes that, yes, she had told Celine those exact words not even an hour ago.
“That’s not fair,” Rumi’s pout is almost adorable as she’s brought closer to Celine, now face-to-face with the woman. She huffs, as if imitating Celine, and looks at her with wide eyes.
A beat passes before Celine rolls her eyes at her.
Celine has a tendency to give in easily to Rumi. So, with no argument, she turns her around in her lap, running her hands through the girl’s hair as she begins to hum a familiar melody.
The hunter’s song is ingrained into her, so that’s what she repeats. Letting the tune back into her mind as she fiddles with Rumi’s hair.
Rumi sings along in a rather upbeat tone, clearly gifted by her mother’s genes. Celine chooses not to mention that, though.
Instead, her thoughts drift back to the morning. Rumi had been so eager to convince Celine that she was ready to be a hunter, playing around with sticks in her yard and imitating Celine’s sword. It was almost cute how, like her mother, Rumi believed she was ready for the world at such a young age. She almost missed the sparkle in Rumi’s eyes when she eagerly explained her urgency to become a demon hunter.
Though, only after a few seconds of hyper rambling, Celine had noticed it.
A glimpse of magenta that she would miss on any other day, in any other event, from Rumi’s shoulder.
The weird part was that it went away as quickly as it came. Celine wasn’t sure if it was just her wicked mind concocting new fears, or if it truly was the glow she swore she would never see on her human child.
Rumi had been so excited to do what she was born to—so desperate that she reached out to Celine’s weapons in mixed excitement and joy.
(That same hunger for fighting she had seen in her face, reflecting off her own kin.)
Celine isn’t sure why she couldn’t look her in the eye as she told her off.
Rumi was like that, though, ready and alert for anything that came her way. She was young, never quiet enough and too eager. Celine wasn’t used to it at all. It’s not like she had expected to raise a child this early in her life, especially one that wasn’t even hers.
She was sweet, but too kind in her words. She sang too loudly at night and fell asleep in Celine’s arms during the day. Her voice was beautiful, courtesy of the training she got since she could barely form words. Celine was grateful that she was so good to her, that she learned fast and could listen well. There are traits of her that she could only find in the best (or in the past), but they shined in Rumi.
So despite all the grievance that came from taking care of a 6-year-old child, Celine enjoyed her company.
She could be a perfect daughter, Celine thinks.
Celine continues to hum, never drifting off-key as the song reverberates off the Honmoon lines, which glimmered in blue.
Then, as quickly as it came, Celine sees it.
There’s gold in that tiny spot that Rumi sits in front of, the lines shimmer in a color never seen before. They follow Rumi’s voice when Celine quiets down.
Rumi does not stop and neither do the gold lines. They bounce off the wood of the tree in the same way her voice does, dancing all around the garden in quick motions.
Rumi does not see it, for she is too young to even catch a glance of a demon, but it glows in a way that Celine can’t mistake for anything else.
There, as the Honmoon bleeds gold and Rumi hums the same song Celine had been attuned to her whole life, gold is born.
Celine only realizes that she stops braiding when Rumi goes quiet, she turns her head around to face Celine’s open mouth and wide eyes. There’s worry in the girl’s face as she reaches towards Celine’s hand, which had earlier been soothing her with her touch.
“Celine?” Rumi says it in that high-pitched voice of hers, not quite getting the pronunciation right.
Celine is snapped out of her thoughts once the Honmoon returns to the dormant blue it usually is, as if the gold was never there. She looks down at the young girl and smiles uncharacteristically.
“Sorry, where were we?” Her voice is soft as she speaks to the girl, continuing her long braid.
Rumi looks doubtful as she looks back, but she joins Celine once she hums again.
“You are going to make a perfect hunter, one day,” Celine assures the girl, “just like your mother.”
Celine doesn’t need to look over to know of the giddy grin that the young girl adorns on her face. A small giggle is the reply Celine is given to her statement.
They sit like that for a while, continuing the soft tune until both of their tongues feel numb. Rumi doesn’t mind it though, that’s something different about her. No matter how often or how long, the small girl would never get tired of singing.
Right before bed, right after breakfast, right when the sun sets, she would use her little voice to sing as much (and as loudly) as she could. Celine thinks it’s adorable sometimes, other times she would rather have a full night's rest that doesn’t involve out of tune made-up melodies. She tries to tell Rumi that bedtime is for bed, not acapella solos, but sh’s a bit stubborn when it comes to music.
It’s okay, though, because this is what she has to do. Everyday of her life is built up to the moment the girl herself can become a hunter. Years of methodical training was to come, so what was so wrong with letting her start early?
In a way, Celine can see herself in Rumi. The desperate childish wonder that came from being so new to this world was something almost everyone had, but the urge to hunt was not in most.
In fact, Celine isn’t sure if she ever had that herself.
Celine was doubtful in the ways Rumi would be sure, always clinging onto the hope that maybe, in some world, she didn’t have to be who she was. Rumi, however, would only eagerly wield a sword too big for her and run headfirst into action she hasn’t even seen yet.
It isn’t fair to compare the two, though, she was still so young. In the back of Celine’s mind she hopes that Rumi could grow out of it—but that was just her selfishness speaking.
Because why would she ever want this responsibility to befall onto Rumi?
That’s the thing, she knows she doesn’t agree with it. It’s been engraved into her skin as a child, it’s been what Celine was born to do. Her parents had been so adamant to her that this was what she was meant to do, that the way of the hunter was her destiny. It’s not as if she had any choice in the matter—so she acted. She put on a facade and told everyone around her that this was what was meant for her despite any doubt that filled her poor childhood mind; it had to be her future.
To grin and bear was the way of the hunter. There were no faults or hesitation in training, only steadfast movement and blood that tainted her sword. Emotion becomes weakness, a place for someone to hurt you, to destroy you.
Celine abided with those rules her entire upbringing, placed them into her battles, and came back one of the strongest fighters of her generation.
(Don’t you wish I was more like you?)
So, when she thinks of Rumi and the sudden knot in her stomach forms, she ignores it. She was destined to be what she was going to be, and there was no running away from that. This is how it should be, she thinks, this is how it will be.
Rumi was ready, she will always be ready. There had not been a single moment where Celine had believed she could chicken out, in fact, the chances of that had become lower from every waking moment. Each story of the past that left Celine’s tongue had only been met with overwhelming anticipation from the small girl, who had claimed that she was going to be ‘just like Celine, one day’.
There was no way that Rumi could ever be anything else but that, a hunter. There was no reason for any other route.
So why did Celine worry so much? Why did she shiver when Rumi’s eyes met hers? Why did she squeeze too tightly when she hugged her?
Celine passes it off as love, because what else could it be? She raised Rumi as if she were her own daughter, took care of her for most of her life, and stood up when both her parents left. It was love that fueled her when sleepless nights couldn’t, love that dragged her out of bed in those dry mornings, love that led her to speak when she couldn’t find the words, and love brought her to Rumi.
Right?
She thinks she loves her.
At least, that’s what she hopes.
In the middle of the night when there’s no sound but the wind that brushes against her window and the breathing of the child she was told to raise, she thinks she loves her.
But in this world, where love had brought her to places of broken walls and unwelcome epiphanies, she isn’t sure if love is what she should have for Rumi. In fact, she isn’t sure if she can love anyone anymore.
Not like that, at least.
When the markings begin to show up, that thought is only affirmed.
It’s a loud morning when Rumi runs around in Celine’s bedroom, waking her up before the sun even has a chance to cover her in light. The pats that echo through the room from small bare feet running around in circles is the sound Celine is greeted with as she sits up in her bed. The small girl sees her and rushes to her side, gripping at the daybed as she rambles on in an unusually excited tone.
It’s around four in the morning when she’s woken up, she can only assume from the dark sky outside her tiny window. Celine always kept the windows uncovered to let the light wake her up, it bothered Rumi at first, but she got used to it eventually. To Celine, the natural darkness of the night was a blanket of sorts, holding her lightly as she slept.
Now, though, it only welcomes the elephant in the room to become all the more glaring.
Celine is too tired to hear what she says, so it only goes through her mind once she sees it.
There, on the side of Rumi’s right shoulder, are the marks. In all their bruise-colored glory covering the pale skin of the child. They’re so faint that Celine has to do a double take, blinking away the drowsiness she had.
Rumi cheers as if they was something to celebrate, repeating “Do you see it?” over and over again.
Celine takes action quickly, grasping quickly for Rumi’s arm. She grazes over the faint gasp that the young girl emits in favor of running her hands over the scars. They don’t respond to any sort of touch, not glowing as Celine expected them to.
Celine is somewhat aware that she’s handling Rumi’s arm too harshly as she removes the hand wrapped around her. There are indents where her nails were as she lets go, forming small crescents into her skin.
But Celine isn’t focused on that. All that runs through her mind as she inspects the patterns thoroughly is the thought of that woman’s child being a demon. No reason, no rhyme, just fear that fuels her desperation.
She desperately tries to ignore the oncoming headache that surges through her.
Thankfully, the scars are on Rumi’s back, which isn’t the worst place to be. If it were her arms or face it would’ve led Celine to break down, because how could she hide that from everyone? Forcing her to dress like a nun wasn’t the best idea, especially for someone who was going to become an idol (not that she doesn’t consider it).
But that’s the thing, there was no denying it now—she had to hide her. It had always been the proposal if the girl gained her father’s attributes. It isn’t as if the thought Rumi would be part-demon concerned her, she just didn’t think it would be a possibility.
She spent the past few years mourning the child Rumi could have been, pretending that she wasn’t half-demon. She had prayed day and night that there would be no consequences that came from Rumi’s birth, that her father would have no effect on the child.
And it was fine for the first 6 years of her life. Everything about Rumi, from her skin to her mannerisms were completely human. The only times she would see any demonic traits were in Celine’s nightmares. She had been safe, for the most part, to assume Rumi would be a normal girl.
She was foolish for that.
Now, face-to-face with her worst fear, she feels last night’s dinner reach her throat. Something fills up to her mouth and before she knows it she’s pushing Rumi away (harshly, at that) and bolting to the bathroom.
Her world is spinning when she finally throws everything up, puking into the toilet of her small bathroom. The door creaks open and Celine wonders when she closed it. Rumi peeks through the small crack and Celine can vaguely see her mouth move through the hazy fog of her eyes. She doesn’t reply, or even ask her to speak up, because all she can focus on is how bad everything hurts.
The pain is in her head, her throat, and her stomach. She can’t do anything but continue to puke and cough until all that’s left is the remnants of gross acid in her throat. Her hair is tangled as she pulls it away from her face with a shaky hand—at this point, it’s her whole body that shivers.
Her head is reeling, too. It’s as if any sound is a nail on a chalkboard to her, scratching her insides out. It’s overwhelmingly loud in her mind when she tries to piece the situation together.
Rumi calls out for her and she doesn’t react well.
Because all that she hears is her voice. Underneath the high-pitched harmonies reverberates an echo of a woman she once knew, someone she had long since closed away in the pits of her memory. It’s distant, aching, and wailing. There’s a pain behind it that Celine isn’t sure is real, but in the haze of the moment, she believes it.
She believes it so much that she finds tears trailing down her hollowed cheeks until they drip off her chin. They keep coming and coming and Rumi doesn’t stop talking.
In fact, the girl is so worried that she begins sobbing.
Celine just hears her.
It makes no sense, she’s a child, her voice hasn’t even developed fully, and yet, she still hears her.
When Rumi calls out her name and sobs, all she can think of are her eyes filled with tears, her eyes sobbing, her eyes closed, dead, and buried five feet under her precious garden.
Because that’s what Rumi is, isn’t it? A dreaded memory for Celine, all that was remnant of a girl she once loved.
The girl she lost, all by herself, was just the girl standing in front of her now, breaking down because of her.
In some ways, Celine finds herself mad. Mad at her friend for leaving her alone like this, mad at her for choosing someone else, mad at her for making Celine love her. Her eyes twitch at the thought of how this was all her fault.
She left Celine with all that she loved, then went with a man she barely knew.
So who can blame her, right?
Who can blame her for that anger seeping into her body and finding the closest thing to her past and shutting it out?
Maybe it’s the heat swelling up to her face, maybe it’s the way Rumi keeps touching her with all that snot on her face, or maybe it’s the scorching morning sun that hits her arms in all the wrong ways.
Who can blame her when she pushes Rumi away from her and yells.
Because distantly, she thinks she can hear Rumi call her Mom, but she’s not her mother. No, she’d not even her sister, not even a cousin, not even an aunt or a grandparent. She’s just the woman that has to take care of a child pushed onto her.
Nobody, she is nobody to Rumi.
Celine knows she yells at Rumi, she knows that when she says the words that Rumi is a trembling mess and her sobbing abruptly stops. She knows her face is red and that Rumi is quiet and the room is quiet and she is quiet.
She knows, and that’s why it’s so much harder to forget.
She knows she perched the horrid words on her tongue and she knows she chose to say, “You will never be my daughter.”
She knows that part of her doesn’t care about Rumi at all. She knows that the same part of her is selfish and cruel.
She thinks that part of her is the only truth she has ever lived.
A minute passes, maybe a second, Celine isn’t sure, then movement comes.
Because Rumi—ever so caring, everything that Celine isn’t—is wrapping her arms around Celine. The thin, nimble hands that barely find their way around Celine’s waist are soft and hesitant in their touch.
They don’t hold animosity in the way Celine’s thoughts did, no, they don’t even hold fear. They are just trying their best to get around her, despite Celine’s size.
There's some struggle that lasts for a small minute before Celine moves to make space for Rumi. She’s rigid in her movements as she wraps arms around the small child, afraid to hurt her. It was funny, how gentle she was attempting to be after her cruelty.
Rumi is still sobbing as she grasps onto Celine, holding her tightly and doing her very best.
Celine tries her hardest to stay silent, because she couldn’t just start sobbing in front of a child. There’s guilt that begins to fill up her now-empty stomach, boiling from her outburst.
She didn’t mean it, she thinks to herself, she really didn’t mean it.
“Rumi…” Celine calls out, as if she was miles away. She feels sick.
The girl whispers, it’s barely audible and so child-like as it reaches Celine’s ears, “I’m sorry.”
Which is wrong, because that’s her responsibility. Celine has to take care of the poor girl, not the other way around. Yet, here she was, crying when she shouldn’t be, being a child when she shouldn’t be. It’s almost pathetic the way Celine grips onto Rumi and tells her that she’s sorry, and sorry, and so, so sorry.
It’s nauseating. Celine wants to go back and change it all, she regrets it too quickly and she doesn’t really know how to fix it anymore. It’s not as if she was taught how to raise a child, but it sure as hell would be easier if she had some sort of guide. It had taken her years to hide it, years to unlearn her emotional habits, but now, in the brink of her sanity, she lays in a six-year olds arms and sobs.
The bathroom floor is cold, warmed up only by Celine’s body as she begins to cry louder. It all comes out like that, from her targeted anger to her desperation. She’s sure she’s metaphorically clinging onto any hope she has for herself, wishing that she wasn’t like this.
But it’s okay, because as long as she’s stuck in this cycle of an isolated daily life with the child of a woman she once knew, she would be fine. Because time took away all distractions, didn’t it?
She had to believe in that, for herself.
For Rumi.
For her.
Hours pass, the day goes by, and nothing is forgotten. The air is thick when Celine tells Rumi of what has to change, of how her marks weren’t ready to show. If Celine knew any better, she would say that Rumi was hesitant in her short nods, her eyes fell to the ground with each rule Celine would repeat.
But Rumi doesn’t argue, she never does.
So the rest of the night is lost in fragments. At one point, Celine finds herself in a bed next to Rumi, holding her close as if she would leave at any moment. She thinks she fell asleep hours into the night, after staring too long and finding every trace of her mother in Rumi’s face. She thinks she memorised her breathing patterns and wondered if her words had an effect on her sleep. She thinks that everything races in her mind as she notices what this all meant.
Because she had marks, now, and Celine had to hide them.
She had to hide them from everyone including herself, because she doesn’t think she can handle even looking at Rumi after this, if she’s honest. It’s cruel, but it’s all that comes to her mind when she thinks of her.
Celine doesn’t know if it’s fear that drives her to be like this, but she knows that it’s needed. That’s what she tells herself as she gives Rumi longer sleeves, as she tells Rumi that those scars aren’t meant to be seen, as she holds her close and tells her this is for her good.
Because, is it? Is it for Rumi’s good? Or is it an excuse to run away from those memories that Celine worked so hard to push away, to build walls in her mind that could never be penetrated—not even by herself.
She doesn’t know.
She never knows.
So, Celine goes to sleep with a thousand thoughts, snuggled in between the space where Rumi’s arms reach for her spine—that small gap that Rumi could never close, burning in phantom pain.
(I would know, Celine.)