Oh children, I see you skipping along the train tracks, laughing at the sky. All seven of you with your jeans so artfully torn and the scent of spray paint clinging to your fingertips, and I understand why you don’t think twice when your feet slip off the iron runners. You think rebellion comes cheap, you think what you don’t know can’t kill you.

I saw you running from the city, faster and faster till you feared you might have flown. The thing about cities is that they suffocate, the thing about cities is that they’re safe. All that grey though, all those uniform brick houses and the smog of a million cars, I think everyone wishes for something a little more than that from time to time, and there comes an age where that urge can be ignored no longer.

The shipping crates stacked up by the station are painted in all the colours of the rainbow, by the many who came before you. I watch you leave your mark in fluorescent stripes zigzagging across the faded reds and greens that dominate the landscape. You hide around corners and chase each other with trolleys from a supermarket so far away it might as well not exist. Your naivety is jarring, the sincerity in your smiles so hatefully pure.

And it’s alright, I understand. Enjoy it while it lasts though children, no one can stay in the cities forever.

One of the boys climbs up onto a crate and abstains from the frivolities below. He has sad eyes and the weight of the world prematurely crushing those broad shoulders. He peers down at his friends from on high, and I notice him. There’s a touch of clairvoyance about some of the children that pass through here, and this one has it. With his camera poking out of his back pocket, and his shoes tied with double knots to stop them falling off, he stares out across the station, across the train tracks, to the forest. And I stare back.

 

The city moves at breakneck pace, till the slipsteam of cars blur into a single line of light on the horizon. People rush from building to building with their heads bowed to avoid the momentary setback of eye contact with a stranger.

They’re scared of what they may see in each other. Don't you see this is ridiculous? The first person may ask. The second person will not answer, but for the rest of the day the question will reverberate inside their skull, till they wish they had said yes when they had the chance. The city has them surrounded though, breaking free of it is a hard, gruesome process best left to the young.

Namjoon feels the need to leave weigh in on him like summer rain, air pressure rising till the skies have nothing to do but break open and weep upon the streets. He finds himself heading to high places, always hitting the button a floor too high every time he steps into an elevator. He stares out across the wilderness of rooftops and concrete, hoping to catch a glimpse of something more in the distance.

Of course, people notice. It’s not uncommon for someone Namjoon’s age to go hunting for the edge of the city, but it’s dangerous. You have to kill curiosity before it can kill you, or so his mother says, as she hands him three times his usual month’s allowance and pushes him out of the door in the hope that money is all it takes to unlock the great mysteries of the cold, grey maze they call home.

He takes it and divvies it up between his friends, shoving fistfuls of notes into fast food worker’s delighted hands so they can eat together. Hoseok talks around a mouthful of chips as Taehyung dances on the table, and for once it’s Yoongi pushing food into Namjoon’s mouth as opposed to the other way around. Each of them laughs just a little brighter than yesterday, like sparks flying off flint.

That night, they run. No one’s quite sure who starts it, but one moment they’re standing on the pavement, trying to formulate excuses to not go home just yet…just a little longer…

Then they’re off, their feet slapping against the tarmac and their voices gone with the wind. The city flashes by in a blur of grey and gold. Jimin and Jungkook are faster than the rest of them, out in front with laughter shining in their eyes. They lead the way, down across the tunnel that used to lead to the Han, across flyovers and through all the secret places that only children ever know about. They stop traffic just because they can, and set fires because they want to, and in the end they wind up huddled round the flames trying to tattoo this night into their memory.

The next morning, Namjoon buys Yoongi a box of green hair dye with the last of his money, and Yoongi promises that he’ll be colourful even if the rest of this godforsaken city won’t. There’s too much in the package, and Taehyung runs the last few drops through his fringe till it turns the colour of moss.

Namjoon smiles at them, and only Seokjin notices that it’s not quite real. He takes Namjoon up to the top of the 63 Building, because he hates being right about these things and is desperate to be proven wrong, but Namjoon’s eyes say everything, as he stares will dull certainty at a patch of green that only he can see.

 

Taehyung feels as cold as if the glass had dug through his stomach. He tries to remember what it felt like to find satisfaction in beating old drinks cans and skulking through unsavoury neighbourhoods for the sake of shocking his mother, but can only recall the unprecedented joy that tore through him when he’d felt the blood dripping down his arm.

The trouble with all kinds of happiness, is that they burn fast and short. Taehyung crumbles into a heap three blocks from the bloodied apartment and cries himself senseless, cries like summer rain. He scrubs at the blood drying on his hands but understands that he will never get it all off.

That’s the price he paid, just to feel for one moment like the world wasn’t something beyond his control. He remembers the night they crowded round the bonfire and pretended to be smaller than they needed to, the way Namjoon’s eyes had missed the blaze even as they bored into its depths.

“We have to get out of here.” He sobs into Namjoon’s shirt.

Namjoon doesn’t ask questions, he doesn’t even flinch. He says goodbye to his mother like he’ll be back by morning, and steps out of the door with nothing in his hands or his pockets save his own self conviction.

The rains start up as they go, heavy and hot like the blood Taehyung swears he can still feel pouring through his hands. He lets himself bathe in it, lets the faded green of his fringe stain red in his mind’s eye. They cut through the stairs and almost–secret tunnels on the outer perimeter of the city, hoping that the sound of their feet hitting the floor will be lost amongst the pattering of the rain. They don’t stop till they spy green up ahead, the barest flash of colour teasing through the monochrome skyline that surrounds them.

Taehyung’s never seen green before, not like this. “What is it?” he whimpers.

Namjoon’s face slips into a smile, the first honest smile he’s smiled in a very long time. He turns to Taehyung with wonder in his eyes, “it’s a tree.”

 

So here’s the thing you do not know, oh children. The railway tracks wind tight around the forest, for all of the thousands of miles it encompasses. You can run along them just as far as you like, but run far enough and you’ll wind up back where you started. Don’t mistake this place for the great beyond just because they couldn’t encase it completely in concrete – the forest grows strong on the other side of these tracks, and you mistake the sight of green for the reality of the living, waking world.

Don’t misunderstand me, I can see grass creeping between the paving slabs at your feet, and the weeds that grow in the meagre patches of dirt that find their way into your world. Your first mistake will be to believe that you are no longer in that hellish city, just because you stepped beyond its outer limit. The ground you stand on is still more concrete than soil.

They first wove steel out of the rocks some sixteen hundred years ago. I know, I was there. I watched them gape at the newly formed metal, unsure when to touch it, when the fire would have left its smoldering insides.

They smiled with wonder when they finally drew that wretched thing from the flames, but that happiness was nothing compared to the vicious glee they felt when they threw the iron in the faces of the fairies and the nymphs and all the trolls and spirits and wild things from within the forest and saw them recoil.

I hate them for it, but I can’t say I blame them, the creatures of the forest were never much concerned with peace where chaos could just as easily reign. I watched them build the tracks, a low lying prison for everything they feared, caging us in until there was nowhere left to run, until our world was reduced to the sluggish darkness of trees and magic.

And every now and then, a stupid child or two forgets the stories that their mother told them when they were small, and they cross the border into the forest. That’s where the real fun begins. These children with their flashy paint and gaudy hair seem like the type, they think they’re too old for fairy tales.

At first I’m sure it’s going to be the one with the melted skin who makes the crossing first. His face looks like an iron bar thrown into the furnace, misshapen and lumpy, his cold little eyes twitching nervously under a mop of green hair. Green like the forest, I tell myself, we get them all the time.

But the boy turns back, and watches a wraith like figure with poison in its blood take his place. I know that it’s a human, but it doesn’t look like one. A lot of teenagers come here dead in the eyes, they want to live a little, and we grant them that much at least.

No, it’s the boy with the pink hair that leads them across the tracks. He looks fine to me, but he feels unnatural and full of purpose, like his disturbance is sitting in his very bones. He takes the boy with the melted skin, and the wraith through first, then the boy who bathed in blood. There’s a boy built of shattered bones and bloodshot eyes and a boy who coughs and splutters up water constantly.

Finally, the boy sitting on the crate descends from his view on high and steps cautiously, oh so cautiously, down to the train tracks. He looks on at the forest with reproach in his heart, and when his eyes meet mine I cannot help but laugh.

There’s nothing wrong with this one, he’s come out here all in one piece with a heart as strong as an ox. I’d wager he even remembers why the tracks were built, and I’m certain he knows that the forest won’t act kindly towards people like him.

All the same, he enters, bringing with him the stink of blossoming flowers, so strong it threatens to suffocate me. The scent of lilies hangs hot in the air around him, like a halo.

I in my breath and fly, screeching across the forest floor. Oh children, there’s nothing wrong with this human, the prince has come home.

 

His broken body heals in an instant; Jungkook can feel the rib sticking into his lung retract and fall into place. All around his head, a swarm of butterflies clamour for his attention, sketching out patterns in the air with their erratic dancing. He doesn’t let them cloud his vision, but he follows their flight path, till the dark around him fades and he is standing in a meadow, with the wind picking up beneath his chin.

Bubbles fill the air, and where they burst, a dozen new butterflies are formed. Unnaturally big and blue, they trail off in spiral arches across the turbulent skies.

“Storm’s coming,” Jimin murmurs. Jungkook doesn’t remember him being there before, but he isn’t surprised when he speaks. There’s a bubble wand clutched in his hand and every now and then, he’ll turn away to blow a new flurry into the air.

Jungkook hums as the wind blows faster still, “hey Jimin, you ever feel like you could fly?”

Jimin’s eyes twinkle, “I thought you’d never ask.”

The butterflies split into five columns, and rush out far and wide across the meadow to find the others. Jungkook already knows Seokjin will be the last to arrive.

 

Hoseok pushes through the trees with one hand in Yoongi’s to keep them both moving. Up ahead of them, a butterfly glimmers blue amongst the green, teasingly flitting just out of reach every time they get close enough to catch it.

Yoongi sighs and wines about how they should have stayed down at the seashore, the ocean is so nice at this time of day, with the tide out and clouds gathering in the distance. Hoseok wishes he could agree with him, but the urge to persevere keeps him quiet.

The butterfly stops when the trees do, vanishing just as quickly as it had first appeared at his ear. He barely has time to compose himself before the edge of the earth rushes up to meet him.

It’s not the edge of the earth, of course, but they arrive at the deep end of the dried out swimming pool, and it’s a long way down. Yoongi peers at the washed out blue of the faded linoleum with avid interest, till Hoseok worries that he’ll fall head first and crack his head open.

It occurs to him that there are no hospitals out here, and if one of them were to get hurt that would be the end of things. Then it occurs to him that he has no idea what a hospital is any more.

Taehyung is waiting for them, though not by choice. He sits up on the rotting mattress discarded in the shallow end and watches them drop down into the pool with barely a flicker of a smile. He watches Namjoon, Jimin and Jungkook all arrive the same way.

“I can fly, I’m sure of it!” Jungkook grins. Hoseok doesn’t think it odd that they believe him.

First Taehyung smiles, then the six of them are gripped with the singular knowledge that they are being watched. There’s no time to get used to the idea, first everything is normal, and then it is upon them. They stand, frozen, and Hoseok is almost certain that as he remembers a very old story about seven little boys who ran off into the forest and never came back, the rest of them remember it too.

He doesn’t know where he got the story from, but it feels important.

“Hi,” Seokjin smiles weakly down at them. They turn as one and see him standing at the other side of the pool, still half shadowed by the trees as he watches them from behind his camera. They breathe a collective sigh of relief and holler and scream that they’re happy to see him, but he doesn’t jump down.

Jimin twirls and prances around the bottom of the pool, “we’re going to fly! Just you wait.” And they all nod in agreement, even Yoongi musters up a smile.

Seokjin looks at them with reserved terror, his hands shaking as he lowers the camera. Hoseok’s not sure if anyone else sees the shock that graces his face when he looks down at the replayed footage, but refuses to draw unwanted attention to it. He feels like he’s been searching all his life for joy like this, uninterrupted, uncorrupted. They can run through the forest and smile and fly forever, and it will never feel forced, it will never be their miserable substitute for a happy life.

The wind shakes Namjoon’s hair like a bed of flowers, and Hoseok watches him smile out of the corner of his eye. “What do you say, shall we fly?”

They shall fly, Hoseok’s certain. As one, they start the chase, out of the pool and through the forest and onto the meadow, no idea where they’re going, and no need for direction.

 

The smell is too strong for even the forest to paint over. I follow these hopeless children through the forest till they find each other, but when the prince with his wreaking crown slips into my field of consciousness I have to withdraw. It’s all I can do not to wretch. It spooks the six huddled together below him, but it doesn’t break the spell entirely.

Only when they start to run, do I have a chance of keeping up. The wind blows the scent of lilies out behind them, and to stay out of the blaze I must stay ahead.

Besides, I know where they’re going, they’re not the first silly boys who thought they could fly. I slither through the undergrowth, feeling the rumbling of their feet behind me, onwards and onwards, through the trees till the grass of the meadow rises up around me. The wind is blowing a gale the likes of which these poor fools will not have seen in their lifetime, but still they plough on, till they reach the cliff.

I watch them climb carefully over rocks and boulders, holding my breath lest any of them should slip. They don’t have stones like these in that city they come from, they are maladapted for the task they are about to try to undertake.

They are fragile, more fragile than they can remember. The boy with the broken bones walks tall, the boy with the melted skin has been blessed with a sharp, symmetrical face. Even the boy with something rotting in his bones smiles down at the ocean like he’s greeting an old friend.

Then all of a sudden, without so much as kissing the ground farewell, they fly. Or six of them do at least. Not one by one, no care is taken and no observations made. They don't consider how to hold their arms and flex their legs, they just go. All at once. Their feet slipping off jagged rocks as they leap forward into the open arms of the wind, they go laughing, singing, filled with joy.

I am not a miracle worker, my magic is mere tricks at most, and no matter what glamour I can pull over the eyes of children to make them see happiness in a world full of hate, I cannot make them fly. The wind doesn’t have that power either, I’ve seen it in action. It’s only air, no matter how high the pressure it isn’t dense enough to hold a person up.

So six boys flew, straight down, two hundred metres or more to a watery grave, and the prince stood high up on that cliff and watched them, he even filmed it. I still remember how the salt sea air and the bitter tang of blood in the waves were all but drowned out by the smell.

So I turned to dust and let the wind carry me back to the forest. To the people I grew up with, flying’s easy.

 

Cold seeps through Seokjin’s bones, the chill growing more pronounced with every step he takes. He’s sure that this is the coldest he’s ever been, but then he remembers looking through his camera as six of his dearest friends vanished into the ocean, and he thinks perhaps this chill settled in a long time ago.

His muscles grow stiff with the cold, and soon enough he cannot walk another step. He crashes into the nearest tree and leans heavy on it till his legs, oh so slowly, crumple beneath him. He can feel the camera, heavy in his pocket and loaded with photos begging to be viewed, but can’t find the energy to take it out. His fingers are stiff and frozen as he brings them to his mouth to breathe life into them, but his breath is equally cold.

His eyes close, he swears just for a moment but when they open again Seokjin’s stranded on an island, like a river burst its banks and surrounded him. He still feels the cold dripping into his blood, but when he flexes the muscles in his hands it doesn’t feel so bad, it feels like something he can do.

Seokjin pulls the camera from his pocket in a rush, holds his breath as the screen flickers into life.

There are photos upon photos of the forest, of the pool, of the cliff of which those poor boys jumped. But throughout each one there is not a single soul. The space that he's so sure was once occupied by his friends is gaping and empty, a hole he should never have allowed to be torn.

Tears drip off the end of his nose and onto the camera screen, he hadn’t even realised he was crying. His frigid fingers seize and shudder and the camera falls, out of his hands and straight down into the water.

Seokjin watches it go, down and down and down. This is no diverted river, these waters are deep.

His eye catches something moving in the depths, dark and shapeless and hatefully happy, and for a moment Seokjin smells lilies under his nose.

The thing in the water looms larger, getting closer and closer towards the surface. Seokjin desperately doesn’t want to see its face, or the way its eyes shine with malicious joy. He drops to his knees and reaches down into the wet, till his fingers close over something slimy and shapeless and it takes all of his self-control not to withdraw his hand in horror.

Seokjin squeezes, he squeezes and squeezes and squeezes and feels the thing struggle in his hand. He doesn’t stop squeezing until with a final, foul scream, it goes limp. Suffocated and dead.

Good riddance.

This time when he blinks, the water vanishes, taking everything with it, It’s depth and it’s darkness and the camera that fell to it’s floor. He supposes he won’t miss it, he never took the pictures he wanted to take.

Well, not everything vanishes. The hideous slimy thing still hands in Seokjin’s hands, mercifully lifeless though it is toxic and vile. For a moment, he catches a glimpse of it in all its terrible glory and cannot suppress the scream that rips itself from his lungs. Then the wind blows through the trees, on its way to the ocean, and the monster fades to dust.