Chapter 149: Ruthina Was Possessed

Eiravelle scrambled back as Ruthina’s eyes glowed red and she stood up. The omega’s movements were wrong—too smooth, too fluid, like a puppet being controlled by invisible strings. Her head tilted at an unnatural angle, and her lips curled into a smile that did not belong on her gentle face.

The red moonlight above them seemed to pulse in time with her movements, casting strange shadows across the forest floor, and the twisted trees around them seemed to lean in closer, as though they were watching, waiting, eager to see what would happen next.

"R-Ruth? W-Why?" Eiravelle asked, her voice was strained as she applied pressure against her chest. The wound was deep, deeper than she had realized, and she could feel the blood seeping between her fingers, warm and sticky.

Her hands were shaking, and she could feel the edges of her vision beginning to blur, but she forced herself to stay focused. She could not afford to pass out. Not now. Not when Ruthina needed her. The pain was a constant, throbbing presence, a reminder of how fragile she was, how vulnerable, but she pushed it aside, buried it beneath layers of determination and will.

Ruthina smiled eerily and glanced down at the dagger in her hand, the blade coated in Eiravelle’s blood. She lifted it slowly, examining it as though it was a curious artifact, something fascinating and foreign.

The red moonlight glinted off the metal, and the blood dripped onto the forest floor, each drop a soft, wet sound in the silence. She turned the blade this way and that, watching the light play across its surface, and then she brought it to her lips, her tongue flicking out to taste the crimson stain.

"Haha, Ruthina is gone," a deep growling voice came out of Ruthina’s mouth, and the sound was so wrong, so utterly alien, that Eiravelle felt her stomach turn. It was not Ruthina’s voice. It was something else, something older and darker and infinitely more cruel.

The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, from the trees and the sky and the ground beneath her feet, and it resonated with a power that made Eiravelle’s bones ache.

Eiravelle’s eyes widened, and she felt her heart stutter in her chest. "Huh? Y-You’re not Ruthina," she breathed, and she whimpered as she moved back even more, gathering her strength, trying to put distance between herself and the thing that was wearing Ruthina’s face.

Her hands scraped against the rough forest floor, and she could feel the sharp edges of rocks and twigs biting into her palms, but she did not stop. She had to get away. She had to think. She had to find a way to save Ruthina.

But Ruthina—or the thing inside her—took slow, deliberate steps toward Eiravelle, her smile never wavering. Each step was measured, predatory, the step of a hunter who knew its prey had nowhere to run. The red light in her eyes pulsed brighter with each step, and the air around her seemed to shimmer with heat.

"This rabbit is full of pain, and because of that she was easy to possess," the demon said, and its voice was thick with satisfaction, with pleasure at its own cruelty. "She has so many cracks, so many broken pieces. It was like slipping into a warm bath."

Eiravelle stopped moving and sighed, sweat pouring down her face from the pain. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, could feel the blood still flowing from the wound, but she forced herself to think past the agony. She forced herself to look at the thing that was speaking through Ruthina’s mouth and see it for what it was.

"Why are you doing this to her?! What has she done that you’re doing this to her?! She had suffered so much, and you’re adding pain into it," Eiravelle said, and her voice was raw with anger and grief. She thought of Ruthina as she had first met her, shy and gentle, with a smile that could light up a room. She thought of the way Ruthina had cared for others, had never asked for anything in return, had borne her burdens in silence.

The demon laughed hysterically, the sound echoing through the dark forest and bouncing off the twisted trees. It was a horrible sound, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once, and it made Eiravelle’s skin crawl. The trees seemed to shudder with each peal of laughter, and the red moon above flickered, as though it too was disturbed by the sound.

"Eiravelle, no, it’s not me who is holding her. She is the one holding this place. She was too petrified of everything that happened to her. She can’t recover from the trauma," the demon explained, and its voice was almost gleeful, as though it was sharing a wonderful secret. "She built this forest, you know. Every tree, every shadow, every monster. She created it all. This is her sanctuary, her prison, her tomb. And she will never leave it."

Eiravelle frowned, her mind racing. She thought of Ruthina as she had always known her—smiling, gentle, kind. "She was always happy, energetic, and smiling," she murmured, more to herself than to the demon. She remembered the way Ruthina had laughed at small things, the way she had danced in the garden, the way she had sung softly to herself when she thought no one was listening.

"But it doesn’t mean she had already healed from all the bad things they did to her," the demon said, and its voice softened, became almost sympathetic, as though it was trying to reason with her.

"And you know what? This is what she needed. She needed us demons inside her head so she could survive! We protect her from the memories, from the pain, from the world that has only ever hurt her. We are her saviors, Eiravelle. We are her only hope."

"No! You’re wrong! You’re killing her!" Eiravelle retorted, and her voice was fierce despite the pain, despite the blood, despite everything. She would not let this creature twist the truth. She would not let it pretend that it was helping Ruthina when it was only hurting her more.

Ruthina stopped in her tracks and shook her head, and for a moment, there was something almost pitying in her expression. "No, I am not wrong... The Golden Rabbit was nothing but a woman who’s afraid of facing the world. She wanted to stay here, didn’t she tell you? If she doesn’t want to stay here, she would’ve left with you." The demon kept laughing, and the sound was like broken glass, like shattered hopes, like everything that had ever gone wrong in the world.

"She chose this. She chose us. She would rather live in a nightmare than face the waking world. Can you blame her? After everything that happened, can you truly blame her?"

Eiravelle shook her head and stayed firm to what she believed. Even with blood flowing out of her chest, she pushed through the pain and held onto her conviction. She could remember how Ruthina smiled, the innocence she possessed, the golden heart she had.

She remembered the way Ruthina had cared for others, the way she had never asked for anything in return, the way she had brought light to everyone around her even when she herself was surrounded by darkness. "I won’t allow you to corrupt her. You may be created by her trauma, but it doesn’t mean she wanted you to exist. You’re not real, so stop acting like you are. You live because the people who hurt her made you. Ruthina didn’t make you. She doesn’t want you," Eiravelle said, and her voice was steady now, steady and certain.

She gathered all her strength to stand up and face the demon, her body trembling with the effort. The wound in her chest screamed in protest, and she could feel fresh blood spilling down her gown, but she did not let herself fall. She would not give this creature the satisfaction.

"Let her go... Stop hiding from her skin," Eiravelle said, and her voice was quiet but absolute. She thought of Qazaethel, of her wife waiting for her in the waking world, of the promise she had made to come back. She thought of Qazaevelle, of her daughter, of the life she wanted to give her. She could not fail. She could not give up.

"Shut up! You don’t get to tell me what to do!" The demon rushed toward Eiravelle and raised the dagger in her hand, her face twisted with fury, her eyes blazing with red light. Eiravelle braced herself, ready for the blow, ready to fight until her last breath.

But the demon froze, as if time had stopped. The dagger hung suspended in the air, inches from Eiravelle’s throat, and Ruthina’s body went rigid, her face frozen in an expression of rage and confusion. The red light in her eyes flickered, dimmed, and then flared again, as though the demon was fighting something from within.

Eiravelle remained standing, her heart pounding, and she didn’t know what had happened. She looked around, searching for the source of this sudden pause, and then she heard a familiar voice from behind her.

"Can you still stand up, Eiravelle?" The voice was warm and steady, and Eiravelle slowly turned around and saw Qazaethel standing there, with Xelvyn and Yvaine flanking her. It turned out that Qazaethel had asked Yvaine and Xelvyn to take her to the dream, and it had been a success.

Two powerful rulers of the demon realm could navigate the dream realm without problems; that was why they had been able to find her so quickly. Qazaethel’s face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, but she was there. She had come. She had kept her promise.

Eiravelle smiled at Qazaethel, a smile that was tired and relieved and full of love. But when she took a step forward, her body collapsed on the ground. The world tilted, the darkness rushed in, and she felt herself falling, falling, falling into a void that had no bottom. She could hear Qazaethel screaming her name, could feel hands catching her before she hit the ground, but it was all distant, muffled, as though it was happening to someone else.

Eiravelle passed out, and Qazaethel was so shocked that she screamed Eiravelle’s name and lunged forward, catching her before she hit the ground. "Eivy! Eivy!" Qazaethel cupped her face, her hands trembling, and gathered the omega in her arms, holding her close, holding her tight, as though she could keep her safe by sheer force of will.

She could feel the blood soaking through Eiravelle’s gown, warm and wet against her hands, and she could feel the faint, fluttering beat of Eiravelle’s heart, weak but steady. "Please," she whispered, "please don’t leave me."

Xelvyn and Yvaine approached Ruthina and both of them sighed. "Well, what can I do? Dream demon..." Yvaine said, as if disappointed. She looked at the frozen figure of Ruthina, at the red light still glowing in her eyes, and shook her head. She had seen many things in her long life, had faced many enemies, but dream demons were always a particular annoyance.

They were not powerful, not in the way that true demons were, but they were persistent, and they had a tendency to cling to their hosts with a tenacity that was almost admirable.

"Yep. They’re usually weaker than the demons from the demon realm," Xelvyn explained, her voice calm and clinical. She studied the creature with the detached interest of a scholar examining a curious specimen. "They feed on trauma, on fear, on pain. They’re parasites, really. Not worth the effort of a proper fight."

Yvaine tapped Ruthina’s forehead, causing the monster that possessed her to get thrown away from the body. It was a violent, wrenching motion, and the creature screamed as it was ripped from its host, its form flickering and twisting as it struggled to maintain its shape. It was a small thing, smaller than Yvaine had expected, a writhing mass of shadow and malice that floated in the air, helpless and exposed. Ruthina passed out, and Yvaine caught her figure, cradling the omega gently in her arms.

Xelvyn then faced the monster, and she didn’t wait for him to explain. With a command of her hand, the monster floated in the air, suspended and helpless. He arched his back and his body started cracking, as if his bones were being shattered to pieces inside his body. The sound was horrible, a wet, grinding noise that seemed to go on forever, and the creature screamed and screamed, its voice growing weaker with each passing moment.

"You have caused so much trouble," Xelvyn said, and her voice was cold and absolute. One clench of her hand, and the monster exploded, its remains staining the ground. Xelvyn just walked away with disgust, brushing off her gown as though she had been sullied by the mere proximity of the creature. She had seen enough of this place, of this dream, of this whole unfortunate business. She wanted to go home.

Qazaethel started crying as she held Eiravelle, her tears falling onto Eiravelle’s pale face. "Eivy, please. Don’t leave me," Qazaethel begged, and her voice was broken, raw, the voice of a woman who had lost everything and could not bear to lose anything more.

Both Xelvyn and Yvaine froze, not because they thought Qazaethel was being overdramatic, but because they had never seen the sovereign like this. They had seen her cold, seen her commanding, seen her utterly in control. They had never seen her cry. They had never seen her vulnerable. They had never seen her afraid.

"Please, I love you so much. Don’t leave me and our daughter," Qazaethel kissed Eiravelle’s forehead, her tears streaming down to Eiravelle’s cheek. She thought of Qazaevelle, of their daughter waiting for them in the waking world, of the life they had planned together.

She thought of the future they had dreamed of, of the years they would spend together, of the memories they would make. She could not lose that. She could not lose Eiravelle.

There was a moment of silence, a moment when the world seemed to hold its breath, and then Eiravelle whimpered. "Qaz, don’t cry. Your tears are hot." Her voice was weak, barely a whisper, but it was there. It was real.

Qazaethel was shocked. "Eivy?!"

"Qazaethel, she’s not gonna die. Just heal her wound and let’s get out of here," Xelvyn said, totally practical and devoid of any drama. She had seen enough death to know when it was coming, and this was not it. Eiravelle was pale and weak, but she was alive. That was what mattered. The rest could be dealt with later.

Yvaine couldn’t help but chuckle as she held Ruthina in her arms. "You two are quite the pair," she murmured, and there was something almost fond in her voice, something that spoke of centuries of watching mortals stumble through their brief, passionate lives.

She had seen many couples in her long existence, had watched them love and fight and make up and grow old together, but there was something about these two that was different. Something that made her want to protect them, to keep them safe, to see them happy.

Slowly, Ruthina opened her eyes and saw them. She blinked, confused, her gaze moving from face to face as though she was trying to piece together what had happened. "Sister Yvaine?" She said, and her voice was small and fragile, the voice of someone who had been lost and was only just beginning to find her way back.

"Let’s go back, Ruthina," Yvaine said, and her voice was gentle, softer than anyone had ever heard her speak.

Ruthina reluctantly nodded, but then she glanced at Eiravelle and was shocked to see her condition. Her eyes widened, and her face went pale. "Sister Eivy?!" She panicked, her voice rising with fear. She tried to sit up, tried to reach for Eiravelle, but Yvaine held her gently in place.

"Don’t panic, I’m okay," Eiravelle immediately calmed her down, though her voice was weak and strained. She tried to smile, tried to reassure Ruthina, even as the blood continued to stain her gown. "I’m okay. We’re all okay."

Qazaethel scooped Eiravelle up, cradling her against her chest, and rose to her feet. "Let’s go now," she said, and her voice was firm, brooking no argument. She wanted to leave this place, this nightmare, this forest of shadows and pain. She wanted to take Eiravelle home, to hold her close, to never let her go again.

They left the place, walking through the dark forest as it faded around them, the twisted trees dissolving into mist, the red moon fading to silver, the howling wind dying to a gentle breeze. And then they were back in the infirmary, the salt circle still gleaming on the floor, the candles still burning low, the air still thick with the scent of blood and fear and hope.

Qazaethel laid Eiravelle gently on the bed beside Ruthina, and she held her wife’s hand, refusing to let go even for a moment. She watched as Xelvyn and Yvaine worked, as they healed Eiravelle’s wound, as they checked Ruthina’s vitals, as they murmured to each other in a language that Qazaethel did not understand.

Arielle rushed forward, Qazaevelle still in her arms, her face pale with worry. "Is she okay? Is Eiravelle okay?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"She’ll be fine," Xelvyn said, not looking up from her work. "The wound was deep, but it missed the heart. She lost a lot of blood, but she’s strong. She’ll recover."

Arielle let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding, and she sank into a chair, clutching Qazaevelle to her chest. The baby had stopped crying, had fallen asleep in her aunt’s arms, oblivious to the drama that had unfolded around her.

Qazaethel stayed by Eiravelle’s side, her hand wrapped around her wife’s, her eyes fixed on Eiravelle’s pale face. She watched the rise and fall of Eiravelle’s chest, watched the color slowly return to her cheeks, watched the wound on her chest close and heal under Xelvyn’s skilled hands.

And she waited. She waited for Eiravelle to open her eyes. She waited for Ruthina to wake up. She waited for the world to make sense again.