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Pain was something Celine was intimately familiar with. The sting of a demon’s claws, the burning sensation when a blade clips her during training, the dull ache when she misjudges the distance between buildings. It’s something she’s always known, been trained to endure.
She’s never felt pain like this. Not when she heard of Miyoung’s pregnancy, not when Miyoung died in her arms, not when Suhee followed soon after. That pain was all in her eyes, in her temples. No, this pain made her throat burn, her limbs weak. It made her heart squeeze in a way she didn't think possible. She didn’t cry, didn’t speak, but she couldn’t get herself to blink away from the scene in front of her.
Because her girl was asking for death. The little girl who used to run into her arms when she’d been gone on a business trip for a few days too long, the little girl who made her cards and trinkets in her free time, the little girl she’d cuddled and cooked for and trained and loved, Celine's little girl. She was on her knees, asking, begging for death.
The sharp stench of blood was also something Celine was used to after all years of fighting and training. The smell of dirt, of rain, of smoke. It never made her nauseous before now. The honmoon was tearing at the seams, and Miyoung’s grave was right behind her, and Celine wanted to throw up.
Because her little girl is crying, holding the sword that was meant to protect her in a silent sacrifice. And Celine ached to grab it and do as she was asked. She ached to grab it and follow in her long-gone hunters’ footsteps. She ached to scream, ached to cry, ached to fight. But she just stood there, watching as her girl sobbed.
Celine had always looked past Rumi, into the eyes of a ghost that followed her like an illness with no cure. This kid, with the face of a demon she killed and the eyes of the woman she loved, who always begged. Begged for love, begged for pain, begged for understanding, begged for something more. She’d look at Rumi and see Miyoung in the way she laughed, how she bit her lip when she was focused, how she looked at the sunrise with such awe, like she couldn’t believe she’d made it through the day.
Now she only saw herself. The harsh red marks running down Rumi’s arms looked so much like the ones decorating Celine’s own arms and the sobs piercing the stillness that hung around the shrine sounded so much like hers and Celine was always someone to beg. Beg for more time, beg for more energy, beg for something more.
“Rumi, please don’t ask this of me.”
Because never once did the thought of killing Rumi cross her mind. Not when she first found her over her mother’s body, covered in more blood than a child should ever have to see. Not when Rumi accidentally cut Celine’s arm open her first time using a sword. Not when she would run into Celine’s room after a nightmare, patterns ablaze. She might have felt guilt at that in another universe. Guilt that she couldn’t kill a demon, one that was so intricately sewn into the fabric of the honmoon. Guilt that she’d even thought about hunting a child. In another universe, she might have killed Rumi. In another universe, she might have shoved away the sword and forced her to keep hiding.
In this one, she just begged, like she always had, like Rumi always had.
“No, listen, Celine. You have to, you have to kill me. Please, just— I don’t want to hurt anyone else. This is my fault, please.”
Oh, how Celine ached . She wanted to reach out and brush the tears away like she had done so many times before. She wanted to pull Rumi to her feet and hug her until they couldn’t breathe. But she just stood there .
“Look at me, Celine. This isn’t what you trained, you didn’t train me to be this monster. Rumi is gone. I’m all that’s left, a demon in the place of her. Look at me, Celine, and you’ll see. Look, please.”
And Celine did. She ran her eyes over the scars littering Rumi’s arms and her heart broke at the fact that she never knew about them. She looked at the sword now lying lazily in front of her, like Rumi didn’t have enough strength to hold it up anymore. She looked at the claw marks Rumi dug into the dirt, and for the first time since she arrived, Celine felt fear. The patterns tracing lazily up Rumi’s body pulsed in time with her heartbeat, and Celine idly wondered if Rumi could hear her own fluttering in her chest.
Celine looked into Rumi’s eyes and saw someone broken. She didn’t see a demon, she didn’t see a warrior or a monster or a hunter. She saw a little girl who asked for too much and always got too little.
This was her fault, she knew. The pain lacing every inch of Rumi’s body was no one's fault but Celine’s and she ached to go back and fix it.
Because all she’s ever known of demons were their claws, their fangs, the blood spilt, the lives taken. But that was not Rumi, and that fact alone was enough to send Celine into a spiral she never really escaped from. The honmoon chose its hunters and in one of them lay a curse Celine didn’t know what to do with. Because Rumi wasn’t what she was taught she should be. Rumi wasn’t an emotionless, malicious monster.
Rumi was kind, and she was sad, and she was careful, and she was protective. Rumi was a sweet little girl and Celine did not know how to connect her to the demons she’d known all her life. Hiding seemed like the safe option, until the honmoon turned gold. Hope was all Celine could have in that regard, that after it was sealed, the honmoon would be gracious enough to gift Rumi with humanity.
Life was never that simple, Celine knew.
She looked at Rumi until the patterns on her skin were engraved on her retinas. She looked at Rumi until every feature, every micro expression was seared into her brain, and she finally understood what she had missed.
“Rumi, I—” Celine felt pathetic as her voice trembled. She took one step closer, and then another, and too soon was Rumi at her feet. “...I made a mistake.”
The anticipation on Rumi’s face melted into confusion. “...What?”
Celine finally felt her legs give in. She was at eye level with Rumi now, and God, wasn’t that scary? “I made a mistake, I know that now. I promised your mother I would take care of you, and I have broken that promise. You’re still you, Rumi. These patterns have always been you, they don’t change who you are. You’re not a monster, and I’m sorry I treated you like one.”
Rumi’s brow creased. “I… Celine, I’m a demon.”
“I know.” Celine’s eyes burned as she lifted her hand. It rested hesitantly against Rumi's shoulder, and bile rose in her throat as she grazed the jagged scars there. “And I made you believe that you were wrong for it.”
“I am wrong for it, Celine, please—”
“Rumi, you are so good. You are a better person than I ever will be, and you do not deserve death. You never did, I never should have made you feel like you did. No amount of apology will ever make up for what I did to you, but you have to understand that I am sorry. You can still save the world, just as yourself. Make something better.”
Celine did not cry. She trembled and she ached and she begged but she did not cry. Not when she led Rumi inside. Not when she made her tea. Not when she threw a blanket over her shoulders and whispered that she didn’t have to hide anymore. No, she only cried once Rumi left.
“Why couldn’t you love me?” She had whispered into Celine’s hair, and Celine felt her chest cave in.
“I love you more than anything in the world, Rumi.” She had whispered back, and she knew that Rumi didn’t believe her.
She watched the news that night with blurred vision, unsteady camera footage of her girls playing on repeat. She remembered meeting Zoey, feeling the string of fate twist around the quiet kid in the corner of the café. She remembered meeting Mira and knowing without having to feel for it that the girl was chosen just by the heat behind her eyes. She remembered the long fights Rumi and Mira would have when they started training together and the tearful pleading from Zoey, asking for Celine to do something about it. She remembered them hugging for the first time after a particularly gruelling fight and she remembered the pride that boomed through her chest at the sight of them succeeding.
She remembered late nights of excited whispering with Miyoung and Suhee. She remembered her first kiss, shared on a drunken night in the middle of winter, and she remembered knowing that she was in love with Miyoung. She remembered fighting alongside them for years and years, singing and writing about heartache and bliss. She remembered screaming over Miyoung’s body, begging, always begging, for her to come back. She remembered the dull acceptance, the fiery tears, of the night she found Suhee not breathing in a pool of blood.
She remembered slow Christmas nights listening to music with Rumi as she read. She remembered kissing Rumi's tears away after a long day. She remembered tiny hands around bloodied fingers, whispered assurances, turning a tear-stained face away from the long cold corpse of its mother.
She remembered the taste of smoke in her mouth, and blood on her clothes and the sharp scent of vomit.
Celine knew pain. She knew grief and heartache and blood and smoke and love. She knew hope too. The hope that a sealed honmoon would make Rumi human, the hope that her girls would succeed, the hope that Rumi would one day find it in herself to forgive.
She knew it wouldn’t come in a long time, if it ever did. She kept out of the way in the meantime, let them do their own thing. She watched every performance, every livestream, every interview. She deleted any hate comments she found about her little girl and she sued any magazine that dared to speak badly of her. She made fake Twitter accounts and posted as much praise as she could for her girls. She sent them gifts on their birthdays that she was sure they didn’t open, and made sure they didn't overwork themselves. She knew Bobby found it amusing that at least two dozen of their millions of likes were Celine.
It wasn’t enough. It never would be. The dull ache in her chest still lingered whenever she saw them in person, always from far away, and the lump in her throat never fully went away.
It was only years later that Rumi finally came to visit, on an ordinary day in the middle of the week as the sun set in a collage of orange and purple. She found Celine in the dirt by the tree, tired and tense, tending to her mother’s grave, hands stained by the mud and moss it adorned.
“You’ve looked better.”
Celine stilled as she heard the voice, and she huffed out a laugh before she could stop herself. “Not much to look good for these days.”
Rumi looked different, Celine mused. Older, calmer, happier. Her hair was shorter, down, darker at the roots. Her eyes held a peace that Celine never thought she’d see in someone so tragic. “You should get some friends, then.”
“I’ve never been good at friends.” Celine smiled softly. It was nice seeing her girl again after so long. “You look good.”
“You think?” Rumi raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, I do.”
Rumi nodded slowly, looking down at the headstone by her feet. “How’s Mom?”
“Still dead, believe it or not.” Celine’s smile dulled. “There have been some crows lingering around here, though, so maybe I might join her soon.”
“Don’t say that.” The sharpness in Rumi’s voice surprised her, and when Celine looked back up, a crinkle had formed between her brows. “You don’t… You don’t get to die, yet.”
Celine tilted her head with a sad smile. “Alright. Do you want to come in, or were you just visiting your mother?”
“I came to see her, but… coffee would be nice. It’s been a long day, and I didn’t sleep well.”
“No?” Celine frowned as she turned.
Rumi walked a few steps behind her, hands in her pockets. “I never do this time of year.”
Celine understood, of course. Anniversaries of tragedies always leave stains like that. Celine hasn’t been able to sleep well either, not since she buried Miyoung.
They didn’t talk much, and Rumi left a few hours later without saying goodbye. It stung like Celine knew it should.
Rumi started calling her after that. Every Sunday at the same time, Rumi would call to ask how she was. Celine would tell her that she’s doing fine, and Rumi would hang up, still without saying goodbye. It quickly became the best part of her week, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt pathetic for it.
But she was lonely and the ache never leaves now. It’s a reminder of Miyoung, a reminder of her life before she lost everything. It’s a reminder of her little girl.
She sees Rumi one more time in person, right after her thirtieth birthday. It’s a short conversation, but Rumi hugs her and Celine doesn’t feel the ache for a couple of days after that.
Celine dies on a Thursday in the first week of Summer. She’s driving to a meeting in the middle of the city and a car collides with hers head-on. Ironic, she thinks bitterly as she starts to lose consciousness, that after everything she went through, something as mundane as a car crash was what killed her.
She didn’t ever get to tell Rumi about the box she keeps under her bed. She’ll find it, Celine thinks, and inside she’ll find photos and drawings and every little thing Rumi ever gifted her. She’ll find letters Celine drafted and never sent. A photo album she started with the other Sunlight Sisters that never got finished. A scrapbook Rumi gave her when she was still small. She’ll find the notes Celine and Miyoung used to pass each other in meetings, and she’ll see how excited Miyoung was to be a mother. She’ll find that Celine always considered Rumi her daughter, even when she didn't know how to show it. She’ll find fragments of her heart inside and Celine would like to think that she would cry.
Celine finds herself longing to have lived longer, but then she sees Miyoung in front of her and she feels the ache leave her chest for the first time in years. She sees Suhee, and she knows she is home at last.
Rumi would be fine without her, Celine knows. She hadn’t needed Celine in years.
Celine dies on a Thursday in the first week of Summer, and she’s already buried next to Miyoung the following day.