Work Text:
Eventually, everyone must die out.
.
.
.
.
Death is a natural consequence of living—life is a gift as equal as death to some.
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.
But—
There is one factor that causes the release of death to taste closer to the bugs in the crater someone crashes in than the sweet remembrance of home, of life.
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.
She doesn’t know this yet, but if she rides like lightning, she will crash like thunder.
↯
↯
↯
The story begins similarly to the following:
Three of a kind. Inseparable and unified by the very bond between their spirits—three against the entire universe.
.
.
.
Not all stories have happy endings.
⚡︎
⚡︎
⚡︎
Rumi is a liar.
She knows this, and has accepted this fact deep down.
This piece of knowledge seeps deep in her bones.
As the rush of air that hits her open, gaping chest will.
.
She does not deserve the bugs to eat her rotting flesh.
To be cleaned.
.
The story begins similarly to the following:
A fraud will be ripped from her their fragile little shield eventually—it is the natural consequence to their actions, their existence, and will be exposed to the world for everyone to see.
They deserve this.
Every single fake, liar, demon, mistake, deserves this treatment.
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.
.
.
And when Rumi is exposed on stage during the Idol Awards, she does not realise that she deserved this.
If she rides like lightning, she’s gonna crash like thunder.
Bare, naked, for all the world to see her and all of her flaws that she has run from her entire life.
She rushes down the stairs two flights at a time—stumbling is a more accurate word for what she is doing, clutching the railing with her sharp-edged, clawed fingers like a shield she is desperate to keep.
She does not realize this yet, but this will too be torn from her like a stray clutching onto a gnawed bone.
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.
.
Like everything else has been ripped from her grasp simply by being born a demon—a mistake to the world itself.
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.
What flashes through her mind is not the fact that she will eventually find herself tumbling into her grave—not the careful realization that she deserves this,
But worry.
!
She has always been cautious.
Her bandmates can’t see her like this.
She loves her bandmates, and her bandmates love her. They cannot find this out about her or she will lose the only thing that cares about her in this wretched world.
Not now.
Not—
.
.
?
The sight that greets her is certainly not what she expected.
Almost tripping on the last set of stairs (It’s ironic how even during the worst part of her life, she still manages to fail at such simple things.), she is met with her two bandmates patiently awaiting her arrival at the bottom.
When she crashes.
She will crash.
She doesn’t even see them at first, only staring down at the faint glow cast from the wicked patterns creeping down her arms and all over her body.
Were there that much purple before?—
?
.
.
Then she sees them.
Mira—eyes wide with what can only be described as horror.
Who wouldn’t be scared—to see something you have trusted all your life for what it truly is?
And then her gaze falls on Zoey.
Zoey.
Zoey, whose voice rang through the penthouse whenever she streamed her games late at night, knowing full well that they were all equally busy the next morning.
Zoey, who had dragged them to play with her, ignoring the consequences.
Zoey—
Who was now standing in front of her with a just as equal face of horror.
That’s when she looks down.
Her hands, meant to be delicate and soft were mean and ugly and purple and fully demon.
How?—
(She will not properly process her appearance until it is too late.)
She doesn’t quite recall who took the first step back, but one of them—maybe Mira, shifted involuntarily back.
She doesn’t blame them.
Looking at herself must be hard.
“What?”
.
.
.
What.
What is simply the only thing she can muster over her suddenly erratic breath and the fact that her hands have been trembling for honmoon-knows-how-long.
Mira and Zoey only stare like they are awestruck—however, that is not the case.
Rumi attempts (and fails—she fails at a lot, apparently.) to recollect her memories.
Of her jacket coming off.
Of the scream ripping and tearing from her throat like a wild animal escaping its cage.
Of the stage lights shattering one-by-one as the stadium is enveloped by darkness.
But, if that was the case then how—
“How are you here?” She questions—no, she demands, taking another careful step forward.
They step back.
Of course they do, but if this was any other day, Mira and Zoey would be rushing forward to comfort and help her find solace with them, their third.
But now she has slipped too far from the mercy of having anyone, anything that cares about it.
Her.
She freezes at this movement, a barrier has been set between them, “You were just on stage.” She mutters, she doesn’t even know to whom she says this to.
It won’t matter when the bugs are crawling around her cold and pale corpse.
In the hole she dug by flying a perfectly good plane too far in the sky.
Then nose-dove into perfectly good soil.
It is apparent, now, that she must be cursed to ruin everything around her.
Rumi doesn’t wait for an answer (She subconsciously realizes that they probably don’t care enough to give one.), “That wasn’t you? Oh, thank goodness.” She continues with, a bittersweet sense of relief flooding her veins.
And still, they shift further away.
Shift is not the proper word to describe what they do—they distance themselves from the monster before them.
She does not realize this yet, but nobody will care soon.
Then, as if life itself was playing a cruel joke, she realizes what they are staring at.
.
.
.
?
Not her.
Not her, but the pulsing, sickly purple patterns flashing all over her body like sick tattoos.
And so, she turns her hands over once, twice, as if this will fix anything.
.
.
.
!
“No.”
“No, no, no—“
She gasps, jagged and clawed hands coming up to clutch her still-etched shoulders, now realizing how cold she is to the touch.
Maybe she is already dead, and she doesn’t realize this.
She probably is just a dumb mutt chasing its tail to its own grave.
Zoey speaks first.
It’s ironic—Zoey, ever bubbly and kind and gentle and sweet, speaks first, voice uncertain and fearful, “…How do you have patterns?” She asks.
.
.
🜚
A simple question.
I was born with these, I haven’t made a deal with Gwi-ma.
I’m sorry I have hidden these from you—I am not dangerous.
She does not realise this yet, but the last one is a lie.
Every rabid dog must be put down for the safety of others.
She answers before her brain can actually catch up, “These are supposed to be gone,” She replies—it is the only thing that makes sense in her fragile little mind.
It’s funny. Not even her brain can succeed in such a simple task.
“You were never supposed to see—“ She follows with, lifting her head to look up at her masters bandmates, her lovers, she doesn’t even know who she’s talking to at this point.
Mira’s voice cuts through the air like a bone-saw slicing through fresh meat, “You were hiding this from us this whole time?”.
.
.
.
She doesn’t even sound shocked, that’s the funny part.
She sounds disappointed—almost like an owner finding its pet misbehaving.
But her face is one that clashes between disgust, still-horror, and anger.
Pure, unfiltered rage.
No-this can’t be rage.
It looks too specific and filtered and clean to be rage.
.
.
!
🜚
Rumi jumps in to defend herself, “No-! I have a plan to erase them,” She begins.
But, she takes a step back herself, as if understanding that she will only hurt her loved ones.
(She does not realise this yet, but her attempts will be useless in the end.)
And almost ironically, she continued with this one simple sentence, “Jinu was supposed to-he was—“ She tried oh-so-desperately to explain to the only people holding her from the face of death.
(And she still does not realize that the face staring back up at her is but her own.)
⚡︎
.
⚡︎
If she rides like lightning, she is gonna crash like thunder.
“Jinu?”
This time, it isn’t Mira’s voice who rushes into her eardrums.
But Zoey’s.
—again.
“You’re working with him?” She questions, tears pricking at her eyes, threatening to spill at any minor inconvenience.
Rumi does not realize this yet, but she is this minor inconvenience.
She always is.
.
.
.
But is it really her fault?
She stares back.
Who even is 'she' anymore?
'She' is a very generic term for the current situation.
They are all victims of one crime.
蠢逼, 你为什么要咋么做?
After what feels like a long, painful, agonizing hour (It’s probably just a micromoment, Rumi is beginning to realize that she fails even at her sense of time.), she speaks again, “No, no, no!—I was using him to fix all this, to fix me!” She pleads with everything she has.
(And still, she does not realize that the subtle ache in her chest will not cease.)
She cannot be fixed.
“So we could all do our duty, we could all be strong—be together!” She has begun to shout up to this moment, but, as the simple creature she is, she still does not realize this either.
.
.
.
She will pay for her mistakes when there is nothing left of her body for her lovers to find.
A long pause stretched through the air like time yawning before Zoey spoke again, a cold sense of realization settling in her face.
This sentence breaks everything apart.
Like a decomposing body.
Больно.
なぜ так больно?
.
.
.
Пусть это прекратится.
?
Пожалуйста.
“…How could we be together if we can’t tell your lies from your truths, Rumi?”
What?
That’s not—
No.
🜚
↯
✧
The story begins similar to the following:
The shadow will be cast out from the light.
It does not belong.
.
.
.
.
?
She knows this.
Staring at the ground, Mira mutters a statement that lands like the final blow from a fist.
Like the crash of thunder after lightning.
“I knew it.”
.
.?!
!!!
Her voice sounds so quiet, barely audible over the rushing sound resonating in Rumi’s own ears.
“I knew it was too good to be true.”
.
.
.
Rumi’s blood turns to ice at that very sentence.
This can’t be happening—
Right?
She glanced over her shoulder up at the main stage—at the crowd just beyond her, “Mira, no! Don’t you see the gold?” She pleads, gesturing almost wildly to the stage, the crowd.
She is also gesturing towards her shield.
.
.
.
“We’re so close!” She begs, words going on and on as if it will mend the gauging hole in the three’s bond.
They take two slow steps back, as if not to disturb a frightened animal.
.
.
!
Tears are now fighting to free themselves from her own eyes, “No! Don’t leave!” Her expression is wide-eyed and terrified, heart thudding erratically against her ribs like it too does not want to partake with her anymore.
!
.
¡
The voice that comes next is not her own—garbled and broken and two-toned.
“I CAN STILL FIX IT!”
The entire backstage trembles with the force of her voice, some threads of the Honmoon fraying and other delicate strings rippling from her actions.
She now looks frustrated and confused, brow knit into a tight line.
.
그것들이 그녀에게 남은 전부에요.
All three of them lift their gazes to follow the now-magenta strings of the Honmoon as they fade.
It’s funny how even during this moment, they are still in unison.
(She doesn’t realize this at all, but her partners are already mourning her deep in the buried pits of themselves.)
(Apparently, her and that ancient barrier seem to share a bond with that deep color of purple.)
.
.
.
.
Another moment passes, something unintelligible flashing through Mira’s expression as the weight lands familiar in her palms.
She raises her Gok-Do, gaze averted as she points the tip of her glowing weapon towards her bandmate, the curved blade shimmering in the dim area.
.
제가 너무 과하게 했나요?
.
Rumi looks shocked.
(She shouldn’t be, she should’ve realized she had this coming for her.)
Tears are now breaking from her face, chest stuttering with shallow breaths as if her lungs cannot take the pressure of the moment.
So she turns to Zoey in desperation.
“Zoey, please.”
Her voice is weak and pleading.
If this were any other situation, Zoey would have spared no time to embrace their leader, comfort and empathy radiating from her.
Mira would do the same.
Not this time, no.
Instead, she closes her eyes briefly and raises two Shin-kals against Rumi defensively, regret crossing her face and deciding it must stay.
Rumi stares up at them, wounded and confused and frightened before she turns and sprints.
.
(She doesn’t realize this yet, but this will be the last time she will see them.)
.
Mira immediately lowers her shimmering weapon (both of their celestial blades are flickering—is something wrong?) and breathes a short sigh of relief, she would never want to turn her Gok-Do against her own flesh, shoulders dropping.
Zoey and Mira shared a brief glance with each other, not knowing what would happen next.
(None of them realize this yet, but their third will be lost to their doings.)
.
.
죽
.
음
Rumi runs.
(She subconsciously realizes that she may only be good for running.)
She runs, and runs, and runs until her legs almost give out and until she finds herself at the top of a nearby building from the Idol Awards, overlooking a large garden–probably one belonging to Namsam Park, she’ll never know.
Staring into the vast skyline of Seoul, at the pulsing and damaged Honmoon, she decides one thing.
This cannot go on.
(She doesn’t realize this yet, but her actions will have consequences.)
If she rides like lightning, she will crash.
우뢰.
In a short flash of light, her blade appears in one of her clawed hands.
Her blade.
Used to fend off demons and slice cleanly into those who do not belong to this world.
What is reflected in the dim, iridescent shimmer of her saingeom is not what she expects.
Staring back at her is one smoldering, amber eye and half of her face enveloped in twisting patterns, curling around her features and settling like it belonged, jagged horns are curving from the base of her forehead.
She turns her saingeom over twice, hearing the soft shing as the blade turns in her hands.
The concrete ground digs into her knees as she teeters over the edge of the building (when did she get here?).
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.
.
A few raindrops fall onto her slightly tattered stage outfit, not like it matters anyways.
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What runs through her mind is that she cannot torture her loved ones anymore (not like they care about her, right?).
So, in a quick, decisive motion—
✧
✧
✧
The shining, starlight blade of her saingeom embeds itself into her chest, tearing into her flesh and crushing the bones protecting her heart—the wall of her chest collapsing almost instantly.
It burns.
(Is it the demon half of her that makes it burn? Or is it simply just another ache in her bones?)
The sharp, agonizing pain shooting from her nervous system and bones is something that burns throughout her body.
.
.
.
She’s too tired to react to this.
She turns her hazy, tunneling vision down to the glowing sword now driven inside of her, eyes zeroing in on the glistening, red of her weapon.
It hurts to breathe.
Every shaky inhale causes white-hot pain to explode from her lungs up to her spinal cord and just beyond her eyes.
.
.
.
She doesn’t realize this, but she’s choking on her own blood.
Every futile little inhale and exhale makes her chest heave and stutter, blood filling her lungs and up her throat, into her mouth, warm and bubbling as it reaches the cold, brittle air.
Her blood is warm as she feels it begin to stick to her clothes—her skin.
As the life slowly dulls from her eyes, she finds herself losing the ability to balance herself.
And as the wind howls against her ears, the heavy presence of her saingeom is gone, leaving only a dull ache and blood flowing from the gaping wound.
.
.
.
A sharp thud rings through the night as blood pools under her lifeless body, crumpled in a small hole dug in the damp soil.
A bone-deep chill claims her body as it pales, white as a ghost.
Everything is numb—her vision fading at the edges.
In her last moments, what flashes through her mind are but memories of Zoey.
Of Mira.
Of all three of them.
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.
.
Helping each other after specifically difficult battles.
Laughing and giggling in Namsam Tower.
Training with Celine when they were young.
Debuting together.
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.
.
Together.
Crimson and something that smells of sulfur gushes and flows and doesn’t stop as it escapes her body, thickness and dirt pooling around her still corpse.
If she rides like lightning, she will crash like thunder.
A hopeful and desperate part of her body that is still clinging onto life reaches out to the fragile threads of the Honmoon.
Nobody will answer.
Her soul tether has been severed from her lovers.
(She doesn’t realize this, but in the end, she feels a weird sense of guilt even after death.)
.
There is no one to blame but herself.
.
The Honmoon weeps and cries and mourns over its fallen third as the three’s soul bond is torn to shreds, her soul—innocent and pristine slipping through its careful fingers.
Wherever her soul goes—wether to the Honmoon or to the depths of where Gwi-Ma’s demons reside, that stubborn part of her still clings onto the remnants of it.
삼
두 개
류
.
.
집으로 돌아오세요.
Who is calling her name?
.
She should go.
She is not needed here any longer.
Nothing is left here for her anyways.
.
She wants to go home
please
(달에 있는 분화구조차도 그저 불쌍한 개의 무덤에 지나지 않는다.)
류
루미
“Pick up, pick up, pickuppickuppickup—씨발!”
Mira’s voice hits like a physical blow each time the words land, her tone rising until she eventually slams the phone down, cracking the screen protector with a sharp click!
She doesn’t know how much time has passed, but the following moments came in flashes–quick and leaving as fast as they came.
She remembers this sequence in fragments.
First:
She and Zoey had stumbled out of the stadium after their disbandment (They could never really do that—separation would kill them.), finding themselves at the place where the Saja Boys were performing.
Then:
A quiet, sweet voice seeps into her ears (She kind of misses this voice–don’t tell Zoey.), whispering cruel things such as, “You thought you found a family?...”
“You don’t deserve one.”
.
.
“You never have.”
She doesn’t quite recall what happens next, but she and Zoey overpower what was shadowing their thoughts and eventually defeated the Saja Boys (Now that she thinks about it, they sound like superheroes.).
But the Honmoon didn’t turn golden.
It stayed, almost indecisively between brief flashes of amber and blue and small bits of a purple-blue.
Maybe it’s because all of their songs are three-part harmonies.
With Gwi-ma and the Saja Boys finished off, she finds herself in their current situation.
“Did she not pick up?”
Zoey’s sweet and kind and worried voice perks up from within the driver's seat (In the car that they may or may not have stolen–that is a story for another time.)
Mira cursed once more under her breath, fists clenching into the fabric of her skirt, “No.” She growls under her breath harshly.
The smaller of the two gets the memo and speeds faster, streetlights and rain blurring past them as she presses her foot against the gas pedal.
Zoey drives and drives and doesn’t stop even when her chest aches and heart thuds, mind racing as fast as the car past the worst possible situations.
The Honmoon pulses faintly around them, both of them feeling the same pull (Which is probably emphasized by Zoey turning a corner so harshly when she sees the familiar tear in the sky.)
The quiet hum—from the ancient barrier, however, tugs them towards the rip further.
The pair stop abruptly at one of Namsam’s gardens (Next to their tower, for some odd reason.)—Mira having dialed Rumi’s phone something close to seventeen more times on the way there, and two more when they get out.
“Where the [EXPLICIT] is she?—”
Zoey is muttering in English again, a nervous trait of hers before she stops dead in her tracks at the sight shown before her.
No.
No, no no.
Nonononono this can’t be happening—
Rumi is laying, motionless, on the ground in a small crater-like hole, semi-dried blood sticking to her clothes and seeping into the soil.
Zoey stares down at the body.
.
.
This–
This isn’t happening.
But the sight she is seeing with the eyes she has is not fake.
And the grave she dug with the actions she committed is real.
The pool of sticky blood around her is real.
She drops to her knees in front of her lover, hands hovering uselessly above her corpse.
Her eyes are half-lidded, mouth hung slightly ajar with blood, some dry and most still thick and wet smudged at the corner of her lips.
“Rumi,”
“Rumi, please.”
It’s funny.
Only about almost an hour ago Rumi was uttering and whispering Zoey’s name like a lifeline, and she never truly realized how desperate she was.
.
For them to not leave her.
.
When she gets a closer look, she sees her features.
One eye is glowing a dull orange–some of her iris shimmering gold, patterns pulsing like a stuttering, dying heartbeat.
Please.
Rumi.
Don’t go.
I’m sorry.
But the gaping hole in her chest only proves that she’s gone.
“Zoey? Where are you–”
“씨발.”
Mira is just beyond her shoulder, she can feel it.
.
.
Mira feels numb staring at her bandmates cold, stiff body.
She knows it’s at least partially her fault.
She raised her weapon.
She stepped away from her own lover, her third.
She—
She’s no good for anything.
It’s funny how in the end, she herself is the one who failed Rumi.
Zoey, with caution, lifts Rumi’s sticky and dirtied head by the back of her neck ever-so-gently, tears falling onto her cold remains and tattered stage outfit.
She doesn’t care about the small collection of worms and other insects squirming around her legs.
Ryu Rumi stares back, cold and pale and lifeless and in the crater she dug herself.
She sobs.
She sobs and begs in her mind don’t go.
Please.
.
.
But fate doesn’t care about begging.
The half-demon’s mouth stutters as her chest does, flickering with the brief essence of life and the untouched fragments of her soul.
.
.
.
“...Zo.”
She freezes, tears still flooding her eyes and making everything stubbornly blurry.
Rumi somehow manages a small, weak, trembling smile that is lopsided and is peaking the tip of a fang.
It’s ironic, really.
She looks beautiful.
Her patterns are—
Gorgeous.
It’s funny how this is the reason that all of this is happening.
She is appreciated and shown care and love and gentleness only after she is too far gone.
“Not… Your,”
She coughs up a mouthful of blood, excruciating pain following with from the sheer effort of trying to speak.
“Fault—nor Mira’s.”
Her voice is thin and she can hear the whistling from her broken windpipe and gurgling in her throat and lungs every time she speaks, can feel the battle she is losing and the demon she is wrestling with for every breath–every word whispered.
Zoey is now fully embracing her, clutching her like a stray clutching a bone (Ironic how the positions have changed.).
She doesn’t feel Mira helping her lift Rumi, but now the three are all connected once more, blue lighting up in the dim garden (She does not realise that it is not from the Honmoon.)
“Did we do it?—”
Zoey pulls her closer, placing a soft kiss to her forehead just between her horns, whispering quiet prayers and pleading with the Honmoon to just let her stay.
Just this once.
“...Is it golden?”
But Rumi is staring at the sky, at the blue and the brief gold (The same color as her left iris.) and at the semi-purple.
She knows.
But,
The Honmoon is fueled by their connection, and musters all of its strength to flicker with an iridescent amber.
Her patterns are almost similar.
They resemble the starlight essence of their weapons.
.
.
.
It’s pretty.
“It is.”
Zoey soothes, blood staining her clothes and her arms but she doesn’t care.
“...Mhm.”
.
.
.
“사랑합니다…”
“—Both of you.”
She does not realize this yet, but Mira’s tears are also mixing with her blood and Zoey’s own tears.
Up close, the hole, gaping with its maw open and hungry, is singed and torn away—it’s messy and raw and oh-so-bloody. It has a similar effect to when a demon is harmed with one of their weapons.
.
Rumi did this to herself.
Rumi killed herself.
.
“‘m sorry.”
.
눈을 감다.
.
Zoey’s sobs are swallowed by a gut-wrenching scream of guilt and shame and regret that they weren’t fast enough–
Not enough.
Mira can hear it, the way it tears through the stormy night as Zoey weeps and mourns and begs for their lost third as the Honmoon did.
The light slowly dims from her eyes, until it is smoldered and put out and gone.
Rumi’s eyes, half-lidded and empty and hopeful are staring up at the rainy night, at the golden Honmoon.
.
She’s gone.
.
Mira is numb.
She is numb as she stands and decides she must be her only lover’s rock.
And eventually, Zoey’s desperate cries are drowned out by the ringing in her ears and the steady fall of rain around them.
Rumi’s dead.
.
.
She’s dead, and she’s not coming back.
“Zo,”
She doesn’t stop.
“Zoey.”
She doesn’t stop.
She doesn’t stop because this can’t be real and Rumi is alive—demon or not and—
“Zoey.”
Her face lifts, tear-streaked and flushed red and gasping for breath.
“…She’s gone.”
.
.
A moment passes in silence and in stifled tears and regret.
Zoey continues to cradle the half-demon's small and fragile body, weeping and staining her clothes crimson.
Hot and wet and burning tears spill over her face, mixing with the raging storm going on around them.
And, as if life itself was playing a joke, when Zoey looks back, Rumi’s corpse—lifeless and cold and pale and bloody,
.
.
Slowly turns into sulfur-smelling ash, burning into the stormy night and drifting into the Honmoon.
What?—
.
Don’t go.
Rumi.
The Honmoon shimmers with sorrow as gold and yellow and amber light Zoey’s back faintly.
(It’s entirely her fault.)
And so Rumi’s remains fade into the night, leaving but a large puddle of blood and nothing else but that.
She dies cold and pale and bloody and in the crater she dug herself.
.
.
[Namsan Tower - October 13, 2026]
“Zoey.”
“Hm?”
“…Rumi’s ramyeon is getting cold again.”
In the deathly quiet penthouse, a few months (neither of them have cared to keep check anyways.) After the incident, Zoey and Mira sit at their table and attempt to have a normal meal as a normal couple.
Zoey’s gaze follows Mira’s to the full bowl of ramyeon—Rumi’s favorite, at the loss of steam and only the empty presence left behind after.
She takes another bite of her own noodles, it doesn’t matter anyways, everything tastes like sandpaper on her tongue, “That’s okay.” She replies, staring into her own bowl.
.
.
“Mhm.” Mira hums flatly, standing up and carrying her empty bowl and chopsticks over to the sink to wash them, the cold water hitting her hands like little needles.
Since the Idol Awards, neither of them have really mentioned anything about it—they could never bring themselves to speak about her.
And so they try their very best (Not like their best is even enough.) to go back to normal—she would have wanted it this way.
They should be happy.
The Honmoon is sealed—they have completed their duty as hunters.
(They don’t realize this yet, but that stubborn fragment of her soul is also with the honmoon.)
.
.
.
Rumi gazes longingly at her two friends—her two lovers as they live in a life of constant sorrow from beyond the strings of the Honmoon, ever trapped as only a being.
The dull ache that comes from the hole in her chest never seizes, but her love for her bandmates helps to soothe the wound.
She watches Mira scrub her bowl with practiced efficiency, watching the way her fingers work and the way her gaze is distant and bleary.
She wishes she could be there.
.
.
When she had died in that hole she dug, she hoped that they would not see her like that.
But—in the end, she has failed even at that.
And so she watches Mira dry her dishes off and plant a soft kiss in Zoey’s hair in a quiet attempt to cheer her up.
Zoey only stares.
The half-demon is trapped inside the barrier that they had sealed, they did their duty, but she still longs for touch, for the feeling of the wind against her skin—
—Her lovers.
It’s funny how she is unable to do anything, how much she wants and yet does not get it,
She could have gone home,
To Mi-Yeong.
To her father.
To whoever might be waiting for her pass the golden, shimmering barrier that locks her in and keeps her out.
Maybe they would care about her.
.
.
But—
She only floats weightlessly in the air, watching and waiting and observing her bandmates as they grieve.
“I’m sorry.”
She whispers to them.
She knows words carry no weight anymore.
Her fingers thread carefully through the golden strands of the Honmoon, just for a single touch.
But she’s stuck.
Stuck here.
Forever.
In the end, Rumi has failed them still.
And the throbbing in her chest that may come from her heart aching or the injury spread across her stomach grows stronger.
But she can’t get it to stop.
.
.
Rumi wants Mira and Zoey.
But she can’t have that.
Rumi wants Celine.
But she can’t have that.
Rumi wants—
She doesn’t deserve anything.
.
.
.
Nothing at all.
And now she realizes that if she rides like lightning, she’ll crash like thunder.
And she realizes that they did not push her away because of her patterns.
But it’s too late.
.
.
Fate laughs in her demonic face.
She’ll never have Zoey or Mira ever again.
She deserves this.
She deserves being torn apart and ripped away from the only people who have ever cared for her.
But she wants to go back.
Her mothers arms are waiting, open and inviting and oh-so-warm in the cold space surrounding her.
.
.
.
She’s really sorry.
But she’s trapped in a crater that she chose to stay in.
And she wants out.
But she can’t have that.
And so she will stay like a lone star travelling and wandering the empty sky forever.
But she doesn’t deserve to be a star.
.
.
.
—She just wants to go home.