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Rumi has a very good memory.
She remembered gentle hands, warm smiles, and kind brown eyes.
She remembered the screams of a woman distraught.
She remembered cold words, angry looks, and clenched jaws.
She remembered her first word—and the reaction it caused.
She remembered the way the woman’s eyes widened, the way her face went white.
She remembered the harsh instruction afterward that Celine was, in fact, not her mother.
And she remembered when, at a very young age, she realised that just because Celine was raising her, it did not mean that any love was given.
Celine was fulfilling an obligation.
Rumi remembered when she had learned that she was not good enough for her mentor.
Celine had caught her outside, on her hands and knees in the dirt, peering curiously at a centipede as it crawled away towards its home in the ground.
Celine had grabbed her by the elbow, roughly pulling her up from the ground and surveying her, a stern glare on her face as she told Rumi that she couldn’t go crawling around in the dirt like a little boy. She was a young lady, Celine had said. Young ladies didn’t roughhouse and get their knees dirty.
Rumi had tried to ask why, but Celine had already stood and begun dragging her back towards the house, insisting that she was to act in a manner befitting her station.
When Rumi was locked in her bedroom without supper, she cried herself to sleep, knowing she had disappointed the only person whose opinion mattered.
She was four.
Rumi was seven when she learned that she could not ask where she came from.
Celine had been sitting at the kitchen table, sipping her morning coffee, as Rumi came in.
“Why don’t I have an abeoji, Celine-nim?”
The older woman froze, her mug halfway to her lips.
“Your abeoji … was a very bad man,” Celine bit out, her voice deceptively calm but her knuckles white around the handle of her mug. “He—he should not have... he hurt your eomeoni.”
Rumi paused, frowning a little. “But, Celine-nim… didn’t my abeoji love my eomeoni?”
“No. He used her,” Celine said sharply, her lips thinning into a line. “No one loved your eomeoni like Sarang and I. Your abeoji killed her.”
Rumi stared at the floor. “...oh.”
Celine sipped her coffee again, the movement tight and controlled. “You don’t need to know anything about that man. Your eomeoni is the only one that matters.”
Silence fell between the girl and her mentor, laden with the weight of something Rumi couldn’t yet name.
“Rumi?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t ever ask about that man again.”
“...yes, Celine-nim.”
Rumi was twelve when she learned that she was a mistake.
She had woken up at 7 AM sharp on a Sunday morning, as per usual, ready to shower and start her day.
She ran the water over her small body, scrubbing away, until she reached her right bicep, where a small purple stain was visible, barely even an inch in length. Her brow furrowed as she tried to wash it away, the mauve line continuing to mar her skin no matter how many times she scrubbed at it.
At last, when she’d gotten out of the shower, she padded down the hall, her feet making little to no noise on the wooden floorboards.
She’d already learned not to take up too much space.
She knocked softly on Celine’s study door, and hearing an answering “come in”, opened the door slowly, peeking her head in. “Celine-nim?”
“Yes, Rumi?” the older woman replied, not looking up from her paperwork.
“Um.. I have a—”
“Speak up, Rumi. Haven’t I told you not to mumble?” her mentor interrupted brusquely, still not raising her head.
Rumi flinched.
“Yes, Celine-nim.”
“Then do so. You’re nearly thirteen years old. Practically a young lady. So please, act like one.”
“Yes, Celine-nim,” Rumi answered dutifully, her voice quiet as she stepped fully into the study, shutting the door behind her. She pulled up her right sleeve, pointing to the little mark on her upper arm. “I.. I saw this in the shower this morning, and I just… wondered what it was?”
Celine still didn’t look up for a moment, but when she did, her expression was exasperated. “Rumi, you interrupted my work to ask me—”
But when her eyes fell upon the mark, her face went white.
She stood so fast her chair toppled to the ground, and she was out from behind her desk in an instant, seizing Rumi’s arm so hard the young girl cried out in pain before clamping her mouth shut. “No… no, no, you were supposed to be—it wasn’t supposed to— NO!”
She used all her strength to push Rumi away, her hands flying to her mouth as she stared at the tiny mark on Rumi’s arm. The latter quickly clutched her arm, confused and hurt tears starting to bubble up in her eyes as she stared between Celine and the little brand on her shoulder that she did not yet know had sealed her fate in the older woman’s mind.
And as Celine crowded her out the door, her eyes blazing and hands shaking with an emotion still unidentifiable to Rumi, the final verdict was in the few words spoken.
“Do not ever show those to anyone.”
Rumi was sixteen when she had learned that she was not her own person, but a replica—a long-lost echo of a forgotten soul, dutifully parroting back its mournful copies of words not uttered for years.
She had been dancing around the kitchen slowly, broom in hand, singing softly to herself. It filled her with a strange sense of calm.
She heard the sound of footsteps, padding slowly towards the kitchen, and a soft, gentle voice—gentler than Rumi had ever heard it—whispered, “...Miyeong?”
Rumi’s head snapped up.
Celine stood in the doorway, clad in a soft bathrobe, looking far worse for wear: her eyes were red and puffy, and there were bags underneath them. Her hair was mussed, and her voice was croaky and exhausted. The faintest smell of alcohol wafted from her.
As soon as their eyes met, Celine’s filled with tears. “Mi-ya..”
Startled, Rumi paused, her voice low, but jarringly loud in the quiet. “C-Celine-nim?”
The effect was immediate.
Celine’s eyes darkened, and she took a step back, her expression shuttering instantly as she turned away from the young girl. “No… not her. Just… just his. You’re not hers…”
And as her stumbling steps faded back into the dark hallway, Rumi felt her heart break and didn’t know why.
Rumi was nineteen when she first saw and felt the Honmoon.
She had stared at the calm, light-blue threads woven into every object, covering the world like a gentle blanket.
As she sang, she felt its strands react to her voice, answering her call and forming a golden halo around her.
Celine stared at her.
Celine stared at her, and Rumi could’ve sworn she saw a piece of the older woman’s heart crack.
Rumi was twenty-one when she first met her girls.
Celine had been interviewing every single possible candidate for their up-and-coming girl group, HUNTR/X. And every single one had been cast aside.
Until Hong Mira.
As the daughter of an extremely wealthy businessman and one of Korea’s most successful lawyers in the world, Rumi would’ve thought the taller girl would be haughty; disdainful, perhaps, of her mentor’s efforts.
It was quite the opposite.
At first, Mira was cold. Standoffish. Mean, even.
But never vindictive or cruel.
And as Celine introduced them to each other, as they began to train and get used to each other’s presence, there was a quiet softness revealed in little moments when no one was watching.
When Mira would make her breakfast and coffee in the morning, or clean their common space without Rumi asking, or wash Rumi’s clothes when they were sweaty from training before Rumi even had a chance to do them herself.
And then there was Zoey.
Choi Zoey.
She bumbled and crashed into their life on a random Tuesday in November, as Celine held auditions for their third member.
She’d swept into the room in bright, neon workout clothes that looked like something straight out of an ‘80s commercial, her hair done up in a wild high bun that was already falling to pieces. She carried half a million things in her arms, stacks and heaps that threatened to topple with every step—and did, after she halted in the middle of the room. After a significant struggle, she finally pulled out a crumpled, coffeestained resume, handing it to Celine with a sheepish smile.
Mira’s face remained impassive, but her lips twitched just the slightest amount.
Rumi ducked her head, trying to hold back her laughter, but her eyes sparkled with poorly suppressed mirth.
Little had she known at the time, that both of her girls had noticed.
Rumi was twenty-four when her girls found out that she was half-demon.
She had screamed, the sound raw, hoarse, anguished, distraught.
The lights in the stadium shattered overhead, raining down sparks and jagged fragments of glass.
She rushed offstage, her chest heaving, her hands shaking, and brown eyes wide as she fixed them on the girls in front of her.
They stared at each other, Hunter and demon, predator and prey, prey and predator, Hunter and Hunter.
“No… no, no, no—”
“H-How… do you have patterns?” Zoey’s shaking voice interrupted her as she looked down at her hands.
“These were supposed to be gone,” she stammered, unable to look either of them in the eyes. “You were never supposed to see—”
“You were hiding this from us?” Mira’s voice was low and strained, her eyes fixed on Rumi’s trembling hands. “This whole time?”
“No, I-I—I have a plan to erase them! Jinu was supposed to—I—he was—”
“Jinu? You’re working with him?” Zoey demanded, betrayal written on every facet of her expression.
“No, no, no! I was using him! To fix all this! To fix me! So we could all do our duty! We could all be strong!” Rumi cried. “Be together!”
“How could we be together if we can’t tell your lies from your truths, Rumi?”
Zoey’s question stopped her cold.
“I knew it. I knew it was too good to be true.”
Rumi’s gaze flitted to Mira, her heart twisting at the look in the other girl’s eye. She stepped forward, her hands reaching closer to take theirs. “M-Mira, no! Didn’t you see? See the gold? We’re so close!”
But they were stepping back.
Away.
Farther from her.
Rumi’s heart felt like it was breaking with every trembling step.
“No… don’t leave…” she pleaded, shaking her head desperately. “Don’t leave!”
But they continued to back away.
“I can still fix it!”
Her voice, once used to bring people together, to strengthen and seal the Honmoon, sent glowing purple-pink ripples through it—the demonic ones. The ones that weakened the Honmoon.
They flinched.
Their eyes widened, and their breathing got shallower.
Rumi could smell the fear on them.
They stood there for a moment, all of them shocked, Rumi’s chest heaving.
But there was a second rippling through the magical shield that protected their world, that same calm, sky-blue Rumi knew so well—and then she realised that Mira had raised her gok-do.
Directly at her.
Rumi’s eyes flickered between them.
“Zoey, please…” Her voice cracked.
But the maknae, too, raised two of her shin-kal with shaking hands.
Rumi’s eyes brimmed with tears, hurt and betrayal etched into every line, Celine’s words echoing in her mind.
I’ve trained them too well, Rumi. They can never know about your patterns, or they’ll kill you.
And when Rumi turned on her heel and ran, she didn’t look back.
She didn’t see the way her girls’ shoulders dropped as she fled, out of sight.
Didn’t see the relief that they wouldn’t have to hurt her.
Rumi was twenty-six when she realised she loved her girls.
They had just gotten through with their final show of a world tour, their first since the disastrous Idol Awards. Zoey’s bangs were plastered to her forehead, sweat dripping down her neck under the hot stage lights, but her smile was blinding and her eyes shining. Mira was smiling so broadly that her eyes crinkled in the corners.
Rumi felt her heart squeeze.
And as they walked back to the dressing rooms to the chorus of fifty million people shouting their names, it hit Rumi like a thunderbolt.
She loved them.
And so when they slipped through the door of their dressing room, she couldn’t stop herself from blurting, “I love you guys.”
Mira and Zoey paused, sharing a quick look that Rumi couldn’t read, before looking back at her.
“...we love you too, silly,” Zoey laughed after a second, raising an eyebrow as she began to undo her jacket. “We know you do.”
“Yeah,” Mira agreed, snorting. “We’ve been best friends for five years now, Rumi. You really think we don’t know you love us? We love you just as much. Idiot.”
“No, I—” Rumi groaned, her own hands moving to strip her cropped concert jacket off, grimacing as the sweaty material clung to her skin. “That’s not what I—”
But they weren’t listening; Zoey was already halfway through her newest obsession—angelsharks—and Mira was groaning playfully, her voice low and raspy from the post-show encore.
“Did you know that angelsharks can get up to one-and-a-half metres and weigh up to twenty-four kilos? And that’s not even the coolest part! The Japanese angelfish, the Centropyge interrupta , can get up to two-and-a-half metres long! That’s like, two-and-a-half me’s!”
Mira sighed, looking Zoey up and down, her voice faux-annoyed. “Zoey, that’s not—you’re like, a hundred and sixty centimetres, or something. You are nowhere near short enough to have two of you be equal to two-and-a-half metres.”
“Hey! I’m a hundred and sixty-four centimetres tall, thank you—”
“I meant I’m in love with you.”
There was immediate silence after her words.
Mira and Zoey wheeled around, Zoey’s eyes widening and mouth falling open, clearly speechless. Mira’s expression was unreadable.
Rumi looked between them, her palms sweating and her mouth dry, her voice raspy and far higher than normal.
“I’m… I’m in love with you,” she said again, more sure this time, digging her nails into her palms. “Both of you. I don’t think I ever realised it before, but… I have been for years. I can’t just… pretend I don’t. I’m in love with both of you, and I don’t think it’s going away.”
They stared at her.
For long enough that Rumi started to wish she hadn’t said anything.
She took a deep, shaky breath, opening her mouth and preparing to say that it was nothing more than a joke, when—
“Oh my god, finally!”
Rumi froze.
They were laughing.
Mira was grinning, and Zoey was tipping her head back, wheezing.
“It took you so long to figure out!” Zoey gasped out, wiping tears from her eyes. “We’ve been dating for years.”
“Yeah, waiting for you to figure it out,” Mira chimed in, snorting. “You were like, so obvious, Ru. You do realise normal friend groups don’t, like.. cuddle? And sleep with each other every night?”
It was Rumi’s turn to stare.
“What…?” was all she could manage as Zoey moved closer, wrapping her arms around her waist and staring up at her with those positively lethal big brown eyes.
“Me and Mira have been dating for like, two years now,” Zoey explained, smiling sweetly up at the oldest girl, one hand slipping down to interlock their fingers together.
“We’ve both been in love with you for years, Rumi,” Mira added, rolling her eyes affectionately as she strode forward as well, catching Rumi’s other hand. “We were waiting for you to figure out we were into you too.”
Rumi couldn’t figure out if she was dreaming or not.
When Zoey leaned up on her tiptoes to kiss her, she only unfroze to pinch herself after it was over.
And when Mira cupped her face gently in both hands, she only pulled away to gasp for breath and rest her head on the taller girl’s shoulder, her cheeks flushed and chest heaving as her girls kissed each other after.
Oh, how she cherished that memory.
When Rumi was thirty-four, she realised what it was to love two people with every part of her soul.
They had gone on a two-week camping trip, ready to celebrate the end of their idol life together, just the three of them; no technology, no work calls, no stress. Just them and the surrounding nature.
And it was on the final night that Mira insisted they go on a special nature hike at golden hour, so they could hit the lookout right as it hit sunset. So they trudged up the side of the mountain, Zoey groaning exaggeratedly with every step as her legs got more and more tired—only for both Zoey and Rumi to see the most beautiful picnic setup they’d ever seen.
Mira stood awkwardly, fidgeting with something in her pocket, clearing her throat shakily. “We’re, uh… we’re here.”
“Oh… Mira, did you do all of this for us?!” Zoey squealed, running forward and throwing her arms around the taller woman’s shoulders. Mira grunted, but her lips curved into a smile as she wrapped her arms around Zoey’s waist, nodding. Her eyes met Rumi’s over her shoulder, and the two of them shared a fond, loving look at their youngest.
They ate the picnic spread, laughing and talking as they enjoyed the food, and Zoey suggested that they could stargaze before they left, but neither Mira nor Rumi fancied a hike back in the dark.
But then, right as the sun crested the horizon, turning the sky brilliant hues of orange, gold, and pink, Mira pulled them up from the ground, positioning herself with her back to the sunset, and got down on one knee.
Zoey’s breath hitched audibly.
Rumi’s mind went blank.
“Rumi, Zoey…” Mira began, her voice shaking, but steady, as she looked between them, eyes full of so much adoration it made Rumi’s heart stop. “I… I’ve never been good with words, but… I’ll try. I’ve spent the last eleven years loving you more than life itself. We have endured… our idol debut, training, demon fights, god, even the end of the world, and… and I couldn’t imagine my life without you both in it. You are the two halves of my heart.”
She finally reached into her pocket, pulling out a small, soft velvet box and opening it. Inside were two gold engagement rings, gleaming in the light of the setting sun. One had a royal blue stone, cut perfectly hexagonal, set in between two curling, leafy vines that held it in place. The other had a delicate moon, and a round amethyst settled perfectly in its crescent, two matching vines cradling the fragile stone.
“Will you both do me the honor… of spending the rest of our lives together? Ryu Rumi, Choi Zoey… will you marry me?”
There was silence for a long moment.
“Mira…” Zoey’s voice was choked, her hands shaking as she took a step forward, then another, then threw herself into Mira’s arms, flinging her arms around her neck. “You—you idiot, yes! Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes!”
Some of the tension released in Mira’s chest, and she exhaled slowly, blinking back tears, but then she looked up at Rumi, who was still frozen in place, staring at her girlfriends.
“Mira…” she whispered, one hand moving up to cover her mouth, tears beginning to well up in her eyes.
“Rumi,” Mira answered, not looking away, her voice shaking but steady.
She took a trembling step towards the pair, stumbling a little, but quickly righting herself as she unsteadily made her way over to her girls. She cupped Mira’s face with one hand, kneeling down to wrap her free arm around Zoey as well, who had her face buried in Mira’s shoulder. Mira leaned into the touch, her eyes searching Rumi’s almost desperately, still looking for the answer Rumi could not give.
She couldn’t bring herself to speak.
So she leaned forward, pressing her lips to Mira’s in a tender, loving kiss, hoping it could convey all the emotion that she couldn’t. And when they were both forced to pull away for air, she kept Mira close, pressing their foreheads together, nodding her head in a shaky yes .
And finally, both of them allowed their tears to fall.
And when the three of them stumbled back to their campsite in the dark, stars and crescent moon shining overhead, shivering half-dressed in the cool night air, and drunk on each other’s presence, Rumi had never been happier to fall asleep in the arms of her beloveds.
When Rumi was fourty-seven, she realised that good things don’t last forever.
The morning had been young and new, sun shining in through the windows, and Rumi had woken up cheerful and ready to have a good day.
As she padded into the kitchen, humming softly to herself, she passed Zoey, who was sitting at the island, and leaned over to press an absentminded kiss to her forehead. As she did so, she noticed the faintest hint of a wrinkle on her forehead.
Her brow furrowed. A wrinkle?
Her Zoey was getting older… she knew that. And as Mira trudged into the kitchen behind her, grumbling incoherently about how much she hated mornings, Rumi caught sight of a streak of grey running through her red-pink hair.
She stared at it uncomprehendingly.
Had so much time really passed already?
It was when Rumi was fifty-six that they all started to realise that something was wrong.
She had woken up in the morning to find her nose buried in sweet-smelling salt-and-pepper hair, a faint smile curling her lips as she pulled back to see Mira behind her, arms wrapped around her waist and face pressed into her shoulder.
The movement woke Zoey, who groaned, blinking slowly in the bright sunlight, stretching her arms above her head. Rumi looked towards her again, smiling softly at her wife’s sleepy expression.
“Good morning, my love,” she whispered, the words rolling off her tongue like they always did—smooth, easy, and unchanging.
And she would never tire of saying them.
Zoey smiled back at her, eyes tracing the curve of Rumi’s smile, the edge of her jawline, her soft purple hair. She reached up, her weathered and callused hand stark against the smooth, unblemished skin of the half-demon.
“You know, Rumi…” the noirette murmured quietly, wrapping her arms around Rumi’s neck tiredly, her voice a little raspy from sleep. “You don’t look a day over twenty-five…”
Rumi hummed, raising an eyebrow with a fond, playful smile. “Charmer.”
Zoey smiled again, but a faint furrow began to grow in her brow as she studied Rumi more closely. “No, really… you don’t. You still look so… young.”
The more the other woman studied her, the deeper the frown on her face grew—until she sat up, startling Rumi as she reached over to shake Mira’s shoulder, her voice getting a little more urgent. “Mira. Mira. Wake up.”
The taller woman jerked awake, hand already reaching for a blade she no longer used before she was even fully conscious, a motion familiar from years of training in her youth. “I’m—I’m awake, I’m here, what’s going on—?”
Rumi couldn’t help but smile at the owlish look on her face, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Good morning, love—”
But Zoey cut her off. “Mira. Look at Rumi. Tell me what you see.”
Startled, both of them looked up at her, before Mira grudgingly squinted at their half-demon, blinking groggily. “Hold on, I don’t have my glasses…”
She turned, reaching over into the drawer on the nightstand and opening her glasses case, pulling out a pair of black, round glasses. After putting them on, she blinked again, letting her eyes adjust to seeing clearly as she peered at Rumi again. “Alright, let’s see… I see my wife. That I’m deeply in love with. Did you expect me to see something else, dear?”
Zoey sighed, shaking her head, her voice serious. “No, Mir. I mean look at her. Really look at her.”
“Zoey—” Rumi started, but Zoey held up her hand to forestall her protests.
“She looks young, Mira. Like, really young. Like she hasn’t aged a day since we started dating,” Zoey explained, crossing her arms over her chest. “And that was thirty years ago.”
Mira blinked yet again, then frowned, her gaze sharpening as she looked at Rumi more carefully. Her face changed, eyes tracing over Rumi’s features, her expression becoming alarmed. “Rumi, come with me.”
Rumi tried to protest, to insist that she was fine, but before she could stop her wife, she was already being dragged to the bathroom.
The three of them crowded into the tiny room, staring at their reflections in the mirror, Rumi squished between her two wives. Mira grabbed her, positioning their faces right next to each other, and Zoey did the same, three pairs of eyes gazing back at them.
And Rumi realised exactly what it was Zoey was talking about.
Where Zoey and Mira had faint wrinkles around their eyes and mouths, streaks of grey in their hair, and thin, weathered hands, Rumi’s skin was whole and smooth, her hair the same as it always had been for her entire life. They were right. She did look… young.
She looked more like she could’ve been their daughter than their wife.
She felt a rush of something dark and terrified move through her veins.
Why did she look so much younger?
“Jinu.”
Mira and Zoey’s eyes snapped towards her, a grumpy frown appearing on Mira’s face, and a confused one on Zoey’s.
“Jinu? What does Jinu have to do with this?” Mira demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I—” Rumi felt dizzy. “He—he told me he was… was born in the… the Joseon Dynasty. In the middle of it.”
Her wives stilled.
“Mid-Joseon Dynasty?” Zoey whispered, her eyes flickering up to Mira’s, a terrible, dawning realisation beginning to make itself clear to her. “That was… that was over four hundred years ago…”
“And—and he was alive. Four centuries after it ended,” Rumi finished, her face pale. “And—and Gwi-ma, he’s been alive for millennia. Since maybe the beginning of humanity as we know it. Demons… demons are immortal, aren’t they? Unless they’re… unless they’re killed by a hunter’s weapon, they’re… they’re immortal.”
“But you—you’re half-demon, Rumi, you’re not full-blooded,” Mira interjected, her hands shaking as she stared at the shorter woman. “So—so you won’t live forever, surely?”
“Half… half demon is still enough demon to live for a long time, at least,” Zoey said, staring at Rumi in the mirror. “She may die someday, but she’s still… still demon enough not to for a while.”
“How long is a while?” Rumi whispered, horrified by the newfound dark reality of their situation, reaching out to press her hand to her reflection.
Neither of them had an answer for her.
Rumi was sixty-four when she learned what it was to reassure someone that they were beautiful no matter what.
But she suspected, no matter how many times that she told her wives she did not care about their growing number of wrinkles or greying hair, that there would always be some part of them that did not believe her.
Rumi was seventy-five when Zoey died.
It had been a rainy summer’s day on Jeju Island, the sky overcast and grey, the green, blooming trees a stark contrast against the clouds.
And as Mira’s tears poured down her face, as the rain began to pour from the sky as though it too were mourning the loss of a beautiful soul, as Rumi’s hands began to shake on the umbrella she held, time lost meaning for them.
She didn’t know how long they stood there.
Eventually, they were joined by another, carrying a lantern against the darkening sky, clad in dark clothes. Her round face was open and lined with the memories of many smiles, her voice soft in nature. “I’m sure she’s in a better place now.”
Rumi looked up slowly, her eyes flickering briefly over the woman’s face. Mira did not react, simply continuing to lean into Rumi’s side with quiet sobs that wracked her body.
“It’s always nice to see younger folks assisting their elders,” the woman continued, offering a polite, sympathetic smile. “How did you know her?”
Rumi’s eyes flickered back to the cool grey stone, at the fresh characters engraved there. “...she was… a lifelong friend and partner to me. To both of us.”
The woman’s eyes moved curiously between the pair of them and the headstone, but she made no comment on it, instead giving another sympathetic smile as she passed behind them, patting Rumi’s shoulder lightly. “Well. I hope you are reminded of her and find her in the littlest things every day. Good evening to you folks.”
Rumi nodded once, numbly, as she turned back to the headstone. It gazed back at her, cold and unfeeling.
Mira’s hands, old and weathered and wrinkled, found hers, and the two of them stayed that way until night fell and they could see and feel no more.
Rumi was ninety-three when she found the first of the next generation of hunters.
She had been walking through the streets of Seoul, taking in the buildings and technology, so very different from her youth, collar pulled high, sunglasses and baseball cap on—when she felt it.
The Honmoon.
Dormant for so long, yet it stirred once more.
Rumi’s head snapped up, and her vision sharpened instantly as she allowed her eyes to slip into the double-vision the Honmoon gave her, its normally calm, iridescent threads now abuzz and alight with energy. She moved quickly, with the agile grace of a predator, sticking to the shadows as she headed towards its source.
She emerged into a throng of people, the energy chaotic and wild as she pushed her way through, towards the center. In the middle of the crowd, a ring or people had formed around a young woman with two French pigtail braids, a microphone in one hand as she faced off against a much, much taller, burlier man. She was constantly moving, hands flying, never staying in one place for more than a second as she verbally beat the man’s confidence to dust, barely stopping to take a breath. Her opponent burst into tears and dropped his mic on their little impromptu stage, turning away from her and pushing his way through the crowd.
The girl grinned breathlessly, tossing her hair flippantly as she looked through the crowd, one hand on her cocked hip. “Anyone else wanna try? No? Yeah, that’s what I thought! Nobody beats Ji-hae, baby!”
It reminded Rumi so much of Zoey it hurt.
Rumi was one hundred and twenty-four when she witnessed the next generation of those like her.
Ji-hae stood, holding the little baby in her arms, her eyes brimming with joyful tears as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss her husband. His eyes glinted golden, his patterns curling over his skin as he put his hand to the baby’s forehead, where paler, lavender patterns flickered to life, glowing faintly against his. Beside them, Eunji and Ha-rin cooed at the baby, their hands intertwined.
She watched with a faint, beatific smile as her charges bid her farewell, traipsing off towards town, where the ferry for the mainland waited. After they disappeared from sight, then allowed her smile to fade as she returned inside her childhood home.
Every wall was filled with memories, from pictures of Miyeong, Celine, and Sarang wrapped around each other, to pictures of herself, Mira, and Zoey, lying together in the warm sand, hands interlocked.
A new generation had come, but it did not stop the love and warmth from permeating the space within which she resided; no, photographs of Ji-hae and Eunji and Ha-rin adorned the walls also, laughing together, holding hands, Ji-hae and her now-husband Changmin, with her bandmates behind, intertwined as always.
As she moved through the house, she gathered the materials she would need—incense, a lighter, photographs of her wives, and both her mothers. She slipped out of her home once more, allowing the warmth of the setting sun to wash over her as she walked slowly past towering, ancient oaks, her flowing robes billowing in the faint breeze.
Even now, despite her age, she held the look of a woman in her late thirties. Before she knew it, the next generation of hunters would be upon them, and it would once again fall upon her to train them.
Her slow, wandering path took her through groves and thickets of gnarled oaks and cherry trees, their blossoms blowing around her in a mesmerising whorl of color, zephyrs of petals twirling like a dancer in the wind.
Life was beautiful.
Now, Rumi is two hundred and seven years old.
She sits beneath the ancient, bowed bonsai tree, inhaling deeply as she meditates, the gentle wind rustling her robes.
As the sound of the rain continues to drip, drip, drip past her, hitting the ground in an infrequent way that is almost musical, she opens her eyes slowly, maintaining her Lotus position.
“We certainly have come a long way, I think.”
Her voice is low, rough and heavy not with age, but with the weight of her years.
“Who could have imagined, when we were young, that hunters would begin helping demons? That they could be seen as something other than a threat? A mistake?”
She laughs, a slow, sad sound.
“So much has changed. What would you say, I wonder, if you could see the world as it is now, my loves?”
The faded, crumbling grey headstones beside her make no answer.
She sighs, bowing her head. A strand of hair, finally grey in color, tumbles down past her eyes, free from her braid. She smooths it down slowly and tips her head back, eyes searching the overcast sky.
“Soon, my loves. Soon, we will meet again. My task is almost done, my time almost over...”
She looks towards the three grey headstones, at her mothers’ names engraved beside each other.
Ryu Miyeong, one reads. A beloved mother, wife, and friend.
Kim Celine, the other reads. An honored mentor.
Hong-Ryu-Choi Mira and Hong-Ryu-Choi Zoey, reads the last. Beloved wives, students, and friends.
“Soon.”