“I wanted to end on a strong image,” director, Jessica Palud explained, with Maria looking at the camera, saying that she’s listening to us (“Je vous écoute”), and, in effect, encouraging us to speak. There was something “almost political” about the scene, Palud added. “My movie is like a report, unadorned: What do we do with this?”
Anamaria Vartolomei as Maria Schneider
BEING MARIA (2024)
dir. Jessica Palud
But I remember right before my depression fully set in... it was just like you said... a bunch of days in a row where I just thought I was in a bad mood. But then one day, a switch just turned off. The bad mood became deeper and painful, and I felt like a... totally different person.
Every time I go to your house, there's something I really envy. Your family picture. In our house, we have everything... except for that. No, that's not it. We look like we have everything. But we have nothing.
Think about all the time you've been together for. If they'e american history, you two are like the four great ancient civilizations.
Love Next Door (2024), dir. Yoo Je-won
official headcanon:
— the rite of nines and yvella valéry's ascent.
the rite of nines is one of the most forbidden and devastating magical rituals in all of witchcraft. ancient, pre-colonial, and suppressed by nearly every known coven, it is not merely a sacrificial rite but an act of absolute severance. to complete it is to step permanently outside the ordinary structures of witch magic and claim something far more terrifying: immense sacrificial and ancestral power, a permanent connection to the ancestral plane, and the ability to channel magic through death itself without the need for a living conduit.
the ritual’s core is brutally simple, which is precisely what makes it so feared. a witch must sacrifice nine witches, each from a different coven, and mark their deaths with the sacred emblem of nothingness: a rhombus crowned by an x carved into the forehead. the sigil symbolizes severance, death, and reclamation. it is not decorative. it is declarative. it marks the victim as claimed by something beyond the ordinary laws of coven, bloodline, and spirit.
the best-known failed attempt was eva sinclair, who intended to use nine children, one from each new orleans coven, linked together so their deaths would occur simultaneously during the final spell. before she could complete it, she was stopped, imprisoned, silenced, and eventually possessed by rebekah mikaelson. because of her failure, most witches came to understand the rite as either impossible or fundamentally dependent on linking. but what most of them never knew was that linking was never the true requirement. the rite demanded intention, sacrifice, and symbolic completion. and yvella valéry was the first, and only, witch to understand that difference well enough to complete it without error.
this is why her version became known, among the very few aware of it, as the bloody miracle.
yvella valéry, the sacrificial witch, completed her version of the rite of nines in 1914, shortly before the events at the dowager fauline cottage. unlike eva sinclair, she needed no children, no chains, and no wards of containment. she did not bind her victims together and she did not rely on simultaneity. she hunted them individually, one by one, with speed, precision, and meticulous control. where eva’s version was fueled by desperation and theory, yvella’s was shaped by design.
the seed of that design was planted long before 1914. when yvella was still a girl, curious and already dangerously ambitious, she discovered a hidden trunk in the attic of her family’s tremé home. it had belonged to her aunt, eloise dupont, a vanished valéry whose name was rarely spoken and never with ease. inside were grimoires stitched in human hair, written in ash-black ink, and sealed with tallow. it was there that yvella first found mention of le rite des neuf. at the time, it read like myth: nine sacrifices, one from each coven, unspeakable power, total suppression. the pages were incomplete. some had been burned. others were scratched out so violently they bordered on desecration. but the idea survived in fragments, and that was enough. it lodged itself in her mind and remained there for years, not yet practical, but never forgotten.
it was only much later, under the reluctant mentorship of kol mikaelson, that the ritual shifted from fantasy into possibility. kol brought yvella into his orbit because he wanted a weapon to turn against his brother. in pursuit of that goal, he dabbled in kemiya, a blend of alchemy, dark egyptian sorcery, and older forms of witchcraft, and yvella learned alongside him with startling speed. she took to dangerous knowledge easily. more than easily, she reveled in it. but while kol sharpened her magical instincts, it was the mikaelsons as a whole, and klaus in particular, who clarified the true brutality of the world to her.
through them, yvella came to understand how witches were seen by those with greater physical power: vulnerable, disposable, useful only until they became inconvenient. klaus spoke of witches as parasites, tools to be used and discarded once they outlived their usefulness. he never realized she was listening, nor how deeply those words rooted themselves inside her. from that point on, yvella’s ambition changed shape. she no longer wanted power simply for mastery, nor even for survival. she wanted supremacy. if witches were ever to stand above monsters like the mikaelsons, they would need more than inherited magic and ancestral favor. they would need power that could not be voted away, withheld, or bargained from them. they would need power taken by force, stolen from death, and remade through blood. the rite of nines offered exactly that.
by the time yvella committed fully to the rite in late 1914, she had already spent months reconstructing it. eloise’s grimoires had given her the outline, but they were not enough to complete the work on their own. the missing pieces came, ironically, through ione leclair, her on-again, off-again mentor and ritual historian from marigny. ione never meant to arm her. in fact, she dismissed the rite of nines as little more than myth. but in teaching yvella about ancient rites, failed convergences, and forgotten symbols, she gave her exactly what she needed. ione spoke often of l’emblème du néant, the emblem of nothingness, a sigil carved only into the heads of the damned. she treated it as a historical horror, a relic of ritual excess. yvella treated it as confirmation.
where others saw warning, she saw blueprint.
over the course of six months, yvella charted every major coven in detail. not just their names, but their weaknesses. their leaders. their loyalties. their internal fractures. her face was already known, and her bloodline made anonymity impossible, so she did not try to disappear behind masks or aliases. instead, she moved in the spaces people failed to guard. she bribed gatekeepers, forged invitations, exploited old obligations, and made use of chaos wherever she found it. she slipped between political cracks with the ease of a shadow wearing her own skin. she kept her research in notebooks hidden inside other books, stitched into the lining of her coat. she tested poisons on pigs. she practiced carving sigils into dolls. and all the while, she kept kol and the rest of them unaware. by then, she was no longer serving anyone’s vision but her own.
yvella never performed traceable magic when she could avoid it. she used ancestral routes and crumbling backroads of tremé magic that few witches even remembered still existed. she hid in plain sight, playing the role of charming prodigy, gifted pupil, useful young witch. to kol, she was merely clever. to others, just another pawn in his orbit. but she was already building something else entirely, something sovereign and terrible and entirely her own.
she also understood that secrecy alone would not carry the ritual. speed mattered. structure mattered. symbolism mattered. she left no bodies where they could immediately be connected to one another. she used glamours, misdirection, and in at least one instance framed a murder as the aftermath of a vampire attack. she kept the tokens taken from each victim locked in a consecrated altar beneath her family crypt, hidden where no coven could sense the convergence forming. she worked quickly. nine kills in nine weeks. no hesitation, or almost none.
only the last one made her falter.
to complete the rite of nines, yvella followed a strict set of ritual laws. she had to kill one powerful witch from each of the nine major covens, with no overlap and no mercy. she had to carve the emblem of nothingness, the ancient rhombus-and-cross sigil, into each victim’s forehead at the moment of death. she had to take a personal token from every victim, whether bone, blood, or a magically bound object, and bind those tokens to her ritual altar. all nine sacrifices had to be completed within nine weeks, or the convergence would collapse before the rite could take hold. the final ritual had to be performed on neutral ground, a sacred space unclaimed by any coven, where no ancestral spirit could interfere. and lastly, she had to offer a piece of herself in return: blood, magic, and something irrevocable.
yvella gave all three.
it is because of that precision, that speed, and that impossible success that those few who know the truth call it the bloody miracle. not simply because the ritual was violent, but because no one believed it could truly be done. witches do not kill witches like this. not in such number. not with such discipline. not with such surgical grace.
but yvella did.
she did it because she believed witches deserved to be feared. and if fear was the price of freedom, she intended to become the one who collected it.
the sacrifices themselves were not chosen at random, nor out of cruelty for cruelty’s sake. yvella did not kill children. she chose pillars, not innocents. each victim mattered. each death was designed to fracture the foundation of a coven, to send aftershocks through its bones. they were chosen for significance, for power, and for what their absence would mean.
the first was colette rousseau of the garden district, a sigil archivist: cold, brilliant, aloof, and feared for the precision with which she bent magic through the written word. years earlier, colette had rejected yvella’s request for forbidden texts and dismissed her as “half-formed, half-blooded, half-mad.” yvella smiled, waited, and remembered. when the time came, she rigged the archive vault to collapse while colette was decoding a cursed page. colette died crushed beneath the vault. books bled ink for hours afterward. as her token, yvella took the tip of colette’s right index finger, bone and all, the very hand that had once drawn sigils with such contemptuous mastery. colette’s death was the first. it was not personal. not yet. but as the ink ran down the walls like blood, yvella felt the ritual begin in earnest.
the second was lucien duprès of gentilly, a spellwright: arrogant, brilliant, and petty enough to turn rivalry into sport. he and yvella had crossed magical swords for years. he stole from her work, mocked her innovations, and once tried to have her barred from a symposium of southern spellwrights entirely. she answered with a gift: a false incantation wrapped in gold ribbon. when he began to chant it, the room burst apart in enchanted ink and iron quills. lucien died impaled mid-incantation. when his body was found, his tongue was missing. yvella had taken it herself, severed and wrapped in parchment inked with the unfinished spell he never got to complete. it later dried shriveled, the runes burning through the page beneath it. he would have despised the poetry of it.
the third was camila desrosiers of the ninth ward, a weather witch: volatile in magic, sharper still in temperament. camila had once offered yvella shelter during one of her own political storms, brewing sweet tea while cursing the witches who had turned against her and telling her, “the world doesn’t care if you drown, but i do.” yvella remembered that kindness. she held it even as she summoned the storm that killed her. camila died electrocuted in ritual rain, her body smoking beneath the lightning. yvella took a braid of her singed hair as her token, and even after being wrapped in cloth, it crackled faintly with static. camila never saw yvella’s face. the lightning that struck her bore yvella’s magic all the same. it was both mercy and betrayal.
the fourth was ettienne marchand of algiers, a warlock: ancient, revered, terrifying, and all bladed teeth and booming voice in yvella’s childhood memory. he had once taught power through fear, and she never forgot what it felt like to stand in the shadow of it. later, he became not only obstacle but threat, too old and too entrenched to leave alive if the rite was to succeed. yvella inverted a soul-scrying ritual and turned his own reflection against him. ettienne’s heart stopped during spellwork. he died clawing at the mirror, screaming not at her but at himself. yvella took a shard of the spell mirror as her token, darkened by his final breath. in the end, he called her name. that part lingers longer than she likes to admit.
the fifth was ione leclair of marigny, a ritual historian, and perhaps the most intimate loss before the last. ione was more than mentor. she was structure to yvella’s chaos, reverence to her rage, and one of the clearest architects of the magical identity yvella would one day weaponize. they spent countless hours dissecting ritual theory, reading forgotten texts, and refining dangerous ideas into something coherent and beautiful. when the time came, there was no ambush and no deception. yvella killed her wrist-to-wrist, face-to-face. she carved the sigil while ione wept. as her token, yvella took ione’s old ribbon, still warm with her final magic. ione did not fight. yvella did not hesitate until it was already over, until her hands were slick with blood and the ribbon she had seen so many times in ione’s hair slipped from her body like silk. the guilt never left. not because it was the greatest of her sins, but because it felt, in some dark and awful way, like the closest thing she had ever known to being seen.
the sixth was anika beaufort of the french quarter, a bone reader: powerful, precise, and uncannily accurate in ways that often felt less like insight and more like incision. anika had a gift for seeing the ugliest truths in people, and worse, for delighting in being proven right about them. she and yvella maintained a long-standing truce built on mutual distaste, each recognizing the danger in the other too clearly to mistake it for anything softer. anika once told her, with all the satisfaction of prophecy, “you’ll ruin the world, and convince yourself it was mercy.” yvella offered no response. when the time came, she simply poured monkshood tincture into the ceremony and watched the future anika had foreseen unfold around her. anika died poisoned mid-rite, aware enough to understand what was happening and powerless to stop it. yvella took her bone saw as the token, ironwood-handled and stained with years of sacred work, still warm when it passed into her hands. she did not offer an apology. not because anika did not deserve one, but because she would have enjoyed receiving it.
the seventh was mireille gaspar of les flammes noires, a pyresmith: a maker of magical flame and a woman who seemed less like flesh than something already half-devoured by fire. yvella admired her, perhaps even feared her, though not because of raw strength. it was mireille’s detachment that unsettled her. she carried heat without sentiment. she shaped destruction without pretending it was anything kinder than what it was. her single creed was simple: “fire doesn’t love. fire destroys.” yvella took that truth and turned it back on her. she bound mireille into a ritual flame of her own making and let it consume her completely. mireille did not scream. if anything, she smiled faintly as the black fire took hold, as though she understood the purpose of her death and accepted it without resistance. from her remains, yvella preserved a vial of ash, sealed in salt and bone-dust, and a single charred sliver of bone that still smoldered. even later, when called upon, it continued to burn.
the eighth was soraya delmont of the deschamps circle, a dreamwalker: perhaps the gentlest of them all, which is precisely what made her death so cruel. soraya lived partly in the waking world and partly in dreamscape, yet managed to remain soft in both. where others sharpened themselves against prophecy and power, soraya seemed to move through magic without letting it harden her. at some point before the rite’s completion, yvella confessed something to her. not the full ritual, not the names or the structure, but the weight of darkness gathering inside her. soraya, in her strange and echoing way, answered only, “when you cross the line, i’ll meet you on the other side. i don’t judge the ones i love.” in the end, yvella killed her in her sleep. not from cowardice, but from reverence. she could not bear to do it while soraya was awake. not if soraya might offer her blessing. not if she might forgive her. soraya never woke. she died smiling, and yvella took her silver dreamcatcher pendant as the token, still soaked in lavender oil. of all the objects gathered for the rite, this was one yvella could never quite make herself touch again. even when the others grew cold, soraya’s pendant remained warm.
the ninth and final sacrifice was lélia valéry of tremé, an elder, and yvella’s mother.
there was never any version of the rite that did not end with lélia. not because she was the most powerful of the nine, though she was formidable, but because she was the root from which everything else had grown. lélia raised yvella in a home where faith, pride, discipline, and fear were so tightly braided they could scarcely be separated. her love was conditional, shaped by tradition and haunted by the memory of a daughter already lost. yvella spent years craving her approval, years measuring herself against standards designed to keep hunger contained and obedience intact. by the time the rite was complete, she no longer needed that approval in the same way. but the wound of it remained.
killing lélia was not vengeance. it was not even hatred. it was rebellion in its most intimate and devastating form. patricide of the maternal line not out of simple malice, but because lélia had become the last gatekeeper between yvella and the thing she had decided to become. she killed her with a ceremonial blade passed down through their family. lélia was the last. the closest. the one that cracked something open even in the middle of triumph. yvella sobbed as she carved the emblem into her mother’s brow and whispered, “you should have been proud.” from her, she took two tokens: lélia’s wedding band and a lock of yvella’s own childhood hair, bound together. she kept them not out of tenderness, but because some wounds must be carried to remain true.
every body bore the same mark: l’emblème du néant, the emblem of nothingness.
this sigil was not drawn or inked, but carved between the brows, just above the third eye, deliberate and deep enough to scar spirit as well as skin. each mark took the form of a rhombus crowned by a sharp, symmetrical x, clean in line and devastating in meaning. it bled in ways ink never could. that was part of the point.
the emblem was not simply symbolic. it enacted severance. it annihilated mortal lineage, stripped the soul of name and inheritance, and bound it instead to ancestral fire. no heaven. no peace. only memory, magic, and the terrible permanence of being claimed. it had to be carved at the exact instant of death, as the soul tore free of the flesh. too early, and the bond would not hold. too late, and the spirit would drift beyond reach. even the blade mattered. it had to be obsidian, volcanic glass consecrated under a new moon and forged in oil, ash, and silence. the silence was essential. the knife could never hear a name, a whisper, or a word. it was not a tool of sacrifice, but of unmaking. yvella named hers tranquille, not for peace, but for the stillness before ruin.
the closing rite itself took place in the ruins of an orphanage on the outskirts of new orleans, neutral ground in the purest and most terrible sense: sacred because it was dead, untouched by any coven and unclaimed by any living authority. there, yvella constructed a spiraled stone altar using the nine tokens she had taken. she lit it with her own blood and the rekindled flame of mireille’s pyre ash. she offered a vial of her tears, a lock of her hair, and the blade that had killed her mother. then she began the invocation, speaking the names of all nine victims in reverse as the sigil burned itself into the ritual floor in lines of searing chalk and living fire.
that final act was less a spell than an unraveling.
the orphanage stood in a kind of dead stillness. not restful, not quiet, but truly dead, as though the night itself had been stripped of witness. no stars. no wind. only the old walls exhaling time while yvella moved barefoot across blackened timber and dust. the blade in her hand was blood-heavy, whispering with what it had already done. she had not spoken since her final offering. there was no point. the dead were already listening.
one by one, she placed the relics.
colette’s bone, feather-light and hollow as a memory of song. lucien’s tongue, red-grey and preserved in accusation. camila’s braid, singed and humming like captive stormlight. ettienne’s mirror shard, still capable of catching fire and turning truth inward. ione’s ribbon, grief-worn, trembling in her hands longer than any other. anika’s saw, sharp enough that it required no apology. mireille’s ash, drawn into a circle that the flames recognized at once. soraya’s pendant, threaded with lavender and sleep, lifted so gently it resembled a blessing more than a theft.
and finally, lélia’s token: the wedding band, the childhood hair, the last tether between daughter and origin.
when yvella knelt before that final bowl, the ritual was already hungry. her voice cracked on the name she knew she would never truly be free of. blood traced sacred maps over old tremé stone. tears cut through spell-lines like black ink. and when she spoke, it was less declaration than threshold: this was where she stopped being lélia’s daughter and became something else entirely.
the nine names, spoken backward, tore open what the living world had kept closed. the veil split. flames rose like grasping hands. nine shadows gave voice to their final howls. the sigil burned itself permanent into the floor.
and yvella valéry was no longer a girl.
she was the answer to every question they died asking.
the rite of nines was never meant to be completed. its earliest architects, long-forgotten witches who carved spells into flesh instead of paper, designed it as an impossible trial, something too costly to survive even in victory. its power was real, but only if every demand was met with flawless cruelty and exacting ritual completion. yvella did not falter. and so the magic obeyed.
what it gave her was not abstract power, but transformation.
first, it granted sacrificial mastery. yvella no longer needed channels, tethers, ancestral prayer, or a willing conduit. she could draw raw power from any freshly dead body, whether human, witch, vampire, or werewolf, without ritual preparation or ceremonial scaffolding. where others needed offerings, she became the offering point herself. death answered her directly. more than that, it clung to her. the power did not merely pass through her and leave. it lingered. for weeks after completing the rite, her fingertips blackened with it, stained as though death itself had taken up residence beneath her skin. from that point on, death was not simply an event she could exploit. it became a language she spoke fluently.
second, it gave her ancestral authority. within new orleans, her magic became supreme in ways that bordered on blasphemous. the ancestral plane, that hallowed realm where dead witches whisper judgment and lend their strength to the living, bent around her. spirits recoiled or bowed. even the elders, those vast governing forces of ancestral spellwork, could not simply refuse her. cemeteries fell silent beneath her rites. séances broke apart in her presence. witches who attempted to summon their dead found only stillness if yvella stood nearby. some called her the false matriarch. others named her the witch queen in ash.
third, it gave her access across witchlines. where most witches are bound to the power of their own coven, bloodline, and inherited magical tradition, yvella’s ritual carved open pathways into all nine. every sacrifice gave her more than a death. it gave her entry. she could wield fire like les flammes noires, enter dreams like the deschamps line, work bone with beaufort precision, and pull on histories that did not belong to her by birth. even after the covens cast her out, their echoes remained inside her. in that sense, she became a coven of one, though inside that solitary body, nine lineages still screamed.
the rite also altered her resilience. yvella had not sought immortality, but the ritual touched time as surely as it touched death. from the completion of the ninth kill onward, her body changed. her heart slowed. her cells ceased their ordinary withering. she stopped aging in the mortal sense. wounds closed faster. poison thinned in her veins. disease fled her. she was never made unkillable, but she became profoundly difficult to kill. legends gathered quickly around that fact: that she once stood unmoving through a thunderstrike and felt only heat, that a vampire tried to drink from her and screamed until his throat sealed shut. whether those stories are true matters less than what they reveal. her face never faded. her eyes remained dark and young. and she outlived nearly everyone who had once imagined stopping her.
with that came legacy. her name passed first into legend, then into curse, and finally into silence. witches told their children stories of the sacrificial witch who crossed the city like a blade, who fed on covens, who vanished before justice could take her. some believed she had died. others insisted she still walked somewhere just beyond sight. no coven spoke her name openly, yet every child in tremé knew it all the same. yvella valéry. the bloody miracle. the witch who ended nine.
but the rite took as much as it gave.
it took her home first. though she was born of new orleans and made, in every meaningful sense, from tremé soil, she could never truly return to belonging there. no coven would receive her. witches spat when her name came up. mothers drew their children closer. altars cracked and flared in warning when she passed. she moved through her own city like a ghost made flesh, more whisper than woman, more myth than daughter. only the dead greeted her now, and even they did not greet her with love. they bowed because they had to. they answered because they were bound. their silence was not peace. it was penance.
it took her mother. not only in the moment of sacrifice, but perpetually. lélia valéry had once taught her candlework, bound childhood scrapes with thyme and salt, and sung her creole lullabies under her breath. she had also taught her fear, obedience, and the perilous line between hunger and monstrosity. yvella crossed that line anyway, and lélia became the ninth death that made it possible. every year, on the anniversary, yvella dreams of her mother’s voice in reverse, like a record played backward, like dying magic trapped in a throat that cannot let it go.
it took her sister, anielle, too, though not as part of the rite itself. after the ritual was complete, the covens rose together in fire, salt, and iron. they came for yvella as one body, determined to end what she had become. yvella did not flee. she stood in the square and waited, ash-marked and unrepentant. anielle, younger and kinder and wholly unaware of the truth until it was too late, stepped between her sister and a binding curse meant to stop yvella’s heart. it stopped hers instead. in the chaos that followed, yvella vanished and allowed the city to believe she had died as well. anielle was buried a martyr. from then on, yvella almost never spoke her name, except in the dark, or when drunk, or when bleeding badly enough for memory to become its own wound.
the rite also took the fullness of her power beyond new orleans. what it made in her was vast, but not untethered. her strength remained anchored to ancestral bones, to the city’s dead, to its history and soil. when she left new orleans, her magic thinned. not wholly, never harmlessly, but enough that cracks appeared more easily in her control. it was as though some portion of her soul had remained interred beneath the nine she killed. some believed she was bound to the city like a spirit. others suspected she preferred it that way.
and perhaps most cruelly, it took some measure of her sanity, or at least her peace. once every year, on the anniversary of the ninth death, yvella relives them all. not by choice. the visions come unbidden and exact. she tastes ash on her tongue again. she sees each face. she feels the heat of ione’s blood, smells mireille’s pyre, hears the fragile break of her mother’s final breath. time has not dulled these memories. it has sharpened them. on those nights she does not scream, does not run, does not try to pray them away. she locks herself in a room without mirrors or candles and waits for the flood to pass. and when it does, she smiles the way soraya once did: softly, sadly, knowingly.
because that is the final price of power. to remember. to ache. to survive anyway.
official headcanon:
— cha mu-hee, dissociative identity disorder and do ra-mi.
in my portrayal, cha mu-hee is a character who lives with dissociative identity disorder. this is not treated as a twist, metaphor, or stylistic flourish in how i write her, but as a genuine part of her psychological reality and long-term character arc. more specifically, in my interpretation, do ra-mi is not merely a “persona,” coping mechanism, or exaggerated version of mu-hee. she is an alter. she is a dissociated self-state within mu-hee’s system, one shaped by trauma, survival, rage, and the unbearable need to keep living when life first taught mu-hee that love and death could arrive in the same breath.
the roots of this begin in childhood.
when mu-hee was young, her mother poisoned her father. after killing him, she attempted to poison mu-hee as well. in that moment, death was not simply violence. it was made intimate. it was framed as love. her mother told her that if she did not die too, there would be no one left in the world to love her. that line matters deeply in how i understand mu-hee’s trauma, because it binds abandonment, love, guilt, and survival together in a way that fractures the mind at its foundation. to a child, especially in a moment of terror, the message becomes devastatingly simple: to survive is to be left behind. to live is to be unwanted. to remain is to become unlovable.
in order to survive, mu-hee makes a choice no child should ever have to make. she jumps from the balcony of their apartment, escaping her mother and the immediate threat of being killed. it is not a clean escape. she is injured. she is terrified. she is alone in a way that reshapes her understanding of the world forever. survival, in that moment, is not something given to her. it is something she claims at great cost.
her mother is arrested and imprisoned afterward. mu-hee survives that night, but survival is not rescue. she is left with the psychic aftermath of losing both parents to maternal violence — one to death, the other to imprisonment — and with the impossible burden of being the child who chose to live. that distinction matters. she did not simply survive by chance. she acted. she chose herself. and in the logic of trauma, that choice becomes tangled with guilt, with fear, with the question of whether surviving meant abandoning something she was told she should have stayed for.
afterward, she is taken in by her aunt and uncle, but not with warmth. they care for her out of obligation rather than love, and that distinction shapes everything. they are frightened by her, unsettled by her resemblance to her mother, and unable or unwilling to separate the child from the violence attached to her face. mu-hee grows up in an environment where she is not only traumatized, but treated as if she carries the contamination of what was done to her. she is not openly cherished. she is endured. watched. handled. spoken around. made to feel like an intrusion. the message of her childhood becomes not only that love leaves, but that even the people who keep you may fear you for surviving.
this is the kind of prolonged developmental trauma in which dissociation takes root. in my interpretation, the fragmentation begins there. not necessarily in a way anyone around her could name, and not in a way adult mu-hee herself would understand for years, but in the quiet internal splitting that lets a child keep functioning when reality is too contradictory to hold. she cannot reconcile loving and fearing her mother. she cannot reconcile being the victim of violence with being treated as though she resembles the danger. she cannot reconcile the desperate need to be loved with the repeated lesson that her existence makes others uneasy. so the mind does what traumatized minds sometimes do. it separates. it compartmentalizes. it survives.
for a long time, this remains largely covert. mu-hee grows up, becomes an actress, and functions. from the outside, she can still be understood as one person moving through one life. the dissociation exists, but in ways subtle enough to be misread or ignored. emotional discontinuity. periods of numbness. a chronic sense of unreality. disowned impulses. internal contradiction. the feeling that parts of herself are inaccessible, or that she is performing personhood rather than inhabiting it. by the time she reaches adulthood, dissociation is not new. it is simply normalized inside her.
the second major rupture is the fall from the roof.
in my portrayal, the fall and the subsequent coma do not create the disorder. they destabilize an already existing dissociative system. that distinction is important to me. the disorder comes from the childhood trauma and the prolonged developmental conditions surrounding it. the fall is the trigger event that forces what was covert into a more overt and disruptive state. when mu-hee wakes up from the coma, she does not wake into the life she last consciously understood. she wakes into fame. before the accident, she was an unknown actress. afterward, she is suddenly recognizable, wanted, watched, discussed, consumed. the horror film she starred in has turned her into something public and profitable. and at the center of that transformation is do ra-mi, the character that propelled her into stardom.
that kind of rupture matters psychologically. she wakes up not only to lost time, but to a self she cannot fully claim. other people seem to know something about her life, career, image, and success that she herself has not emotionally caught up to. she is suddenly expected to inhabit a persona, a reputation, and a history that feel dislocated from her own sense of self. for someone already built on dissociative fault lines, that kind of disorientation is fertile ground for further splitting. the pressure does not merely overwhelm her. it organizes her internal world differently.
this is where do ra-mi, as an alter, becomes more active and more distinct.
do ra-mi first makes herself known not simply as a mood or impulse, but as an internal presence. she speaks to mu-hee. sometimes in thoughts that do not feel fully authored by mu-hee herself, sometimes more directly, with the unmistakable quality of an internal other. she is tied symbolically to the role, yes, but she is not literally created by the film. rather, the role gives shape, language, aesthetic coherence, and a public face to a part of mu-hee that already existed in fragmented form. the character becomes a vessel through which an alter can emerge more fully recognized. in other words, do ra-mi is not born from fiction. fiction gives her a name.
do ra-mi, within this system, functions primarily as both a protector alter and a persecutor alter.
she is a protector because she carries what mu-hee cannot safely hold on her own. anger. defiance. desire. recklessness. emotional sharpness. the willingness to speak when silence becomes self-erasure. she takes control when vulnerability becomes intolerable. she can endure scrutiny in ways mu-hee cannot. she can weaponize performance. she can turn pain into charisma, detachment into style, fury into survival. where mu-hee freezes, do ra-mi acts. where mu-hee dissolves, do ra-mi hardens. she exists in part to ensure that mu-hee is never again the powerless child waiting to be swallowed by somebody else’s violence or abandonment.
but she is also a persecutor because protectors built from trauma do not always protect gently. do ra-mi does not simply defend mu-hee from outside harm. she often reenacts the logic of trauma internally. she can be cruel, self-destructive, punishing, contemptuous. she may push mu-hee toward isolation, sabotage, excess, dissociation, or the belief that being soft is dangerous and dependence is humiliation. she may repeat the emotional architecture of survival in a way that harms the system even while trying to preserve it. this is why i understand her as both protector and persecutor: because she guards the wound by becoming its teeth. she would rather hurt mu-hee first than let someone else reach her undefended.
for a period of time, especially after the coma and in the early aftermath of her rise to fame, mu-hee begins relinquishing more and more control. not always consciously, and not always with full understanding of what is happening, but enough that there is a stretch in her life where she effectively lets do ra-mi take the reins.
in the show, this period overlaps with her time in italy, where she and ho-jin (her love interest) are working in close proximity. during this time, much of his interaction is not with mu-hee as she understands herself, but with do ra-mi. and while mu-hee herself is not fully aware of the extent of this, it matters. because ho-jin does not treat do ra-mi as something disposable or monstrous. he meets her where she is. he keeps her grounded when her impulses edge toward self-destruction or chaos that could harm mu-hee’s life. he does not try to control her, but he does not abandon her to her worst instincts either. there is a quiet consistency in the way he shows up.
and, perhaps more importantly, he is kind to her.
that kindness does not erase do ra-mi’s nature, nor does it “fix” anything, but it introduces something unfamiliar into the system: the possibility that even the sharpest, most difficult parts of mu-hee can be seen and not immediately rejected. that matters, even if mu-hee herself only comes to understand it fully later.
this is the period where mu-hee loses herself in the performance, in the fame, in the dissociation, in the relief of not having to be the one constantly holding the weight of her own life. and there is relief in it. that matters, too. for a while, surrendering space to do ra-mi feels easier than enduring the terror and confusion of trying to remain continuously present. do ra-mi can handle the cameras. do ra-mi can handle the edge, the spectacle, the boldness, the pressure. do ra-mi can be consumed. mu-hee, underneath, is exhausted.
that period is deeply destabilizing for her. it leaves her with more lost time, more fractured memory, more fear of herself, and eventually more grief. because even when some part of her understands that do ra-mi is not a stranger in the simplistic sense, there is still a profound horror in realizing that portions of your life have been lived through actions, choices, and emotional states that do not feel wholly yours. there is shame there. and mourning. and resentment. and also, beneath all of that, the awful possibility that do ra-mi may understand parts of her more honestly than she understands herself.
eventually, this leads to diagnosis.
in my portrayal, receiving a DID diagnosis is not a neat moment of clarity. it is devastating before it is useful. even if it explains things, it also forces mu-hee to confront the truth that the internal voice she has feared, resisted, obeyed, and depended on is not just stress, not just imagination, not just a breakdown she can outgrow. it means that the fragmentation is real. it has a name. it has history. it is not temporary. that realization comes with a crisis of identity. if her life has not been lived by one self alone, then who is cha mu-hee? what belongs to her? what counts as hers? where does performance end and personhood begin?
there is also guilt involved. guilt for not knowing sooner. guilt for the damage done during periods of instability. guilt toward do ra-mi herself, because diagnosis complicates everything. it is frightening, yes, but it also means admitting that do ra-mi is not simply an enemy to excise. she is part of the system. part of the survival. part of the story of how mu-hee remained alive at all.
therapy, in my portrayal, changes the trajectory of this. it does not make the disorder disappear. it does not “fix” mu-hee. and it does not immediately make her relationship with do ra-mi gentle or stable. what it does is help her build language for what is happening.
and, over time, with support — including, but not limited to, ho-jin — she reaches a point where she feels able to confront parts of her past she had long avoided. this includes facing her mother in prison. this is not framed as closure, nor as forgiveness, but as confrontation. as an attempt to reclaim narrative from something that shaped her without her consent. it is a difficult, destabilizing process, but one she chooses, rather than one forced upon her.
over time, with treatment and increased acceptance, things become more manageable. the switches become less chaotic, less frequent, or at the very least less confusing in their aftermath. the dissociation is still part of her life, but it is no longer entirely ruling it from the shadows.
this also changes how she emotionally conceptualizes do ra-mi.
earlier on, mu-hee is more likely to experience her as an invader, a distortion, a theft. later, that becomes more complicated. she still struggles. she is still frightened by loss of control, by the consequences of switching, by the things do ra-mi embodies. but she also begins to understand the value of her. do ra-mi is not meaningless chaos. she holds survival instincts that kept the system functioning under impossible conditions. she carries anger that mu-hee had to disown to remain lovable. she embodies the refusal to die, the refusal to submit, the refusal to disappear quietly. even the parts of her that are harsh or destructive come from somewhere protective at their core. understanding that does not erase the damage. but it does make compassion possible.
as for reintegration, in my portrayal, mu-hee does want it eventually. she is not opposed to the idea of do ra-mi becoming part of a more unified self. however, it is not her immediate goal, nor is it the singular measure of progress in her healing. right now, what matters more to her is stability, trust, communication, trauma processing, and building a healthier relationship within the system. she does not want to force do ra-mi back into herself through fear, denial, or coercion. she understands that trying to destroy or dominate her would only repeat the same violence that caused the fragmentation to begin with.
so while reintegration is something she can imagine wanting in the future, it is approached as a possibility rather than a demand. it is not about erasing do ra-mi because she is inconvenient. it is about whether, one day, greater integration feels safe, mutual, and healing. until then, the goal is coexistence. respect. functionality. less fear. more honesty.
ultimately, this headcanon shapes every part of how i write mu-hee.
it shapes her relationship to fame, memory, embodiment, control, anger, intimacy, and selfhood. it shapes the way she responds to pressure. it shapes the dissonance between how the world sees her and how fractured she often feels inside. it shapes the push and pull between performance and authenticity. and above all, it shapes the question at the center of her character: what does it mean to build a life after surviving what should have destroyed you, especially when survival itself required you to become more than one person?
in my portrayal, cha mu-hee is not broken because she is multiple. she is traumatized, adaptive, frightened, resilient, and still learning how to live with the selves that kept her alive. do ra-mi is not an error in that story. she is part of its cost, and part of its miracle.
i. basic information
true name: hestia — first flame, hearth-keeper, the still center. rarely spoken aloud except by the very old, or in kitchens at impossible hours.
modern name: leyla aydemir.
apparent age: late twenties to early thirties (permanent).
actual age: older than most temples remember; time settles in her like ash in brick.
place of origin: ancient greece / myth-space of first homes, first altars, first fires kept through the night.
current residence: verse-flexible; drifts between cities, but always chooses places that can still hold warmth. apartments above bakeries, old buildings with radiators that hiss, homes with windows lit late. has lived in athens, istanbul, brazil, lisbon, paris, vienna, berlin.
gender / pronouns: cis female, she/her.
orientation: demiromantic / demisexual. love comes slowly, through trust, ritual, and the quiet accumulation of care. desire is intimate rather than immediate.
ethnicity / cultural layering: greek in origin; centuries have softened and rewritten her into something broader. in the present, she wears a turkish face and moves through the world with a kind of old mediterranean familiarity that belongs nowhere and everywhere at once.
languages: ancient greek (still intact, rarely used), modern greek, turkish, english, french; enough of several others to welcome, soothe, or feed.
occupation(s): owner of small domestic spaces that become sanctuaries without trying. most often a café proprietor, baker, landlord of oddly beloved apartments, or keeper of a community kitchen. unofficially: refuge-maker.
status: alive, unaging; difficult to harm in spaces she has claimed as home. outside them, softer. mortal-passing, though never entirely mortal.
ii. appearance
height: 168 cm / 5’6”.
build: soft-strength rather than fragility. graceful, grounded, built like something meant to endure long winters and carry warm dishes with bare hands.
skin: golden-olive with living warmth beneath it, as if heat lingers close to the surface. flushes easily near firelight.
hair: deep brown, almost black in low light, usually worn long and loose or pinned back carelessly with whatever is nearest. candlelight catches auburn in it she swears is not there.
eyes: dark brown, steady and ember-soft. not striking at first glance, but impossible to forget once they’ve rested on you.
marks: faint pale lines across her palms like old burn scars that do not hurt. a small glow sometimes lives at the center of her sternum when she is angry, grieving, or profoundly tender. fingertips rarely go fully cold.
general impression: safe, until she isn’t. like being let inside somewhere warm while it rains. like a room that has already made space for you before you arrive.
scent: cardamom, clean linen, woodsmoke caught in winter coats, orange peel, fresh bread still letting off heat.
voice: low, even, velvet-rough at the edges from disuse and late nights. the kind of voice that makes people lower theirs in response.
style: elegant practicality. long coats, soft knits, wide-legged trousers, worn gold jewelry, rings inherited from nobody living. aprons tied neatly at the waist. house dresses under winter cardigans.
posture / presence: composed, rooted, never hurried unless someone is hurt. does not take up space loudly, but rooms settle around her as though recognizing their center.
iii. psychology
core traits: quietly steadfast, nurturing without softness-for-show, observant, self-contained, patient to a frightening degree, protective in ways that can become absolute.
wants: peace that lasts, a place she does not have to leave, love that does not ask her to burn herself out to prove it, to be chosen not for comfort but for herself.
needs: rest, reciprocity, permission to want more than usefulness, to understand that being needed is not the same as being loved.
greatest fear: becoming nothing but function. to be warmth without personhood. to keep everyone else alive and never be truly seen inside the light she offers.
core trauma: being the forgotten center. being essential and overlooked in the same breath. centuries of being invoked but not known, depended on but rarely desired, present at every threshold yet belonging to none of the stories that survived.
mental landscape: deeply controlled interiority. loneliness packed down into ritual. she rarely breaks; instead she thins, goes quieter, gentler, more absent in ways others mistake for composure.
coping mechanisms: domestic ritual as devotion — kneading dough, lighting candles, steeping tea, folding blankets, opening windows at dawn. hospitality as language — if she cannot explain herself, she will feed you. order — not perfection, but placement. everything returned to where it belongs.
in denial about: her resentment, how much she aches to be wanted beyond what she provides, how possessive she can become over the few places and people she calls hers.
tells / habits: adjusts crooked objects without thinking, touches doorframes when entering, checks stoves twice, tucks hair behind one ear when listening, warms cups before pouring into them, pauses in thresholds as though asking old permission.
iv. relationships
divine lineage / entanglement: sister to gods she no longer discusses unless forced. they are history more than family now. there is affection in places, irritation in others, and an exhaustion too old to name. she loved them once in the way hearthfire loves everyone who gathers near it: fully, without being thanked enough.
regard among gods: respected almost universally, understood almost never. even now, diminished gods tend to lower their voices in homes she has blessed. some still seek her out in secret when they are tired of being themselves.
regard among mortals / mythic beings: nymphs, old spirits, and half-remembered things find her spaces easily. they claim it’s coincidence. it isn’t. people with nowhere to go tend to end up at her door before they know why.
how she loves: quietly, thoroughly, with an almost sacred attention to detail. remembers your favorite tea, the way you take your eggs, what silence means in your mouth versus someone else’s. love, for her, is maintenance made holy.
how she hurts: through retreat. through over-functioning. by becoming gentler and more careful instead of admitting she is angry. if truly wounded, she does not lash out first; she closes the door and lets the warmth go with her.
boundaries: does not tolerate mockery inside her spaces, hates being shouted at in kitchens, rarely speaks about olympus, dislikes performative intimacy, will not beg anyone to stay.
attachments: old cookware, hand-thrown ceramics, inherited recipes with missing steps, blankets softened by years of washing, windows lit against bad weather, people who say thank you and mean it.
v. modern life & habits
daily rhythm: morning — wakes before sunrise without an alarm. opens a window no matter the season. lights one candle in the kitchen, then puts the kettle on. sweeps, straightens, begins bread or coffee or broth depending on the life she is living that year. midday — works steadily and without complaint. feeds people. remembers names. sends leftovers home in containers she never expects back and almost always gets returned. afternoon — paperwork, market runs, repairing hems, answering texts hours late but always thoughtfully. evening — the real hour. the soft golden time when people linger. chairs scrape, cups clink, stories loosen. she stays until everyone is safe enough to leave. night — washes dishes by hand when she can. turns off lights in a particular order. reads in bed with socks on. sleeps lightly, as though still listening for the house.
technology: competent but uninterested. replies late, keeps old voicemails, uses notes apps like recipe cards. has a battered phone case and a laptop dusted in flour more often than not.
pleasures: yeast blooming in warm water, olive oil and sea salt, quiet company, old recipe books, neighborhood cats, winter markets, polishing wood tables, the first hour after a gathering ends when the room is still full of people’s warmth.
domestic signature: every place she inhabits becomes unmistakably hers without obvious effort. there is always a lamp left on for someone. something simmering. a chair that feels reserved for grief.
relationship to power: weakened with the thinning of belief, but not emptied. her power lives best in acts of shelter. a room she has claimed is harder to violate. arguments calm faster there. injuries sting less. nightmares thin at the edges. starved things are more likely to weep than rage once fed.
vi. myth & biography
leyla aydemir is, to the world, the kind of woman people begin describing as if they have known her for years even when they have only met her once. she appears in cities quietly. a lease signed on a narrow storefront. a café opened on a side street that should not be as beloved as it becomes. an apartment building with impossible tenant loyalty. a bakery people cross neighborhoods for, though they can never quite explain why the bread tastes like relief. she does not advertise much. does not network. does not charm on purpose. and yet her spaces gather people the way cold hands gather around heat. she is not famous. she would hate that. she is something rarer: indispensable in small, daily ways. the woman who remembers. the one who notices when your shoulders are too tight. the one who says, “sit,” in a voice that makes obedience feel like mercy. people think her name suits her. leyla sounds like night softened into something gentle, something that holds light instead of swallowing it. aydemir gives her something steady, something enduring. a name that passes easily, that settles without question. that matters. ordinary names are easier to keep. they do not spark in the air when spoken. they do not smell like temple smoke. they do not sound like the first fire ever coaxed into staying.
once, she was hestia. not just goddess of the hearth, as if that were small. not just the quiet one, the one old stories place near the beginning and then politely forget in favor of thunder and beauty and war. she was the first flame tended against the dark. the promise that someone would come home to warmth. the hand that transformed shelter into sanctuary. altars burned for her before meals, before vows, before departures. every home was, in some impossible way, partly hers. that was the burden of it. people hear goddess and think spectacle. they do not understand what it means to be the divine shape of constancy. to be prayed to every day and remembered in no great songs. to be the center around which everyone else turns, and still be treated as furniture for their mythologies. hestia was loved, in theory. revered, in ritual. but reverence can be a lonely thing when nobody asks who you are after the flame is lit.
in the old world, belief made gods vast. it held them aloft, gave weight to symbol, sharpened miracle into law. hestia never craved dominion. she did not hunger for storms or conquest or the glittering vanity of temples built to awe. hers was an older, stranger form of power. she lived in thresholds. in kitchens. in the pause before a family ate. in the lamp kept burning for someone who had not returned yet. hers was the power of continuity, and continuity is rarely glamorous until it is gone. as ages shifted and the old gods thinned under disbelief, many raged. many clung. many became grotesque little parodies of themselves, loud with the effort of not disappearing. hestia did not. she diminished with a grace that looked, to outsiders, almost like surrender. but surrender was never quite the right word. she understood embers. understood that fire survives best when banked properly. she let crowns become memory. let prayer become superstition, then habit, then atmosphere. let mortals forget her name while still teaching them to leave porch lights on for the late and lonely. if she grieved, she did it privately. if she was angry, she turned it into bread dough and kneaded until her wrists ached.
the modern world did not erase her. it translated her. she moved through centuries not as queen or relic, but as keeper of small civilizations. an innkeeper in one port city. a widow with an open kitchen in another. a woman who ran a boarding house during winters so brutal strangers slept shoulder to shoulder just to wake warm. she has been a landlady, nurse, cook, aunt, patron, benefactor, stranger with spare keys. she has lived in tenements and townhouses, above corner shops and beside tram lines, near harbors and cathedrals and laundromats that rattled through the night. wherever she goes, people begin leaving things at her counter without quite meaning to: flowers, coins, notes, spare buttons, recipes, apologies. offerings, diluted by the modern hand into gestures so small they can pretend not to be devotion. she never mentions this. she only takes the note, or the plum, or the keychain dropped beside the register, and places it carefully somewhere it will not be lost.
belief still touches her, though not the way it once did. she is strongest where people mean home with their whole chest. not houses, necessarily. home. the cramped apartment where three students share soup and secrets. the old man’s kitchen where the radio always plays too softly. the queer bookstore with a kettle in the back and a sofa no one has thrown away. the hospital waiting room where someone passes around homemade food because grief is easier when fed. she can feel those places from blocks away sometimes, little pulses of human devotion. she has become territorial about them in a way she pretends is practicality. it is not wise to threaten what she shelters. most who try regret it before they understand why. lights burst. tempers turn. thresholds suddenly feel impossible to cross. the diminished gods still have their teeth, after all. hers simply happen to be hidden behind hospitality.
if dae solin moves through the world like a memory that refused to fade, hira moves through it like an answer no one realized they had been praying for. they are not the same kind of ancient. his is all sky and ache and the terrible beauty of wanting. hers is floorboards, steam, lamplight, the steady mercy of staying. where he carries longing like a private wound, she carries endurance so deeply it has almost become loneliness. she knows what it is to be necessary and not chosen. to be leaned on and left. to make room and remain standing in it after everyone else has gone. she has made peace with much of that. not all. there are nights, after closing, when the dishes are drying and the chairs are upside down and the city outside has gone blue with exhaustion, when she stands alone in the center of the room and feels the old emptiness gather. not despair. not even sorrow exactly. just the vast, ancient quiet of being the hearth after the house has gone to sleep. useful. glowing. alone.
she tells herself this is enough. often, it is. she likes her own company. likes the order she can make from mess, the care she can render tangible, the simplicity of knowing what needs doing and doing it well. but there are cracks in that composure. a look held too long across a kitchen island. a guest who becomes a habit. a person who notices she never sits while everyone else is eating and quietly makes her a plate anyway. someone who thanks her without reverence, who sees the discipline inside the tenderness and does not romanticize it into sainthood. that is dangerous territory. not because hestia cannot love. she can. devastatingly. but because love asks the one who keeps the fire to step out from behind it. to let herself be warmed in return. to be hosted, not only hosting. wanted, not only needed. in all her centuries, that has always been the harder miracle.
among the old beings, her name still carries a hush. not fear, exactly. not worship in the old sense. something more intimate. respect shaped by relief. she is where many of them go when they are tired of being monstrous, symbolic, legendary, impossible. she does not ask them to explain themselves. she hands them tea. points to a chair. lets the silence do what silence sometimes can when it is held kindly. gods with their power stripped to nerve and shadow have sat at her tables and forgotten, for an hour, to perform divinity. nymphs have cried into her dish towels. monsters have slept in rooms above her kitchen and woken almost gentle. she has patched up wings, burns, bite wounds, heartbreak, panic attacks, drunken confessions, and the common little violences of being alive in a world that no longer knows what to do with myth. this is, perhaps, why she remains. because there will always be need. always some version of cold. always someone standing in a doorway hoping the light inside means yes.
and if, one day, someone looks at her not as refuge but as woman, not as solace but as self, then that may be the true beginning of her story. not the old one. not goddess, virgin, hearth, symbol. not the clean, easy role she was written into so others could move around her. something messier. more human. more terrifying. to be loved not for the safety she offers, but for the person who offers it. to be wanted even when the soup burns, even when she is quiet, even when she has nothing left to give but her own unadorned presence. she does not know, yet, what she would do with that kind of love. perhaps she would distrust it. perhaps she would run. perhaps she would stand in the doorway with her hand on the frame, caught between instinct and desire, and realize that after millennia of keeping the fire for everyone else, she has finally found someone willing to stay long enough to learn how to tend hers too.
titsay
kaledo-art
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
baratheonpilled
yousharknotpass
stormborns
annaxmalina
