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A person’s first memory is usually something quite simple. Their mother’s hand in their hair as she sings them to sleep. Scraping their knee while they were playing outside with friends. Waking up in the middle of the night as they accidentally wet the bed. Innocent memories that marked their first conscious thought.
Jimin’s first memory isn’t anything like that. It isn’t warm and comforting or charmingly embarrassing. It’s not even so much a memory as it is his entire existence, all he’s ever known. It’s pain and agony and hopelessness. It’s cramps caused by his bloated stomach twisting and turning in hunger. It’s limbs paralyzed by various bruises and broken bones. It’s four stone walls and chains and deafening silence.
Babies cry when they need. Whether they need to be fed, changed, or simply held, they open their mouths wide and wailed out their displeasure, knowing that soon enough someone would be there to take care of them. Jimin doesn’t bother, his tears always falling in silence, because it was pointless to cry. Pointless to shout for help, for someone to protect him, care for him, as he is forsaken.
He was a newborn, still struggling to breathe when his own mother handed him over without a thought. A birthmark on the heel of his left foot in the shape of an apple marking him, a sign of the God of death and destruction. That combined with a falling star was enough to convince the elders of the village that he is an omen. His existence would bring nothing but bad fortune unto them, that is what they said and the elders’ word is law.
Killing an infant barely a day old is thankfully still frowned upon, their scriptures at least condemn that, so they sentence him to a fate worse than death. He is a dark mark, a stain made to be the source of any and all their problems. If someone's crops fail to produce, it is because of him. If anyone falls ill, it is because of him. If a man beats his wife and children, it is all because of him, him, him. He is the cause of anything and everything and they punish him accordingly.
He's kept underground, hidden away, a place where they can pretend he doesn't exist, so they can live as if ignorant. The room is small and cramped, four walls of cold stone constantly dripping water. No light manages to reach down there, no warmth either. Jimin is cold, always cold, frostbite having claimed more than a few fingers and toes before he's even old enough to stand.
His skin is so pale it glows, one could almost mistake him for a ghost, in a lot of ways he is. Merely a spirit possessing a body, dead in every other way. His limbs are twisted into odd shapes, broken bones that never healed, and there's a hunch in his back from curling up into a ball in his meager attempts to shield himself. Scars are embedded into his hide, deep and dark and permanent, blending in with the filth and waste that covers him. It's disgusting to look at, worse to smell the stench of dried blood and feces.
But that doesn't deter the townsfolk.
He is the cause of anything and everything. An omen. A demon. Not human like them, an other . So he can be treated as such.
A girl fails a test in school. She knows her mother will be mad, she'll probably have to go to bed without dinner even though it isn't her fault. She had studied and the teacher was just being spiteful. It isn't her fault.
So she crawls down into the cave, a stick held between her teeth and a lantern held in one hand. It takes a few minutes for her eyes to adjust before she spots it in the corner. It's easy to forget that the thing is or ever was a human. It's small, it's ugly, it reeks to high heaven. As her nose adapts the smell becomes bearable, but the hideousness of the creature is still offensive.
She puts the lantern in the corner and makes her way towards it. It tries to crawl away, stumbling pathetically and slamming itself against the wall. When it realizes there's nowhere to go it begins to cry, babbling incoherently. The girl tightens her grip on the stick she brought down. Why does it cry when she's the one who will be in trouble? Why is it trying to make her feel guilty when it was all its fault anyway? Not hers, she had studied, she worked hard. She never gets to go outside, never gets to play with friends, always has to stay in her room and read. It's not fair.
She pictures her mother's reaction when she tells her about the test as she delivers the first blow, her mother's words in her ears louder than the sobs coming from the body in front of her. She delivers blow after blow, the wood cutting through skin, red joining the palette of browns and purples on white. She lets her anger go, tears falling from her own eyes at all the injustices put on her eight year old self, her arms growing tired but she keeps going.
And Jimin does nothing to fight back.
Because beatings are easy, the norm. Eventually the girl’s anger fades, her frustration vented, and she quickly crawls back up the way she came, carefully avoiding looking at the result of her rage.
Jimin doesn't move from his place in the corner, his hands are still covering his head as if another hit was coming at anytime. He sits there for hours, new bruises turning green, blood crusting over cuts, before sleep finally claims him.
Beatings and whippings are easy to handle, they're routine, they're a habit. The severity depends on the person but it doesn't matter how big or strong the person is, Jimin never fights against a beating. He's grateful for them.
There's so many other things to be afraid of.
He may be filthy and ugly and repulsive, but there are those who do not care, who do not mind at all. Sometimes they go alone, sometimes in groups. No shame or guilt because none is needed. In the small prison deep underground, it's like another reality, another world where rules don't apply. Anything is allowed with no consequence, no judgement.
The darkness stole his vision as a baby but Jimin recognizes their voices by now. He knows when it's one of them coming down as soon as he hears them grunt as they step down and immediately he panics.
He's small, growth stunted early on, and weak but he tries to fight. He hisses baring teeth, scratches blindly in every direction. It's all for nought but he can't help but try,instincts kicking in and the absolutely desperate need to escape choking him. The adrenaline helps, he always manages to at least draw blood before they pin him down.
Unlike others who try not to think of him as human, who see him as an animal if not lower, they don't, as bestiality is reviled by the scriptures. He's definitely human to them, obviously a child, it just doesn't matter. Pent up depravity is unleashed on his small form, pinned down and beaten to submission, he still tries to fight as they take their turns.
They break his jaw when he refuses to open, crack his spine so his legs lay limp, ignore the blood trickling down his legs when he tears. They use him as they need until they reach their release and then leave without a glance back.
Barely clinging to life, he lays there on the cold hard floor, not knowing what death is but wishing it would come for him.
He should be dead. The fact that he has survived all these years only further cements the belief of his inhumanity. He's protected by the God of death, they say. Demons can't die. This is enough to encourage them to go on, to keep up the torture - the cruelty, while not seeing it as such. Demons do not have the privilege of mercy.
They have no questions, no second thoughts. That is until a lone traveller wanders into their village.
Visitors are rare. The village is hidden in the mountains, surrounded by forests that shield them from the world, another reason they’ve been able to harbour such a secret for so long. They’re wary of this stranger. He appears harmless enough, a young boy with big eyes, no older than twenty. But something in the way he stands makes them nervous, something in those big doe eyes makes them wary.
“Where is he?” the traveller asks, steady and strong.
The villagers whisper their confusion amongst themselves, heads turning in question.
“Who?” someone replies, a voice in the crowd.
He doesn’t elaborate. Instead he asks again, louder, more demanding, his words met with more confusion and silence.
“Where is he?!”
He’s furious now, jaw clenched almost as tight as his fists. The villagers also grow irritated at his insistence, forcing a few maddened curses from the crowd. One steps forward, planning to forcefully remove the traveller altogether. But when the man makes to grab his arm, the instant his fingers graze the traveller’s skin, he collapses. Without a sound, a word, or a flinch, he falls to the ground with a dull thud. Death, instant and unkind.
A few gasp, one faints, they all tremble, fear gripping them as the realisation settles in. For who they thought to be a stranger is not one at all.
“Where. Is. He.”
No answer, all momentarily frozen with fear, barely able to breathe let alone speak. It isn’t until a few more bodies are added to the pile that the cries begin to spill forth, voices sounding off in a cacophony of directions and confessions.
He silences them with a hand. His gaze passes over the crowd once, twice, before falling upon one of the elders. She stands still amongst the havoc, lips tightly sealed, her wrinkled hands clasped together before her. She holds his gaze for a moment, but all that false bravado drains quickly and her head falls in fear. She stands with the rest of the town’s elders, grey and worn beyond her years. She’s tucked into herself, small and frail, but capable of so much harm. They all are. No matter the age, the appearance, not a soul in this town is free of malice and spite.
He sees a few youthful faces in the crowd, burrowing into the arms of their mothers and fathers, whimpering and crying in their distress. He turns from them to the others. The pallor complexions of fear satisfying, yet angering all at once. His gaze falls again on the old woman.
“Take me to him,” he demands.
She hesitates.
“TAKE ME TO HIM!” he roars, patience gone. It’s not wise to anger a God.
Reluctant, but complying, she walks him there. She uses her age to her advantage, hobbling more than necessary, apprehensive when she does not know the result of showing their sin. The traveller does not rush her, but his impatience is so evident she can almost feel his tightened fists around her neck. She’s slow as she limps, listening for the crackle of leaves over her shoulder as he follows. He does not say a word on their journey, until they reach the door of the cellar - of the prison amongst the trees where the door handle has met more hands than chains, for they knew the boy would not escape.
He’s a cripple. A twist of useless limbs. He couldn’t see. No one besides them knows of his existence. There was no reason for a guard.
Once there, the elderly woman moves to open the door, however, the traveller raises his hand again, silently commanding the rest to stay in place. He enters himself, and the woman watches him disappear within the cell.
As soon as he’s out of sight, the villagers sneer at his back. They can lock him in the cell with the boy, they whisper. They can pretend the traveller was never here. Some, out of fear, suggest that they flee before he returns. They can go now, leave their possessions behind. It would not be worth facing a God’s wrath. However before they’re able to make a move, the traveller returns. He has the boy in his arms, cradled tenderly to his chest.
The gasps ring out one at a time as sunlight filters through the leaves above them. They’ve never seen the boy in full light. The dim light of a lantern had not revealed much of their violence, their abuse. It had kept them somewhat ignorant for so long. Having the symbol of their crimes put before them in the daylight is almost overwhelming.
A few gag. A few wretch. Some have their hands over their mouths, their heads turned away as tears spring to their eyes.
The boy is mangled; a hollow carcass, if that. There’s nothing to him. All skin and bones. Sunken cheeks and scabbing skin. It’s a revolting sight. He’s disturbingly small in the traveller’s arms, limp, but breathing.
They’ve always been aware of their actions, but it’s impossible for them to run from what they’ve done when it is presented in front of them. And if looking upon the body is not enough, the pure fury on the face of the traveller, of the God, of death and destruction, is more than enough to put in them the fear that they’ve never known.
~~~
Jimin doesn’t know what is happening. He doesn’t understand.
When he hears the sound of footfalls descending into his cell, he realises he doesn’t recognise them. He doesn’t recognise the scent of this person. He doesn’t know what to expect. Immediately, his survival instincts return, even though he can’t move after years of neglect and torture, he attempts to fight, but the second the stranger’s arms come to gather him up, and when his head lolls against a firm chest to hear a heartbeat in tune with his own, a calm falls over him.
A feeling of coming home, of belonging. He finally feels safe.
Somewhere in his childlike mind, he knows he’ll never be harmed again.
Although he can’t move his limbs anymore, can’t feel them for the life of him, he tries to tighten his arms around the neck of the person holding him. They’re moving, he realises. Moving upwards, forwards, levelled steps carrying him out perhaps. His heart quickens at the thought. He’s being taken away, leaving his prison. Though he can’t see a thing, he feels the strong movements of the man’s chest as he breathes, air puffing against the top of Jimin’s head. He finds peace in that.
Jimin knows they’ve emerged from his cell when he feels the breeze of the outside, the warmth of the open air hit his skin. Warmth. Comfort and warmth, he’s never known such a thing.
The arms around him tighten, a deep voice whispers in his ear.
“My love.”
He knows he’s safe.
~~~
He’d fought a war.
A pointless one as wars often are, he and his brothers always failed to see eye-to-eye on the simplest things; the most moronic, pointless issues. He doesn’t remember what had caused the fight, just knows that it had gotten out of hand. And it lasted too long, far too long.
He’d attempted to put an end to it as soon as it had begun, going against his very nature but not willing to risk what was most precious to him. But there was no reasoning with his brothers, there was no talking. There was only bloodshed. They weren’t one for words, it’s difficult to reason with a God. He never had the patience for it either, Jeongguk supposes. And as expected, it’d led to a battle that had almost cost him his life.
So he did what he had to to protect himself.
He thought Jimin would be in safe hands, cared for and protected. He thought the people would understand the mark. He is the God of death and destruction and he assumed that would invoke respect, that because they feared him they would honour what was his. He had entrusted humanity, had entrusted them with what was most precious to him.
He’d given a piece of himself, the other half of his soul. His heart.
To see Jimin in this horrific state, Jeongguk could not explain the pure fury, the anger pumping through his veins. His love, his mate, his everything. To see him like this, to see what they had done to him was too much. He has come from a battlefield, has killed, maimed, bled, and cried. He has seen enough cold, empty bodies and fields of blood that can make the common man take his own knife to the heart, but to see Jimin in this condition breaks him like nothing else.
He’d always known humans were capable of great evil.
They didn’t have respect for one another, they didn’t care for one another. They were greedy and selfish, but he’d always been told they could be good, that they were capable of more. He’d counted on that small shred of good to protect what was most important to him. He’d held onto the hope that they would give Jimin the care he could not provide for at the time.
Gods are proud, arrogant to a fault. They refuse to ever admit being wrong. But Jeongguk can say without hesitation that he had made a mistake. A mistake that he would never forget and would never make again.
Once he climbs out of the pit, the stench of decay following them out, he holds Jimin close. He whispers words of comfort, the same words he had wanted to say while he fought, the things that he hasn’t said in years. Words of love, and words of apology.
Jimin whimpers and Jeongguk can feel his pain. Gritting his teeth, he presses his forehead to Jimin’s and breathes. All it takes is a moment, memories flashing through his mind, every moment of suffering that’s ever been inflicted on his love pictured clearly behind his eyelids. He shifts through them, feeling every ounce of misery. He can feel every cut, every bruise, every single broken bone.
“Jimin...I’m so sorry.”
He consumes it all, takes it all upon himself. The trees seem to part as light surrounds them, warm and healing. He undoes it all, every wrongdoing that has been put upon Jimin, erasing every scar, righting every bone, repairing every tear. As Jimin’s limbs crack into place, his eyes open. Every little sound adds to his agony and wrath.
It’ll never be good enough.
This is his fault. He had allowed this to happen and even if he heals Jimin’s mind, body, and soul, he’ll never be able to forget. It drives him to insanity. It isn’t until Jimin is standing, on his own two legs, in his true form, that he feels something other than his ire.
He looks down at his love, tears forming as Jimin looks back at him. He’s smiling, soft and with all the adoration in the universe. Despite everything that had happened there was nothing but love in Jimin’s beautiful brown eyes.
“It took you longer this time.”
Jeongguk chokes on words, wanting to apologise but knowing it would not be enough, never enough. Tenderly, Jimin cups his face, wipes his tears and shakes his head, fond and elated. Tilting his head up, he kisses the apples of Jeongguk’s cheeks, his smile warm and featherlight on his love’s skin. It’s Jeongguk that’s being held this time.
“There’s no need for that,” Jimin whispers.
Jeongguk pulls him close, lips meeting lips, kissing Jimin with desperation. He feels like he’s being brought to his knees, sinking into the love he’s missed on the field of hatred and violence. A feeling more than death, than destruction, washing through him in a rush. Jimin always did that, always made him feel more than he had ever thought himself capable of. He pulls him closer.
It’s the sound of a twig snapping in half that brings them out of it.
Jeongguk’s head snaps up, resentment returning in seconds. There’s a villager off to the side, separated from the group. His eyes wild with desperation, his temples beading with sweat. Realizing his mistake, he stands paralysed with fear.
The rest of the townsfolk, stupefied in their terror, watch the two lovers. Some in disgust, others in fascination.
Jeongguk does not remove his arms from Jimin when he meets the eyes of the man who had considered fleeing. Without a word to his foolishness, Jeongguk narrows his eyes, ever so slightly, barely noticeable, and the man’s head snaps to the side. It’s fast, the villagers barely believing even though they saw it happen. The image grotesque and the sound more so. He’s dead.
The intelligent ones run without looking back. They get about as far as a couple of trees before their heads turn independent from their bodies, some twisting all the way around, some falling off altogether. They fall one by one, their children clutched to their chests. The babes wailing in horror before they’re silenced as well, though with slightly more mercy, their beating hearts stilling in their chests.
The others do not get the gift of a quick death, Jeongguk isn’t that generous. He wants them to feel it, to feel what Jimin has suffered for years without him. It’ll never be enough, nothing could ever be enough, but he needs to let out this storm brewing inside him. He wants them to suffer. He wants them to hurt.
He wants them to burn.
As the forest and the town rise up in flames, Jeongguk spares only a moment to place his hand to the back of Jimin’s head as his love rests his cheek against his chest. Jimin smiles gently, at peace at last as the world lights up around them in reds and oranges, flames licking their way through the trees as the villagers scream. The cries are bloodcurdling, the stench of burning skin and hair putrid, but Jimin doesn’t care much for what’s beyond Jeongguk’s arms. He’s content where he is, being held by his half. Loved, cared for, protected.
“Jeongguk.” Jimin reaches a hand to Jeongguk’s jaw, coaxing his gaze back to him. He waits for Jeongguk to look, waits for the fire to go out in his eyes, before he leans up to press a kiss to his lips.
“Let’s go home.”