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Yes, I know I'm several days late, but better late than never, right? Besides, I really didn't want to miss @kpdh-daily first character event! So have a quick, short-ish prose piece about Rumi's sword.
tw: canonical suicidal thoughts (still can't believe that's a normal thing to type in this fandom...)
She remembered the first time she held it.
Resting atop her palms, a few wayward sparkles drifting in the air like snowflakes, it glowed with a light and power that took her breath away and left her lungs still and awed.
Her sword.
The one the Honmoon had chosen for her and slid with thrumming pulses of light and pride into her hands. A duty that had been burned in her soul taken physical dazzling form.
Because it dazzled.
Not the way Celine's twin sabers did, with the winter moon's cold fury; not the way she imagined Eomma's, flashing like the sun springing off crystalline glass so it seemed to vanish into brilliance before your eyes. It dazzled like the Honmoon, prismatic and calm. Not calm like a clear summer sky; calm like a breeze that ferries a whispered warning of the typhoon gale it can become.
It was beautiful, and she couldn't take her eyes off it; not when Celine came outside to fetch her for dinner and saw the sword in her hand, and not when the sun had long set and it was an hour past her bedtime (because how could she be expected to sleep knowing a sword- a saingeom no less- was awaiting her amongst the Honmoon's strands?).
She still remembers what arrested her most about it, the same thing that drew her eye after many a long and grueling day and calls her hand to fondle it like a cherished memory you tuck away for darker times. Not the hilt, with engravings that are stunning in their simplicity; nor the flat of the blade shining with constellations as though a piece of the celestial realm was melded into the metal. Rather, the honor was possessed by the ornament dangling from the ornamented knob at the end of the hilt: a norigae.
Not a fancy one like those comprising thr array pinned around her mirror or the custom-made ones her and Mira and Zoey clipped to their belt loops as part of their performance costumes. Something small, simple, humble, so the eye tended to skate over it as the dancing constellations and blade so straight and sharp it seemed made of Order itself trumpeted their own glory.
But it was the part Rumi loved best. Because holding it between her fingers so the knot pressed indents into her digits, or fisting her hand around the tassel so the bead dug into her palm, she could feel what it stood for.
A promise.
A prayer.
A wish that she could make come true (the best kind of wishes, because Fate couldn't snatch them from you).
For a saingeom, as Celine had told her, was special. Singular.
It was a sword whose purpose, whether made of starlight of simple mortal metal, was to banish demons.
Like what Celine fought.
Like what she and Mira and Zoey fought.
Like what she was.
The Honmoon loves its Hunters, and it had given her a saingeom with a prayer and a promise dangling from the hilt.
With it, she would banish the demons.
All of them.
She would turn the Honmoon Gold, and it in turn would turn her Human.
And she would be free, of the patterns, of the shame, of her eomma's mistake.
Free to finally, finally live.
----
She remembered the first time she held it.
Resting atop her palms, a few wayward sparkles drifting in the air like snowflakes, it glowed with a light and power that took her breath away and left her lungs still and awed.
Her sword.
The one the Honmoon had chosen for her and slid with thrumming pulses of light and pride into her hands. A duty that had been burned in her soul taken physical dazzling form.
Because it dazzled.
Not the way Celine's twin sabers did, with the winter moon's cold fury; not the way she imagined Eomma's, flashing like the sun springing off crystalline glass so it seemed to vanish into brilliance before your eyes. It dazzled like the Honmoon, prismatic and calm. Not calm like a clear summer sky; calm like a breeze that ferries a whispered warning of the typhoon gale it can become.
It was beautiful, and she couldn't take her eyes off it; not when Celine came outside to fetch her for dinner and saw the sword in her hand, and not when the sun had long set and it was an hour past her bedtime (because how could she be expected to sleep knowing a sword- a saingeom no less- was awaiting her amongst the Honmoon's strands?).
She still remembers what arrested her most about it, the same thing that drew her eye after many a long and grueling day and calls her hand to fondle it like a cherished memory you tuck away for darker times. Not the hilt, with engravings that are stunning in their simplicity; nor the flat of the blade shining with constellations as though a piece of the celestial realm was melded into the metal. Rather, the honor was possessed by the ornament dangling from the ornamented knob at the end of the hilt: a norigae.
Not a fancy one like those comprising thr array pinned around her mirror or the custom-made ones her and Mira and Zoey clipped to their belt loops as part of their performance costumes. Something small, simple, humble, so the eye tended to skate over it as the dancing constellations and blade so straight and sharp it seemed made of Order itself trumpeted their own glory.
But it was the part Rumi loved best. Because holding it between her fingers so the knot pressed indents into her digits, or fisting her hand around the tassel so the bead dug into her palm, she could feel what it stood for.
A promise.
A prayer.
A wish that she could make come true (the best kind of wishes, because Fate couldn't snatch them from you).
For a saingeom, as Celine had told her, was special. Singular.
It was a sword whose purpose, whether made of starlight of simple mortal metal, was to banish demons.
Like what Celine fought.
Like what she and Mira and Zoey fought.
Like what she was.
The Honmoon loves its Hunters, and it had given her a saingeom with a prayer and a promise dangling from the hilt.
With it, she would banish the demons.
All of them.
She would turn the Honmoon Gold, and it in turn would turn her Human.
And she would be free, of the patterns, of the shame, of her eomma's mistake.
Free to finally, finally live.
-----
Yes, she remembers that day, that moment when she first saw the promise of the Honmoon taken form in the little norigae. It had become a leitmotif to her life, some days gliding along with her rosy steps, others the only thing holding her up. No matter the turn her life took, triumphs there was always the Promise hanging from the hilt, constant as the stars.
Constant as her patterns.
She remembers it now, rolling the knot that crowns the little pink tassel between her fingertips, feeling the threads of the tassel brush butterfly kisses across her wrist. She remembers the promise and prayer as she opens her eyes a crack from where they are screwed shut, and swallows hard at the magenta light bleeding across her hand as the Honmoon crumbles around her.
Because of her.
And for the first time since that shining day when the strands wove themselves into her sword, she despairs.
Now there would be no Gold; there would be no gilded world waiting for her beyond, one where she was fully human and could be the Idol their fans saw, the daughter ward that could be her mother's Celine's pride and properly honor Mi-yeong's her mother's memory, the friend Mira and Zoey deserved.
She had failed.
But…but she was still a Hunter; duty still burned in her blade and flowed in her veins. She would salvage what she could; do what she should.
And so she takes one last look at her sword, at the constellations and glory and the promise from the hilt, and holds it out to Celine.
