Present

Tourists and locals alike flock to the mountain. Every single day without fail, they prepare for their hike at the base, pray for blessings, and begin their trek upwards. There is never a shortage of people. 

There is one thing they all have in common. 

Whispers of an old tale flow from their lips, spreading from one to another. Murmurings of a shapeshifting demoness in the depths of a cave at the peak. Her true form is that of a skeleton so the tale says. 

Once in a blue moon, she descends the mountain, she brings with her fragrant fruits, tempting weary travellers. When they bite into the flesh of the fruit, she tears them limb by limb. Into perfect pieces ripe for devouring. 

Through the centuries, the fruit in question has become something else altogether in folklore. It has gained a mythical reputation. And it so happens that the very fruit is the one growing at the base of the mountain, hanging from the branches of a single tree. 

Shuhua can’t fathom why people clamor about, pushing and shoving to pick pears. 

They’re juicy. And fat. They’re Asian pears free for picking. 

Practically a dream for superstitious scrooges.  

But they’re not going to grant mystical healing benefits, they do not bestow luck. No one is winning the lottery any time soon.

They’re just fruit. They won’t lead to an inexplicable increase in cash perfect for a mid-life crisis lambo.  

The beginnings of the old tale likely had some truth to it. Minnie spoke of a skeletal demoness 352 years ago who had been slain without a hitch. 

Okay. That’s fine. 

Shuhua respects honesty, freedom of speech, et cetera. That’s good and all. Three cheers for saying your truth. 

Hip. Hip. Hooray. 

Back to the situation at hand. Shuhua would like to sit down and speak with whoever spread the extra rumours surrounding the fruit. For a friendly chat, a one-on-one while her blade is in view. She won’t resort to violence, rest assured, it will be sheathed. 

While leaning against the table menacingly. 

Nothing personal. 

The locals were gone by 3pm for afternoon tea. But the tourists? 9, 10 pm, and the tourists still haven’t left. 

World-class persistency at work. 

Which is why she leaves. She’s had enough. At two in the morning, she’ll come back and hopefully by then, there’d be no one here. 

Normally, seeing the sheer amount of people congregating doesn’t bother her. Spaces and places change. There’s a convenience store at the bottom of the mountain. Cars roar past on the tar roads. What was once a feared place where humans never dared to tread has become a tourist attraction. 

Soon to devolve into a tourist trap. Last she heard, the park rangers were planning on implementing entrance fees.  

Shuhua just has to hold onto her memories as best as she can. 

And it is precisely because she still remembers that the sight of unruly mortals grates on her nerves today.

Locking her front door, looking down, the extra pair of shoes remain. 

The bag of pears are where she last saw them. On the couch. Miyeon? On the couch. A documentary plays on the TV, the volume set low. 

Miyeon’s eyes flit to her briefly, returning to the screen immediately. Stilling when Shuhua picks up the bag.

Heavier than the last time, Shuhua takes out two, setting them on the counter for later. They’d come in handy.  

She sits on the other side of the couch, maintaining an appropriate, polite distance. “What are you watching?”

“Ostriches.” Miyeon doesn’t turn towards her, neutrality coating her response. Thinly veiled jibes are missing. Bluntness present. This is Miyeon’s version of civility as far as she can tell so she decides to try as well.  

Shuhua picks at her nail, half tuning in to the ramble of the documentary. It’s the asive sentimentality she’s been feeling the past 24 hours, steering her to continue the conversation. “Any interesting facts?”  

“Ostrich kicks can kill lions.” 

“Fascinating.” Shuhua glances at the clock. 11:54 pm. “I’m going out again later. You can come with me.”

A deliberate slip of the tongue? Perhaps. She feels like she had to say it though and ask on her own terms. It pleases her a bit. Just knowing she extended an invitation first.

Miyeon finally looks at her properly. Surprise coloring her face, eyes wider than the left turns she takes when driving. Miyeon that is. 

Shuhua doesn’t have a license. 

Incense sticks between her palms, Shuhua kneels and bows. Three times. Rising, she plants the sticks into the ground. With a bit of effort, they stay standing straight. 

Placing the two fresh pears in front of the incense sticks, she joins Miyeon in sitting cross-legged. Who stares up at the looming pear tree. 

Twenty feet tall. 

“I’m sorry,” says Miyeon. Hugging herself at the waist. “I shouldn’t have placed that pear at your burial.” 

Shuhua stiffens.

Something has shifted. It might have to do with Miyeon visiting her parents’ graves together with her for the first time. Rather than her going alone every year then catching sight of Miyeon coming up the tar road as she’s leaving.

Or maybe it’s because Soyeon banning them from hunting for a week affects them both. More than they will ever admit. 

A combination of the two, really. Tacking on centuries of rigidity and ill feelings. Whatever happened back then, they never talked it out. 

Dogged determination is ugly in this scenario.  

“These people step on your parents’ graves every year. Yours as well. They don’t even know.” The sorrow in Miyeon’s voice, that would’ve done the trick. Annoying her further, yet her anger recedes. 

Caving in, relenting to the tiredness in her heart. The obvious snarky reply would’ve been to question Miyeon’s right to express irritation in this situation. Willingly, Shuhua wants to lift the heavy weight on her own shoulders, trading jabs at each other is exhausting. 

Repetitive.  

She opts for another route. One that will hopefully set them on another path. A new beginning that may be embarrassing and cumbersome at first. But a new beginning nonetheless. 

“I should be allowed to fight a tourist every year on this day. That’ll compensate for their blatant disrespect.” 

She receives a lengthy pause and another strange look. No wide eyes. Just arched brows. “They wouldn’t be able to see your sword. It can’t even hurt them.”

“Who said I was fighting them with my sword.”

Miyeon actually has the gall to snicker when Shuhua is being serious here. It’s too late now to engage in hand-to-hand combat with a tourist, but there’s always next year.  

AN: Miyeon adopting human mannerisms and activities. Shuhua distancing herself from her mortality while still being grounded. Pack it up, it’s time to sleep. My brain can’t analyze any more. 

Song: amazarashi - Kaette Koiyo (trans. come back home) 

So you know how I said last chapter I was writing a long superpower mishu oneshot? It’s now out, the selling point is that it's cuter than whatever is going on in this fic. Here's the link.