Chapter Text
The east wing of the monastery grounds overlooked the edge of the mountainside, a landscape of green unfurling from below, met by the expanse of sky above and pierced only by the outlines of other peaks surrounding them.
Despite appearances, at most places near the edge, it was actually a rather shallow incline; the monastery sat cradled in a divot in one of the mountain’s terraces, a home to trees, wildlife, and them. To the south lay the only road in and out of the grounds, a delicate, winding path that was narrow at points and rocky at others, but never too steep; Rumi had been on it once, years ago.
It was due to their location that the monastery was known in particular for its sunrises. And indeed, they were something to be witnessed; the first time Rumi saw one, she sat open-mouthed on a flat-topped rock that had seemed enormous at the time, the look in her eyes a distinct kind of awe that only a child could achieve. She’d barely even noticed when the adults watched her reaction and smiled, murmuring among themselves, as if she was the more interesting of the two sights before them.
Now, Rumi sat on a neighboring rock, one a little larger, her knees folded neatly underneath her, her fingers curled around the leatherbound book in her lap, and her eyes glued to the very same sight. Around her, the air carried that blunted-teeth chill, the one that bites during the winter months, and recedes in the springtime. It was not bright out, not yet — no, it was a perfect shade of a muted, gray-tinted blue, slowly illuminating to a warm orange beneath the rising sun.
Rays of deep gold and amber, fading to pink around the edges, reached up to caress her face in greeting. Rumi exhaled out slowly, the light warming her where they touched, chasing away the last remnants of the night’s cold — not enough to frost the windows, but close.
Today, even as Rumi watched the sunrise — which usually provided a brief refuge from the rest of her routine and the noise of her mind — she found her thoughts drifting elsewhere.
It was a special day — well, about as special as any day ever got there, aside from three in particular — in the monastery.
They were getting a newcomer. A priest, if the rumors were to be believed — someone with a mixed reputation, the exact details of which no one could agree on. It didn’t make sense of everyone to have an opinion already, if you asked Rumi — only a few of them had even been off the mountain in recent years. Still, if there was one thing to know about members of the convent, it was that they liked to talk.
Once the sun crawled a little higher, Rumi cast her gaze downward and thumbed open the book. The blood-red, velvet ribbon sewn into the spine guided it open to a familiar page, the edges of the paper indented slightly in one spot from the weight of her fingers holding it year after year.
Newcomers were uncommon there — they received only a couple every year, often as exchanges when someone left. As for this newcomer, they weren’t an exchange, and Rumi hadn’t heard of any reason given for their new placement here. Only time would tell, she mused, finding the passage she recited every morning.
Rumi cleared her throat, casting away most of the roughness in her voice leftover from sleep, and began.
“‘Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men.’”
Rumi concluded the passage with a bow of her head and a brief, murmured prayer, before closing the book and rising.
Her little space lay more than a few paces away from the monastery itself, but was still technically within its grounds. To reach it, you had to travel past a bend and a handful of trees, making it secluded enough to guarantee a moment of privacy every morning.
Rumi lifted up her hood a couple steps before the building came into view. Its familiar, comforting weight fell over her, narrowing the edges of her vision, smelling faintly of tea leaves and a hint of sugar. The scent always carried from the stores she kept in her quarters.
Rumi kept walking, the monastery unfolding before her gradually: first, the northernmost wing, where her quarters lay, along with the main chapel; then, the corridors which led to the dining hall, kitchens, and infirmary, framing a half-hidden pavilion along the way. Above those was the library, as well as study and craft rooms designated for activities like teaching, art, bookbinding, or embroidery. Beyond that, the gardens, and finally, the southernmost wing, disconnected from the rest and holding the living quarters for the rest of the congregation.
Rumi walked down the little path leading up to the main building, worn down from her own trips back and forth every day, and slipped inside through a side door. The air swirled beneath the sudden disturbance, little particles of dust illuminated a soft gold in the briefly-intruding sunlight, before the door closed behind her once more.
The corridor, now dark, with its sconces extinguished for the night, brought her down to a series of doors that she knew by heart — a handful of rooms for meetings, confessionals, and storage, and then finally, the last door on the right, which held her chambers.
Rumi reached for the handle and pushed it open. She was met with her living room, the walls carved from dark grey shadowed stone that always felt ancient. Her bookshelves lined them, with rows of leatherbound books atop lacquered wood, and in the centre of the room was a chair and accompanying coffee table where she often sat to read. Atop the table, she kept her finely-made box of tea leaves and her ceramic sugar bowl painted with peacocks fanning out their feathers. Built into the wall on the right was her fireplace, cinders still marking the edges, and then finally her desk, a book still open on its surface, awaiting her return.
Rumi glanced around only briefly — she’d left a candle burning on her desk on a shallow dish, scenting the room a soft lavender — before stepping through a doorway to the left, leading to her relatively modest bedroom and attached bathroom. Here, there was only her closet, bed, and the nightstand where she walked to then to gently set down her Bible for safekeeping. It stayed there whenever not in use, including at night, so that she could keep it close while she slept.
The clock tower began to chime right when Rumi closed the front door behind her and made her way back down the corridors. She passed by the door leading to the outside this time, instead turning left, and then left again, and down the passageway until it opened, the walls falling away. Now, pillars connected by arches lined the path on either side instead — to the left, the arches led to the pavilion, and to the right, the mountainside.
After a minute or two, the walls closed in once more. The scent of freshly-baked bread drew her through a doorway, which brought her into the spacious dining hall. She walked in as the sixth and final chime bellowed through stone, its reverberations felt on the bottoms of her feet through her soles as they made contact with the ground.
There were already a handful of nuns and monks gathered, some sitting at various wooden tables, others standing at the buffet laid out on the counter bridging the dining hall and the kitchens. There was one priest, too, but upon closer inspection, she recognized them — so not the newcomer, then.
Rumi trained her gaze on the floor as she approached the counter, skirting around a group of four gathered nuns whispering amongst themselves.
“—real troublemaker—”
“—got herself into some hot water—”
“Then why’s she coming here?—”
They all instantly hushed when Rumi had to step closer to grab a plate, the nearest nun to her even flinching away from her. When they glanced back at her, it was a familiar mix of awe and trepidation she saw in their glazed-over eyes. As a group, and as quietly as possible, they shuffled in the other direction, further down the counter.
Rumi didn’t bother to watch their retreat, instead grabbing a pair of tongs and surveying the spread. It was the usual selection — plates of fruits, cheeses, and meats; oatmeal and a small jar of honey; rolls of bread and accompanying jam; an open carton holding hard-boiled eggs; cups of yogurt; and pitchers of juice, water, or milk. It always seemed like a lot of food, but with almost four dozen people living at the monastery, and a lot of history here, they’d gotten pretty good at judging the right amount to make every day.
Rumi chose a cup of yogurt, piling some berries on top, and a dash of honey to finish it off.
The gossip always stopped once she was in range, anyway. She was used to it — and besides, it rarely stopped her. She had her ways.
Rumi added an egg to her plate, and a couple of spoonfuls of oatmeal, before grabbing the pitcher of apple juice and expertly filling a glass one-handed. She balanced the glassware and a spoon in one hand, and her plate in the other, and made her way to her spot in the corner.
The weight of eyes on her pricked at her clothes and what little exposed skin she had as she walked by. People veered out of her way if they saw her coming, creating space as she moved, parting them with only a stride or a stray look. Rumi’s tongue felt heavy in her mouth as she finally took a seat, swallowing down stale-tasting spit in the back of her throat.
Rumi palmed the egg, her nails clicking lightly against its thin, speckled outer layer. She cracked the shell open with a thumb, started peeling it off in pieces, and pretended not to watch the rest of the hall in her periphery.
A rare, tangible buzz hovered in the air as people leaned close across tables to murmur in low voices, as more people filtered in with light, peppy steps, and as the gaggle of nuns found a table far, far away from Rumi. It was an excitable, shared sort of secrecy, like a hand of cards passed from table to table, one open secret after another, like it made it less like gossip to hide it in plain sight behind quiet words and polite smiles.
Rumi watched the four nuns sit down, exchanging in hushed voices, the edges of their sleeves brushing against the wooden table as they moved. Every nun at the hall, except for one, wore an ensemble of dark blue robes highlighted with black, and topped with a hooded cloak. Rumi had always secretly thought they reminded her of bruises — something that hurt if you poked too much, that pooled blood under the surface and never let it back out. Something that you didn’t want to let fester, let sit, because if it did, it would set roots down and grow and grow and grow. A color that never really healed on its own.
Not that Rumi’s olive green accented with white was much better. Perhaps Rumi was made up of bruises too.
She finally took a bite of the egg as she pondered over the tidbits she’d overheard before she got too close — something about the newcomer being a troublemaker.
It went without saying that they didn’t get much trouble around here, unless you included gossip or the occasional drifting off during mass. Which, of course, Rumi did neither.
But perhaps the largest scandal they’d faced to date was a nun keeping a library book past when she’d finished it; the rules about personal possessions were strict and limited to necessities like clothes, and keeping the book had veered too close to attachments to material items for the priests’ liking.
So the idea of someone who caused enough trouble to make a name for themselves of it — whether it was true or not — was fascinating. Rumi had heard a lot of rumors in her time, and usually, she found them to rarely carry any merit. But this one felt different, somehow, in a way she couldn’t quite place.
Rumi finished off the rest of the egg and picked up the cup of yogurt, mixing in the berries and honey before trying it. Tartness and sugar bloomed on her tongue in turn, the exact balance that she liked best. The food there was always good — the vast majority of it was grown or made by them, straight from their gardens and animal coops to the kitchens, and everyone who lived on the monastery took on shifts to help maintain or prepare it. Everyone except Rumi, whose hands were too important to be marked with something so human as calluses.
Rumi sipped at her apple juice, studying a pair of monks as they walked past, only glancing at her briefly. Everyone’s attention was concentrated elsewhere today, and even though it was unlikely to last very long, she was enjoying the slight reprieve.
Rumi spooned the last bit of yogurt into her mouth and ate her couple bites of oatmeal, catching snippets of conversation when people walked by and savoring the relative peace. When she was finished, she drank down the last remaining juice and rose, busing her dishes with the faint sensation of eyes on the back of her head and leaving.
She didn’t have anything to do until the evening mass, so Rumi walked down the corridor and up a set of spiraling stone stairs to one of her favorite places at the monastery.
The library welcomed her back with a soft sigh that she could hear in the faint shuffle of feet on the floor and the dim, still air. Like everything else at the monastery, it was a stunning sight: impressively tall wooden shelves, with sliding ladders attached, stretched outward for almost as long as she could see. Chandeliers hung from the high-vaulted ceiling illuminated the main aisle, with sconces on the walls where additional lighting was needed. Tapestries, paintings, and the occasional statue could be found at the ends of the shelves, most made with warm colors, complementing the softer emerald and ruby tones of the wallpaper.
Rumi’s favorite part of the library, though, were the little nooks hidden throughout that could be found if you knew where to look. The library was quietest early in the morning, like now, and sometimes late at night, when most everyone had already retired to their quarters for the night.
It was one of those nooks that Rumi returned to now, once she picked up a book she’d requested to be pulled, tucking herself away into a chair in the corner, just lit enough to see the words on the page and safely, soothingly quiet.
Rumi exhaled, her shoulders relaxing, and opened the book to the first page.
Time warped between words of printed ink and the faint sound of pages flipping as she read, her nose practically pressed against the book. Rumi spent much of her time reading, and went through books at a pace akin to a wildfire’s spread. She loved the library, and loved the comforting, warm smell of books, and loved stories. Adventure, horror, sci-fi, mystery — it didn’t matter, as long as she was somewhere else.
The priests or bishop used to insist on reading every book she wanted, so that they could ensure she read only the most appropriate and acceptable of stories, but they’d given up years ago once they realized there was not a chance of keeping up with her pace of reading. Ever since then, she’d gotten to delve into much more interesting genres than the mostly non-fiction they’d kept her on, like fantasy and even romance.
Plus, the stories she read were plenty acceptable. She knew wrong from right; she’d been taught nothing else her whole life.
She managed to read through three chapters before pausing to take a break, slotting a painted ceramic bookmark with ravens on it in-between the pages and closing it gently. She got up to stretch and find a clock, which told her it was a little past eleven a.m. — or, in other words, almost at the time when cars arrived at the monastery if there was anything that needed delivering. Like, say, medicine, or tea, or perhaps a new priest.
Meaning, if she wanted to catch a glimpse of the newcomer — and she did — now would be the time.
Rumi tucked the book securely under her arm and double-checked that her hood was raised before heading back out of the library and down the stairs, stopping briefly by her rooms to drop off the book. Then she slipped outside, walking south to the gates.
By the so-called “gates” to the monastery, where the edge of the road faded into grass and a couple cobblestone paths, marked the technical end of the monastery grounds. There were no actual gates to keep them contained — the mountain itself and its remote location and intimidating architecture did that just fine on its own, and besides, the monastery’s location was a well-kept secret to only those who needed to know.
There was already a crowd there when Rumi arrived, the gathered nuns and monks whispering some more amongst themselves as they waited for the car to show itself. Rumi slotted herself into the back of the group inconspiciously — well, about as inconspicious as she could achieve in her unique-colored robes, anyway.
It took only a few minutes more for the sound of an engine’s purr, subtle at first but growing louder with every chugging roll of its tires, to break through the collective reverie. Everyone hushed all at once, turning their gazes toward the road, as a sleek, black car pulled up to the edge of the property, before slowing to a halt and quieting down to a mere hum.
Rumi heard one of the car doors open and someone step out, and immediately, a few nuns rushed forward — eager to be the first to greet the newcomer and show them to their room, no doubt.
Rumi held her breath and craned her neck, fighting to catch a glimpse of the priest, but the most she could see was a dash of reddish-pink hair from someone rather tall. They were rapidly being ushered in the opposite direction to her, towards the main living quarters, and out of sight.
It was over in the blink of an eye, but it took the crowd much longer to fully disperse. Some went back to talking and mingling, while others followed the small group towards the rooms, and yet others meandered away to other parts of the monastery, and through it all, Rumi just stood there, on the edges of it all, stock still, as if frozen.
And shivered.
The wood dug awkwardly into one spot on her back as Rumi sat ramrod straight, gaze fixed on the pulpit at the front of the cathedral.
The front pew on the left, the one closest to the pulpit, always sat empty. Well — except for her, who had the entire bench to herself, with nothing but empty space to her right and left. Not even the bishop sat with her.
The cathedral’s chancel was something to behold. Two massive stained glass windows, one depicting a cross on a hill and the other, a valley of roses, flanked a tapestry and magnificient altar of gold and marble, offerings of jewel-encrusted chalices filled to the brim, evenly-spaced lit candles, and carefully-trimmed vases of red and yellow flowers.
One of the priests, Priest Achan, was in the pulpit finishing up his sermon, drawing to a dramatic conclusion about the importance of taming earthly desires, especially deferring to the guidance of God and all those He speaks through by honoring them with utmost obedience (“‘For all that is in the world—the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and pride of life—is not from the Father but is from the world,’” he recited, hands spread out wide, palms upward). Rumi listened to every word as he drew to the conclusion, watched him with wide, unblinking eyes, and waited for him to call them to communion to close out mass.
Instead, Priest Achan paused, surveying the congregation, and called out, “Today, as you all have heard, we’re welcoming someone new to our wonderful home here. She’s going to come up and give a brief sermon for us tonight, so everyone, please give her all your attention. Priest Kang, we are blessed to have you joining us, and we thank the Lord for bringing us all together. Amen.”
Priest Achan stepped down from the pulpit, gesturing towards one of the pews, and someone stood, the sound of footsteps across marble echoing in the quiet as she made her way down the nave.
Priest Kang. Rumi didn’t turn to look, but she rotated the name around in her mind, feeling its rhythm, its shape. She fought the urge to mouth it to herself, to whisper it and see what it sounded like in her voice and playing off her tongue. Something about it felt almost wrong, made of something artificial and easily cracked, like it couldn’t possibly capture her, her—
Her everything, Rumi thought, impossibly dazed from her seated position, as Priest Kang finally came into view, her long, red-touched hair reaching about halfway down her back, her dark suit pristine and unwrinkled, its shape perfectly hugging her broad shoulders. Rumi made out a flash of ink on her wrists, twining further up soft-looking skin before disappearing beneath neatly-buttoned sleeves, further up than a typical priest’s marking on the back of the hand.
Rumi frowned at that, confused, but as Priest Kang turned to step up into the pulpit, Rumi caught sight of her face, from sharply-cut angles and the hair tucked just right behind her ear to eyes that looked like they could contain the sun, and any questions promptly dispelled from her mind.
“Thank you for the warm welcome, Priest Achan. It’s an honor to be here among you all.”
Her voice was lower than Rumi expected, and had an alluring, melodic cadence to it, one she thought she could probably fall asleep to if given the chance. She listened raptly, finding herself mesmerized.
“I’d like to start us off with a verse, if you don’t mind.” Priest Kang set down a Bible on the stand, cracking it open in one smooth, practiced motion. “This one’s important to remember, everyone. It goes like this:
“‘Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.’”
Once she finished speaking, Priest Kang lifted her gaze and scanned the gathered congregation. Her eyes swept over the pews, passing right over Rumi without even pausing, and Rumi bristled automatically.
She’d—she’d looked right over her, like she wasn’t even there! Like her one-of-a-kind robes that distinguished her, and who she was, was nothing special. Rumi clenched her jaw, straightening her back impossibly more, and lifted her chin slightly, but still, those magnetic eyes stayed off of her. Indignation kindled in her chest, a little spark that promised, that wanted, to grow.
“What He’s trying to tell us there,” Priest Kang proclaimed, turning to another page, “Is about the value of…”
Rumi was still irked about the casual slight against her, but as Priest Kang kept talking, leading them through an entrancing sermon, quieter than the average priest but with a weight to her words that pulled people in and kept them caught between her thumb and forefinger. Rumi was spellbound, lost in the lilt of her voice, staring at her face and mouth as it moved, and her dark eyes, and—
“Thank you for listening. Amen.”
A quick, uttered prayer passed through the congregation, and Priest Kang stepped down from the pulpit. She headed back to her seat gracefully, never once glancing at Rumi as she strode past. Rumi had to fight to not clench her fists where she sat, another shot of irritation coursing through her bloodstream at being—being ignored. She was never ignored. Wherever she was, whenever it was, people took notice. As they were meant to.
Priest Achan took the spot once more to close out mass, calling everyone forth to communion, but as Rumi rose and approached the sanctuary — she was first in line, as always — all she could think about was her.
Rumi sipped from the proffered glass of wine and swallowed hard, opening her mouth obediently once she was done. Priest Achan was careful not to touch her skin as he placed a wafer on her tongue. She waited until he’d withdrawn before stepping away, chewing and swallowing once more, and finding herself a secluded spot against the wall to watch the rest of the ceremony.
Usually, Rumi didn’t hang around for this part; after mass closed with communion, the congregants would mingle and chat for a while, and Rumi could never take part in that, so it seemed pointless to stay.
But today… today, Rumi was curious.
She wanted to know more about this priest who had a voice made of honey and sunlight, this priest who hadn’t even looked at her.
Rumi waited for the communion to conclude and for everyone to begin circling and conversing. She’d been watching, and so she noticed when Priest Kang artfully dodged joining a circle of monks and stepped off to the side instead, hands in her pockets.
Rumi pounced on the opportunity, striding across the room and to her side. This close, Priest Kang seemed even taller, and her hair looked like it’d be silky to the touch, and ever so easy to run her fingers through. A clerical collar, black with a stripe of white in the front, encircled the hollow of her throat, at the top of her suit.
Rumi leaned in close enough to be heard and cleared her throat.
“Welcome to the monastery.” Rumi dipped her head in a tiny, respectful bow. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Priest Kang turned to face her, a neutral, almost bored look on her face. She extended a hand, but Rumi didn’t move to take it. After a beat, the priest’s gaze flicked down to Rumi’s hands, stagnant at her sides. Still, Rumi didn’t budge— such a thing would not be proper, not for her.
The priest lowered her hand.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Priest Kang said, far too calm, appearing utterly unfazed at being approached and spoken to by her. “And whose acquaintance do I have the pleasure of making tonight?”
Rumi stared back. “What?”
A lazy, lopsided grin appeared on her lips. “It means, ‘what’s your name?’”
Rumi sputtered. She knew what it meant!
“Haven’t you heard of me?” she demanded.
That grin grew, and after a moment, it dawned on Rumi: she, Ryu Rumi, was being smirked at. Smirked at! It was highly improper, to the degree of which she had never witnessed before.
“Can’t say I have,” Priest Kang drawled.
(And suddenly, Rumi understood trouble).
“I’m the Chosen. The One Touched By His Hand. The Bearer of Promises. The Listener, and the Giver. The Holy Light. The Blessed One,” Rumi explained pointedly, like it should be obvious, because it was. She was distinguished from the others in every way, and every way that mattered: she was special, touched, marked. She mattered in a way that couldn’t be broken down into words.
“Sure.” Priest Kang sounded amused. Indeed, there was a twinkle in her eyes, something almost entertained. “But what’s your name?”
Rumi jolted, offended.
“You—” Rumi faltered, at a loss for what to say, before crossing her arms with an affronted huff. “You may call me Sister Ryu.”
She opened her mouth again, not really sure what she’d say — tell Priest Kang that her audaciousness was nothing short of appalling, perhaps, and who’d raised her, because it was downright offensive — but Priest Kang beat her to it.
“Well then, Sister Ryu,” Priest Kang said, playing with her name in her mouth the way a cat might its toy. Those deep eyes roved over her, slightly curious but wholly unintimidated, and it set Rumi’s blood alight. “I’ll see you around.”
And then the priest turned and left, slipping past the congregants and out of sight, again.
For a moment, Rumi just stood, staring at the spot where the priest had just been.
Rumi had never had someone turn their back on her before.
She’d never had someone not recognize her before.
And she’d certainly never been spoken to like that before.
Trouble indeed, she thought once she regained a little bit of her composure.
And then she promptly stormed out of the main part of the cathedral, and to the backrooms where her chambers lay, quickly retreating and grumbling to herself. Her heartbeat rattled the inside of her chest, far faster than she’d have liked, and she threw off her cloak, dropping it over the back of her chair for the time being.
Rumi tried to calm herself by reading some more — she’d even left off on a cliffhanger — but her mind was too preoccupied with the encounter to focus enough for it, so instead, she paced back and forth, wearing down the damn rug in her rooms with the force of her feeling.
Every now and then, she glanced at the little tabletop clock on her desk, waiting for another hour to pass. Everyone who wanted would file into confession now, and Rumi was always last in line; she was meant to confess too, to set an example, as Priest Saul had told her once, and remind the others that none were above atonement.
Once the clock struck time, Rumi slipped back into her cloak, retying its sash in the front, and left for the confessional a mere few doors down.
Rumi opened and closed the door in question, bringing herself into the confessional room. The booth had two sections, one for the priest and the other, the penitent. Rumi entered the booth, making sure it was securely shut behind her, and turned to face the confessional stand: a cushion on the floor for one’s knees, and a bit of space to lower to the ground.
Above it, a heavy, wine-red curtain hung in the middle, partitioning the two sections, standing still and undisturbed.
“Welcome.”
The low, newly familiar voice stopped Rumi cold.
She was hearing confession? Already? It was still her first day.
And her second?
She was meant to confess to her?
Rumi must’ve waited a moment too long to kneel, because Priest Kang spoke again, slightly sharper, as if daring her.
“Well, then. What are you waiting for?”
Something flared in her chest, and Rumi opened her mouth, but Priest Kang continued without hesitation, issuing a cool, even command.
“On your knees.”
Her voice was missing all the snark from earlier, and now had a dangerous steel to it, the kind used to being obeyed, and yet with just enough murmured softness around the edges to make her knees go weak.
So, really, it was just a natural reaction to fall to her knees, and to shiver on the way down, her desire to argue extinguished so very easily, the contact making a soft thud against the cushion.
Rumi could feel two cool metal pendants shifting against her collarbone as she sank down. They moved with her, with every breath, as she swallowed and spoke.
“Sister Athaliah checked out this one book from the library before I could,” Rumi said, almost mechanically, “And I was jealous.”
There was a pause, possibly as the priest waited to see if she had more to add, but she didn’t. She’d confessed; there it was, in its barest ugliness. Now, for the next part. The script they’d read, the words they’d pat her on the back with.
“Sometimes, our patience is tested, and we’re called upon to wait for what we want.”
Rumi frowned to herself. This wasn’t usually how it went.
Priest Kang’s voice quieted, but there was still something ablaze there as she said, “But sometimes, it’s just the right time, and we’re meant to place trust in ourselves to know when to grab onto something with both hands and never let it go. I think you’ll know when that is. You may go.”
The dismissal was so abrupt that it took Rumi a moment to process it had even happened, and to stand back up on two unsteady legs. What an incredibly… unstandard confession this had been. She turned to leave.
“Goodnight, Ryu.”
The velvet words, an octave even lower, slid along her very bones.
It didn’t even occur to her until after she’d stumbled out of the booth and down the short corridor, back to her chambers, that Priest Kang had omitted the rest of her title.
Rumi stared up at her ceiling, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
By now, she’d normally have wound down for the night, probably freshly off of reading a chapter of a new book, fully sleepy from the effort and relaxing into the blankets.
Instead, Rumi’s breaths came tight, measured. Her nails dug into her palms, just enough to border on a sting.
Can’t say I have.
Well, then… I’ll see you around.
Goodnight, Ryu.
The sheer impropriety of addressing her without title. The way she spoke, like lit candles and a dancing flame and its curling smoke. The flash of that smirk, the arrogance never found here, or at least kept better hidden, and her lips—
A warmth, a heat, coiled heavy and low in her gut. It’s not wholly unfamiliar, but it’s never been this strong before, so intense it bordered on uncomfortable. She wanted to do something about it, to—to—
Rumi squirmed in place, wriggling against the sheets, her feet sliding up and down with impatience, and the slight friction felt good at the apex of her thighs. She leaned into it, squirming harder, clenching down once, and finding that felt even better. She did it again, and again, harder, twisting, squeezing down to wring out more of that elusive pleasure, her instincts begging for more, more pressure, more—
She felt… she wanted—
Rumi didn’t know what she wanted, other than—
What’re you waiting for?
On your knees.
Rumi’s hand drifted down, down, of its own accord, brushing along her thighs with a touch that sent a full-body quiver through her, like water rippling beneath interruption. It moved closer and closer to the center of her desire, where it pooled between her legs.
She parted her thighs just slightly, just enough to allow her hand to slip between them, inching closer and closer, her breath breaking on a pant, every movement sending sparks down her spine, and—
And stopped herself.
She withdrew her hand in a panic, returning it to a ramrod straight position at her side and untangling her legs. She ached, but she did it anyway.
What was she doing? What was she thinking?
This — that — what she’d almost done — what she did do — wasn’t allowed. And she didn’t break the rules.
Rumi swallowed shakily, a different kind of feeling growing in her stomach now, a dark, tattered thing. She was not meant to want; she had to remember that. She’d have to confess to atone.
Rumi rolled onto her side and curled up into a ball, pulling her blankets close and tucking them beneath her chin, before forcing herself into stillness, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
And she tried to lull herself to sleep.
