Chapter Text
“Fresh seafood! I’ll—I’m even selling my boat! You know, the King of the Tide's favourite food was milkfish! He lived and died for it!”
“Please give me your whole stock.”
“We’re nearing the seventh day! Buy our lanterns, let’s lead lost sailors home!”
“But it’s only the first day? My baby, be home before the sun sets, or else the Guardian will descend and lock you in his lighthouse.”
“Ma, he hasn’t come down since your great-grandpa’s great-great-great–great-great-grandma was alive. Is he even real?”
Brine and the smell of raw fish wafted from the market stalls. Lanterns, some carrying heartfelt messages and others childish paintings, but bearing hope all the same, sailed over the crowd’s heads. Two tall boats bobbed along the harbourfront, looming as if to take over the role of the town’s Guardian.
“The Guardian will age when he no longer cares for the town. He must be dusty and cracking and grey by now.”
“Make your restaurant reservations for the day the Guardian’s Lover died!”
“What’s romantic about that? I want to build sandcastles in the King’s name, instead.”
Jimin munched on dried milkfish and plucked out the bones as he made his way towards the seashore. Admittedly, he was fairly late to the start of the festival as a whole. Even the damned fish was nearly out of stock by the time he was running up to the stall.
Music was coming from deeper into the town, washed out by the gentle tide and chatter. Jimin had abandoned his friends there somewhere—they were doing something else, something stupid last he checked, like apple bobbing and winning over children. He only intended to be gone for a couple minutes, just until they were finished.
The last festival he participated in, his friends joined him on his father’s boat. Jimin was only pushing 13, so they barely left the shore, but they had done all their own fishing and cooking and released their lanterns from its dock—it was a night entirely up to them, a week with an easy tide they might not see for another 15 years. Jimin wanted to experience that again, but tonight, the boat he spent half his life mastering was nowhere to be seen.
Approaching the heart of the festival, and the waves crashing into its base, Jimin bowed at the hip.
Although the festival was to commemorate the work of the two stone saviours, the crowd thinned significantly at their feet. However, it was fair enough.
In recent years, the town began celebrating its independent survival, a testament to their perseverance. They began celebrating that they made it this far—that even after having to rebuild, recover, and then be buried over and over again, they could still stare back at the gods with an unwavering smile.
“Psh, gods. ” Jimin picked a bone from his teeth, and glared at the two statues. “What’s there to praise you for?” They were standing back to back, one’s sword raised as if to lead an army and the tide itself forward, and the other built to kneel and look straight back at its admirer, a miniature island in the palm of its hand. ‘Uproar of Skies’ was carved into a plaque on the base, the flood that marked the start of the town’s cyclical calamities.
The King of the Tide passed on the day he set sail with the last boat, 195 years ago. It was that same boat that managed to carry back all the missing survivors, at the cost of his disappearance. His story was the one people properly commemorated, passing on and painting him facing the waves. Thus, Jimin’s resentment wasn’t directed at the swordsman.
The Guardian of their island was still alive, but there’d been so little trace of him besides the glare of the lighthouse that it was difficult to consider him as living.
Was Jimin allowed to bring his food here? Hopefully. He didn’t want to unintentionally kickstart the next disaster—the ocean could wash his crumbs away, anyway.
Jimin went through all the respectful motions, but with tired eyes and fish on a stick in hand. He was only here to ask one thing, and then he would be on his way—go back to beating children at apple bobbing.
Pointing his stick at the kneeling statue, Jimin stuck his nose in the air.
“I know what I saw last night.”
The statues were constantly being restored, standing taller against time than the country itself. Yet, the tiny island was a wave away from turning to dust, no longer held with the same care as it would’ve been 60 years ago.
“The Waterborne Abyss is returning, where the hell are you?”
Jimin stared at the stone as if he expected to look back at him and respond, but of course, that would only happen if he was crazy. Not even the people who dared to climb the mountain and knock on the wrecked inn of the lighthouse gained the attention of the Guardian.
“How should I say it? Oh, great Guardian of the seven seas and our own sa—”
Someone slapped Jimin’s butt and he keeled over, almost dropping his milkfish.
“You’re still onto that, Jimin?”
Jimin spun with a huff, only to be met with a dimpled smile, as if the hit was his plan too.
“It’s Jungkookie behind you, watch out.”
Somewhere, where the moon’s reflected light didn’t reach and only the lighthouse could see, the still waters rippled once.
Light cast over the empty sea;
STAY AWAY.
In the early morning, Namjoon and Jungkook tried to convince Jimin out of it, and tried dragging him home from where he fought back at the foot of the Guardian’s mountain.
“‘It’s safer down here! Jimin-ssi, you must be crazy!’” Jimin mocked as he cut down a vine, because they were probably right, but there was no more turning back for him. He didn’t want them to come with him either.
Jimin survived through the last two disasters. He watched as all nearby sea animals died and his own house dried and crumbled under the sun. Still, those occurred at least two years after the festival. The festival itself took place every 15 years, allowing the townspeople a little leeway to heal and find something worth honouring.
Today—the 195th year since the Uproar of Skies—was the second day of the 13th celebration, and Jimin was watching black smoke rise above the murky stretch of water.
The rain was beating down, and the streets on the second day of festivities were empty. His oldest neighbours thought that a festival based around the water coming to a halt because of rain was absurd, too—for all they knew, it had never been stopped before.
Him and his friends—his team, it’d been them who last stepped up in place of the town’s missing shield. However, they were always lacking.
They weren’t part of the fate written for their land. They could only wield their swords and share their ships while they failed to protect what they promised.
Perhaps Jimin should have gone to the real lord of the town, the one who always grimaced whenever he heard about the land’s other king. But that old man couldn’t do anything. And who would listen to him if he tried declaring that the Abyss was opening again, just like in the stories passed down for 195 years? Jimin would be called a lunatic and showered with old shrimp. Even Namjoon—the one who understood the flow of a crowd the best out of the six of them—was disbelieving.
Yet, the clouds were so dense they were caging the city in.
Crashing waves were already pushing people higher up the island.
And the only person who could do anything about the cause of it all was shut away in a rundown lighthouse, a sleeping guard.
The Guardian had to be inside, otherwise rather than continuously rising and falling, the town would’ve been ashes and dust centuries ago, with nothing to rebuild.
Now, Jimin faced the door of the inn connected to the lighthouse.
It wasn’t the wind that broke through the boards on the windows. Those planks had long since fallen, and the Guardian never bothered to fix the borders he built between the town and himself.
Jimin scowled, pushed harshly at the door, and stumbled inside.
It was already open.
The wind whistled through the walls. The wood in the fireplace was steaming. The wall behind him was too soft to hold him up if he leaned back. The blade against his neck coolled the blood rushing to his head.
Jimin gulped, Adam's apple bobbing on the flat side.
Although it was too dark to make out a face, a low voice resounded throughout the foyer.
“What are you doing here?”
The Guardian must have gone insane after locking himself up. Still, the tone was neither angry nor threatening—it was more tired than anything.
Jimin’s gut felt no danger. There were never stories of the Guardian killing people, that was simply not his legacy. However, as both bad and good rumours spread, and considering the tip of a sword at his neck, Jimin didn’t push his luck.
He raised his hands, shut his eyes, and said immediately, “The town needs your help.”
The Guardian went silent for a moment. Then, there was the sound of leather tightening around leather—a glove around a hilt—and the blade steadied. “No. You’ve survived this far without me.”
“We survived nothing compared to the Abyss.”
“So?”
“So, we’re all going to die.”
“So?”
Jimin’s jaw dropped as far as it could without pushing himself into the sword. The Guardian seemed to sense his surprise, despite it likely being difficult for him to see as well, “The town will continue on, even if only one person survives.”
“What’s a town with only one person?” Jimin spat. “It’s different from your rotting lighthouse. One person, besides you, will die alone in the next disaster.”
The Guardian seemed awfully slow to reply, and Jimin blamed it on him shutting everyone out. It had probably been at least a century since he held a proper, civil conversation.
The sword at Jimin’s neck was shaking and he, for fear of it either moving any more or steadying once again, kicked blindly in front of him.
And, he hit… something.
The knock of his foot against bone was followed by a groan and a loud thump on the floor. At the same time, the sword fell from his neck with a clatter, and he jumped to avoid it stabbing his foot.
The voice came from below him this time. Had Jimin successfully knocked the Guardian down? Holy hell, just wait until his friends heard about this.
“You must be crazy!”
“You’re the same!” Jimin dumbly stuck his hands out and yanked the sword from where it was stuck in the floorboards. It was heavier than he thought, even as someone with a decent amount of training. He was dead meat if he didn’t try anything though, pointing it at where the Guardian’s voice was. “‘The town will continue on.’ What’ll live to feed off your remains? We just barely survived!”
“But you still made it.”
“You’re not listening. Do you think we’re immortal like you?”
There was another thump against the floor, maybe a hand falling. “I know you’re not, but—”
Jimin was going to pull his hair out. ‘But’.
“We still want to live, fucker. The generations after are a later concern.”
Jimin put the sword down gently, but he made sure the Guardian still heard his surrender. “Please, help us.”
He refused to descend the mountain empty-handed.
The shuffling of robes was heard—the Guardian sitting up.
“Get the lantern on the table.”
“... Where’s the table?”
At least for now, the storm calmed slightly. The clouds still covered the town in a suffocating blanket, but the winds and the pounding of rain were taking a break from blowing the lighthouse down.
Jimin lingered near the door in case the Guardian tried to pull anything again. It would have been smarter to keep the sword—even the Guardian seemed to think it when he picked it up, gaze slowly switching between the blade and Jimin.
Unless he was thinking about trying to stab Jimin again. Jimin probably wouldn’t get out alive a second time.
In another setting, perhaps at the boat rental or the lake the night the lanterns set sail, Jimin would have mistaken the Guardian for someone no older than himself. However, he wasn’t as well kept as the statue on the shore made him out to be, hair tangled and wavy from humidity, and a scar over his right eye that messed with his eyebrow. It was just a messy head on a heap of patchwork sweaters.
Jimin didn’t mean to meet his gaze when he glared at him. The Guardian slowly opened his mouth, “Stop pacing.”
“Well, we have to come up with a plan.”
“One step at a time, you’re getting nowhere.” The Guardian sat comfortably by the inn’s fireplace, making sure it didn’t go out again. For a moment, Jimin was offended that he showed no apprehensiveness or fear, but it wasn’t like the man could die. “Why did you come to me?”
Jimin crossed his arms and raised a brow. “It’s obvious. You’re the only one who knows how to deal with a Waterborne Abyss.”
The Waterborne Abyss—it was a sick gift from the gods, those below and above them, that fed off drowned persons to grow into an unearthly flood.
“And if I’m not? I’ve been gone for 60 years.”
“You’re the only one with a chance. This calamity hasn’t appeared in 195 years either, correct?” Jimin rubbed his cold hands together. “Would we be on the right track if we eliminate the cause of its reappearance?”
The Guardian just stared at nothing again. Perhaps the scar over his eye was from zoning out too much, Jimin wanted to make his face symmetrical.
“Hey, answer me.”
The turn of his head looked like it should have been accompanied by creaking, the sound of floorboards with something to hide.
“... I don’t want to face the Abyss again,” said the Guardian.
It was the tired tone from earlier, the one that posed no threat. Jimin wanted to scoff and say something snarky, call him a good-for-nothing after all these years, but—after all these years? It wasn’t always like this.
After all these years, the Guardian was protecting himself instead.
The fire crackled too much, and the warmth was swept away by the breeze seeping through the thin walls. From here, sad seafood was the only thing one could get if they didn’t go to town.
Faintly, Jimin recalled a funny part of the Guardian’s legend about his ageing—even if it was false—and wondered what kept him grounded in a life like this.
He pursed his lips and stepped towards the Guardian’s rocking chair. “Then I’ll face it, just tell me what to do.”
“So you are crazy.” The shadows from the fire cast something akin to a smile on the Guardian’s face. Or maybe Jimin was crazy. “Didn’t you say only I could?”
“Well, you won’t do it, and no one else will!”
“I never said I wouldn’t,” the Guardian sighed and shook his head. “However, finding the root of its reappearance is a waste of time. We should gather the people first, I’ll try speaking with the lord.”
“Ah, that’s the Guardian from the stories.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then what should I call you?”
“... Kim Taehyung.”
Jimin was surprised the Guardian cooperated so easily, but he was right. After leaving the town to fend for itself for 60 years—a town destined to break every single time it was hit—there weren’t going to be many people willing to work with him as well, let alone the guilty lord.
Even Jimin himself was fairly uneasy. Trusting the Guardian with the town again and acknowledging that the weight of their lives rested on his shoulders was an old stressor renewed, and their harmony had already failed once.
But, just like 195 years ago, they must rely on the Guardian.
“Taehyung?”
“Yes. Been a while since someone has said it.”
Jimin hummed solemnly. “I’m Park Jimin.”
“That’s right,” Taehyung muttered. He stared at Jimin.
However, this time, Taehyung wouldn’t have to face the disaster alone.
On the quiet, third day of the festival, Jimin persuaded Taehyung to descend the mountain in exchange for questions about himself. Initially, Jimin expected his status to be questioned and patronised, but nothing like that came. When Taehyung asked if he liked swimming, and if he liked milkfish, if he had any sword training or preferred sailing, if his family was all right—there was no contempt nor admiration.
Jimin answered as promised, said that he couldn’t not love swimming, that he would eat milkfish every meal if he could, that he was the (self-proclaimed) town’s best mariner, that his brother’s safety was the first thing he ensured the night he saw black fog settle over the waters and pull boats away from the dock.
He didn’t skim over the part where he thought he was insane for seeing the signs of the Abyss. Taehyung must have seen them too.
With each trembling step down the mountain, there was only wonder.
Then, when they took the back alleys to get to Jimin’s house, they ran into the sword of Jimin’s friend, and Taehyung wordlessly drew his sword as well.
Jimin panicked. “Put those away, unless you rather kill each other before the Abyss does!”
Neither of them moved, if Jimin excluded the way Jungkook’s hand shook and his eyes flitted between him and the Guardian. Taehyung’s stance was fixed, a statue steadier than his memorial.
Couldn’t this guy encounter new people like a normal person?
“Hyung, this is the man who abandoned us and left us for dead? This one?” Jungkook said through his teeth. He existed for only one full disaster’s time, but within that, he watched the cracks in his family line grow, half of his loved ones reduced to dust.
Jimin, he couldn’t fight a loss he watched with his own two eyes. So, where did the Guardian stand?
The alley was too narrow and Jimin wasn’t able to physically interfere without actively deciding to get stabbed. From where he had leapt back to, Jimin reached out to force Taehyung’s arm down, but—Taehyung lowered his sword on his own.
Jungkook had no choice but to retract his own at the sight of the Guardian bowing.
Was it exhaustion? An easy way out?
No, Taehyung hung his head too low to run.
“Hyung, what’s he doing?” Jungkook slowly sheathed his sword. “You, Guardian, stand up.”
Perhaps the Guardian understood the resentment previously pointed at his chest. The back of his neck was open.
“Let’s… let’s keep going to my place,” Jimin said, tilting his head while Taehyung stayed on his knees. A part of him was embarrassed on Taehyung’s behalf, but the Guardian returned to his feet with an unrelated hesitance—his surrender was completely his choice, as insignificant as it was as an immortal. “Taehyung-ssi? Let’s go. Jungkook, meet us there too.”
The young swordsman gulped. “I don’t want to.”
“Alright. I know you’ll end up there anyway.”
“Huh—!”
Jimin waved behind him and continued on his way, trusting Taehyung kept up and stayed close. It’d been a long walk down the mountain, and the remaining distance was bound to be quieter than how they started off, but home wasn’t too far.
“Jimin-ssi, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
It was late in the afternoon. While the rain calmed to a drizzle, Jimin waited for his friends to arrive at supper. When Taehyung didn’t continue, he guessed, “For trying to fight Jungkookie back? Don’t be.”
Taehyung’s eyebrow quirked. Jimin couldn’t help but grin while he paced from the front door to the chair he pulled out for Taehyung, stunned with the urge to pat this almost-two-hundred year old on the head. He didn’t though, simply glad to be under a strong roof again—he would decide his forgiveness later, because his childhood home was not rebuilding itself and he already passed the time of famine. But hearing such an apology from the Guardian himself was… relieving.
At the very least, having been convinced this far, it didn’t seem like Taehyung would turn his back on the town again.
“I’m sorry for bringing the town down with me.”
“Still, you can raise it with you again.”
“If you don’t think you can do it, that’s okay. You can leave now.”
Jimin bit the inside of his cheek as he looked at his friends, gathered around his tiny table, and gave it a second. His bravery—or perhaps stupidity—was up to here.
After over a century and a half, the Waterborne Abyss—hell, even the Guardian before them and his old good friend, the King of the Tide, were all the stuff of storybooks and myths. The realest thing to come out of this disaster would be their deaths. No one wanted to see the grey streets they had to restore again. The town’s recovery, let alone its survival, would be impossibly more difficult than anything that happened within the last 194 years.
Jimin himself wished he could just run uphill with his brother, but in witnessing the town’s fall and rise twice, he attached himself to his obligation to do everything he could. This time, although incredibly unlucky, Jimin felt knee deep in the fight already.
Jimin kept waiting. He kept staring, and felt a pair of eyes on his back as well.
For the first time in 60 years, the Guardian stopped being a watcher first.
“Final call?” It came from Jimin’s side.
Jimin’s hands—they were shaking. Was he really this afraid?
He didn’t feel like himself.
Jimin couldn’t decide whether he wanted his friends with him, or for them to run up to and seek refuge in the Guardian’s lighthouse with everyone else. But then, a tired groan emitted from someone, unimpressed, with his face in his hands. The only sound of anyone moving in their chair wasn’t them getting up to leave—merely the creak of the backrest.
“I can’t believe this guy just randomly showed up after half a century and then decided to be a leader again,” Yoongi laughed.
“Right!” Jungkook, who Taehyung had given his seat to, frowned deeply. “Calling him grandfather isn’t enough.”
Jimin’s eyes widened. These people couldn’t be serious.
Hoseok squinted at the Guardian like he was an ancient artefact. “But—wow—he looks really young! I think that’s the most unbelievable thing about this.”
Namjoon scratched his chin. “It's said the Guardian will not age unless he ceases to protect the town. Is that right?”
A punch of something—relief or doubt—had Jimin slouching in his chair, head down. To be fair, he wasn’t a leader either. He just had eyes and a head and a boat. Surely, they thought this too, but they still continued to spout nonsense around the table.
Taehyung was rendered speechless again. Maybe he was thinking they were dumb too. “Well, I’m… 27.”
Was that so? Obviously, it couldn’t be true, but Jimin would probably go insane if he had to keep up with being alive for 222 years. He raised his head again, mumbling mindlessly, “I’m 27 too.”
What was that? Taehyung met Jimin’s eye, as if he already knew, and yet Jimin only continued to steady himself, unworried.
A thoughtful hand rubbed his back. Seokjin’s smile radiated in his voice, “Should I prepare our last supper? There’s no festival leftovers, though… Yoongi, help me.”
Maybe Jimin should get a new table. And a seventh chair.
Taehyung spoke again, quiet yet adamant. “About the plan, Jimin comes with me. Objections?”
The original plan was to have Jimin and Hoseok sail out. He opened his mouth—
“... I wanna go with Jimin-hyung, though!”
According to their primary source, and the festival’s traditions, they had the fourth and fifth days to get themselves together. Taehyung recounted that the Waterborne Abyss’ real trials began the sixth day of the week.
Yoongi and Seokjin were fixing up Taehyung’s lighthouse—the Guardian agreed that place, despite the hike uphill, would be the safest for the town’s small population. They could only afford to spend half a day there, cleaning that century-old mess.
For once, Taehyung seemed embarrassed about something when they returned to the training grounds—a grandma’s backyard, although the house had been empty for a while.
Namjoon was running laps, Hoseok and Jungkook were sparring with unpredictable patterns. With such little time, Jimin practised stabbing a tree just so he wouldn’t have to think. Rain took the place of sweat dripping down their faces and soaking their shirts.
“Your friends detest me.”
Jimin stilled his sword. He wiped his forehead and didn’t turn around. “Naturally. You’ve spoken to them?”
It was easier when they could talk amongst themselves about the Guardian, but talking directly with Taehyung—they’d gone their whole lives without his promised watch. The elderly sympathised with them, even, wishing they could help them like the Guardian would have when they were in their twenties. Jimin knew that Namjoon and Seokjin would’ve made a bigger effort, but Jungkook, specifically when they first met in the alleyway, was the sum of it for most of them.
Jimin told himself and the others that his will to work with the Guardian stemmed from his belief that they truly needed him this time, lest the town be destroyed for good.
“... No. This is natural?” The Guardian, despite being cooped up for a lifetime, refused to brush up on old skills. Presently, that was what irked Jimin the most.
How was an immortal able to retain everything? At least half of his life he was bound to forget, no?
Jimin, who spent everyday remembering what he could have done and what he wanted to do, spun and pointed his sword at the Guardian.
Truthfully, he felt guilty when the Guardian’s eyes widened, but that was the tiniest sliver of what he hoped the Guardian felt in turn.
Taehyung’s gaze fell. “Do you also feel that way?”
Jimin breathed. “Fight back, please.”
It was just last minute training. Jimin didn’t want to hurt Taehyung, but he thought the Guardian should face what he missed.
“I’m—I’m not a swordsman.”
“So? Neither am I.”
Taehyung’s mouth twitched at that, like he heard wrong. Jimin took on a proper stance with the flip of his sword.
His shoulders relaxed. He knew how the legend went; the Guardian was always on the defensive side, he used to protect others with his body and soul. But one man alone couldn’t fight off the gods and the dead tearing down their island. Perhaps if the King of the Tide lived, the town wouldn’t have struggled as much. Did Taehyung think about that, too?
“Then what are you doing?” The Guardian’s sword was at his hip, his hand on the hilt, but he still looked like he would drop to his knees instead. Every time, he thought he was the target, so he handed himself over—his heart kept the town’s beating, but eventually, the disasters would trample over him for the ultimately greater prize.
There were stitches on the knuckles of his left hand, similar to a rag doll’s. Something else ran up his right arm, as if the water and the drowned latched onto him themselves. He was dented and cracked, yet invincible.
When the Guardian looked like he was just going to start talking again, Jimin rushed forward.
This time though, the Guardian looked like he expected it.
“Did you plan to flop and bow again?” Jimin met his block and struck, “I might really behead you!”
“The drowned are more difficult to fight—” He allowed himself to be pushed back. Fortunately, Hoseok and Jungkook were still across the field and this guy’s passiveness wasn’t interrupting anything else.
Jimin turned them towards the trees instead, tone bumpy. “So? We can’t run.”
The Guardian’s eyebrows furrowed.
Jimin wasn’t a pack of werewolves, nor a tsunami, nor pestilence.
Just as his sword was about to strike the Guardian’s abdomen, Taehyung dodged and aimed for his neck.
Jimin pushed away Taehyung’s blade and spun their swords with an ear-grating screech.
A sailor—that was what Jimin said he was. ‘The town’s most reliable and talented mariner!’ apparently. Although he couldn’t compare to Taehyung’s swordsmanship, he defended himself as if he spent the Guardian’s 60-year leave perfecting his own.
No other towns would take in their citizens, as if their curse was a contained plague, so they spent their lives learning to protect themselves and panicking when they realised it was damn near impossible. With their Guardian gone, the most they learned was to not be completely helpless.
Others were fortunate enough to have a shot at survival and shared that victory with the rest of them—this was what became of their team in the last 15 years, names too young to be memorable yet, but headed in the footsteps of the stories anyway.
(It was also courtesy of fighting Jungkook and Hoseok all the time. Jimin surprised himself, as well. The last disaster, they were lost at sea for half a year—he loved them but he would never do that again.)
Still, Taehyung wasn’t a swordsman.
He was the shield of his old legend, the cursed half of a pair.
So, they lived to see a time where Taehyung was more than a spectator, with a chance to protect something he always wished he could.
When Jimin was finally backed up against a tree, the cold press of steel on his neck, Taehyung’s ragged pants rang over his own.
Even though it was Jimin’s loss, hiding his grin was a harder fight. “You’re rusty. How can you save anyone like this?”
Taehyung actually scoffed and rolled his eyes. Jimin had to check to make sure he saw right.
From where the blade carefully retracted from his neck, he could see the name etched into the steel. Spring Tide.
His face twisted. “Huh? This… isn’t your sword?”
“You should keep it, instead.”
The Guardian was smiling back, fully.
Jimin couldn’t tell why—was it because he won? To be fair, it would have been at least 194 years since he last tasted pure victory.
“What else will you fight with—”
“You think after all these years I only own one?”
“That must mean this one is special—”
“Exactly. I’m the legend holding this town together, so you should be honoured and take it.”
The sheath was shoved into Jimin’s stomach. Taehyung apologetically held him up while he almost keeled over.
“... Aahh, way to discredit everyone.”
“Can you stop touching my hyung?”
Taehyung took his hand off Jimin’s shoulder with a confused frown.
Jimin just asked for a piece of Jungkook’s milkfish. It tasted amazing, tonight specifically. Maybe because it was fresh and prepared by Yoongi and Seokjin.
If they were to die tomorrow, Jimin was glad to share a final meal with them.
“You still haven’t explained why you need to go with Jimin-ssi.”
“It will take me 195 years.”
They had to yell above the sound of the rain. The roof of the abandoned fisherman’s hut squeaked, threatening to cave in.
“That actually might be true, guys. He’s really slow.”
“A real old man.”
“... You all wouldn’t understand.”
Jimin laughed while he put on his gloves. Taehyung was sitting among the rest of them, legs criss-crossed on the floor—and if they were to live after today, he would surely re-earn their trust.
“I do know a bit of the old and unused languages, though?”
“Namjoon-ah, why though?”
“Yoongi-hyung found out about them first and then told me.”
“Namjoonie-hyung is so cool… Should I also learn?”
There was a minute of silence while everyone adjusted their gear. Namjoon and Seokjin were in ponchos, while the others thought it wouldn’t be ideal to fight in. Seokjin wasn’t concerned because the most he would probably have to do was beat some sense into people while Namjoon led them to the lighthouse.
The fisherman’s hut was even worse than the lighthouse. Thunder boomed as if it was right beside their ears, lightning shining through cracks in the walls. Hoseok flinched hard, and nobody blamed him. Jimin wiped his palms on his pants.
There was the soft clink of metal on metal—Jungkook was fooling around with Yoongi’s still sword.
Taehyung, guessing Jimin would’ve rejected the Spring Tide out of humility, forcefully handed it to him again. “You must use this. You’ll see why I need you later.”
“Then will you use our armour? Those sweaters will keep you warm but they won’t keep you safe.” Jimin pointed at the pile of chainmail sliding off a bench.
Hesitantly, Taehyung stripped off three sweaters. There was nothing to it, he still had two more thin long sleeves that he slipped the armour over, but all the boys still cheered as if there was nothing better to do. He didn’t seem to understand and started brooding while he put his sweaters back on.
“Should we get going then? The knights the lord called on, they’re waiting,” Seokjin said when the rest wouldn’t.
Yoongi slung his arm around Jungkook. Hoseok comfortingly patted Jimin’s ass.
They held onto each other not because they were afraid of their own deaths, not yet, but instead they feared that of each other. Taehyung wouldn’t stop fidgeting with his sword, foreign in his hand. If they lived after today, Jimin never wanted to see them like this again.
Namjoon opened the door.
“Let’s meet again.”