#queenrumi.

[gokdont]

@queenrumi cont'd from here because this is hilarious.

Though Mira's arms are crossed, she's looking at Rumi with a sparkle of amusement in her eyes. Watching Rumi fidget all of a sudden has her smug. "I didn't know there was a wrong answer on a bingo card. I didn't say we had to do anything about it, either."

She tilts her head a little, not unlike a curious cat. "Are you nervous? I only bite sometimes," Mira drawls. "What other type is there? Blood type? Weird quiz for that."

[gokdont]

@queenrumi continued from here.

The thing about crafting a weapon is that, once it has been completed, it is fundamentally extremely difficult to change its purpose. It is not impossible, however. Take the gok-do, for instance: known as a moon blade by some, its original purpose had been steeped in shamanistic rituals and authority rather than use in combat. It only became more widespread when the infantry began to wield it, sometimes on horseback.

Mira, for the last decade, has been the weapon on Rumi's grindstone. Celine got what she wanted out of the two of them in the end—two weapons, finely honed, sharply wielded, poised to protect the Honmoon and eradicate demons. Past the initial resistance, Mira had come to embrace her duty. It had given her peace and a purpose. But what happens when the thing that has given you stability (so precious, valued more than diamond to some) is suddenly thrown into question? When the figure that has become your beacon turns out to be a disappointment like every other adult in your lifetime?

In the days following Namsan Tower, these were the things that weighed heavily on Mira's mind. Alive they may be, but nothing is well. Nothing is good. Rumi has sequestered herself into her room even worse than before. Between Mira's disbelief, lingering anger, and loneliness, she worries about Rumi.

The wave of relief that washes over her in the kitchen is palpable. Mira, looming in the doorway like a shadow, raises a placating hand in a motion that vaguely resembles trying to coax a feral cat to stay. She crosses the kitchen and places her mug on the counter, and then she takes out a second one for Rumi.

"You're who you always were. The difference is that now you're free to express it." Mira waits for the water to boil, but while she does, she turns to lean on the counter and level Rumi with her gaze. She's so meek and frightened, like a dormouse, Mira thinks. "I'm not lying. What's the point in that?" She asks bluntly. "Like you said, we've done enough lying." Not Rumi's exact words, but the rephrasing is intentional.

"So, here's a truth for both of us to swallow: you can't keep doing what you're doing now, and we can't avoid one another." Mira motions in the vague direction of Rumi's room. "Things will be different. They are different. That's... not always a bad thing, Rumi," she explains, voice low and level. Perhaps for the first time since this had started, Mira's facade cracks a little in the tighten of her hand. She's white-knuckling the edge of the counter. Every time Rumi looks at her now, it's filled with fear, and it makes her sick to her stomach. Mira had vowed never to make anybody feel the way she had, and somehow, she already has.

Rumi's cold food hasn't gone unnoticed. Mira's eye is critical, and if there's a flicker of judgment, it's because the Ramyun Rumi has chosen is a terrible flavor. "I'm going to cook you something," Mira decides, "Watching you eat that is physically painful."

[gokdont]

@queenrumi said, “Miiiiiraaaa, we’ve been working on this choreography for hours. Maybe what we need is a break to recharge?”

The tablet sits on the dance studio's floor while Mira crouches in front of it. She's been quiet the last few minutes, slowly scrolling through the video footage of their last run through, clearly poring over it for mistakes even in their sweaty and exhaustive states.

At first, Rumi's unsubtle whining doesn't immediately catch Mira's attention. She suddenly turns on her toes, a new resolve in her expression.

"Alright, I figured it out. We're pivoting—" Mira halts as Rumi's words finally register. Judging by the frown on her lips, Mira's first instinct is to say no.

"Coming from the workaholic?" Mira points out. "That's funny. Real funny, Rumi," she continues while standing straight. Looking at them now, though—tired, sweaty, hours later—maybe she was right.

Mira chews on her bottom lip in thought. "Maybe we can stop for a minute to get boba."

An olive branch?