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namjinmin, established jinmin | legends, mutiny, the sea | 1.3k words

The dream always starts with shells. Hundreds and hundreds of pretty shells, white ridges stained brown, sometimes blue, washed by salt water. He wades through them, picking out only the best to hold on to. At least until the ground trembles — as if shaking with fury — and he’s sucked under a tidal wave that brings him to another shore. There, sits a lantern, flame cast light a beacon through the woven cloth in the growing shadows on the sand.

This time, Seokjin lies on his back with his eyes closed, the sand moving around him as the water rushes over his body.

“Hyung.”

Seokjin hums. His body is too heavy to move, otherwise he would have held his hand out for Jimin grab.

“Seokjin-hyung, wake up.”

Seokjin frowns. But still, he tries. There must be sand on his face, gluing his lashes together.

“Seokjin—”

Seokjin gasps, eyes flying open to the sharpest silver blade being held to his neck. He would know, the hilt being one he engraved himself as a gift to Jimin when they first left the shores of their old home. A flex of his arms reveals that he's bound to one of the few chairs this ship has. Seokjin might be a little impressed with how well they’ve tied him up, but as soon as his mind can shake the final tendrils of slip, the rope will be no match for him.

Another sword — one less sharp because no one holds the same craftsmanship — is being held to Jimin’s neck. He’s between two crewmen, one holding the pathetic blade to Jimin’s throat, while the other has Jimin’s hands behind his back with a grimy arm across his torso.

Seokjin swallows, knowing that if not for the fact the he himself is being held under Jimin’s sword, Jimin would have wasted no time to remove himself from the sailor’s grip. Now, Jimin stares at Seokjin’s neck through jet-black strands strewn over his face, eyes dark with barely concealed rage.

A dark laugh sounds from next to him, and Seokjin slowly drags his eyes away from Jimin to look at the person holding Jimin’s sword. He’s not surprised to find Oh Taewoong in front of him, grinning madly. They’re surrounded by the rest of the crew, the same madness mirrored in most of their faces emphasized by the light from the torches they carry. Seokjin laughs internally at the few that refuse to look at him, wretched gazes turned to the salt-worn planks.

Taewoong takes Seokjin’s focus as a sign to start ranting as he always does. Seokjin’s sure it’s the same nonsense he’s been saying for the past several moon cycles. His only regret is not taking his words a little more seriously. Just enough so that maybe Taewoong would have been on the other side of Jimin’s sword instead, and Jimin wouldn’t be in this situation.

A little more alert now, he flexes his hands, and starts to test the rope to find a weak part of it to unravel.