#I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND PEOPLE WRIITNG FICS BASED ON YOUR ART AAAAAAAAAA-

[n3on-graveston3s-calling]

Hand.

Word Count: 800

Characters: Shanks, Benn

Warnings: Brief talking of phantom limb syndrome.

Author's Notes: @/huyandere posted This Amazing Art earlier and it gave me brain worms about Shanks and his arm. Thanks. <3

Shanks lost his dominant hand. 

That’s the first thing that he has to come to terms with, really. That he did, indeed, lose his dominant hand. Arm, really- not just the hand. The Neptunian did a number on him, but then again, he’s lucky, isn’t he? To have just lost the arm, not the side of his torso, nor the child who he had foolishly protected because for one reason or another, he liked Luffy. This scrappy, chaotic child who had survived so much already, who he saw so much promise in even if it scared him half to death to imagine him on the seas one day. 

He lost his dominant arm. 

The healing process was difficult. Hell, having a limb suddenly amputated wasn’t something you did every day, after all. The poor village doctor nearly had a damn heart attack looking at his arm. Benn had cried- shed actual tears over his arm in private, holding him close to his chest, whispering about how he’d failed him as a first mate.

(He hadn’t failed. Shanks just acted without thinking. That was his fault; he had always been a touch too impulsive, even as a kid).

So he’d lost his arm. 

It took months of healing before even thinking about leaving. An open wound like that on the sea was simply asking for gangrene to set in, or for the flesh to grow infected with Gods know what, for him to take ill suddenly and oh, Gods, he couldn’t imagine how bad that could be! He loved his former captain, but he didn’t want to follow in his footsteps of getting sick. 

He had to learn how to use his right arm. 

His sword had been a custom, made for him to wield it left-handed. Gryphon was the blade’s name. A strong saber, custom made to have a longer than average blade length to it. Green hilt; beige guard. The weight was off for his right arm, he was sloppy with the way he waved it about. For a while, he thought that he was simply doomed to never wield a sword again.

(He couldn’t fight Mihawk like this, couldn’t even think about looking him in the eyes after this accident. How could he take him, now? Not one handed, not like this.)

Practice. Stamina training. Relearning how to draw his blade without cutting into his own hip. (And oh, the scars that lay on his right hip now from countless injuries done by practicing with Gryphon rather than a wooden blade at first, like an idiot.) It took well into a year before he was able to keep his balance again. Able to walk across the ship while waves rocked against the hull and not tip himself over with his inability to hold himself up. 

The worst part was the phantom pains. Not the training- no, Benn and Yasopp kept him on his toes with their training. Soon enough, they were working together once more without issue. The phantom pains are what kept him awake in the night, biting down on his hand or his pillow to muffle the sobs of pain that tore from his throat. It burned, it ached. He could still feel his arm. He could still feel it reaching out. Could swear it was touching his blankets- but no, it wasn’t there. It isn’t there. It will never be there again. 

He had to relearn how to write. 

He’d had remarkable penmanship prior to this, something that Rayleigh had forced both himself and Buggy to learn. Something about a good pirate had good penmanship? He wasn’t sure; Roger was never bothered with it, his own writing had been chicken scratch. But he had good handwriting. 

Not anymore.

Looking at the parchment, he felt a wave of anger crash over him. He almost- almost- swept the contents of his desk to the floor before he caught himself. No use in that, really. Ink was expensive. Parchment- good parchment at that- even more so. So, he sat down, and started once again. A, B, C, D- the entire alphabet. His hand shook as he held the quill; it ached in his fingers, this odd form of writing. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it- he would do it, Benn reminded him, leaning his hip against his desk. He would do it, because he needed to. He would do it, because he wanted to. He would do it. 

He did. 

The first letter was wobbly written, looking more apt for a ten year old rather than a man who had just turned thirty-two. The lines weren’t straight, the script tilting down towards the right side of the paper despite his best efforts. 

“Dear Buggy,

ㅤ⠀I am writing to you

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀once again.

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀Hope this letter

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀Finds you well…”