A Fallen Fighter
"Sa bum nim!"
He had always been fluent in languages. He knew the fluid movements of a fighter's body as well as he knew his mother tongue, and as well as he had known the languages of those who had competed at the King of Iron Fist Tournament. English, Korean, Chinese – he was familiar with all of them, the same way he was with those who spoke them.
But never had he heard such raw anguish erupt from any of the fighters whose lives had been entwined together, time and time again. And never had he thought that such a howl of raging agony would make him pause where he stood.
Yet there he was, before the temple, still as if he had been burned into a stone by the desert sun.
Hwoarang.
He knew the name was nothing more than a code: he was aware that the word derived from the Korean military. He had fought Hwoarang time and time again, in an obsessive rivalry neither of them had understood. And over that time, he had learned more about the fire that burned within his enemy, the same way Hwoarang had learned about the darkness within Jin himself.
Beneath Jin's darkness was a fire: beneath Hwoarang's fire was a darkness.
And now that darkness was screaming through the desert in the wracking sobs of grief.
Jin had faced monsters. He had endured the Devil Gene. He had taken over the Mishima Zaibatsu. But the fighters within the Tournament had always been there, each step of the way. His family's curse had become entwined in their stories, the same way their stories had become entwined with him. They had been there when he lost his mother, when he had fought his inner demons, when he had defeated his father and grandfather. The chapters of their lives had begun and ended separately, but they were still pieces of the same story, and that story was one that bound them all.
They had been there for him, but he had never been there for them.
He strode forward, up the stairs, and into the darkness of the temple.
Hwoarang was hunched over a limp form. His shoulders were shaking with sobs too powerful for him to hold back. Jin tilted his head to one side and recognised Baek Doe San. Hwoarang's mentor. He was dead.
Jin didn't say a word. But Hwoarang stilled nonetheless, and Jin could see his head bow. He let out a low, soft sigh.
"Honour to the teacher. May he sleep in peace."
The words were Korean, a peace offering between the two. When they met, they both spoke their own languages. But now was a time of grief and not of battle, and Jin could see by the way Hwoarang had slumped that the sentiment was understood. He took a step forward and laid a light, light hand on his rival's shoulder.
"He was a great man. He will be missed."
Jin let go of Hwoarang and turned away. He had reached the heavy door when the whispered word came floating to him.
"Arigato."
Thank you.
You speak Japanese well, my friend, Jin thought. But now is not the time for this. Be with your teacher. Grieve. I know you will come to me and fight when your flame burns again. I have my own affairs in the meantime.
He left, and behind him in the cavern, Hwoarang wept silently over the body of his fallen teacher.
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Author's Note:
Hello all. This was just a quick drabble that skimmed over the bond between Jin and Hwoarang. There may be more to come, if anyone's interested. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. Best wishes to everyone.
