Work Text:
You were used to Celine’s paranoia and anxiety. You had to be after being with her for so long. Had learned early on that Celine could be overly cautious and highly protective at times.
If she hadn’t heard from you in a while, then her mind would start filling with worst-case scenarios. Maybe you got hurt, maybe you got kidnapped, maybe a demon got you while Celine wasn’t busy or distracted. She wouldn’t relax, couldn't relax, until she heard your voice confirming that you were okay.
At home, she refused to go to bed until she had done a walkthrough of her own home; double-checking every room, making sure every door and window was locked, making sure that you were safe. You had teased her only once over it and felt guilty for it almost immediately, with the way that she had shrunk back. If this was what Celine needed to feel safe in her own home after long nights of fighting demons, then you weren't going to judge her. You would help her in whatever way you could.
Once the Sunlight Sisters fell apart with the loss of Miyeong, her paranoia worsened. Miyeong’s death had been a jarring reminder of how fragile their lives were.
And what’s more? Suddenly, it wasn’t only you she needed to protect, but Rumi too. Suddenly, she was carrying the weight of protecting the whole world all on her own. She had become Atlas, carrying the Heavens on her shoulders. Doing everything in her power to keep you and Rumi safe in a world that wanted nothing more than to chew both of you up.
Even as Rumi got older, those worries and fears Celine carried didn’t ease; she couldn't rest.
The Honmoon was growing weaker with each passing year. There was only so much Celine could do to protect it, but one hunter was never going to be enough. As skilled as Celine was, she was only one woman trying to do the work of three. More demons were slipping through; the cracks were deepening.
Her fears only worsened.
You had lost track of how often you woke up to Celine fretting over you, as if she were afraid you had died in your sleep, died while she was gone. You had lost count of how often you would slip out of bed in the late hours of the night and find your wife asleep on the floor, back to Rumi's crib, and her ssanggeom in each hand.
Sometimes you’d find her awake and standing over Rumis crib—and later bed as the years passed—as she stood watch. Stood guard. “Sojunghan saram,” she would whisper to the girl as she tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear, watching the child smile in her sleep, snuggling against her teddy bear.
There was one night in particular you still remembered vividly. The feeling of waking up to a heavy presence looming over you, callused fingers at your throat.
Jolting awake, you were met with a ragged Celine kneeling over you on the bed, fingers pressed to your pulse point on your throat with an air of desperation. She was covered in bruises and still-bleeding cuts from the latest round of demons she had to fight off.
“You… you were so still,” Celine explained in a dreadful whisper as she pulled her shaking hand back, holding it to her chest as if you had burned her. “I had to be sure.”
She’d already lost two of her closest friends; she couldn’t stand the thought of losing either you or Rumi, too. She was scared, she was anxious, and she had to constantly make sure that you were okay. That you weren't about to be torn from her life, too.
And you couldn’t blame her, couldn’t bring yourself to even pretend to be annoyed at how you were woken.
You took her hand in yours and pressed a kiss to her bruised knuckles to show that this was real, that you were living, not a ghost or memory of another lost friend, “I'm fine, we’re fine, nae sarang,” you murmured. You were here, and Rumi was sleeping soundly in her own room across the hall.
Crawling out of bed, you carefully led Celine out of your shared room. She didn’t make a fuss, didn’t argue as you made her take a seat at the kitchen island, only letting out a quiet, almost unnoticeable, whine when you let go of her hand and walked away.
The first aid kit was in the bathroom; it was sizable, bigger than you suspected most households needed, and was very well used. Tucking the metal box under your arm, you’d grabbed a washcloth and then retrieved a bowl of warm water from the kitchen. You’d done this song and dance plenty of times, the steps second nature at this point.
You carefully washed the blood and dirt off her with the damp cloth, watching the bowl of water slowly turn redder and redder each time you dipped the cloth in it. You poured it out and replaced it with fresh water three times before you were satisfied with the result.
Then began the slow process of finally cleaning out each wound made by demon claws and weapons. She was covered in so many gashes and scrapes, deep cuts and light scratches. You wondered which of these would leave behind scars that not even the Honmoon could heal.
It wasn't always this way. Celine never used to come home this injured when she had the other Sunlight Sisters to watch her back. A few bruises, a couple of cuts. Nothing some band-aids, concealer, and a kiss couldn't fix. Now she came home each night like she had dragged herself out of a warzone.
You never said anything about it. She was doing all she could, the work of three on the shoulders of one. If she came home more injured than she used to, then you'd kiss her bruises and wrap her cuts. You were just grateful she came home, period.
Each injury you took your time with and cared for, being as thorough as you could, cleaning and disinfecting it before moving on to the next, staying as gentle as you could with Celine.
It was as you were wetting another cotton ball with disinfectant that Celine stiffened in a familiar way, bringing you to pause. To listen. Quiet footsteps, the gentle creak of floorboards. An even softer gasp cutting through the air.
“You should be in bed, little cub."
Turning around, you were met with the sight of the small girl loitering around the corner, trying to be sneaky as she watched. Rumi had her teddy bear tucked under one arm, and her eyes were wide with fright as she peered at you two.
“…Is Celine going to be okay?” she asked in a whisper.
Celine pushed past the pain to offer Rumi a strained smile, holding out a hand in a quiet invitation for her to come over. “I’ll be fine, Rumi,” she assured the girl who scampered across the room to latch on to her. “I’m far tougher than I look.”
Rumi nuzzled into her hand, eyes still wet with tears, mind clearly rushing over all the worst what-ifs it could imagine after seeing Celine so hurt.
Like mother, like daughter, you suppose.
They had done well up until now to keep Rumi away from this side of demon hunting. She could be told stories of hunts and fights; you and Celine could paint them as fantastical, heroic battles that she might see in her cartoons or read in a book. The kind of fights where the hero always wins and no one really gets hurt. Fairy tale happily ever after endings.
But you had both always made sure she never saw the aftermath of those fights, neither wanting to worry or scare her. She was too young to know just how dangerous fighting a demon could be, how terrifying those beasts were when they sought to harm someone. To see Celine covered in her own blood after each fight.
Well, so much for that now. Rumi had seen, and they couldn't expect her to pretend she hadn't.
“Celine’s right, Rumi,” you hummed, kneeling down beside her as you glanced up at Celine. “She’s too stubborn not to be okay. Besides, you know she gave worse than she received. Those demons got sent home crying.”
She didn’t look too convinced, and you couldn’t blame her, so you switched tactics. “I’ve still got a lot of work with patching her up. Do you think you could lend me a hand?”
That proved to be the right one to ask. Rumi was always so eager to help, to be seen as useful, and so she had immediately agreed with your request. Pulling away from Celine, she looked up at you, asking what she could do, promising to do her tasks well.
Your job for her was simple enough. All you needed was an extra pair of hands to pass you things or to hold items steady for you. You were still doing all the work, but passing you fresh cotton balls and antiseptics was doing wonders for making Rumi feel useful and, hopefully, less worried about Celine's condition.
And Celine did her part of holding perfectly still as you continued to clean out the injuries, exhaling in slow, steady breaths, smiling over at Rumi, reassuring the girl over and over that she was fine, that she would be okay.
By the time you and Rumi had finished, Celine was cleaned up, stitched up, and wrapped up in fresh white bandages and over a dozen teddy bear band-aids.
Once completed, you’d hoisted Rumi up into your arms—letting out an exaggerated grunt and gasp as you teased her for getting to be so big, how she needed to stop growing—and propped her up on your hip. “I think that’s enough excitement for one night, cub. Let’s get you to bed.”
Of course, Rumi argued and fought, still so worried for Celine, there was no way she'd be able to just go to sleep.
So a compromise: she spent the night curled up between the two of you so she could make absolutely sure that Celine would be okay.
It was cute.
Of course, Celine continued to come home battered and bruised after each fight, and you continued to mend her wounds and tend to her aches each time.
But now the dynamic had shifted, just a little, as Rumi continued to worry herself into tears until you let her help take in whatever little way you could. That's all she really wanted: to help. To take care of Celine just like she took care of you and her.
.
.
.
There had been another incident, one that you swore up and down wasn’t half as serious as your girls claimed it was. Though your reassurances did little to comfort either of them.
It had been late at night. Rumi, who was eleven at that time, had convinced you and Celine to take her to see a new animated film at the theaters—not that it took much convincing, that girl had both of you wrapped around her fingers. A simple please and puppy dog eyes, and you both folded—and by the time the movie was over and you two were walking home, the sun had long since set and the streets had become quiet.
Rumi was between you both, each holding one of her hands as you swung her between you, laughing, talking animatedly about the movie's plot, the songs, the characters. She had stars in her eyes and was probably running on a rather big sugar high from all the sweets and soda she had drank. Neither of you had noticed the way she had faltered, or the odd, brief look flickering on her face.
Celine had sensed it a few minutes later; the ominous shift in the Honmoon. She didn’t have to explain herself; you recognized the look on her face immediately. This was nothing you hadn't prepared for; Celine had contingencies for incidents like these.
So as she ran off to hunt, you tightened your grip on Rumi’s hand and began a brisk walk to the nearest store you could find that was still open. It didn’t erase the danger, but it was safer to wait in a public space surrounded by others than it was to be alone in the streets when demons broke through the Honmoon.
Most of the stores were closed, and it was hard to find somewhere that might still be open. You wouldn’t lie; you were starting to grow worried, not that you would let it show.
You kept a brave face instead, smiling as you assured Rumi that everything was fine, that they weren’t in any sort of trouble. Celine was going to deal with the demons; you and Rumi were just going to find somewhere more comfortable to wait for her. There was nothing for her to be afraid of. While Celine was fighting, it was your job to keep your little girl calm, to chase away the fear she felt.
Rumi had whimpered, clinging to you as if her life depended on it.
If she hadn’t let out a scream when she had, you never would have noticed the demon approaching. The creature was red and leathery, with a single bulging eye, as it crouched atop a dumpster in the alley, hidden in the shadows cast by the buildings. Its gaze was locked on you and Rumi, a predator having found its prey.
In an instant, it leapt off a dumpster at you.
Just as quick, you had tackled Rumi to the ground, shielding her with your own body as you dived away from the razor-sharp claws.
This was bad.
Celine was the hunter, not you. You couldn’t summon weapons from the Honmoon, nor did you have the kind of fighting experience that Celine had when it came to demons. At most, you had a few self-defense lessons she had given you that were meant to deal with would-be muggers and a bottle of expired pepper spray in your purse.
Needless to say, you were grossly out of your depth here.
But you had Rumi at your side, and like fucking hell were you going to let anything happen to her.
The demon stayed crouched on the ground, looking up at you and Rumi like a child staring at a dead bug with morbid fascination. It said nothing, tilted its head, and stared at them unblinkingly. Then the thing slowly smiled at you, full of too many teeth, full of too much malice.
You'd like to think that you threw some witty line at it, some kind of wisecrack as you angled your body to best shield Rumi, standing between her and the monster. But you knew that at most what you'd said had come out with a trembling, strained voice. When it lashed out to punch and to slash, you grabbed Rumi and threw yourselves the opposite way.
Keep your distance. Don’t let it get close enough to touch you. Just hold out until Celine finds you. Those were the rules. Meant to keep you safe, meant to protect you.
Simple in theory, a lot harder in practice.
Lucky for you, the demon was as dumb as it was ugly. Making it easy to distract it, easy to evade it.
You continued to dance around it, dragging Rumi with you with each step. At one point, you managed to get enough distance to pull out your pepper spray and—with nothing more than a hope and a prayer that the bottle would still work—you managed to spritz it in its bulging eye.
It may not have been half as potent as it would have been if it hadn't been expired, but it still sent the demon screaming and writhing for a minute or two. Add in another minute of being dazed after you threw in a punch to the eye for free, and it was just enough time to give you and Rumi a running start as you and Rumi fled.
Unfortunately, it was a tragic fact of life that you can never truly outrun a demon. Not when they have a cheat code known as teleportation.
You and Rumi had only made it to the end of the block before being cut off by a sudden cloud of maroon smoke appearing in front of you, and a just-as-fast swipe of claws came down, aimed at Rumi.
Without even thinking, you threw yourself over her.
You heard your sweater tear. Felt your skin tear. Felt the warm trickle of blood that began dribbling down your shoulder as you held Rumi to your chest, curled around her. You weren't going to let this creature hurt her; it wasn't going to touch her. It'd have to go through you first.
The demon didn't have a chance to try again.
There was the quiet sound of metal hissing through the air, and then the demon was gone like a cloud dispersing in the sky.
Celine had taken its place.
She stood before you, face glistening with sweat, her clothes torn, and her skin littered with new bruises and fresh cuts. Her shaking hands were on your face the moment her twin blades returned to the Honmoon, checking you and Rumi over with frantic worry.
She saw your bleeding shoulder, and you saw her face twist from worry to terror and guilt.
Celine was talking to you—you could see her mouth moving, as her hand hovered over the injury, but you couldn’t hear the words over the roar of blood in your ears. It took a few seconds, you think, before the noise quieted enough for you to hear Celine's rushed and quiet apologies and self-flagellation over the injury. Blaming herself, as she always did, for you getting hurt.
“Jagiya, I’m fine. We’re fine,” you weren’t sure, but you hope you sounded more convincing than you looked.
Celine looked like she wanted to argue, but that was too bad for her, because you switched your attention from her to the girl who should be the priority.
Rumi was sobbing against you, face pressed into your arm as your blood dripped onto her. Rumi was crying out apologies just like Celine had been. If Celine was bad about blaming herself for you getting hurt, your cub was worse. It broke your heart.
You got hurt protecting her, so it’s her fault you’re bleeding, Rumi had insisted between hiccups. She’s sorry, she’s sorry.
You ignored the ache in your bones as you pulled yourself free from Celine, dropping to your knees and pulling Rumi into your chest. The only one to blame for you being hurt was the demon, and it was gone now. It had tried to hurt Rumi; it was only natural you'd throw yourself into the fire to keep her safe. That's what mothers do.
You kept whispering reassurances to her, trying to assuage her guilt and assure her that she wasn’t to blame.
The walk back home had been tense. Celine was on high alert, carrying Rumi in one arm, her other wrapped carefully around you as if to shield you both from the night. Rumi hiccupped between her sobs as she pressed her face into Celine's neck, adding her tears to the blood already soaking her nice white shirt.
That was the first night that you found yourself sitting on the stool while Rumi and Celine fretted over you, cleaning your injury and stitching you shut like you had done for Celine for so many years.
The injury would leave a scar. You didn’t care. To you, it was a proud reminder of how far you’d go to keep your family safe.
A week later, Rumi stubbornly demanded that Celine train her. She was supposed to be a hunter, too. She wanted to fight back against the demons, to keep you and Celine safe in return. She didn't want to feel helpless while you got hurt protecting her again.
And with that, your own fears began to materialize: the inevitably that both of your girls will be putting their lives on the line to fight. Your nights used to be spent patching Celine up, but now your evenings would be much the same, spent bandaging Rumi's cuts and icing the bruises she gained from training.
You had hoped, deep down, that she would decide the training was too much for her, that she didn’t want to live this kind of life, that she'd be content to let someone else carry the burden, take the mantle of a hunter. Celine wouldn't force her into becoming one if she didn't want to.
But Rumi took to her training like a fish to water. Just like with Celine, Rumi was single-minded in her focus, determined to accomplish whatever task she was given, accepting no room for self-failure.
You just wished your cub wasn’t inheriting all Celine’s bad habits.
She continued to refuse to look at your scar with anything but guilt. Refused to stop blaming herself for your injury. As if there had been anything an eleven-year-old kid could have done to prevent any of it. Used it to motivate her to work harder and get stronger.
.
.
.
It was two in the morning when you carefully removed yourself from Celine’s hold and slipped out of the bed. The way she whined when she felt your absence, trying to keep you against her even in her sleep, was honestly adorable.
You kept your movements as quiet as possible so your wife could sleep as you approached the bedroom door, intent only to get a glass of water and then return to bed, return to Celine's arms, nothing more.
Opening the door, you were not expecting to see Rumi.
She was slumped on the floor, back pressed to the wall across from your door. She was in her teddy bear pajamas, cradling her wooden practice sword, her head dipped low in a position that would guarantee neck and back pain come morning.
You quietly closed the door behind you and then knelt beside her, placing a careful hand on her shoulder. “Rumi,” you whispered, giving her just the slightest nudge.
Just like with Celine, the girl jolted awake with wide eyes, drawing her sword to fight.
And just like with Celine, whenever she woke up thinking she was in a fight, you gently caught her wrist in a loose, nonconfining grasp before she could lash out, keeping your voice quiet for her, “It’s just me, cub.”
Rumi blinked away the sleep, chest heaving as she stared up at you in slow recognition. A moment passed before her face flushed in shame. “Sorry—I,” she pulled her hand free, dropping it and the sword to her lap. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize for being startled.”
Rumi still wouldn’t look your way, staring at the closed bedroom door, at the wooden sword in her lap, her own twitching fingers.
Like mother, like daughter, you thought with a sigh.
“Come with me,” was all you said as you stood, slowly pulling Rumi to her feet, too. She didn’t argue or fight you; the hall was no place for a conversation, so you gently guided her to the kitchen.
Before long, you had her sitting beside you at the table, a mug of tea in her hands. Her eyes continued to dart left and right. Just like Celine always did when she was on high alert.
“What were you doing outside our door?” you asked her, your tone wasn’t accusatory, just genuine curiosity and concern. Had she had a bad dream? She knew she could always come and wake you if she did—her becoming a teenager didn’t mean she was allowed less comfort from you.
Rumi kept staring at her tea, at the small ripples in the dark liquid that came with each slight movement. Then, slowly, she gave you a shrug as she continued to avoid your gaze. “Thought I heard something in the house.”
“And so, you decided to stand guard outside our room?”
There wasn’t a shrug this time; rather, Rumi shrank down on herself, as if worried she’d done something wrong. Her eyes flickered to your shoulder; your sleep shirt had left just enough of the skin exposed that she could see the beginnings of the scar she hated so much. A new rush of guilt and shame flashed across her face.
Reaching across the table, you rested your hand over hers. “Rumi, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
You felt like you’ve been telling her that a lot more often as she grew up. That constant fear, walking on eggshells, the worry that she’d disappoint you or Celine. Worried she’d make one wrong step and everyone would hate her for it.
You wished you could know how to help her better.
Rumi still avoided your gaze, “I’m just worried for you,” you told her. “Sleeping on the floor like that isn’t good for you.”
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Rumi defended. As if that made it any better.
Rather than say that, you just gave her hand a comforting squeeze. Rumi was too much like Celine for her own good, but at least that meant you had an idea of what to expect.
That being that, you knew telling Rumi to stop it wasn’t going to work. She’ll just try to be craftier about her nightly sentry duties, sneakier about it—and the last thing you want is for Rumi to feel like she has to hide anything from you.
You had learned that the best way to handle the stubbornness of a Hunter was to find a compromise.
“Next time you feel like something’s wrong, like you did tonight, please wake Celine or me. If there is some kind of threat, I don’t want to worry about you dealing with it on your own,” you told her. “And if you have to stand guard, at least bring a pillow or a blanket so it’s more comfortable.”
That, at least, Rumi could agree to. Celine would have more experience handling any threat, and—if you insisted, then she wouldn’t argue about the pillow.
A compromise, that’s all you asked.
Still smiling softly, you slowly pushed yourself up from the table. “Do you want to go back to bed, or stay up a little longer?”
“A little longer—but you can go back to bed, you don’t have to stay up with me,” Rumi said quickly, finally looking up from her cooling tea. “I don’t want to keep you up.”
“Lucky for you that I happen to want to stay up with you.”
Rumi tried to argue, but the end result was inevitable, with the two of you curled up on the couch watching Culinary Class Wars on the television as the night hours slowly drifted by.
The two of you were still there at dawn when Celine padded out into the room, tired, clearly a little miffed to have woken up without you beside her in bed. But her sour expression had softened immediately when she saw Rumi curled up against you on the couch, sleeping soundly.
You smiled, a finger to your lips as you looked at her, your other hand gently threading through Rumi’s hair.
Nights like this proved to be a recurring thing with Rumi. It reminded you of how Celine used to anxiously watch over her when Rumi was little.
There were times when she’d pace aggressively around the house, like she was looking for something, hunting for something, but not even she knew what she was trying to find. If she wasn’t pacing, she looked ready to vibrate out of her skin.
Anxiety, you theorized. Celine’s paranoia was rubbing off on her.
You had suggested seeing a doctor, if nothing else, then maybe getting Rumi on anxiety medication could help her. But, unsurprisingly, Rumi was just as stubbornly against the idea as Celine had been when you had suggested the same to her years ago.
Like mother. Like daughter.
In all the best and worst ways.
So you handled this in the only way you could.
If you saw Rumi jumping at shadows, like a prey knowing its predator was lurking just out of sight, you’d bundle her up and sit her down with a drink, a treat, and let her vent. Even if it didn’t make sense to you, even if it didn’t make sense to her, you let her get all the words for what she was feeling out.
Something was wrong.
Rumi felt like there were too many eyes watching. The sense that something was waiting. Her patterns would start to itch and ache, and she would feel someone breathing on her neck.
There was a constricting, confining pressure in her chest that wouldn’t go away until she started moving, started searching.
You weren’t sure if anxiety was the right answer—but Celine assured her that the Honmoon didn’t so much as shiver the last time she had that rush of paranoia.
Still, Rumi didn’t settle, didn’t rest. Continued to pace the house in the dark of night when those watching eyes grew too much, continued to stand guard outside yours and Celine’s room when the anxiety got too much.
Continued to watch cooking shows with you on the couch until she finally relaxed and fell asleep.
.
.
.
Rumi was fifteen years old now. She was still training hard to become a Hunter and had been working just as hard in her music.
You felt like you were seeing her less and less as her time was consumed by lessons. It was all but set in stone now that she’d succeed as the leader of the next generation of Hunters.
You had mixed feelings about that.
Pride for all that your daughter has and was going to accomplish, for how strong and brave she had grown to be. But also fear; fear for her safety, her wellbeing. You didn’t want to see her carry the same scars Celine had.
And you knew that deep down, Celine felt the same.
It was shown in how, even after years of training, even when Rumi had long since learned to forge her own weapon from the Honmoon, Celine still chose to fight the demons alone. Telling Rumi that she wasn’t ready to fight—telling you that she wasn’t ready to make Rumi fight.
But you’ve lived long enough to know that fate rarely cares about what a person wants.
It’s been fifteen years. The Honmoon was barely holding itself together without the Hunter's song to sustain it. The Sunlight Sisters had faded into obscurity by now, their music barely enough to keep the barrier strong. It was a miracle in itself that the Honmoon hadn’t completely shattered yet.
That didn’t mean it didn’t tear.
The Honmoon had crackled and shuddered so badly that Celine had feared it was going to break. The sign of a tear—one that both her and Rumi knew one Hunter alone couldn’t handle.
Rumi had begged and argued; she was a skilled fighter now, there was no doubt about it. Celine needed the help, regardless of what her pride said. Regardless of how desperately Celine wanted not to put Rumi in that kind of danger.
Ultimately, Celine had agreed. They didn’t have time to keep arguing, and as much as she hated it, she couldn’t fight this on her own.
That left you to wait for them alone at home.
It was an awful feeling.
It wasn’t as if you’d never been alone before while Celine was fighting demons. Back before Rumi was born, when the Sunlight Sisters still stood, you were often alone when the three went to deal with the demon incursions.
But back then, you knew that they would be okay. Worried, yes, but you never doubted that they’d come home safe and sound. Having both Rumi and Celine gone felt different. Filled you with so much more fear that it left you drowning in your thoughts.
What if something happened? Rumi’s never fought a demon before; her experience in combat came from sparring with Celine and nothing more. What if something went wrong and she got hurt? What if there were too many demons for them? What if you lost Celine? You couldn’t lose Celine. You couldn’t lose either of them.
Distraction, that’s what you needed.
It was already late into the night, and you tried to busy yourself with mindless tasks. Pacing was getting you nowhere; the house was already as spotless as it could be, so you did what you did best when you were stressed.
Cook.
You were good at cooking. You liked cooking. It took time, it took focus. A good way to distract yourself.
And, you reasoned, they were going to be tired and hungry when they got home. You needed to make them dinner. A celebratory meal for Rumi to congratulate her on her first real fight against the demons.
Rumi liked kimbap. So, you decided you’d make some. But Celine liked bossam and bibimbap—you’d make that too, of course. And, obviously, there were all the side dishes you needed to make for them. Can't just have a main dish and no banchan, that'd just be wrong. Kimchi, ssamjang, maybe some seau-jeot if you had some shrimp. If not, some miyeok-guk would be good.
Maybe you were going a little overboard. But if you couldn’t stress clean, you sure as hell were going to burn all this nervous energy by stress cooking.
That way, you could feel productive, you could keep your mind off the fight that Celine and Rumi were in the middle of, and you could make sure there was something good for them to come home to.
Rolling up your sleeves and slipping on your apron, you got to work.
Across the city, where the Honmoon had been torn open, Celine and Rumi were fighting tirelessly, cutting down one demon after the other.
Spilling out from the rupture was a swarm of faceless demons. They crawled and climbed over each other in their mad bid to attack the pair of Hunters, filling the air with animalistic growls and snarls.
They were exactly how Celine had taught her; weak enough that a single blow from Rumi’s saingeom would kill them. But the danger wasn’t in the individual; it was in their overwhelming numbers. They fought by swarming, by wearing down their opponent, by finding an opening by outnumbering the hunters.
They were on a tightrope. One misstep from her or Celine, and the horde could overrun them.
But they were slowly pushing back, the swarm growing thinner by the minute. They just had to reach the tear, help the Honmoon mend itself, and the demons would be cut off.
Rumi grunted as she kicked one of the demons away, sending it careening into another group before pivoting on her heel and swinging her sword, cutting through three more in a single arc.
Celine had been right about this, too.
This was nothing compared to all her training.
At that thought, Rumi dared to look over to where her mother mentor was fighting further away.
Celine’s ssanggeoms cut through the air, bringing down one demon after the other, her movements as graceful as a stream. Each step she took, each swing of her ssanggeom carefully measured to use the least amount of energy without sacrificing the power behind it. A form of efficiency born only from years of experience.
Had Rumi not been fighting for her own life—and the lives of everyone this swarm would hurt if they failed—she would have deigned to just watch.
There was something enthralling about the way Celine fought. A kind of grace that made it seem less like a battle and more like a dance.
But this was certainly not the time, or the place, for that. Every second counted, and she couldn't afford to be distracted.
Another demon lunged for her, and Rumi turned, beheading it in a clean strike, watching the body dissolve into a maroon mist, as if it had never been there to begin with.
She tried not to think about it, about her own patterns, about whether she would dissolve in a similar cloud if she were killed.
They were nearly done.
Celine pulled the strings of the Honmoon and created a shockwave that took out the bulk of the swarm. Rumi had managed to cut through more demons, providing cover when Celine managed to reach the tear, keeping the faceless demons away from her.
The Honmoon glowed blue as she focused her energy into it, the rupture growing smaller and smaller until the strings reconnected—weaker than they should be, but closed once more.
As Rumi brought her sword down on one more demon, she felt it. Her body stiffened as a familiar sense of wrongness overtook her.
Home, something deep inside her urged.
“Celine,” her voice came out hoarse, strained, watching as Celine took down the last of the demons with a spin of her blades. “Celine, we need to leave. We need to go back. Now.”
Home, home, home, her instincts screamed.
That’s where you were. Home. Alone.
In the back of her mind, she saw the puff of smoke, the flash of claws, crimson blood dripping down your shoulder as you curled yourself over Rumi.
They needed to get back home.
The beef for the bibimbap was marinating, and the rice cooker was on. You had all your vegetables chopped up and divided into bowls. Cooking, focusing your attention on something tangible, had proven to help in keeping your mind off your worries.
You were proud of the meal you were making. All the favorite dishes of your favorite girls. Sure, you might have gone a bit excessive for just the three of you, but every little dish kept your mind away from thoughts such as ‘Is Celine okay?’ ‘I don’t want Rumi to come home as tattered as Celine does. ‘Please let them come home.' Just that little bit longer.
It was while you were sauteing a pan of carrots that you heard the quiet footsteps behind you. There was only one person you knew who could move that quietly.
You allowed yourself to feel relief.
They’d come home sooner than you had thought—maybe the tear hadn’t been as bad as they feared, the demons not as dangerous. It didn’t matter the how, the why, all that mattered was that they were home.
Closing your eyes, you exhaled slowly, feeling the worry begin to ebb away. “Welcome home, aegiya,” you greeted.
But that fading worry turned ice in your veins when you turned around, because the being standing before you was neither Rumi nor Celine. It wasn’t even a human.
A demon.
This one had two eyes, its skin was stretched tight across its body, a deep violet hue, glistening in a way skin didn’t, like a costume. Like rubber. Its patterns glowed brightly under the fluorescent light.
It had the teeth of a predator—too long, too sharp, made to sink into muscle and tear—and claws like knives that could cut through flesh with ease. It was blocking off your exit out of the kitchen, cornering you in the room.
No, no, no! This was bad. They've never had a demon so bold as to invade their home before.
You couldn’t—Celine was nowhere near you. Busy fighting the influx of demons and sealing the Honmoon elsewhere in the city.
Rumi! Your brain screamed on instinct, you had to keep this from going after Rumi, you had to—no, she’s not here either. She’s with Celine, where she’s, ironically, safer.
You were the only one home.
You and a demon were the only ones here.
The demon seemed to have known that as well, with the way it laughed, as if mocking you. You must have seemed like such easy prey when alone.
It lunged. You grabbed the pan off the burner and swung.
What followed was a reverberating scream as hot metal connected with its face, sending the demon reeling back. The smell of burned skin filled the kitchen.
You let out a hiss as the hot oil spilled onto your hand, pushing past the sizzling pain as you brandish the pan like a weapon. Sliced carrots and cooking oil poured out of the pan and covered the kitchen floor.
The blow you dealt it had only stunned the demon for a moment, unfortunately. Maybe it was used to the pain of fire and burns. It was on you again. You tried to dodge it; you tried to swing the hot pan at it again. But the creature had wised up to your tricks, knocking the attack aside to grab you by the wrist—
Hot pain coursed through you as your arm was sliced open.
You barely bit back the scream—maybe you didn’t hold it back at all—as you were wrenched to the side, the demon bringing you inches from its face, its mouth wide to take a bite.
Thrusting the pan upwards, you jammed the hot metal into the demon's open mouth.
That proved far more effective than simply hitting the monster with the pan. It went stumbling back, clawing at its own face as it screamed in pain. Even with the pan gone, the oil still clung to it, burning the parts of its mouth.
This was your chance. With the demon distracted by its own pain, you made a break for it, running past the monster.
Keep your distance. Don't let it get close enough to touch you. Just hold out until Celine comes home. Those were the rules. You just had to keep it occupied, keep it off you, until Celine came home. She'd be home eventually. You just had to hold out for as long as it took.
Simple in theory.
So very much not simple in practice.
The floor was wet, slippery with the mix of oils, food, and your own blood dripping from your arm. One wrong step and your foot was sliding out from under you, sending you careening to the floor—
With a harsh tug, your fall came to a sudden stop, your face a breath from the tiles as the demon held you by your injured arm.
You only had a moment to even process what had happened before it was twisting your arm in its grip—you felt something in the limb go pop, blossoming with new pain—as it dragged you back up. Dragging you back to it.
With your free arm, you reached behind you blindly, grabbed one of the bowls, and swung your arm back around to strike the demon.
It didn’t work. It caught the bowl with its own free hand and threw it across the kitchen. The sound of glass shattering filled your ears.
Moments later, you were being thrown across the kitchen after it. Skittering across the tiles and shards of glass, your head connected with the hard frame of the kitchen island with a resounding crack.
Dazed. You could see stars mixed with the growing dark spots in your visions.
For a moment, you think you saw the Honmoon—glittering light threading across the ground. Pretty, you thought numbly. Like the staves of a music sheet. It just needed someone to put the notes in it, and then it'd be a song. Maybe Celine could play its song. She plays such pretty music.
There was a dull throb in the back of your head, and when you pulled your hand away, there was a thick layer of blood on your fingers, sticky and wet. Faintly, you knew that wasn’t a good thing, but your brain was playing ping-pong in your skull, and for the life of you, you couldn’t think of why.
Claws wrapped around your ankle, cutting into the tender, fragile flesh and tendons, as you were dragged across the floor, and you no longer had the energy to fight.
The jolts of pain helped you stay conscious even as the darkness at the edges of your vision began spreading. The demon had your leg in its hand, lifting you up, jaw unhinging as it leaned in to take a bite.
Something crashed in the distance.
Dark shapes surged into the room and onto the demon. There was a loud crunch as twin blades drove into its arm, cutting through meat and bone, forcing it to drop you.
No sooner had you hit the ground did another blur of a figure flew past you, knocking the demon back and tackling it to the ground.
“Get away from her!”
Oh. You don’t think you’ve ever heard Celine sound so furious.
Something soft wedged itself beneath your head and shoulders. Your new position helped ease the nauseating dizziness a bit, but did little to stop the way your consciousness was flickering in and out.
“No, no, no!” Oh. That was Rumi above you. You think that was Rumi. She was really, really blurry, but you’d recognize that shade of purple and braid-shaped smudge anywhere. Why did she sound so scared? “Celine! Her head’s bleeding really badly—what do I do?”
Bleeding? Silly cub. That wasn’t blood, that’s just the bibimbap sauce.
Rumi was staring at you as you finished that thought, her confusion mixing with her hysteria. Had you said something?
Your eyes flickered back down to where Celine was on top of the demon. You tried to focus on her, on her movements, but your eyelids were getting so heavy. You knew you were supposed to stay awake, to keep your eyes open, but sleep was just so alluring right now. Surely it wouldn't hurt if you closed your eyes for a minute.
Faintly, you could still hear Rumi talking to you from above, but her voice had become just as blurry as your vision, muffled, like there were layers of water between her and yourself—
.
.
.
You awoke feeling stiff, confined.
To say that everything hurt would have been an understatement of monumental proportions. You could barely lift your arm without grimacing in pain.
“Don’t move! Please, don’t! You might tear one of your stitches!”
Stitches?
Groggily, you realized that the confining feeling was because of all the bandages wrapped around you, and sure enough, there were stitches beneath them. You almost felt like a mummy in that moment.
You blinked, slowly turning your head to the best of your ability, and then blinked again, willing your vision to focus.
Rumi was there, standing before you as you lay in your bed.
Her eyes were red and puffy; her cheeks were soaked with tears. Her arm was sloppily bandaged up, there was a bruise on her left cheek, and a cut along her temple. She hadn’t come out of that fight unscathed, and your heart ached for it.
Your immediate instinct was to reach out and start fretting over her, to make sure whoever had bandaged her up had done a good and proper job.
But that would require you moving, and right now, moving hurts.
“Are you okay, cub?” you settled on, your voice felt hoarse, your throat scratchy.
Rumi let out something between a sob and a laugh. “You’re asking if I’m okay?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re the one who almost—who almost—”
The words caught in her throat as she let out a whine, new tears building up and falling from her eyes as she all but threw herself onto you, burying her face in your chest, letting out a loud cry.
“I was so scared, you stopped moving—you were bleeding so much!” Rumi whimpered, clinging desperately to you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry! I should have listened to you and Celine. I should have stayed here; if I had, then you wouldn’t have gotten hurt!”
Slowly, carefully, biting back the hiss of pain, you raised your arm and rested it on Rumi’s back, gently rubbing small circles between her shoulder blades.
“If you had stayed with me, it’d be Celine in this bed instead.”
Between the tears, she’d managed to explain to you that Celine had gone back out there—hunting down any straggling demons, fortifying the tear as best she could. She should be back soon, so you don't need to worry.
Was there anything she could get you in the meantime? Is there anything Rumi could do to make you more comfortable? Water? Tea? Were you hungry? Your cub was desperate to make sure you were comfortable and would be okay.
Celine had said you couldn’t have anything heavy since you hit your head hard, but she could make you some soup if you were hungry; some broth should be light enough.
Maybe it was the lingering effects of the concussion, but the mention of food had sparked a laugh from you and an apology. “There might be some side dishes that survived, if you're hungry. Maybe the rice. But, sorry, I didn’t get a chance to finish cooking for you two.”
That had earned you a light admonish.
Who cared if you didn’t get dinner done? All they cared about was that you were okay! Don’t even worry about cleaning up the mess; she and Celine would take care of that. You just needed to focus on resting, on healing.
There wasn’t any kind of argument you could muster against her at that. So you didn’t. You just nodded your head and watched as the tension bled out of her.
You weren’t sure just how much time had passed after that. Rumi had insisted on staying at your side, and you couldn’t say no to her, not when you were sure that would only have her cry and probably panic. Eventually, she had cried herself to sleep, curled up against your side.
That was the position you two remained in when Celine eventually stepped into the room, her footsteps quiet, as if not to disturb you. She looked even more haggard than usual.
The moment her eyes met yours, when she saw you were awake, she was at your other side, sitting on the bed, and carefully combing her nails through your hair. “Yeobo,” she whispered, her voice on the verge of breaking.
You smiled back up at her, catching her other hand and tilting your head so you could press a kiss to her bruised and bleeding knuckles. “I’m fine, we’re fine,” you murmured. All three of you were here and alive. Maybe a little banged up, but you would all recover.
Celine didn’t cry, not like Rumi had, but she dipped her head down to press her forehead to yours, taking in a sharp, shuddering breath. “We’re fine,” she echoed.
.
.
.
It took several weeks before the final bandage had come off.
Any time Rumi and Celine weren’t spending hovering over you, they spent training. Rumi pushing herself harder and harder, both determined to not let something like this happen again.
Celine had told you one time, while Rumi was in the garden, practicing her sword swings, that it was Rumi who had dragged her back to the house that night. That Rumi had felt something was wrong.
If Rumi hadn’t, if she hadn’t gone running back to the house with Celine, you likely wouldn’t be here.
It was an instinct of some kind. Celine wasn’t sure exactly how it worked, but she suspected that Rumi might be able to sense the presence of demons. She wasn’t certain yet, and she didn’t want to bring it up to Rumi.
The girl had enough on her plate; Celine didn’t want to make things harder for her by adding demon powers to the mix of things Rumi would need to worry over.
“Sunlight Entertainment is going to officially start auditions for a new idol group next month. It's time for a new generation to take the stage,” Celine murmured as she rested her chin on your shoulder, watching Rumi practice through the glass of the sliding door. “I can’t hold off the demons by myself anymore; the Honmoon can't survive much longer on my voice alone."
A new generation.
That meant Rumi.
“She’s so young, I don’t want this kind of life for her,” you murmured.
Sure, Rumi may be fifteen; she may have grown into a skilled swordswoman. But you still saw that little girl carrying a teddy bear, the cub who’d come running to you with tears in her eyes over scraped knees and bad dreams.
She was growing up too fast.
“She won’t be going into the fray immediately. The other Hunters will need to be trained. That could take a year or two before they’re ready,” Celine assured you, holding you tighter on her lap. “She’ll have people who can watch her back, protect her. Her fights won't end as mine do. They’ll do better than I. They’ll be better.”
You took a deep, steadying breath.
There was nothing you could say, nothing you could do, that would change this. You’ve all known this day would come, sooner or later. You just hoped it would be later.
“Promise me that whoever you select will take care of her,” you said, your voice firm. “I don’t care how good their voices are, how strong they are with the Honmoon. None of it matters if they won’t care for and be there for her.”
“Of course,” Celine murmured against your skin.
“And train them well, train them right,” you continued, fidgeting your fingers against hers. “Make sure they can keep themselves, and each other, safe.”
“I will.”
“And you have to—” you faltered with a groan, your body sagging. “I’m not ready for this. But it’s Rumi. She’ll do what she does best and do better than anyone can predict.”
That earned a soft laugh from Celine. “That she will. She’s already leagues better than I was at her age. She’ll be fine.”
Despite your better judgment, you believed her.
Rumi was strong, she was brilliant, she was your brave little tiger cub. But she was no longer little and no less brave. And she was going to do what tigers did best.