AN: it's a bit incomplete imo so I might revisit this...inspired by this post from @alekyareads @holyrunawaychild @mysticsoulgirl
Demons don't sleep, and they certainly don't dream either.
All they do is forage for souls to devour, live with their misery and shame while writhing in pain and lament the soul they once possessed.
Jinu—despite Gwi-Ma’s best attempts—still possesses the tiniest sliver of a human soul. His demon markings have left a singular spot, the size of a finger nail he reckons, unblemished on his body. It sits right atop his heart —or what he thinks must've been his heart once—, highlighting the irony of the whole situation.
Perhaps that is why Jinu still dreams, wisps and blurred landscapes emerging into his mind whenever his guard lowers. It's not actually dreaming, he supposes, perhaps more of a vision tinged with forlorn memories and echoes of emotions he has long since buried for good.
They come in flashes, and at the most random times too, but each time they happen they hold meaning that he has long since given up on deciphering. Sometimes it's a clear message, like when he had a vision of five demons joined on a stage, reaping souls while Gwi-Ma burnt brightly behind them.
Other times, they're more cryptic and harder to decipher. Like the time he dream of blues and purples, pulsing veins that reverberated underneath his touch and pieces of strings knotted artfully into a maedeup bracelet, wrapped tenderly around his wrist.
Now though? He sees visions of the past and present, both merged into something his mind cannot comprehend.
It's past midnight by now, sleep is not a necessity for him yet he finds his body drooping with the exhaustion of the day. Camping out in front of the Huntrix fansign wasn't an easy task, and the joint sign event certainly took a roll on his mind and body.
Still, there's something specific that has nestled itself into his mind, watching carefully from the darkest corners, waiting to pounce once he's finally alone. He feels the weight of the crumbled paper in the pocket of his jeans, like a siren calling out to sailors at sea.
There's not much he can do to resist the urge, feed the parasite in him that insists on looking at the drawing again, just to make sure it's real and not made up. He pulls it out, carefully unfolds it and flattens it out with an edge of hesitation, like the colour might burn his eyes if he stares at it too long.
He blinks, looks away and then stares at it for a few minutes.
It doesn't change, the words are still there.
‘You have a beautiful soul.’
He can hear the little girl's voice, the girl that gave him the drawing with shy movements and sparkling eyes. Eyes that he's seen before.
Eyes that have sparkled with admiration and love for him 400 years ago.
Eyes that dimmed with betrayal and fear.
“Can't catch a break from the guilt,” he muses, the blurry face of his sister and the little girl from the event overlapping in his mind. Before he knows it, his eyes flutter shut and flashes of colour overtake his vision.
He's no longer in the room of the penthouse the Saja Boys quartered themselves in, the landscape has changed into harmonies of pale pink meadows and the bluest of skies. Wind rustles softly, a melody in the air that brushes across his skin like a gentle mother's caress.
Then, laughter rings through the fields, soft and unmistakably that of his sister.
His gaze snaps forward, and she's standing right in front of him, mouth pulled into a wide grin that lets her simples shine like twin suns on a summer morning.
“Oppa, come on! You said we'll pick flowers today,” she laughs, tugging him along with her, the way she used to when they were young. Jinu stumbled behind her, body in some sort of shock that allows him to be manhandled by a child that's barely half his size.
He takes a good look at her, seeing her features clearly for the first time in decades. Her face is full, a rosy flush on her chubby cheeks that he's certain was missing in the last few years he's spent with her. She has two missing teeth, in the way all growing children do, but it doesn't take away from how beautiful she looks amongst the flowers in this meadow.
When they reach a batch of pink peonies, she equals with delight and releases his hand, rushing to pluck the flowers and savour their beauty. His fingers twitch, the urge to grab her and never let her go overtaking every rational instinct that reminds him this isn't real.
It's like she can hear his thoughts, he thinks, her moments stilling before she turns to him with a kind smile. “Oppa,” she speaks carefully, deliberately and much too mature for a child her age. A branch of yellow forsythia appears in her hands, one that she hands to him with a gentle smile, clasping his hands around it with self assurance.
“Oppa,” she repeats, “you have a beautiful soul, and I'll always remind you of that no matter that.”
He blinks, a little dumbfounded and in just a moment it's no longer his sister standing in front of him but the girl from the signing event. She’s still holding his hand, the branch of forsythia gone and now replaced by the drawing he’s kept in his pocket.
