Chapter Text
⚔️
“I’m sorry, ma’am, we couldn’t find a body. He’s gone.”
The sailor stands with his hat pressed over his chest. His eyes looking down, refusing to meet the woman’s fear-stricken ones.
Coward, Jimin thinks as he reveals himself from behind his mother’s skirt.
“Coward!” he then shouts at the man in the doorway with his stupid blue striped shirt that matches the stupid white hat with blue trim that is clutched tightly in his hand. So tight that his knuckles have turned white.
The sailor’s eyes dart down at the thirteen-year-old. There is a slight sheen over them like the man is… sad? Why the hell is he feigning sadness now when just before Jimin watched his dad set sail, he witnessed the man and the other sailors shoving his father around and calling him a bottom-feeder.
Bastard.
“Sorry, sonny–”
“Shut up. My father is the greatest sailor in this port and you’re saying he ‘got lost’? Bullshit–”
“Jimin!” his mother squawks, the tears rolling down her blotched face discrediting the threat behind her tone.
He continues on anyway, although with great effort from trying to keep his own wails at bay. “What did you guys do to him?”
“Jimi–”
“WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?!”
“Just get out!” his mother shouts to the man, shoving him towards the door.
“WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM, YOU COWA–”
SLAP.
The room slips into silence but the sound of the hit rings in his ear. He can feel the heat from the impact, blood rushing to the surface to provide evidence of what occurred.
Jimin brings his hand to the side of his face in shock.
“Watch your tongue, boy. Your pops can’t control the power of the sea. These false accusations will cost you if you continue.”
Then just as quickly as the hit, Jimin is staring daggers into the man who has his hand raised across his chest like he will backhand Jimin again. Is that a threat? Jimin’s brain solicits.
But before he can question further, and possibly entertain attacking this man, his mother grabs his hair and pulls him back at the same time that she shoves the sailor out the door.
The man tries to say something more but is met with a door to his face. Then silence once again fills the room. It’s deafening. Much louder than the slap to Jimin’s face was.
“What is your problem?” his mother mutters, figure still facing the door, her dark hair frizzing every which direction after cleaning the house all morning. Despite the quietness of the question, her tense shoulders show her agitation. At who? Jimin doesn’t know.
“They’re lying. Father wouldn’t–”
“Stop, Jimin–”
“But he wouldn’t! He is the best–”
“JUST STOP!” she shouts and whips towards her son. He’s heard his mother yell before but never with this much power. This much gruffness—like a growl. He almost doubles over as if it was a punch to his gut. His mother must’ve realized the foreign tone because, like a marionette whose strings had been cut, she drops to her knees in defeat. “Please, just stop.”
She says it so quietly that if the house wasn’t already void of noise, Jimin wouldn't have heard it. The voice is broken, muffled by a filter that is barely holding back the emotions barreling into it.
Then it rips and everything soars out.
She cries into the air, full on sobs with her chin held high but jaw hung low—as if she was the child here and not Jimin. And in this moment, she is.
A sense of protectiveness washes over him and he walks over to her, crouches down, and wraps her in his arms. Her head falls onto his small shoulder at the same time a single tear falls from his eye. But when he feels the shudders rolling down her back, he halts his antsy waterworks and squeezes harder. Squeezes the crying form while putting a lid on his own. Afraid that his own turmoil will mix into hers and they won’t be able to dam the flood.
Someone has to though, and his poor mother, with her weak body, shouldn’t be the one to. Doesn’t have the strength. So, thirteen-year-old Jimin decides right then to step up, be the man of the house, and provide for his widowed—no, not widowed, he won’t accept that—mother a comfortable life until taken by the sea goddess herself. To place the world on his still-maturing shoulders.
They stay like that, cuddled together on the entry-way floor until the sun starts to set and the grumble of their stomachs cut through their wallowing. With one more sniffle, his mother cranes her head from where it was housed in Jimin’s neck. They stare at eachother and Jimin can finally see the years in her face. She has wrinkles on her forehead and deep lines around her mouth, her eyes hold bags that, paired with the swelling from her crying fit, make her look several years older. He never noticed before and now he fears the day she leaves this world.
His thoughts are interrupted when she gives a lilt to her lips. It looks forced as she asks, “What would you like to eat?”
She stands and Jimin slides away from her, but only enough to where he can still hold her hand—his previous thoughts freaked him out a bit. “I’ll make you whatever you want. What about samgyeopsal, your favorite?”
He wants to tell her to not bother, but a part of him thinks she needs this, this false sense of normalcy. A distraction from the news that will upheaval their lives when they finally accept it. So instead of fighting her and trying to once again talk her into hearing the reason behind his accusations earlier, he simply matches her fake smile and says, “Sounds good, Maw.”
That is how he finds himself in front of the market at the brink of dusk, preparing to buy the lettuce they were missing. The market is loud, shouts bouncing back-and-forth from each stand. Despite the almost vanishing sun, the market still bustles with energy. People running left and right with fish and other seafood in their arms or over their shoulders, like an adornment that goes with their ragged clothing.
Such is life in the port town of Zequa.
He waits in line for a couple in front of him to finish purchasing their fish, jingling the few pieces of silver in his pocket that his mother had scrounged up. As he waits, he can’t help inhaling the fishy air that makes his mind wander to his father. To the news he was hit with mere hours ago. A part of him wants to cry, his brain ushering to succumb to the natural grief he should face. But another part of him, the stronger part, doesn’t believe it’s true.
He wasn’t lying when he shouted that his father was the best sailor earlier. It had been proven in a situation that occurred a year ago. A situation where, if his father hadn’t been there, many fishermen would have lost their lives.
It was a cold morning, which was such when living along the southern edge of Osdir, but this cold was paired with a particular nip that hinted at an emerging storm. Anyone who was from the port town would be accustomed to the slight difference. A difference that warned not to sail in open waters.
But when blinded by green, even the most knowledgeable men become ignorant. The idea of being the only ship out in the Crucaea Sea, getting first dibs at the creatures that accumulate with the quickened currents, sounded all too good of an opportunity to their coin-filled ears. Sounded better to their pockets than to their lives.
His father, however, didn’t fall for such human temptations. One would think growing up as a poor, uneducated, societal low-life, meant that he would be the first person pleading to jump into the navy ocean. But his value was not in money. His worth was not in shades of silver and gold. His only care was that of his family. His loved ones.
His true treasures.
Jimin remembers from when he was young and stealthily hiding behind corners, hearing his father voice his woes to his mother about feeling guilty. Guilty about tying his wife down to a shameful man like him, of helping bore a child into a life of poverty. Guilty of them being forever labeled as scum, rats, dogs, rubbish, and more insults that no person should have to hear. But they were, because just being associated with him permanently plagued them with those lifelong conditions.
His father had those moments a lot, as if he had to repent for his ‘horrendous sins’, and Jimin caught each one when his parents didn’t think he could hear, or thought he was too young to understand. But he wasn’t. He may not be the smartest kid, due to not having the privilege of obtaining a proper education, but if there was one thing he was good at, it was emotions.
He could spot them like colors on a blank page. Colors that he could differentiate but didn’t know how to properly use or react to. Colors that captivated him even if they were red or blue, because at least they were better than the stark white underneath. The white that is bare, void of life, void of beauty. Nothing is more dreary than white.
Seeing his father’s vast emotions, although seemingly painful at times, at least were proof of a life being lived. A life filled with experiences that made him feel. The same can’t be said about those born privileged, only having experienced one color or no color at all. White. Plain. Boring.
So when fellow fishermen were raring to go into the indigo waters, his father opted not to. His family was the only thing in the forefront of his mind. But his father was a good man. Too good of a man. He knew he was skilled with sailing, having been raised—forced—to learn for the sake of providing for his poor-ridden family, so he knew those chumps would get swallowed by the sea without him.
He never bragged about his expertise but even a blind man could perceive it just by the way his father carried himself and floated every which way across the ship. Sea legs begotten; just a dance for two between him and the buoyed vessel.
And paired with his soft heart, he joined the stubborn crew that was on the verge of checking off their death wish. Even Jimin’s own mother, despite the heartache, agreed that he should help the fools.
Almost a whole day later, with anxiety-driven spouses and children awaiting their arrival, the fishing ship slowly filtered into the port. The large boat barely saddled next to the dock before a gangway was laid out and men were flailing across it. One would think they were drunk—which could be the case for some (not an uncommon occurrence). But even young Jimin knew the signs of seasickness, and having been in fierce waters all day from the winding storm.
He watched as man after man crawled or barreled their way off the ship. Some were lent on each other—arms over shoulders—and some were piggy-backed. His father was one of the ladder, with a drenched man draped across his back as he heaved them to shore.
When he set the man down, the first thing he did was locate his family. Jimin remembers vividly how clear his father’s eyes were, how much relief was painted in them as he jogged over to him and his mother, and wrapped them in a big wet hug. Jimin was in his arms, crying into the man’s chilled neck, his mother doing the same on the other side.
But it was all interrupted with a literal kick to the ass—his father’s ass—which jostled them all to the ground.
A short, yet stocky, man was looming over them. Water dripping from his scraggly beard, his clothes in a similar fashion. His thick brows were furrowed in deep and his mouth in a snarl, a few gold teeth exposed. The captain.
“You son of a bitch! You lost all of our catch—you know how much money ya cost us?! What were ya thinkin?!”
His father had stood up while the man continued to squabble about losing money, and straightened his back in fake confidence. “We would have died if we hadn’t dropped the net. The ship was tilt–”
“You will make up for this. I expect seventy-percent of your catch from now on.”
“But, sir–”
PUNCH.
“Don’t talk back to me, dog. Just obey like the animal you are or I’ll increase it.”
Jimin watched in anger from behind his father’s legs. From this position, he could see his father’s hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, nails surely digging into his palms to ground himself from retaliating against the captain. Jimin knew he could take him. This was an act of mercy. But Jimin also knew why he couldn’t. His childlike mind that had to watch this torment from day one, knew the repercussions were too high for people like them. It was the first thing he had to understand if he wanted to remotely live in this godsforsaken world.
So, instead, he took the clenched fist into his small hands and waited as the fingers slowly unfolded to wrap around his own.
“Yes, sir,” his father spoke, voice unwavering despite the colors that spilled through his body.
The captain began to turn away but not before stating one more, “You deserve this,” and spitting at his father’s feet.
The three of them stood like that for a minute, Jimin continued to hold his father’s hand while he took deep breaths of the frigid air, and his mom was tucked into her husband’s strong back. Before he turned around to usher them back home, another sailor approached them. This one far less spiteful.
“Ummm, excuse me. I–uhh..” he looked back and around, most likely checking to see if there were any onlookers. “I want to say thank you. F-for saving my life. I know why you did what you did, others know as well. You are very skilled and we would’ve died without you. So on behalf of them and myself, thank you.” The young sailor started to slightly bow but his name being shouted startled him and he ran towards it, without so much as looking at his father’s face.
It was a weak show of gratitude, one that Jimin wouldn’t have accepted. But his father is a good man. He turned and across his face sat a smile. His mother seemed confused but took a breath and matched it. Then they walked back to the shabby barn with a tin roof they called home, and huddled together for warmth before succumbing to Sleep’s grasp.
That ‘nice’ sailor’s words didn’t escape Jimin. Even though the man turned tail right after expressing his thanks, and proceeded to insult his father the next day with the rest of the crew, he knew his father had to have done something mind-blowing for the man to approach him with the kind words. To shake the ugly out of him, if only briefly.
That is why Jimin can’t accept his father just getting ‘lost at sea’. It doesn’t make sense. Sure, the ocean is unpredictable and an unconquerable beast in front of man. But his father was one of the only sailors who didn’t try to fight the water like the others did, he danced with it. He flowed along with it. ‘A match made in heaven’, that was his father and the sea. So there is no way he–
“I said, next!”
Jimin jumps from the bellow of the older woman in front of him, a frown on her face at the sight of Jimin. He bows apologetically for spacing out and proceeds to order, ignoring the look of annoyance piercing into his head.
As he drops the coins into a small bucket and goes to grab the lettuce, a familiar voice flows into his ears from behind him. He stills, only moving his arm to take hold of the bag hanging in front of his face, and tilts his head slightly to catch a glimpse of a young sailor walking past him through his peripheral.
The sailor from this morning, the one who delivered the bullshit news, walks side-by-side with another similarly dressed man. They walk around the corner of the market exit, and without thinking, Jimin follows.
He isn’t sure what he’ll do, or not do, but something in his gut tells him to follow. He knows the man was lying about his father. Maybe he can finally confront him now without his mother interrupting. He just wants answers. He just wants his father.
He stays paces behind them, sticking close to the shadows from various objects along the way. If there is one thing Jimin is good at, it’s sneaking and hiding. He is light on his feet, and since he’s still young, he takes full advantage of his temporary short stature. No one is stealthier than him.
They round another corner into a dark alleyway and Jimin isn’t far behind. But when he copies the motion, he instantly jerks back around the edge.
A little further down the alley, a group of three sit idly, illuminated by a fire stemming out of an oil barrel in the center of them. Jimin peeks around the corner to watch the pair join the group—one grabs a bottle of booze, the other takes a cigar out of one of the sitting man’s hands to use for himself. They fall into the scene easily.
Jungkook notices the other men are wearing the same sailor uniform, and he recognizes some of their faces.
All part of his father’s crew.
The target plops onto a boulder, his back facing Jimin. They start chatting, throwing curses around like they’ll die if they don’t, and shoving each other in their tipsy states. That, combined with the stench from the alcohol and tobacco—and most likely the men themselves—have Jimin grimacing. Disgusting.
However, despite the foul cloud covering him, he’s at least within earshot. Can hear every vulgar word. So as time ticks, and the liquid in their bottles drain, he can still hear the mumbles and quiet whispers they mouth.
“You think anyone will snitch?”
“Nah. They know they’ll be fucking dead if we found out. Besides, they ain’t no saints either.”
“What if some ass tries to be the fucking hero?”
“Would ya shut yer fuckin’ trap. Yer ruinin the fuckin’ mood.”
“Yah! I’m trying to be fucking realisitc here! There are too many people to fucking account for. This was risky.”
“Shut the fuck up. Ya were just bouncing off the walls a few hours ago about tricking his bitch. Don’t turn tail now.”
“Think about the pretty penny ya made… Now tell me if it wasn’t worth the risk… That’s what I fucking thought.”
“Shit, if I had known we’d make that much, I would have sold that dog’s ass sooner.”
“We did him a favor, slaving away is what he was bred to do. Now he can fulfill his purpose.”
The chorus of snickers has Jimin both frozen in place and fuming on the inside. Like a forming hurricane ready to obliterate everything in its path. A whirlwind of emotions from the information he gathered.
He knew his father hadn’t gotten lost, but this, this completely drowns any happiness he would have felt for being right. His father was sold. Sold off to god knows who, to god knows where, and it was all because of these goddamned, vile men his father had been working with for all Jimin’s life.
Bastards. Every single one of them.
Fueled by hatred, Jimin uncloaks himself from behind the corner and darts toward the group. The first man in front of him, the one who lied to his mother, doesn’t expect the sudden attack as he falls backward off the rock from Jimin yanking him down by his hair. Jimin is on top of him in an instant, knees on each side of the man’s chest as his small fists punch the man’s face left and right. Every ounce of strength he can muster flows into the action. The man, still in shock, thrashes his head around but every hit lands squarely on his ugly face.
“YOU BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD! BAST–”
However, the triumph is short lived.
Jimin feels a kick to his side and he goes flying across the cement. The scrape from the rough material cuts through his clothes and skin. The pause allows the man he was assaulting—sporting a bloodied nose—to collect his bearings, and Jimin looks up just in time to see him make angry strides toward him.
“You little shit!”
Jimin stands up, ignoring the pain in his side, and rushes at the man with a desperate yell. He lands one punch to his beer-gut before his hair gets grabbed and thrown down, causing Jimin to stumble forward onto his knees. He goes to get back up but is met by another kick to his stomach. Then another one to his back. Then a flurry of legs jostle him at once.
Grunts, curses, wails, and cracks permeate the quiet alley.
“Ok, that’s enough. Stop. I said stop! Yer gonna kill him,” a gruff voice huffs out. The abuse halts and Jimin, through his swollen eyes, sees the men back away from him, wiping their foreheads from the exertion.
“I think he’s learned his lesson.”
“You fucking eavesdropper. A rat, just like yer ol’ dad.”
“Keep this up, kid, and we’ll sell you too.”
“Come on, let's get out of he–”
“..on’t…g… away… with this,” Jimin gurgles out, voice catching with each word as every inhale sparks pain throughout his body. Every time his chest tries to expand, he can feel his broken ribs poking in all the wrong places. It’s extremely agonizing, but the adrenaline from the fight, from his anger, is still there, raring to go another round.
Guess his father was right about them sharing the same fighting spirit… but Jimin physically can’t get up. Not only does he have a few broken ribs, but his leg feels like it snapped too. There are probably more fractures he’s not feeling yet and he definitely will have bruises and swells in various places. He won’t be surprised when he finds all of his skin painted purple like the night sky above him.
The sailor crouches over Jimin’s lying figure, head cocked to get into his field of vision as he says his next words.
“You think anyone will believe you? Yer just a rat. A pest. A thing everyone wants to get rid of. Yer pops was the same; the apple don’t fall far from the tree. That’s why we took care of him. And if yer not careful and stay out of everyone’s way, yer next. Might as well take care of the whole infestation, right?” Then the man gives a menacing smile and stretches back up.
Jimin watches from his locked-up, cradled position, as the sailors all saunter out of the dark alley. Leaving thirteen-year-old Jimin, hardly breathing and bleeding from somewhere he can’t locate right now, alone on the cold ground, in the cold air. Beaten to a pulp in more ways than just physical.
His father was sold off somewhere. Betrayed by his fellow sailors. The treachery shouldn’t be a surprise, and it isn’t really, but the truth hurts so much. Adds more immense pain to the already mountainous amount he’s bearing. How can people do this? How can they see a kind person and throw him to the wolves without batting a lash?
The only explanation is that they're demons. Every. Single. One. Because only an evil monster that crawled from the depths of Hell could facilely sell their own kind for no reason other than existing.
Existing. His father exists. His father is still alive. His father is somewhere out at sea.
A tiny flicker of hope elicits in Jimin’s weak form, like a ray of sunlight peeking through dark clouds. A sign that beyond the storm is a rainbow. A promise that no matter how many nights cover the sky, morning will come again.
Suddenly, any pain he felt instantly subsides as every part of his being agrees on one single goal: saving his father.
He will save his father.
⚔️
“Next, please!”
The market is on fire at this time in the day. Customers hustle every which way to scrounge up all sorts of ingredients for their evening meals. Jimin has been here since the crack of dawn, collecting the night crews’ catch to then filet and sell for impatient buyers.
With that, the sun beaming directly overhead, and having to shout over the crowd’s chatter, Jimin is utterly exhausted. He could barely catch a wink last night because he was too busy holding down the fort… literally . His mediocre hut had been on the verge of ripping apart from the sudden windstorm that reigned down on the port. Normally he would have planned for such an event, but leave it to mother nature to throw a wrench into that cautionary.
Luckily, he made it to work on time despite the weights that anchored his eyelids down. Jimin had arrived just as the fishermen hunkered down at the dock. He helped them load in their catch which consisted of mackerels, tunas, groupers, crabs, and other sea dwellers. He did so without complaint and any sign of fatigue, but his hard work ethic still didn’t dispose of the nasty looks that always bore into the back of his head. Or right in his face because fuck shame, he supposes they’re all thinking.
A lifetime of the treatment, however, only causes one to become accustomed to it. To modify soft skin for a tough alternative. If they expect a reaction out of him then they are always met with a distasteful end. Jimin stopped caring a few years after he was nearly beaten to death.
That horrible day still haunts him occasionally. It didn’t help that his mother became manic after finding her son’s crippled and almost lifeless form in the streets when he hadn’t come back home. Layered right on top of the news of his father, her last bit of sanity was squashed from existence; the weight of the circumstances pressed onto the unstable grasp she had on it.
She became paranoid of losing Jimin, the last of her family, and the paranoia slowly ate away at her brain until hallucinations of her husband ‘appeared before her eyes’ and she wept in joy that he returned… but he never did.
His father was—hopefully—still out at the sea. No doubt carrying on with unreasonable grunt work as a slave to stay alive and hopefully see his family again someday. Meanwhile, Jimin had to bear the tasks of physically recovering and nurturing his sick mother. If they hadn’t already been the talk of the town, they were then. News about his mother’s mental state spread like wildfire and the disparaging remarks grew just as fast.
Trying to look at the brightside, at least his mother was too unstable to pick up on the harsh slander. She was able to go about her last few years in unperturbed bliss. And that was the thought that sustained him while he held his mother’s fragile and defunct hand as she laid waiting for Death’s scythe.
After her passing, sixteen-year-old Jimin was forced to take on more work in exchange for the basics of survival; rather than currency, he would either get a half loaf of bread or a spot in a pen amongst livestock. Hay pierced into his skin and the cold bit into his soul until the inflictions became familiar.
Every night this went on, but in different locations throughout Zequa.
That was his life. While all the other kids his age were in school gaining a proper education, he was gaining knowledge in work specific duties. Learning to sew for the tailor, weld for the blacksmith, figuring out the quickest and most efficient way to deliver Osdir news around the port, and other practical chores.
“Next, please!” he shouts again, wiping away the fish remnants from his knife.
An elderly man points at the pieces of exanimate sea life displayed in front of him and Jimin gets to work grabbing each one and slicing them every which way. This is all he’s amounted to since his father was sold off, since he was beaten, since his mother passed away.
A fish filleter.
His original goal was to become a fisherman, a sailor, anything to get him out into the ocean, anything to get him that much closer to where his father is. But he’d been blacklisted. Banned by the port to join any crew. Of course Jimin knew why, those bastards knew he was aware as to why. But Jimin still held no power in this society. Every word out of his mouth was as if he was talking to a wall; nobody would listen.
He remembers limping towards the authorities office as soon as he could walk again to reiterate what the sailors did to his father, but they just chuckled and said he was getting dirt on their floors. Jimin realized then that he’d be on his own in his search. The officers didn’t believe him, the citizens didn’t believe him, his mother was too unhinged to believe him, no one would believe him. He’d be all alone in his endeavor.
And he’s already failing by not being able to get onto a damn ship.
It’s been ten long years and Jimin isn’t even a toe closer to starting his mission. The nearest he’s gotten is with this tedious job that has him reeking of fish for days, so much that it’s probably seared into his bones, exuding the foul smell for eternity. He’s able to step foot onto the creaking floorboards of a ship only when he is dragging the catch into the market, and that’s it.
The amount of times he’s thought about commandeering one in those moments is vast. As vast as the dark blue waters surrounding Osdir. The adrenaline pumping through his veins as he bolts towards the starboard with his knife in hold, cutting the ropes that rudely anchor the wooden beauty to the dock, and spinning the helm like it doesn’t control the three-hundred tons miraculously buoying across the liquid surface. Then fighting his way through the few members remaining onboard, metal clashing against metal, knife against sword.
The rush from the mental image alone is almost enough to have him cave into the temptation.
God, he almost sounds like a–
“Pirates?”
“Yep. A whole slew of the vile things. Apparently, the storm a few weeks ago took out a bunch of ‘em and they be looking for new sea dogs.”
Jimin slams his cleaver down, the salmon under his hand taking the brunt of the clumsy action; its head flopping off the table and onto the dirt floor. But the conversation between the two foreigners has every one of his senses captivated.
They’re walking side-by-side, dressed in exotic clothing—a collection of various patterns and textures draped over their shoulders—that gives them away to be from Vaya, one of the three continents in the Cruceae Sea. Honestly, the flash of color is a welcoming contrast; gives substance to the ordinary, insipid setting he’s been trudging in.
They walk past his booth and stand in line for the coffee they’ll regret buying later—the old lady has a habit of burning the beans, resulting in an acidic flavor not even the devil himself would drink. But he’d recommend it if it meant he could continue eavesdropping.
“All of ‘em?”
“Mostly. At least the well-known ones will be there.”
“Ain’t they worried about the navy finding ‘em? They be giving themselves away on a silver platter.”
“Nah. Those fancy Osdirian chaps wouldn’t dare step foot in Elysium, unless they have a death wish. But ya know what a swarm of pirates means?” The man closest to Jimin wraps his arms around the other’s shoulders, pulling him close to whisper in his ear. Jimin can’t make out the words but the unpleasant smile, showcasing a row of metal teeth, suggests he shouldn’t bother speculating further.
"So… we have our heading then?” the metal-mouth grins.
“Aye.” The other man grins back.
They order their repulsive coffee and Jimin’s eyes linger on them as they approach the exit of the market.
Until he gets whacked in the head.
“Get back to work, pup!”
“Why ya out in lala land in the middle of a rush?! Fool,” the elderly woman on his left seethes out, smacking his arm, while the one that hit him previously picks up the fish head he had dropped earlier and chucks it into a waste bin. She spins back around, a frustrated frown drooping over her already sinking face.
“Sorry.” Jimin turns his head one more time to the exit as he redoes his hair, pulling it back into the small ponytail he had before Haewon smacked it out of place. Then he pushes his sleeves back up from where they had fallen and grabs the cleaver again.
“‘ Sorry ,’ he says,” Haewon mutters out as she also gets back into position, grabbing the now headless salmon and running her knife down its spine. “Nightmares?” she asks a few minutes later, working on a new fish.
Haewon and Yuna are the only two in the whole town of Zequa that took orphan Jimin under their wings. Kind of. He was still on his own a majority of the time but the two older women formed a soft spot for him. Whether it was out of pity or genuine concern, he’s not sure, but the extra rations of food and warm clothes they ‘accidentally’ made too much of, saved him. As thanks for their kindness, he begged to work for them. They allowed it under the guise that they could use a youngian to carry the heavy pounds of fish, but Jimin knows they worried for him—if teaching him how to read, write, and other common scholarly practices were any indication.
Despite the aggressive behavior he receives from the women, it’s solely out of love—even the beatings.
“No… not this time. I didn’t expect the storm last night and my roof about blew away.”
Haewon’s tsks are loud and followed by another smack to his head, which loosens his hair yet again. He sighs and rolls his head over his shoulder to look at her. “When ya gonna move out of that dirt pile? You’ve got the money now, dontcha?”
Jimin releases another sigh as he turns back to the new fish Yuna slid to him from his left, ignoring the loose strands of dark hair now falling into his face. “I can’t,” he mumbles.
“Huh? What was that? Speak up, boy, I may be spry but my hearing ain’t–”
“I can’t,” he says louder. “I tried. But no one will let me buy.”
The silence is louder than the busyness of the market. Like thunder that can never go unheard. He’s worked several jobs and slowly racked up his savings so that he could buy a decent home, at least one that allows him to sleep without worrying about the walls caving in or ceiling dropping onto him. But because of his status, because of a history he doesn’t even understand, no one will sell to him.
Honestly, he’s lucky that he is able to even buy practical things for himself with how much society still grimaces at his existence. They’re all probably counting down the days until he’s gone, until he passes from a freak accident or illness.
The last Park left.
The last pest left.
Sensing the pity wafting off the quiet elders, Jimin tries to change the subject, not wanting to delve into his personal struggles that seem to never have an end. “How did Chul’s first day of school go?”
"Don't get me started on that rambunctious monkey," Haewon gripes, slamming the blade of her cleaver down on a poor tuna.
"That bad, huh?"
"I asked what he learned and the only thing he spouted off to me was stories about mermaids."
"Mermaids? Like the humanoid fish people?"
"Mhm. Apparently fictitious tales are what the kids are retaining these days instead of knowledge. It's ridiculous."
"Fictitious?" Yuna pipes up. "What makes ya think they be fake?"
"A creature with half a human form and half a fish form… Don't tell me ya believe they exist."
"I'm just saying that we don't know all that's out there–"
"Yah! Are you serious? You actually believe that nonsense?”
"I neither agree nor disagree is all," Yuna mumbles.
Haewon stares pointedly at her before she grunts amusedly and shakes her head in disbelief. "Well, until I see the scaly things with my own eyes, they will remain made-up stories by odious men who were too horny for the sea that mirages of womanly breasts appeared on their catch in their drunken states. So I’d rather my grandson not be tainted by the otherwise false notions."
Jimin snorts at Haewon's crude choice of words but also at how easily she was able to erase the earlier dampened mood.
Hmm, mermaids. Could there really be such a creature?
"Excuse me, I'd like to purchase..."
The hut is cold tonight. The stick walls uphold their fight against the climate as best as they can, the straw roof trying to aid, but there is only so much they can do in the cooling fall season. The branches, although woven tightly together, still leave some gaps for the invasive frigid wind to seep through, instantly attacking Jimin as it trespasses. The thin blankets also do little-to-none to protect from the assault. But he’s used to this. Just another quality in his common night routine.
On such nights, he brings back a hearty meal—leftover fish from the day’s catch—and buys another piece of papery fabric to add to his growing pile. The merchant doesn’t allow him to buy the thick duvet he has strung up in the store, and only offers sheer-like cloth to Jimin. But Jimin is smart, and figured out that if he buys the available sheets each day, then they’ll eventually layer up enough to provide warmth for the upcoming winter.
When life gives you shitty hands, you find loopholes.
He lets out a sigh, watching as his breath materializes in the moonlight peeking through the various cracks of his dwelling. He should be sleeping, a new work day is only a few hours away, but his thoughts seem to have other plans.
The conversation from those two Vayans earlier, ring through his mind like chimes and not even Hypnos himself can still the resonant sounds.
Pirates.
Jimin and anyone who lives near the sea has heard of the ruthless, ugly renegades. Miscreants who forge for treasure and sink anyone who gets in their way. Who follow their own rules and therefore are constantly hunted by the royal navy of Osdir. However, they don’t fare too well. Too fearful of what would happen to them if they’re caught by the savages.
But, they are out in the sea. Free to explore to their heart’s content. The mightiest ocean sailors who travel the waters because they can, because they are in love with the fluid beauty. Sure, they are vile and merciless—at least from the stories Jimin has overheard—but the people on land aren’t any better, and Jimin knows that is a fact.
The pirates are also hiring, it seems, if those Vaya sailors were spouting sobering thoughts.
And to someone like him, who has been hopping from job to job—whichever posting offered the best deal for survival but also got him closer and closer to his goal—the opportunity seems too big to pass. Too loud to ignore. Like a foghorn breeching through the heavy vapor.
Piracy is illegal, but what has going about things legally done for him? He tried to play by the rules; went to the harbor constable to plead his finding about his father while exhibiting injuries from his earlier abuse. Went to work in shitholes so he could provide for his sick mother and him correctly, biting his tongue at the harsh treatment he endured.
There were exuberant amounts of temptations that he blew away! The basket of fruit a lady turned away from while she fiddled with her son’s jeogori, an unattended clothesline stocked with warm garments, the damn ship that clogged his reverie every time he stepped onto it to unload their catch. So many chances that would have bettered his life but he ignored because of the laws created by the very people who hate him. The laws he obeyed despite his conditions.
And where did that get him? His acquiesce was just rewarded with more prejudice, more discrimination, and more unjust conduct. How can they be any better than the ‘cruel sea dwellers’? How can they be any better than the ‘barbarous ocean dogs’? How can they be any better when they are exactly what they despise?
Hypocrites.
The realization hits Jimin like a wave, crashes into him full throttle and tugs him into the undertow. His anger rolling. All his frustrations that were pushed into the back of his mind, surge forward with the powerful current.
He’s pissed. And he’s done pretending.
Jimin jumps up from his makeshift bed—two hay bales pressed together with a polyester sheet over the top—and hastily grabs the few things he needs for his potential journey. ‘Potential’ because he has to play his cards right, and in a timely manner.
The Vayans from the market were most likely setting sail at the earliest sign of light, like most do when they pass through. Zequa was a mere pitstop for travelers since it was located conveniently on the edge of Osdir—the largest continent that sits centrally in the Crucaea Sea, where the royal family lives and controls the other two continents—making it easily accessible. But that meant he would need to sneak past the other boarding vessels with waking crews.
Because, yes, he was going to smuggle himself on board a ship.
Even with the late moon still hanging against the black canvas, sailors were rummaging about, having just awoken from their drunken slumbers and preparing to set sail with hangover groans. It was inspiring to watch in a way—the commitment to voyaging the blue ocean for whatever reason they may have. However, it was extremely problematic for Jimin at the moment.
He had been stalking along the edge of the haven, nonchalantly lingering in every shadow he came across. Seafarers were bustling about the dock, yelling orders and other terms left and right—much like the market scene he is familiar with. But, just like the market, they were too distracted to notice or acknowledge Jimin’s presence.
Thank god .
After several minutes of prowling this way and that, trying to locate the colorful garments that indicate his target, Jimin brushes against something, no, someone , and frantically jumps to the side and speedwalks—without taking even one glance at the person—in the opposite direction, hoping he won’t get called out, and dipping behind a barrel.
He sits there, breaths barely being taken and eyes staying frozen on the wall in front of him that is bound to form a singeing hole with how laser focused his stare is. Hide-and-seek skills, please don’t fail me now.
When the heat in his face becomes too much from the lack of air, he finally peers over the barrel. And, of fucking course , the man he bumped into, standing out in flashy colors despite being tinged by the blue night, is the Vayan from yesterday. The one he was searching for. The one he was supposed to be hiding from to sneak aboard his ship. The one who now is turned and looking in Jimin’s direction, hand in his pockets and sporting a scowl. Yep… that one.
Shit .
Jimin holds his breath again, heart pounding in his chest. The thrum probably disseminates his location to every person that passes by, as if a herd of cattle is stampeding through the harbor. The slight exposure of the top of his head most likely caught the man’s attention.
But, luckily for him, the man clicks his tongue, turns back around and continues along his beat, unfazed and rubbing a hand over his forehead in a tired manner. He lets out a yawn and then turns down a mooring that houses two ships.
One was a mere Sloop, a common vessel within the numerous ones tied down to the dock, and the other a Schooner, larger than the former but this one in particular was of smaller size, only capable of carrying a small crew. And that is the one the man walks up the gangway into.
It’s then that Jimin notices the other man from the market. He slaps the other on the back and the two join the others that were onboard. Laughter can be heard from where he sits and it would be a lighthearted moment if Jimin wasn’t about to hyperventilate from what he was about to do.
With no time to really think—seeing an open chance and taking hold of it in a vice grip—Jimin bolts up and towards the boat. The men are still circling around each other and most likely sharing their nightly escapades, when he creeps up the wooden plank that is, thankfully, set up further down behind the group. His heart is beating a mile-a-minute as he prays that the stave doesn’t creek under his weight.
He steps aboard and goes posthaste to the exposed staircase that he knows leads down into the hold. Jimin is dissociating; his body moving without so much as a thought fleeting through his mind. It’s like his body is on autopilot: turning every which way, stopping behind the mast when he sees movement in the corner of his eye, crouching forward and rolling behind a pile of nets. He moves like he’s done this a million times.
Which he absolutely has not. His adrenaline is completely in control while he sits in the passenger seat with bated breath. Wholly reliant on the hormone getting him through this asinine operation that has only taken place in his imagination.
The hold is cramped, which makes sense for the size of this vessel. It would have Jimin feeling claustrophobic if it weren’t for the thrill running through his veins, along with the relief that there are several crates of god-knows-what stacked up everywhere— hiding spots , his brain supplies.
When creaking elicits from the floorboards overhead, Jimin crawls into the furthest corner of the space, behind a pyramid of the wooden boxes, and waits. Waits for the crew to have realized something is off, waits for the stampede of boots on the stairs, waits for the shifting of boxes.
But it never comes.
The sounds above are calm, normal paces moving along the deck. No hint of panic that there is a stowaway in their midst. The delay of anything happening is brutal. It creates a window for Jimin’s thoughts to break through and proliferate his anxious mind. Is he able to take a normal breath yet? Has he succeeded? No, it’s too early to relax. What if they check all these crates before they take off? What if they find him? Should he fight? Should he run? Plead? Or will they —
The faintest motion palpitates through his body, like the reverberation after a jing’s been hit with a mallet. He mimics the sway of the boat unwillingly, and it's almost similar to sailing…
“Oh my god, we’re sailing,” Jimin whispers to himself, eyes straining with how wide they’ve stretched open. He waits a few more minutes, trying to wrap his head around if he is actually awake or dreaming—engrossed in his recurring reverie—before plopping down on his ass and slouching against a crate.
Strands of hair, damp with sweat, fall onto his face. The moisture is cold on his skin. His body feels similar now that he takes the time to realize it. Adrenaline is flowing out of his every pore, but the residual buzz from the stunt he pulled ripples through the exhaustion trying to replace it.
He just snuck aboard a ship, successfully … What in the actual fuck.
He’s actually aboard the ship, he’s actually in open water, he’s actually headed to an island to join an actual pirate crew. He’s actually taking strides towards his mission, no longer stagnant and waiting for a miracle to happen.
Jimin is actually— finally —going to find his father.
If the old ladies could see him now, they’d probably smack him for being reckless while encouraging the initiative at the same time.
He titters at the thought and sighs out of relief, drooping to the floor, submerging into the pool of fatigue. Lack of sleep and the shedding of titillation immersing him at last. He stares up at the bottom of the deck, head comfortably—as comfortable as it can be—laying on the haversack he was able to whip together. And smiles as darkness falls over him.
Let the adventure begin.
⚔️