Chapter Text
Rumi was pretty sure that she was the most comfortable anyone had ever been.
It didn’t seem out of the question – her room was just chilled enough that the veritable mountain of blankets weighing her down into her mattress was cozy, not sweltering. At the same time, it wasn’t too cold either: her face could poke out from the heavy pile of blankets and not be uncomfortable. She was wearing her softest pajamas, and the innermost blanket that actually touched her was fuzzy and velveteen. (Rumi had accidentally snagged her finger callouses on it so many times. So. Many. Times. And she just had little itty bitty baby callouses – she didn’t even want to think of what would happen if she ever managed to achieve Celine levels of callouses.) Her stuffed tiger was tucked up in her arms, neatly swaddled in Celine’s shirt and exuding just enough of the aroma of Celine’s favored perfume to be enjoyable.
Rumi rumbled contentedly, snuggling down further into her blankets, feeling the vibrations from her rumbles in her chest and throat as she nosed just under the covers enough to get a deep breath of Celine’s smell before pulling back out and letting out a soft, happy noise, somehow managing to relax even further without turning into some sort of liquid.
Everything was absolutely Just Right. No notes. Just pure contentment.
…
...and yet…
As though hearing a siren’s song singing in the silence, Rumi couldn’t help but crack one eye open, looking blindly in the general direction of her door and considering.
Was it really, truly worth leaving this paradise behind for a cup of water?
Not just any cup of water, of course. At this level of comfort, she could be parched and withering away and it wouldn’t be worth moving just to get a cup of tap water. No, the water that had Rumi wracked with indecision would be well water. Night chilled well water, at that. Nothing tasted better than water from their well, and nothing felt better going down than night chilled well water.
Now, the thing was that Rumi had access to well water all day. Key word there being ‘day’. Around two hours before Rumi’s bedtime, Celine always dumped the bucket she kept filled all day. (If she was really thirsty, Celine always said, she could get some water from the tap. But the tap water wasn’t the same, and Rumi knew Celine knew that – she was just being a meanie.) Rumi used to smuggle a cup of water into her room earlier on in the evenings, but Celine had caught on when she had to make a trip or two to the bathroom every night for weeks. It had been ages since Rumi had had a chance to taste that sweet, sweet water when she desperately needed it most – in the dead of night, when her mouth was dry and gross from a lack of use.
But tonight?
Tonight, Celine had been exhausted after a long day out. (Rumi had been left with one of the neighbors most of the day while Celine was out on a chore. Whatever the chore had been must have been really hard, since Celine’s shoulders had been slumped all evening after she picked Rumi up. She hadn’t even smiled when Rumi had presented her with the drawing she’d spent the morning making of the two of them. Or, well, she had, but not her real smile that went all the way up to her eyes and made her face wrinkles appear and crinkle. Rumi had gotten her ‘company’ smile, the one that stayed entirely in her lips while her eyes just… stared. She’d at least gotten a hug too, though, so Celine wasn’t upset. Just… tired.) She’d fallen asleep a few times on the couch before bedtime, and Rumi thought she must have still been half asleep once she began making her way through the evening routine. Celine had forgotten to dump the bucket! (-and lock the door, and turn off the radio, and fold the couch blanket back up and replace the cushions, but Rumi could do those things. She liked being able to help!)
Which left Rumi in her present dilemma: stay in her cozy prison of comfort, doomed to perish with the knowledge that she could have enjoyed the oh so rare treasure of a forbidden drink, or go claim her prize and leave behind this perfection with the understanding that she wouldn’t be able to reach that level of comfort again.
Decisions, decisions.
Rumi licked her lips, suddenly unable to think about anything but how dry her mouth was, how sticky and swollen and thick her tongue felt, how chapped her lips were, how cool and refreshing and crisp a big cup of water would be right now-
Her rumbles slowly died off, replaced with a frustrated growl as she wriggled free of her blankets with an exasperated heave, trying to keep as much heat tucked away inside as possible as she inched out, carefully scooting backwards on her butt to retain the cozy hole she was crawling out of. The room felt a lot chillier when she wasn’t safe under her blankets, Rumi fighting off a shiver as she twisted to stretch a foot down towards the ground.
The instant her bare toes touched the solid block of ice that was her floor, the foot was immediately retracted with a yelp, Rumi glaring down into the darkness where the floor presumably lay. Recent decisions were reconsidered and deeply, truly regretted.
Regardless, she’d already left her blankets – the idea of giving up with nothing to show but the memory of what she’d had and willingly left was worse than the idea of dealing with the floor again, even if only barely. Rumi gritted her teeth and tried again, shuddering as her toes hit the wood but bearing through it and doubling down, setting her other foot down as well.
A tiny whine trembled high in her throat, but she was otherwise very brave.
Rumi shuffled across the floor, shoulders relaxing slightly once she stepped onto the rug in the middle of the room. It was a short reprieve as she reached the other side of the rug far too quickly, cautiously reaching out until her fingers brushed up against the far wall. From there, it was easy to find the door, and easier still to find the doorhandle. She grimaced at how cold the metal was as she very carefully turned the knob, pushing it in a little more at just the right time to keep it from groaning, and then pulled the door open a crack.
She pressed her face up to the crack, one eye settled neatly in the dip between the door and the doorframe, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. (Rumi could have done this earlier, but it was more fun to do things like this. Honestly, if she didn’t need to keep an eye out for Celine, she would have kept her night blindness all the way to the kitchen.) While she waited for her vision to shift, Rumi took a deep, mouth open breath of air.
It didn’t tell her much – she could mostly just smell herself and Celine (what a surprise), along with the faintest residual aroma of dinner. Still, that meant that she didn’t smell anything else that could signal that Celine was still up either. Rumi didn’t smell a metallic tang or a rotten fruit stench, the two most common smells that meant Celine was up and about at night. She also didn’t smell that musk that always meant that Celine’s door was going to be locked that night – that would have made things pretty straightforward, but it would have sucked any enjoyment out of the evening since that was one of the two smells that meant that Celine was crying.
Rumi only knew that that was what it meant because she had heard her several times, gasping and sobbing inside her room, muffled and choked because Celine always tried to be quiet when she cried. Though she was usually silent when she cried - Celine must not have realized that Rumi could hear her even when the door was closed.
The other smell was much more blatantly obvious, and it was a smell that Rumi had known and held mixed feelings about for years.
See, Rumi had always hated when Celine cried.
It felt bad when she was sad or hurt, and it was scary that anything could affect Celine to that point. But… she also disliked it because she always wound up having to go play in her room when Celine cried, and that really wasn’t fair. It wasn’t as though she meant to get pointy when Celine was really sad, it just happened. She couldn’t help it. Celine just smelled so, so delicious when she cried. (Sometimes. The musk was okay, but it wasn’t nearly as appealing.) Her distress made Rumi’s mouth water against her will, gums aching with the sudden urge to bite something, and her stomach growl, no matter how full she was. It was an aroma that she could almost taste when she inhaled just right.
Not that she’d ever really gotten to do that for more than a second or two before Celine shooed her away, banished to her room until she’d ‘calmed down’. Which was Celine-talk for ‘gone back to not being pointy’. Which, as stated earlier, was not fair.
Still, it really didn’t feel much better when Celine banished herself to her own room when she cried.
Rumi finally felt the quick, painful pinch in her eyes as they adjusted, the darkness shifting into a much more distinct gradient of grays and blacks as she looked around for any movement that would give Celine away, any extra shadows that shouldn’t be in the otherwise empty hall. (She’d gotten caught far too many times by assuming that just because the lights were off that Celine was in bed, but no. Celine’s skills at traversing the house blind far surpassed Rumi’s – Rumi still needed to keep a hand on a guiding wall, touch landmark furniture to keep her bearings straight, while Celine could just walk around like it was daytime.)
Nothing.
She pulled the door open a little wider, sticking her head out and listening… but no. Still nothing. No rustling fabrics, no grunts or hissed breaths, no clinking glass or popping corks, no quiet sobs or muttered words too soft for even Rumi to catch, no padding footsteps or sharp clicks from the first aid kit. So… so far, so good.
Rumi crept out fully into the hall, closing the door behind her to hide the faint gleam of the glow-in-the-dark moon and star pieces Celine had sewn onto her bedside lampshade before continuing on her way. She paused by Celine’s door, cautiously peering into the room and relaxing as she spotted the person shaped lump on the bed, ever so slightly moving with each barely audible breath. Rumi grinned at one short, single raspy snore, freezing in place as Celine rolled over with a grumbly sigh. When she heard another quiet snore, Rumi made a break for it.
She trotted towards the kitchen with the ease of someone who had long ago memorized which floorboards creaked where, each footstep utterly silent. (This was only possible because she and Celine had, by mutual silent agreement, both put off polishing the wood for weeks now. If they’d been on top of that chore, there wouldn’t have been a whole lot Rumi could have done to keep her bare feet from squeaking against the floor with each step. She could have worn her socks… but she really didn’t like her socks. Squeaky footsteps were far better than toe prison.)
Celine being in bed, sleeping deeply enough to be snoring, was half the battle at this point. The entire other half of the battle was wrestling with the stupid pantry door where the step stool was stored. (Celine had outright told her that she let the hinges of that door stay screechy just so she’d know when Rumi was going after the step stool, which was rude. Sure, before Celine had started keeping the stool in the noisy closet, Rumi had wound up slicing a sizable cut across her hip with one of the meaner kitchen knives while Celine was working in her office, but in her defense, how was she supposed to know that she was going to lose her balance getting back down off the counter? Everything would have been fine if that hadn’t happened – she had the knife safely tucked between her hip and the waistband of her pants, and she had been being super careful not to let the points of the blade stick her in the leg.
Until she’d fallen.
But still.)
It took longer than she would have liked, (and a few more sharp rusty metal shrieks than she was comfortable with) but eventually the pantry was open, and the stool was hers. Heaving it up, Rumi waddled her way back over to the counter and crouched, slowly setting the stool down gently enough that the legs clicked against the floor instead of clattering. After that, everything was easy.
Clambering up onto the counter was nothing, as was crawling over to the sink to collect her cup from off the window ledge where it was stored beside Celine’s mug. So focused on her prize, gleeful in the midst of her victory, Rumi almost missed the light outside, shining in the deep shadows of the quarter moon night. If she hadn’t noticed the odd reflection on the edge of her cup, she wouldn’t have given it a single thought. Once she did notice it, Rumi almost ignored it regardless. (She was so close to getting her prize – the water bucket was right there, waiting patiently for her on the center island.) Still, the light was odd enough that she sighed and reluctantly leaned in closer to the window, keeping a tight grip on her cup handle as she peered inquisitively out at the training yard.
She figured that it was teenagers again (the local teenagers liked to dare each other to come spend the night out at the shrine, or to steal some of the vegetables out of their garden. Apparently, Celine was intimidating? Rumi thought that the local teenagers must be weenies if they were scared of Celine.) or maybe a really lost tourist using their cell phone to light the way, but then-
Rumi gasped-
-clutched at the counter desperately as her head swam-
Everything was spinning-
Something-
-she couldn’t breathe-
Something was-
swayed dangerously, almost toppling right off the counter-
Something was…
Wrong.
Someone gasped, somewhere. Maybe it was Rumi, she couldn’t tell. Something fell. (It wasn’t Rumi, thankfully. Amazingly.) She couldn’t spare a look around, couldn’t tear her eyes away from the window, because the air was… It was…
Somehow, the air was bleeding.
Or burning.
Burning made more sense, but it honestly looked more like bleeding. Red welled up from a rapidly lengthening slice, dripping down to the ground in thick, garish globs that flared and vanished as they landed. Rumi could feel the world screaming, the sound echoing and shuddering through her bones.
It was horrible.
It was ugly, disgusting, it made her stomach churn to look at it, hairs on her arms rising as something whispered that it was wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong…
But.
There was something about it.
Rumi couldn’t stand it, and yet... There was something… comforting about it, in some disconcertingly off putting way. Something that called to her.
It made her sick.
It felt good. Hot, burning away the chill around her from the outside in. (Maybe it was fire after all.)
She wanted to throw up.
The heat curled around her – thick, sweltering, stinging her eyes and making her want to cough – accompanied by a wordless, unsettlingly familiar voice that she had never heard before. It hummed, murmured, whispered.
Mine, mine, all mine – always mine-
And for a split second, her night vision vanished. Rumi felt the pinch in her eyes again as they readjusted, leaving her essentially blind save for what chunks of the yard were illuminated by weak moonlight.
The only thing she could see clearly was that (horrible) wonderful bright, glaring wound carved into thin air.
Her mind hazed over, eyes losing their focus as she was engulfed in that smothering (glorious) overwhelming heat, that voice that was nothing but wrong wrong wrong purring in pleasure as something important in her started to sputter and fade, shamelessly begging as it slowly died.
Yes, please. Please, please, anything you want - I’ll be y-
Something clattered loudly, Celine’s door slammed hard enough to make Rumi startle guiltily, slapping a hand over her eyes as though her silhouette against the window wouldn’t be enough to give her away. Footsteps pounded behind her, Celine tearing through the house, Rumi’s shoulders relaxing instinctively despite herself – Celine would know what to do, how to deal with the threat. As the front door slammed behind her, Rumi suddenly registered that yes, that voice, that heat, felt like a threat. It was bizarre that it had felt comforting a moment ago.
Rumi snarled defensively, feeling herself turning pointier by the second. (Being pointy likely wouldn’t be much help against heat or a voice, but it did still make Rumi feel better.) Her eyes pinched again as her eyes re-readjusted, glaring daggers out at the offending fire slit.
Oh, very well -
-the voice chuckled, Rumi’s growl kicking up a few notches in aggressiveness at the audacity of this invader.
Go on, then.
-it whispered, and Rumi’s growl turned into a breathless yelp, then into a whimper as the feeling of wrong wrong WRONG swelled and swelled and strained, pale white things shooting out to squirm in the gaping, burning wound like maggots.
She squinted, making a face. Were those… hands?
Go on.
-the wrongness repeated, deeply amused.
Have your fun. Gorge yourself on cattle, tempt and lure the lost lambs, slaughter the remaining guard dogs. Revel in your escape, little ones – but just remember.
Rumi’s clothes were drenched with her sweat, clinging uncomfortably to her skin as the heat pounded against her, crushing and cruel. She couldn’t feel even a hint of chill now, feeling like she was in the sun at the height of summer instead of being inside at night at the beginning of winter.
You are mine. Everything that you are, belongs to me. Everything that you will ever be, is mine. I am the only being in all of eternity who will ever want you, you miserable, disgusting wretches. You know what you are. You know what you’ve done. What you turned yourself into, and how cheaply you sold your dignity, your honor, your righteousness. And even so, I will still accept you. I will give you a home. A family.
I am the only one who ever will.
You will never be able to pay me back enough for that dignity which I offer you.
We both know it.
But I will still do you this favor regardless. I will allow you to borrow even more, will extend you that much more credit and let you out to play, despite how little you worthless parasites do to repay my bountiful generosity.
So.
Go ahead. I’ll allow it.
Enjoy yourself.
Indulge in your revelries.
Just remember. I’ll see you all again soon.
You can’t escape your debts forever.
And then.
Then -
Celine ran out into the yard just as the wound burst open, dozens of tangled bodies tumbling free of that fiery wrongness in a writhing mass of limbs and -
Rumi’s breath caught in her chest, eyes wide and skin breaking out into a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the temperature, a choked wheeze escaping her throat, tears (of joy, or despair?) burning down her cheeks because-
Because-
Because those things- (they were animals, hunched and crawling, heads swiveling as they sniffed the air, fangs and tusks and claws bared and gleaming in the moonlight)
Those monsters- (how could they be anything less, eyes burning like embers in the dark and bodies just humanoid enough to feel unnerving, their pulsing, throbbing stripes gleaming a sick, violent purple. How could they be anything else when their heads all snapped around to Celine, grins slowly spreading across too-wide maws, drool beginning to ooze between their teeth, stalking towards her with clear malice.)
Those… those…
Oh.
Oh.
Rumi’s hand pressed hard against her mouth as she gagged wetly, feeling bile burn the very back of her throat as she realized: those things?
There was nothing they could be other than demons.
This was a distinctly distressing realization, considering the fact that she was-
“-a demon.”
Rumi cringed further behind Celine’s leg as she sobbed into her pants, now soaked in a mixture of tears and snot bubbles. Auntie sounded so terribly sad – it hurt Rumi’s chest.
If it weren’t for the scythe in the woman’s hand, Rumi would have gone over and given her a big hug to try and cheer her up. Well... no. The scythe itself wasn’t the issue – Rumi loved Auntie’s weapon. It was beautiful (Auntie’s scythe and Celine’s swords both were, made out of the same mesmerizing material that looked like someone had managed to combine the night sky, metal and crystal together into glowing, shimmering blades) and would whisper to her anytime Auntie let her play with it, trying her best to go through some of the training forms that Auntie and Celine ran every morning, cooing affectionately at Rumi, things like Hello, oh hello – you are perfect, thank you for existing, I will always love you, I want you to be happy. I want you to be happy, I want you all to be happy, I can’t wait for you to meet the rest of your family, I love you all so much, I want to keep you safe, I want to help you keep everyone safe, you are going to be a marvel you are a marvel, thank you for being part of me I will never be able to thank you enough and I will never stop trying-
So… no. The scythe itself wasn’t the issue. That little smear of blood on the edge of the blade, though? The burning pain across her cheek and lip? That… that look in Auntie’s eyes (-what had Rumi done to make her look at her like that?) Those were the things keeping her at bay.
Rumi buried her face in Celine’s pants with a shudder and another choked sob, only feeling a little better as Celine’s hand patted the back of her head comfortingly, pressing her closer in a tiny hug before letting her go.
A few feet away, she could hear the scythe whine, the sound shivering in the air, mournful and apologetic. It hadn’t wanted to hurt her, the sound insisted, it hadn’t meant to hurt her - never.
Surely, Auntie hadn’t either. Auntie would never hurt her. Auntie was one of those adults who made the world feel safe just by being around, like Celine – only instead of evening cuddles and reassuring pats and carefully made meals and bandaged ows and calm, solid care and attention, Auntie showed her love by pulling silly faces to make Rumi giggle, by sneaking her sweets and goodies behind Celine’s back, by tackling Rumi and Celine both into tickle fights and pillow fights and going romping with Rumi out in the woods - wading into the stream to try and catch little fish bare handed, helping Rumi catch the many bugs and snakes and toads and rabbits that darted about in the great outdoors, getting stuck up far too high in one of the trees and yelling with Rumi for Celine until she showed up with a ladder in tow, muttering about how Auntie absolutely could have gotten herself down even as she carefully helped them down (and was rewarded with twin smooches on either cheek for her time). Auntie loved her, loved them both. She told her so many times every day how much she loved her, and showed her love in a hundred bright, teasing ways.
(And yet, if Celine hadn’t looked over and yanked Rumi back just as the scythe appeared…)
(Auntie hadn’t been aiming for Rumi’s cheek with that attack – she’d been going for her throat.)
“Celine,” Auntie’s voice was pleading now. “-it’s a demon.”
Rumi felt Celine stiffen, panicking momentarily as the muscles in Celine’s leg flexed like she was about to move away. (She didn’t. She stayed firmly between Auntie and Rumi, a solid wall of protection.) “What...”
Auntie’s voice may have been sad, but Celine’s voice was absolutely broken.
Rumi wrapped her arms around Celine’s leg and hugged her with all her might, determined to channel her love into her hug. If she couldn’t hug Auntie to comfort her, then Rumi was just going to have to hug Celine that much more to make up for it.
“… what are you doing?” Rumi could feel Celine shaking, trembling so hard that she could even hear it in her voice, words soft and incredulous. “You- you were going to- to-”
“I was – I am – going to do exactly what I have to.”
Rumi peeked out, watching in confused discomfort as a tear rolled down Auntie’s cheek. Her jaw was set, fingers going white around the handle of her scythe.
“You can’t-” Celine’s voice cracked, then echoed Auntie’s pleading. “You can’t be serious. You wouldn’t hurt her – not our Rumi-”
“CELINE!” Both Rumi and Celine startled as Auntie shouted, shoulders tense and eyes grim. “That?” she jabbed the tip of her weapon in Rumi’ s direction, not meeting Rumi’s gaze. “That is a demon. It’s a demon. I know-” Her breath caught, eyes closing as she pressed the base of her wrist against her forehead in the way she did when she was fighting a headache, one eye cracking back open a second later to glare at Rumi for a split second before looking back up to Celine again. “We… We tried. We did. No one could say that we didn’t. I’ll admit it – this was on me too. We wanted it to be Mi-Yeong’s little girl so bad, we ignored every warning sign. The fangs, the claws, the eyes, the hunting, the purring….We looked past it all, because we love Mi-Yeong and this is what we have left of her. You ignored it. I ignored it. We ignored so, so much, Celine. But patterns? I- I can’t ignore her having patterns. I won’t. I won’t go through this again.”
“Please-”
“Wh- Do you think I want to do this?!” Auntie swiped her scythe through the air, teeth bared and spittle flying, Celine never flinching as the blade came within inches of her chest. The smell of tears filled the air, tantalizingly delicious. (It must have been from earlier, since neither woman was crying anymore.) “Do you think attacking my ni- Do you think this brings me any sort of pleasure? I love- I loved that... that thing. I hate this!”
“Then stop!”
“I can’t!” Auntie’s voice was almost a wail, blade shaking in the air. “I can’t.” She took a deep breath, muscles tensing. “And you know I can’t. Stop making this harder than it has to be. That thing has patterns, and we have a responsibility to deal with it.” This time when Auntie swiped out, Celine flinched and hissed, hand flying up to her shoulder.
Rumi sniffled, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, then frowned as she looked between the faint, dark stripes running across her skin… and then stared in confusion at Auntie’s skin, where similar patterns were plainly visible.
Anyway. So. Rumi had known that she was a demon for awhile now. And obviously, everyone knew that demons were bad – so, logically, Rumi was aware that being a demon was a Bad Thing. The thing was, there were a lot of demons. Most of the people that Rumi knew had the same striped patterns that she did, and while they could be nasty or mean sometimes, most of the time they were just… ordinary, really. Polite enough, usually nice. Celine never seemed bothered by them. (Auntie never had either.)
After awhile, the sharp edges of her fear about being a demon had dulled, worn down by how boring it actually was. Mundane. Humdrum. Nobody other than Auntie seemed to actually care. And so… Rumi relaxed.
The problem with that was… those people hadn’t been demons.
They couldn’t have been, because these were unmistakably demons. They couldn’t have been anything else.
They couldn’t have been anything else, because they were like her.
They were like her in a way she’d been searching for in others for years, in a way she’d tricked herself into seeing where it had clearly never been.
Not when these demons were so blatantly, obviously, glaringly like her.
When they smelled the air, it wasn’t just a light, cursory sniff to enjoy some lingering aroma – demons took in a deep whiff through their noses and mouths.
Like Rumi did.
When their eyes caught the light, they didn’t need glasses to reflect more light than a faint twinkle – demons eyes reflected the barest hint of light with a solid, fiery gold glow.
Like Rumi’s did.
Their fingertips were sharp, and not just because they had long fingernails – demons actual fingers tapered off to a sharp, almost bony tip.
Like Rumi’s did. (Like they were, currently.)
They moved with smooth, fluid grace – all of them, not just the most talented or well trained.
Like Rumi did.
Their teeth were jagged and pointy.
Like Rumi’s were.
And every last one of them bore stripes that shimmered a sick, grotesque purple.
Like Rumi’s.
...well. Kind of.
(Rumi’s purple was almost nonexistent compared to theirs, just a stretched splotch running through one of her stripes on her shoulder. She’d always thought maybe it had something to do with puberty, once she’d noticed it – Celine had had her wrapping that shoulder for months before the purple had appeared with the same gentle insistence that she had towards wearing underwear.)
They weren’t all Rumi clones – most of them looked completely different. There were demons who made her think of worms: their faces were missing eyes, their snapping jaws were uncomfortably wide, and their pale skin was stretched taut over muscle and bone. There were demons who looked like dragons: bone and tusks and horns and carved flesh jutting out from their skin in bright, vivid colors, every face unique and equally eyecatching. And there was a demon who looked like death, the outlines of its bones clear and sharp under a thin layer of skin the muted dark gray of decomposition, shoulders and head slumped awkwardly as though the muscles there had given way.
But there was a sense of that’s what I do that made their general appearances irrelevant.
They were like her.
When the demons caught Celine’s scent and snapped their heads towards her in unison, they stared at her with the same unbearable focus that Rumi had felt herself use whenever her attention was caught by something. (The one that made people frown, telling her not to look at them like that.)
When Celine summoned her swords in a brilliant flash of light, the faintest sound of her singing audible through the window, the sound was quickly drowned out by the same playful snarls and roars that Rumi had heard herself make when she was about to charge into a race or tussle or sparring match or snuggly wrestling match with Celine. (The ones that Celine allowed at the house, but put her foot down about when Rumi was playing with others. ‘It’s rude,’ she’d told Rumi.)
When the demons closed in around her, the ones on the outside of the writhing circle pacing and trying to squirm their way forward, their jaws snapping around anything – each other, tree branches, their own fingers and arms, Rumi had felt that same desperation. (Rumi had had a bad biting phase – it had taken weeks of being grounded and being stuck in time out after time out before Celine could break her of the habit. It hadn’t even really been cured – Celine had just gotten her rubber chewies to gnaw on when the cravings hit, instead of other people or their things.)
They were… they were like her.
Rumi’s stomach churned and bucked, her heart in her throat as she pressed up against the window, desperate to catch a glimpse of Celine. There was no sign of her, only the nearly strobe flickers of light from her swords that escaped occasionally between demon bodies.
A few demons broke away from the pack, eyes turning towards the house curiously as they gave up on their original prey in favor of searching out a new one. Rumi’s growl was deep and guttural as her teeth and fingers somehow became even pointier, though whether the sound was one of anger or fear she genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.
And then – there was a ripple of- Everything will be okay, I love you, Celine loves you, we love you so much, everything is going to be fine you are so good don’t be afraid we’re here- as Celine tore through the demon ranks, Rumi watching wide eyed as nasty, gaping wounds flared and bodies dissolved into ash, falling apart in great chunks and vanishing into nothingness.
She gagged helplessly, unable to look away.
They were like her.
Celine was liquid steel, pure poetry in motion – every motion was smooth and purposeful, no action wasted or attack missed.
In comparison, the demons fought like animals. They attacked blindly, stupidly, their predator’s grace undercut by their wild rage, their hunger, their pride. They shoved each other, clawed to get ahead of each other, sabotaged each other when any one seemed to be managing to overwhelm Celine.
They were like Rumi, and all she could see now was their greed, their selfish pride, their careless, intentional cruelty.
Rumi gagged again, tasting bile as a demon caught Celine across the back and made her stumble with a grimace before twisting to slice it in half, the remaining crowd of demons roaring, laughing, whooping in approval as they surged forward to take its place.
They were…
They were…
-horrible.
They were like her.
Celine flinched as one caught her arm, Rumi tensing as her mouth opened in a cry of pain that Rumi couldn’t hear. The only thing audible was the cheering, more laughter – why were they laughing? Who could laugh at this? Celine kneed the demon to another round of whistles and snarls, breaking free of its grasp and staggering back enough to kick it into a few demons who were getting too close, ignoring the immediate boos and jeers.
They were evil.
They were like Rumi, and they were evil.
Rumi froze, catching sight of the golden glow of her eyes reflected in the window glass. She looked down at her fingers, tips digging into the countertop hard enough to leave white scratch marks down the smooth tile, ran her tongue against the razor sharp tips of her teeth again…
Rumi was like them.
-and promptly threw up in the sink, her nausea immediate and overwhelming. Her head spun, throat burning from stomach acid, vision going just a little black around the edges as she stared outside again, terrified to look away from Celine for too long.
The fight had moved a little closer, just enough that Rumi could make out the features of Celine’s face in the glow of her sword as she chased down the demons that had started towards the house, could see the fury in her gritted teeth, the snarl to her lips, could see…
Could see the pure, unfiltered hatred in her eyes.
Rumi threw up again, hiccuping miserably.
There were only a handful of demons left now, and each was falling faster than the last.
She watched, stomach churning and chest squeezed tight, disconcerted by the bizarre mixture of deep, melting relief and shaking, sickened horror as Celine cut through the demons one after the other, her beautiful blades carving through flesh and bone like it was nothing. As bodies crumpled like puppets with cut strings, flopping limply to the ground even as they dissolved into ash.
Rumi was like them.
Rumi was like them, and she was, she realized, very abruptly and very jarringly, scared.
Not of the demons, however hard she immediately tried to pretend she was. That made sense. She should be scared of the demons.
She should be – she should.
(But she wasn’t.)
She was scared of... Celine.
It was a nightmarish, almost nonsensical thing – how could she be scared of Celine? Celine was warm, she was kind, she was safe.
(That’s what Rumi had thought about Auntie, once.)
How could she ever possibly be scared of Celine?
A sharp sob tore free of Rumi’s chest as she watched Celine’s face, ugly with hate as she gutted another demon.
(How could she not be scared?)
She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to be like this, to be like them. She didn’t want to have seen this. She didn’t want to know this. She didn’t want to know what Celine looked like when she got hurt, she didn’t want to know what demons looked like when they died, she didn’t want to know what demons actually truly looked like. She didn’t want to have sharp teeth and fingers and glowing eyes and patterns, not when it meant that she was like them. She didn’t want to have anything in common with those monsters. She didn’t ever want Celine to look at her like she had looked at them. She didn’t want to be scared she didn’t want to be evil she didn’t want to hurt anyone she didn’t want to fight Celine she didn’t want to be a demon-
She did not want to still be here when Celine came back inside.
Rumi startled at the thought, panting for breath as she shot a panicked look out the window again and shuddered to see Celine down to the last three demons. Hurriedly, she rinsed her puke down the drain and slid off the counter, not bothering to be quiet since Celine was outside, hurrying to shove the stool back into the closet and slamming the screechy door shut before racing back to her room. She crawled back under her covers and curled into a tight ball, hugging her knees and closing her eyes as tightly as she could, before gagging yet again as the scent of Celine’s perfume flooded her nose, coated her mouth. The scent itself hadn’t turned noxious, but now her senses clamored in a discordant shriek at the smell, the familiar urge to relax and feel safe, loved clashing with her new fear, the nerves that pulled her muscles tense without her realizing it and had her gritting her teeth hard enough to ache.
After a moment of frozen indecision, Rumi swallowed and roughly shoved the stuffed animal down to her feet, twisting the blankets up under her chin to keep the smell from escaping any further. It hurt to reject Celine’s smell (hurt like a stab through Rumi’s heart) but right now, it was a choice between an achy heart or throwing up again.
Mere seconds after Rumi had settled in -
The front door slammed. “RUMI!”
Rumi’s eyes flew open as her entire body went stiff, hands shaking as they clutched at her blankets like they were a shield.
Celine had seen her in the window. She’d seen. She’d seen, she’d seen, she knew that Rumi was like them, she knew…
Celine was going to kill her now, too.
Rumi swallowed, mouth bone dry as she stared, petrified at her door. There was nowhere she could go, nowhere she could hide – footsteps were pounding through the hall, bearing down on her. “RUMI!”
She ducked her head under the covers, nose immediately clogged with Celine as she pulled the edges of the blankets in after her, as though the fabric would be enough to protect her. (If she couldn’t see Celine, couldn’t see her swords, it wouldn’t hurt.) Sure enough, her stomach revolted almost immediately, though thankfully all that came up this time was a thin string of bile that soaked into her bedsheets. (She didn’t want to die.)
(She didn’t want to die.)
She didn’t want to die.
Rumi flinched as her door was torn open hard enough that she could hear the crunch as the doorknob connected with the wall, lights turned on and there were more quick footsteps and Celine was RIGHT THERE-
-tearing the blankets off of Rumi -
(she didn’t want to die)
-grabbing her -
(please, Celine, please, she didn’t want to die)
-hauling her upright (Rumi couldn’t help her full-body flinch, the way she jerked back until her back pressed against the wall, but Celine didn’t hesitate for a second, pressing in closer)
-hands, rough and frantic against her hands her cheeks her arms her chest her -
There was a roaring in her ears. Celine was talking, Rumi could see her mouth moving, could just barely hear how her words tumbled and crashed together so hard that they barely sounded like words at all, but her voice was muffled and so, so far away.
(loud)
(everything was so loud)
(and bright)
(she couldn’t)
(breathe)
she was so scared Celine please why she didn’t want this
…
Warmth.
(danger)
Safety.
(danger)
Pressure.
(...danger?)
(…safety.)
A voice – soft, gentle, warbling, constant.
(Rumi couldn’t make out what it was saying, if it was actually saying anything at all, but she could feel neck muscles moving and flexing under her cheek, could feel the vibrations coming from the dip, and it was almost like her own rumbles. It wasn’t quite right, but it was close enough to still feel like comfort.)
Hands – one wrapped tightly, protectively around her torso, clutching her up against a warm chest, the other cradling her jaw, the back of her head, pressing her face into the crook of a neck as a thumb stroked her cheek. The body she was pressed against was rocking back and forth, thin strands of dark hair tickling her jaw as they drifted over her skin.
Sound began filtering back in through the static, a wordless tune sung open and throaty (Celine preferred humming, or singing softly, sweetly, gently, staying in her head voice.) for awhile before switching to the deep, croaking rasp that jittered and thrummed in the base of the throat. (Rumi loved that sound – it gave a more definite rumble than the gentle vibrations from talking or singing, and it was a very silly noise. Celine called it undignified, always muttering that it was probably bad for her voice, but she still allowed Rumi to bully her into letting it loose every now and again.)
(Rumi had always wondered why Celine was so bad at rumbling, half amused and half bewildered, because rumbling was so easy. Stopping herself from rumbling was harder than starting.)
(It hurt to realize that even her nicest parts, even her rumbles must be demonic. Was there anything about Rumi that wasn’t?)
Despite everything, despite the fear starting to curl in her stomach again, Rumi couldn’t resist the temptation to press harder against that comforting faux-rumble, press herself further into Celine, press and press and press as if she could squish herself into nothingness and hide in Celine’s ribcage if she just pressed hard enough-
“...Rumi?” The croaked rasp died away, replaced with soft words that Rumi didn’t want to be able to hear. (Humming and croaking was safer than words. Words could turn into questions, accusations, anger yelling hatred-) “Rumi, are you alright?”
Rumi’s shoulders twitched with a movement somewhere between a flinch and a silent sob, her lip wobbling as she desperately fought to keep her face still, keep her tears down, stay calm. Maybe Celline hadn’t seen, didn’t know – if Rumi could just be normal, maybe everything would be okay. She opened her mouth to say ‘yes’… and immediately burst into tears. Not even quiet tears, the kind of tears she usually had, the ones that could be hidden if she wanted. No, Rumi absolutely wailed, letting out great ugly body-wracking sobs, choked and rough as she tried to stay quiet.
Celine’s grasp tightened as she inhaled sharply, her hug nearly crushing now. “Oh – oh, no-” Rumi couldn’t stop crying – she was trying, but more kept forcing their way up her throat, her nose was running, and her chest hurt so, so bad. “-no, no, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-” Celine’s voice was tight, shaky, raw. “I’m so sorry, Rumi. I shouldn’t have- I didn’t mean to-” Rumi shook right along with Celine, jerked with the short, stuttered breaths she took, chest rising and falling against her. “I didn’t mean to scare you, dear.”
Rumi hated how good Celine’s tears smelled.
She hated herself even more for noticing right now.
“I...” Celine’s grip loosened, the woman pulling back, pulling away. Rumi swallowed a needy, broken whine, shivering with the loss, only to feel Celine’s lips press against the top of her head in a long, long kiss before Rumi was pulled back against her chest, jaw cupped and face moved back to the crook of Celine’s neck. Rumi gave into the comfort entirely, feeling Celine twitch as she nosed into a more comfortable position against her throat, hands worming free to hug Celine back awkwardly, desperately. “Everything’s okay. I’m sorry for bursting in like that. I… I had a…” Rumi’s rumble squeezed free without her permission, the faintest, thinnest wisp of a rumble she’d ever made. “I had a… A very bad... dream,” Celine finished eventually, hand rubbing up and down Rumi’s back, “-and I needed to-”
Everything smelled so good, the metallic twang in the air mixing with the aroma of Celine’s tears (was she crying?) to create an intoxicating combo.
Rumi swallowed hard, trying not to gag again.
“...it doesn’t matter.” Celine’s voice was suddenly steady again, controlled. “That doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have- I’m sorry for bursting in like that and scaring you, dear. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry, Rumi.”
There was a special type of torture in crying hard enough that she couldn’t talk. “I’m sorry,” she protested, gasped desperately. (-that R’umi thought she would hurt her.) “-m, ‘m sorry-” (-that Rumi was still terrified of the possibility.) “I-” (She was sorry that she was a demon.) “-s- sorr-” (She was sorry that she was like them.) “-m s’rr-y-” (She was sorry that she was a monster, that she wasn’t brave enough to tell Celine that Auntie had been right, that she was just like them-) “sorrysorryyy-” (-that she was greedy enough to want Celine to love her just a little longer, selfish enough to grasp her affection and comfort with both hands and steal it away, cruel enough to make Celine feel bad for her-)
“I’m-”
“Oh, sweet girl,” Celine murmured, hand laying flat and warm against the side of Rumi’s face, chin resting on the ridge of Rumi’s brow, “Sweet girl, you didn’t do anything wrong, I promise. Everything’s okay. You’re-” Rumi felt Celine’s chest rise, slow and steady, then fall, muscles relaxing ever so slightly as she breathed out. “You’re safe. You’re okay. Everything is fine. You’re alright.”
Rumi’s heart broke, her guilt overwhelming, and her tears redoubled. (She didn’t deserve this, she was a demon – a monster) She knew she didn’t deserve anything, but did absolutely nothing to resist. Not when Celine shushed her, hand continuing to rub her back, not when Celine hugged her, steady and comforting and strong, not when Celine crooned and sang for her again, keeping her cheek or a hand pressed against Celine’s throat, not when Celine turned and pulled Rumi’s favorite blanket out of the tangle on the bed and wrapped her in it, surrounding her in soft warmth, not when Celine searched through the rest of the blankets to pull out Rumi’s stuffed tiger, slipping the swaddled toy into Rumi’s arms and making sure the collar of her shirt was settled by Rumi’s nose, not when Celine stood with a soft grunt and carried her out of her room, flicking her light off with an elbow, not when Rumi was settled down into Celine’s bed. (Greedy, self centered monster that she was, she almost resisted, almost protested when Celine left her alone with another gentle kiss, when Celine walked back out into the hall and out of sight, but Rumi bit down on her tongue and pressed her face down into Celine’s pillow just before the plaintive whimper could break free.)
The bathroom first aid kit latches clicked, and the following rustle of fabric turned into a stifled groan – and Rumi’s guilt abruptly turned overwhelming as she remembered that Celine had gotten hurt. It took Celine awhile to return from the bathroom, Rumi flinching at each faint sound of pain that escaped through the wall. When she did return, Celine’s movements were stiff and controlled as she gently scooted Rumi back further towards the wall, as she sat down and pulled her blanket up over both herself and Rumi (who was still wrapped in her own fuzzy blanket) before laying down and snuggling Rumi up into her arms.
The air still smelled delicious, though the metallic tang was mostly gone now.
Rumi should have been cozy and comfortable, loose limbed and lazy with sleep – she was surrounded by warmth and weight and Celine, her blanket was soft, her stuffed animal was tucked in her arms and she was tucked in Celine’s arms, she could feel Celine’s chest rising and falling against her back, could hear her breathing, could smell her shampoo and sweat and tears and Rumi’s tiger smelled like her perfume, she should have been contented.
But…
How could she be, when her world had shattered around her?
When everyone, everything she loved had lied to her about the most important things?
Auntie had lied.
The weapons – the Honmoon, Celine had once called them – had lied.
…even Celine had lied.
Auntie had promised that she would never leave Celine, never leave Rumi. (She lied.)
Those beautiful, soothing weapons had sworn that they would never hurt Rumi, that they would keep Celine safe. (They lied.)
Celine was still promising - voice sluggish but firm - that everything was fine, that Rumi was okay, that Celine herself was okay, that Rumi hadn’t done anything wrong.
And she was lying.
Rumi knew that she was lying, now.
She was never going to be able to un-know any of this.
(A horrible thought to fall asleep to, but exhaustion was merciless, and comfort was a cruel seductress.)
Rumi’s sleep was dark and fitful that night, full of blood and ash and sharp, nasty words, of teeth and sharp fingers and swords and scythes and so. Much. Screaming. (The worst part was that the sound only occasionally came from Rumi.)
She dreamed of creatures like her, of glowing eyes and glowing patterns and glowing weapons and glowing injuries. Of blood drenched clothes, of gurgled moans, of tantalizing tears and begging and weeping and strained muscles and torn fingernails and still, limp bodies and laughter.
Oh, the laughter.
It followed her through one nightmare after another, unrelenting and giddy.
(The worst part was that the sound occasionally came from Rumi.)
When Rumi eventually jerked awake with a snarl, hands pointy and shaking as she dragged herself free of her blankets and wheezed for breath, eyes wide, Celine was gone. The bed was still a little warm in the dip where she’d been, Rumi shoving the blankets back further before curling up in Celine’s indent, so she likely hadn’t been up long.
Soft clanks and rattles from the kitchen offered a pretty good clue as to where she was now, but Rumi didn’t move to join her.
She had some things to mull over, first.
First and foremost of which being… why wasn’t she dead?
(Rumi had been panicking last night, hadn’t been thinking clearly, because obviously Celine knew that Rumi was a demon. She had been there when Auntie had accused her, hadn’t seemed confused at all – just upset. Plus, Celine knew just about everything. So.)
Obviously, Celine had already known that Rumi was a demon. She’d known for at least as long as Rumi had, likely much longer.
Which again raised the question – why wasn’t Rumi dead? Celine certainly hadn’t had any issues killing the other demons. Why had Celine never killed her? Or just let Auntie kill her? (Auntie leaving had wrecked Celine for weeks, but she’d only left because of Rumi. Wouldn’t it have been better if Celine had left Auntie to kill her?)
Rumi certainly wasn’t complaining about not being killed, but… why?
She rubbed at her eyes wearily, only to grimace as the scent of metal returned, dull but unmistakable. Rumi frowned, absently glancing at her hand only to freeze at the sight of crusty brown coating the tips of her fingers. Hesitantly, stomach flipping nervously, she sniffed them, shuddering at the metallic tang. Why were her fingers bloody.
Why were her fingers bloody?
WHY WERE HER FINGERS BLOODY?!
It wasn’t just her fingers, Rumi quickly discovered as she scrambled to sit upright, catching a glimpse of brown dotting the leg of her pajama pants and streaked across the bottom hem of her shirt.
Rumi wasn’t able to find any blood in the bed, though she wasn’t sure how much of a relief that should be. (Had she hurt Celine? Please, no, no no – not Celine, don’t let her have hurt Celine she loved her didn’t want to hurt her-)
Why wasn’t she dead? (Rumi was starting to get the creeping thought that maybe she should be.)
Was it because she was a kid? All the other demons had been grownups, like Celine. Maybe Celine didn’t feel comfortable killing a kid. But… no, that didn’t make any sense for her to put so much time, so much effort and care and… and love (Celine did love her, didn’t she?) into raising a demon just to kill her once she was an adult. Celine was nice, but she wasn’t that nice, surely.
Or was it because Rumi was super useful?
Rumi grimaced, remembering that she’d forgotten to water the garden yesterday. (Again.) Remembered Celine’s raised eyebrow yesterday evening after taking a glance into the sink after dinner, her pointed cough as she looked at the washed dishes that Rumi was supposed to have dried and put away. (Rumi cringed, remembering how she’d let out a whine and pouted, eyes wide and as pitiful as she could manage as she asked Celine to do them just this once, that Rumi was so so so comfy and it would just be this once pretty please Celine??? Remembered Celine’s huffed laugh and how she’d shaken her head and scolded Rumi, reminding her that that was her chore…. even as she turned and finished doing the dishes regardless. Rumi remembered her own delighted rumbles as she settled back into the couch and eagerly waited for Celine to join her, the thought of going to help Celine never once crossing her mind.)
…mm. Probably not.
But then, what was it? What set Rumi apart from the other demons, enough that Celine would order Auntie to leave, that she would take care of Rumi, that she would love Rumi?
Sure, Rumi didn’t look exactly like any of the demons, but they all looked so distinctly different from each other anyway that that really wasn’t saying much.
Or… or was it?
Rumi paused.
There had been one very noticeable difference between her and them.
She scrabbled at her shirt, ignoring as her pointy fingers cut thin tears through the fabric in favor of getting it off.
Rumi’s patterns, Rumi’s stripes, were all mostly normal. The other demons were coated in that off color purple, every stripe pulsing with it. Rumi, on the other hand, only had one stripe that was partially that color.
Her fingers hesitated over the bandage, Rumi taking a deep breath and steeling herself before tugging the wraps off.
Rumi’s stomach dropped.
The purple had spread.
Why had it spread?
It had never done that before – not since it had appeared.
Her breathing picked up, sweat beading up on her forehead. No, no – why had it spread?
Three full stripes were solidly, completely purple now, a fourth tinged with purple along one side.
Why had it spread?
Was it because she was too close to the other demons? Was the purple infectious?
Or…
Wait.
Wait wait wait wait wait.
Rumi looked at her fingers, looked at the blood there, remembered watching and doing nothing to help as Celine was injured (it hadn’t even occurred to her – monster), remembered taking and taking and taking from someone who needed to rest, remembered Celine’s soft pained noises from the bathroom.
She remembered the demons, evil and cruel and wicked and nasty, hurting Celine and laughing about it.
If Rumi’s patterns had only grown after last night (after she’d done Nothing, after she’d done Too Much), when she might have… when she must have hurt Celine, and the other demons that Celine had slaughtered without hesitation (had hated) had been covered in patterns… If most demons were evil, but Celine still called Rumi good…
Maybe the patterns showed how evil demons were.
Rumi gasped aloud, unable to help herself as she swayed, the thought hitting like a physical blow.
It… made an uncomfortable amount of sense. It answered so many questions she’d had, questions Celine had never answered.
It changed everything, and nothing at all.
(It meant that she hadn’t been wrong – not entirely – about everyone else who had stripes. They really were demons, or maybe they were just people with the potential to become demons? Either way, they were still good, still acceptable, they were just… teetering. Dangerously.)
It explained why Auntie had suddenly been upset by Rumi’s patterns when she had never had an issue with them before. (When Auntie had stripes too.) Rumi had failed when Auntie hadn’t, so of course Auntie had been upset. Rumi had become evil - just a little tiny bit, but evil was still evil - while Auntie had managed to stay good.
(But it also explained why Celine still loved her: Rumi wasn’t evil, not entirely, not like the other demons had been. She was still good enough to be loved, to be accepted.)
So.
All Rumi had to do was be good. She could do that, easy peasy.
How hard could it be?
She smiled, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. (Rumi liked having a plan to fix problems, liked knowing what needed to be done to resolve issues. It made things very straightforward.) She quickly rebandaged her arm (No wonder Celine had always had her keep that covered. A level of evil felt like a very personal sort of thing – Rumi shivered at the idea of other people seeing her infected area, of them knowing exactly how awful of a person she currently was.) before she rolled out of bed and started to trot out to the kitchen.
...
Rumi caught herself halfway out of the room, wincing and returning to quickly make Celine’s bed - and then taking her blanket and tiger back to her own room and making her bed too - before finally making her way out to the kitchen with a determined smile, only a bit shaken by how easy it would have been to start off the day not being good.
Regardless. She could be good.
She could.
(And she really could be good, in general. She was good – in general. The problem that was beginning to dawn on her was that she needed to be good all the time. Could Rumi do that?)
(… did she have any other choice?)
“...good morning, Celine!”