#like! those moments with the crew in the galley! so precious to me but i forgot they existed for a minute bc i haven't rewatched anything

[arsenicflame]

i need someone to make me a cut of the second half of ofmd s2 but only with the bits i want to rewatch so i can simply pretend the other sections do not exist and that i enjoy the show again

[lostcauses-noregrets]

Lostcauses Fic: Hindsight

I got fed up of waiting for Isayama to write this scene, so I wrote it myself. Levi and Pieck have a conversation about *that* day in Shiganshina.  

Levi leans against the rail and gazes out over the side of the ship. It’s breathtaking. Blue as far as the eye can see, the horizon little more than a faint smudge of grey in the distance. The sheer scale of the ocean astonishes him and he can’t help wondering what he would have made of it all. The salt air stings the wounds on his face where the dressings don’t quite cover them, and he’s still weak and unsteady on his feet, but at least he feels like he can breathe up here.

A white gull hangs in the air, keeping pace with the ship with no apparent effort. Another flies keening overhead, wheeling around the other, before skimming away over the waves.

The plume of dark smoke from the ship’s funnels billows in their wake and Levi can feel the dull throb of the engines reverberating through the deck beneath his feet. Hanji’s probably down there right now pestering the crew to explain every detail of the infernal machines.

“Captain?”

Pieck steps into his field of vision from the left hand side. He’s noticed that she only ever approaches him from the left, from where he can see her. She’s the only one apart from Hanji that seems to be aware of his limited vision.

“I’m not your captain,” he growls.

“Sorry,” she smiles, undeterred. “I’ve spent my whole life in the military. Old habits. I brought you this.” She holds out a mug of steaming tea.

Levi takes it grudgingly, unable to refuse, but hoping she won’t take it as an invitation to stay. She does. He wants to tell her to fuck off, her presence makes him deeply uncomfortable; she’s too smart by half. But there’s something about her, something about her boldness, and her obvious devotion to her comrades, that reminds him of someone else. She’s respectful, but she’s not intimidated by him, that’s for sure.

They stand by the rail drinking their tea in silence and watching the waves dance and foam along the side of the ship.

“I often think about Shiganshina,” she says eventually.

Levi stiffens. The familiar name sounds strange and foreign in her Marley accent.

“About that day,” she continues, “when I rescued Zeke from you.”

Levi doesn’t answer. He can still picture is so clearly. The catastrophic wave of horror that crashed over him as the Cart Titan snatched Zeke away from under his blades. The shattering realization that he had failed. That he had failed him. Levi doesn’t think about Shiganshina. Shiganshina is always with him. In some ways he never left. Or maybe it’s that he left a part of himself there. The only part that was worth anything.

Pieck is still talking.

“I can’t help thinking about what might have happened. If I hadn’t reached him in time. If I’d just let you kill him. If all this could have been prevented. I could never have imagined that our great War Chief would betray us. That it would come to this.” She sighs. “Hindsight really is a wonderful thing.”

“Those Yeagers played us all for fools.” Levi admits. What a joke.

“I watched you take down Zeke’s Titans you know. I wouldn’t have believed it was possible unless I’d seen it with my own eyes. Everything they told us about the Ackermans was true after all. We never really believed a word of it. We all thought it was just stories. Like you’d tell children to get them to behave.”

Levi is mildly curious about what they were told, but he doesn’t ask.

“I’d never seen anyone move with such speed. It shouldn't have been possible. You’re faster even than Poco and he’s the fastest Jaw we ever….” she tails off, falling silent for a moment.

“There’s one thing I’ve always wondered though. You hesitated. You could have killed Zeke, but you hesitated.”

It’s not a question but she looks at him shrewdly, expecting an answer.

“I thought…” Levi starts, unsure why he’s answering her. “I thought there was someone I could save.”

“And did you?”

“Yes.” Levi replies without hesitation.

“I’m glad. Life is precious. We seem to have forgotten that.”

“I know. That’s why I let him die.”

Pieck stares at him under hooded eyes.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Of course. Commander Erwin. I’ve heard a lot about him.”

Levi swallows hard and looks away.

Armin and Annie are sitting together on the far side of the deck, an awkward distance between them.

“She killed my squad.” Levi says, bitter and desperate to change the subject. “Crushed them like insects. You remind me of one of them. She was about your age.”

Pieck watches them placidly for a while.

“We thought you were devils,” she says, still gazing at Annie and Armin. “That’s what we were taught. It was drummed into us. ‘The devils of Paradis Island.’ We didn’t know what else to think.”

“And now?”

“Now?” Pieck’s gaze is piercing as she turns to face him. “Now I think we’re all devils.”

She’s not wrong.

“You should go below,” she says. “We’ll reach Odiha by noon tomorrow. Commander Zoe told me to tell you that you need to rest. And that if you don’t go back to your cabin they’ll drag you there themselves. I can take that back to the galley.” She holds out her hand for the empty cup. Levi peers down at it in surprise, he wasn’t aware that he’d finished it.

She takes the cup but before she turns away, she pauses.

“Captain," there's steel in her tone. "Next time, don’t hesitate.”

“I won’t.” Levi replies.

I promised him.

[Also on AO3]

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Pirate!au with Captain!Jaskier. Jaskier feels a need to show off his pet witcher to the rest of the crew. -sol

(so I’ve made Captain!Jaskier incredibly horny with some soft dom vibes and there’s nothing I can do now except keep writing him that way)

-this is going to be slightly Horny so fair warning; I also made up that thing about Nilfgaard so don’t @ me about fuckin’ with the lore. I know I am a fool-

Geralt didn’t know whether to be proud of himself or embarrassed. The young Captain kept him close to his side all the time. The ex-witcher had never been praised quite so often. Or treated like a person of value. Or petted. Or kissed.

It was almost infuriating how weak the pirate made him feel. He was supposed to be out in the world killing monsters (not that there were many left) and protecting people, not sitting on an overstuffed red-and-blue cushion while the Lark of Lettenhove played with his hair absentmindedly. “Why do I have to sit like this all the time?”

“Ah,” the pirate smiled playfully. “It’s a custom I learned about during my travels in Nilfgaard. If someone is wealthy and influential enough, they might employ a particularly attractive person to serve as their trophy lover.”

“You’re not paying me.”

“Well I’m feeding you, aren’t I?”

Geralt hummed his agreement. He was being fed. Very well. 

“I’ve given you new clothes, washed and braided your unruly mane, and kissed you into silence on several occasions.” The Captain continued. “You belong to me until your debts are paid.”

“They’ll never be paid if I keep eating from the ship’s supply of food.”

“Mhm. Exactly. The thing is, darling, that I wouldn’t mind keeping you like this forever.” Jaskier smirked but his eyes were full of gentle concern and curiosity. “Unless you have any objections to such an arrangement. We’ll be at port in a few days and you’re welcome to leave if you so desire.”

Geralt considered. Nobody he knew was going to suddenly come upon him in the middle of the ocean. If he died in battle here it wouldn’t be much different than dying while fighting a monster. Not to mention that Jaskier’s crew of ruffians and rogues didn’t dare hurl insults or stones at him aboard this vessel. He was rather well-liked, actually. Some of the men came and talked to him whenever he had a moment away from Jaskier’s side (as rare as they were) about everyday things like sword polishing and rope repair. Things Geralt knew and understood. Things he enjoyed talking about. 

“Okay. I’ll stick around a little longer. And since I’m your pet I suppose you’re also allowed to kiss and touch me however you’d like.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I would like that, I think. Just let me know when you’re going to do that stuff, alright?”

“Goody!” the young pirate clapped. “I am amenable to your terms, darling. Now let’s move to the galley for a bit. I need to speak with some of the crew.”

“Hmm.”

“Bring your cushion.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt did as he was told, carrying his assigned pillow from the captain’s cabin to the large galley/dining area. He knelt at Jaskier’s side again and felt those long, calloused fingers start tracing up and down the back of his neck. He shivered visibly and ignored a few strange looks from the men. “Shh, Geralt.”

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking too loud. Here,” the Captain leaned down for a moment and pressed his lips against his captive’s. He bit the white-haired man’s bottom lip, cupping the base of Geralt’s skull with his hand as he did so. Not only was the older man incapable of moving away from Jaskier’s strong hold on him, but he found that he didn’t really want to move away. He liked the apparent control his Captain liked to exert over him. He liked being told what to do as straightforwardly as possible. The kiss was intense and stole the witcher’s breath away. When Jaskier finally pulled back, Geralt’s golden eyes were glazed over and watery. “That’s much better, precious thing.”

With Jaskier there were no guessing games. No rules that Geralt didn’t understand. The young Captain took what he wanted when he wanted it; even though he was always sure to check with Geralt for permission first. 

The Captain released him from the kiss and turned to speak with the crew members gathered in the galley. The ex-witcher closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers sliding against his skin wherever they moved. 

This might not be such a bad gig, after all.

[jackalgirl]

Telling vs. Showing

I had posted an excerpt from the Turkey City Lexicon a while back, about "Telling Not Showing", which is one of those things that writers are recommended not to do.

Violates the cardinal rule of good writing. The reader should be allowed to react, not be instructed in how to react. Carefully observed details render authorial value judgments unnecessary. For instance, instead of telling us "she had a bad childhood, an unhappy childhood," specific incidents--involving, say, a locked closet and two jars of honey--should be shown.

I was thinking about this the other night -- and I stress that it came to me by itself, please please don't anyone think I'm calling you out on this, because I am not -- and thought it might be fun* to provide an example. Stick around (under the cut) if you're interested.

* I lie. Aethel and Felix told me to write this, and woke me up early to do so. Fine. I'm done, you two, may I please go get some more coffee? Thank you.

Telling

Felix found Aethel in the galley, reading one of Max’s books. He made a face, wondering why she was reading it. When he’d first met her, it probably would have never occurred to him to ask her why — she’s weird and more than a little scary — but he had come to understand that she put all that weirdness and scariness to service in the way she cared for people, and he knew she cared for him, so he sat down and asked anyway. She looked, he thought, a little relieved to be interrupted, which did not really surprise him. She was very much willing to tell him about it, and in fact confirmed his suspicion that she found the text…how did she put it? Tedious. But she was reading it to better understand the way the people in the Order think, so she was determined to read it anyway. Good luck with that, he thought, and got himself something to eat out of the fridge.

versus Showing

Felix found Aethel in the galley, a book open before her on the common table and a line between her eyebrows. It must be one of Max’s books, he thought. He sat down and she looked up. Perhaps he was imagining it, but it appeared to him that she had a look of relief on her face. “Watcha readin’, Aethel?” He asked her. When he’d first met her, it probably would have never occurred to him to ask her a question like this — she’s weird and more than a little scary — but he had come to understand that she put all that weirdness and scariness to service in the way she cared for people, and he knew she cared for him, so in this particular moment, he hadn’t hesitated. “One of the vicar’s books on Scientism,” she said, confirming his guess. He made a face. “Ugh. Why? You’re always arguing with him about it.” And driving him nuts. Another point in her favor, actually. “It’s important to him,” she said. “And what’s more, it’s important to this colony. It would be foolish for me to dismiss it. I want to understand it better.” Felix gestured at the book. “Is that helping?” Aethel let out a sigh. “Alas, no. It is tedious.” “That’s why I like serial books,” Felix grinned. He tilted his head. “Why is it, ah, tedious, though?” “The author uses words like a collector,” she said. “But not like an artist.” Felix tilted his head and his expression must have told her he didn’t get it — I don’t get it — because she leaned back and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Do you remember the Sprat Fancy party in Byzantium?” She asked. Felix felt his face screw up again. “It was awful.” At first, Byzantium had impressed him. It was so clean! But eventually he realized it was as full of trash as the rest of the Colony — just higher-class trash, is all. Plus, the people there were always looking down on him — worse than the crew of the Groundbreaker, if that was possible. Or worse than the crew had been, before I helped Aethel fix the heat. Now they liked him well enough. But in Byzantium, nothing the crew had done had changed the Byzantines’ attitudes towards them. Their disdain is baked in, Aethel had said at the time. And speaking of baking, Aethel said, “do you remember the food?” “Ugh. Do I ever. The prettiest food you ever saw. Tasted like shit, though.” “What would those people have thought of a Boarst Pocket?” Aethel asked. “Ha!” Felix drummed the table with his hands in amusement. “They’d hold up their noses, for sure. Something that plain and simple?” “And yet, it is delicious?” “Yes,” Felix spoke with the conviction of a dedicated cultist. Aethel nodded. She tapped the pages in front of her. “This book is like the food in Byzantium. It is concerned about its appearance, and about all the different colors it can show you — it is very pretty. But it tastes like shit.” “So why are you eating it?” Felix asked, then remembered she’d answered him earlier. “Because you want to understand the system,” he said. She nodded. “I think of it as reconnaissance,” she said. “At some point, I’m going to have to deal with Order people who are higher ranked than Max. I need to understand what they think — or at least, what they’re telling people they think, which may not be the same.” “I wouldn’t be surprised at all if they all turned out to be a pack of hypocrites,” Felix said. “I’ll bet it’s all a show for power.” “Perhaps it’s not all a show for power,” Aethel suggested. But then she relented. “But yes, I tend to think that in the end, that’s the Order’s primary goal.” All that talk about Boarst Pockets made him want one, so he got up and got one out of the fridge. “Would you like one, boss?” He said, waggling the packet, knowing her answer in advance: “No thank you, Felix,” she said politely. He chuckled to himself. I don’t get how she can like spratwurst and not like boarst. Some things just defied understanding. I hope she has better luck with that book.

I liked writing this, because it gave me a little epiphany for another scene (the "Sprat Fancy" party) and an opportunity to put Sprat Fancy magazine into the actual fic, as opposed to it remaining as something of a joke.

[ Image description: cover of "Sprat Fancy", showing an adorable pink-splotched, white sprat from above, looking up at the camera with her gorgeous black eyes. Text reads: "Sprat Fancy Magazine - your guide to Halcyon's Fancy Sprats" and "Volume 22, Issue 8, 2 bits" with article leads: "Sacred Beasts: The Role of Sprats in the Faith", "Refuge: Keeping your precious sprat safe from marauders (and hungry neighbors)", "Ooo La La! Jolicoeur Haberdashery releases an all new line of fancy sprat fashion! Get a sneak peak of the latest on the Byzantine spratwalk!", "Place Your Bets: Your comprehensive guide to this season's All-Colony Fancy Spratstravanaza - who's in? Who's out? You may just be surprised by this year's contenders!" and a corner flag: "Ask Doctor Sprat". The cover image is captioned: "'Bakonu' by Captain Pearl Jenkins. With this large beauty take 'Best in Show' from Lord Reginald Kim III?" End ID. ]

Sometimes, having to write stuff out like this (especially between major scenes) is really daunting, because it generally doesn't come to me all at once like the major scenes do. I know, right from the get-go, that this is going to be a time-consuming process (I call it "sausage making"), and it's scary when I don't immediately see a clear way forward or understand how it will turn out. But I find that once I get going, the characters are happy to cooperate. And it's always worthwhile, because most of the time, I get some kind of revelation or epiphany (as above) that makes the story better, or maybe it's just neat and makes me giggle. But that's reason enough.

This is part of the pros of showing versus telling, in addition to giving the reader more to discover, understand, and react to on their own (rather than simply telling them how to react, which is what you want to avoid). The obvious con is that it takes so much longer. I would think that telling would be useful in contexts where you just don't have the column space, or are limited in the number of words you can provide. And I think it could also be useful -- used judiciously -- if you're deliberately trying to hide something from the reader.

But if you've been telling instead of showing because the amount of work you can see in front of you daunts you (or you just can't envision how it's going to go), I can only say: give it a try. You'll be surprised at what the characters are just waiting to tell you, if you only give them the chance.

[mugiwara-rosewolf]

Hiiii💚hope ur have a good day/night if it not to much to ask can i have Zoro with a female reader who to shy to confess her feeling for him. You could end it anyway u want 💚

Hello Anon! I loved the concept you sent me, but it turned out a *little* different than I anticipated. If this isn’t what you were hoping for, feel free to Bop me in the DM’s and I’ll try again. Hope you enjoy!

Timid Confession

Zoro x Shy!Reader

6 Romantic Do’s and Don’ts--Swordsman Edition

(Warning: mild cursing. Stupid pirates.)

There comes a time, when every soul on Earth must be open and unbearably honest with another. A time when you must expose yourself. A time where you must open the ribcage of your chest to reveal the butterflies in your stomach, the fluttering of your heartbeat, and the way your breath hitches when a certain silhouette walks by. There comes a time when you have no choice but to lay your life--mind, body and soul--on the line and take a risk. In theory, this is something you know quite well. As a warrior of the Straw hat crew, this willingness to put everything at risk for your dreams is an everyday reality. But what about when that risk is a person? Surely the basic gist is still the same...right?

Wrong. Johnny and Yosaku used to laugh about this a lot--to your face--about how you are an absolute disaster outside of battle. The stoic, competent warrior shown on your bounty poster would vaporize as soon as you sheath your sword. Otherwise, you were a bashful, stumbling mess. And once a certain moss-haired hunter joined the crew...you were finished. With the flash of his sword, he caught your attention. With his wicked-sharp slit of a smile, he punctured the deepest parts of you. Your fate was sealed. Roronoa Zoro would be the death of you. 

Everyone seemed to know what this strange phenomenon was, but to you, it was a goddamned mystery. It was a miracle that you were ever able to speak more than a dozen words to him on any given day. When your paths diverged for the first time, it was almost a relief. But from then on, there was always a gap in your plans. An empty bunk on your ship that used to be filled with snores at the most random hours. Your chest always ached at the memory. 

It was in that space of absence that you realized--you loved him. The thought alone was enough to turn your whole world turned topsy-turvy. Then the Baratie happened. Then Mihawk, then Arlong and then--this peculiar straw-hat pirate, this boy that Zoro had sworn his fealty to--invites you along on his grand adventure. After all the things you’d seen and done, seeing the anticipation glistening in Roronoa’s eyes...how could you say no?

Life since then has been the wildest ride you could ever dream of. Marines, mercenaries, Giant whales and dinosaurs--it’s like something out of a fairy tale. And during all that time, one thing hasn’t changed. Zoro. Your heart pounds in your chest when you hear his footfalls approaching. Butterflies swim up to your throat every time you hear his voice. butterflies in your stomach. Your breath hitches, just from the way he looks at you. There were so many nights, hunkered down with Johnny and Yosaku in some tavern somewhere, where you wondered what you would say to him. To Zoro, if your paths ever crossed again. 

Now here you are, reunited, chasing your dreams together. And yet you still can’t speak, let alone freaking breath in his presence. It was a nightmare. Stuttering every line, palms sweating, knees trembling, face catching fire--every possible symptom under the sun now seemed to increase ten-fold. How the heck were you supposed to genuinely bond with the man you loved when you could barely talk?

Nami was the first to catch on. Of course, she was. Her suggestion was to trick him into confessing his feelings for you. The moment she said the words you just stared at her. You swore right then and there this lady was crazy. Like, ‘dingo ate my baby’ crazy. There was no way in any of the Blues that Zoro had feelings for you. How could he? Every interaction was stilted and awkward. The only reason you two fought well together was that you’d done it before. God, how you’d missed it, in the time he’d been away. You quickly shook yourself free of the thought.

 “Z-Zoro doesn’t work like that,” you’d told her. “Anything underhanded is either--is either gonna fly over his head or piss him off. I-I can’t, I can’t do that…” 

The second time was Chopper’s idea. He hadn’t meant to overhear, but his curious little ears were very sensitive and… “well, I want to help you and Zoro”. 

Which--okay. Zoro and Chopper adore each other. The swordsman is always co concerned and gentle with the young doctor. But he never belittles your resident reindeer for his age or size. That was something you already admired about the elder swordsman. He maintained gratifying respect for everyone in the crew--even Sanji. Nevertheless. You found it very endearing that Copper wanted to help you confess your feelings. As you soon discovered, however...that sweet, innocent winter reindeer had no clue about human romance whatsoever. 

“Well, that was a waste-a--” 

“Wonderful lesson in reindeer culture!” You interjected. Cutting off the cat burglar before she could finish her sentence. “But, uh, m-maybe there are other ways I can go about...er, ya know.”

And so, Nami called in reinforcements. Usopp the Liar. The long-nosed sniper was dragged into the room by his ear. Nami recounted the situation as I hid my face in my hands. His eyes practically sparkled with excitement.

 “Ooh! Okay! I have a great idea! How about I go up to Zoro and start bragging about you, ya know, all the awesome adventures you went on before you saw each other again. Then he’d know just how awesome you are and he’d have to ask you out. I mean, he’s already in lo--” 

“L-loudly snoring in the galley, I’m sure,” you excused quickly, shaking your head. “But if you interrupt his nap, all he’s gonna do is skin you alive.” Ussop visibly paled at the matter-of-fact statement. “I don’t--I don’t want anyone else getting hurt on my behalf so let’s just--I’ll figure something else out.”

Leaving the little pow-wow below decks, you bump into none other than your beloved’s worst enemy--Sanji, the ‘Ero-Cook’. “Ah, Y/N!” He cried in jubilation.

“Sanji!” You squeaked out. Your sudden alarm gave him pause.

“You look distressed, mademoiselle,” The observation alone was enough to turn his expression into a stormcloud incarnate. “If that damned Marimo broke your heart, I swear--”

“N-n-n-n-no!” You hurried to reassure him, waving your hand before Sanji could start kicking anything. “That’s not it at all! I mean, we were talking about--but he didn’t--I mean, he wasn’t even--” after so many fumbles you eventually just gave up, heaving a heavy sigh. “It’s nothing. I’m just bad at being brave.”

“I don’t believe it,” The cook’s immediate reply has you looking up at him in surprise. You saw him pull a cigarette from the pocket of his suit. “Not in a million years. You are one of the bravest angels sailing the seas, Y/N--whatever it is that scares you, they should be ten times more afraid.”

“You still talking about Zoro?”

“Damn right I am,” Sanji growled, his vitriol for Zoro overpowering his typical decorum. His lighter flickered to life as his eyes met yours. “It’s a gentleman’s job to court a lady, make her feel precious and desired. That brute can’t tell romance from a brick wall.”

“Whatchu talkin’ bout bricks for?” Another voice queried. Both you and Sanji turn. There, at the other end of the hall, is your captain. “Bricks got nothin’ to do with Zoro.”

“L-Luffy,” You stammered. “I thought you were at the figurehead, with Zoro?”

“I was, but then he decided to nap somewhere else. So I came here.” Luffy stated clearly, hands perched proudly on his hips. He looked between you and Sanji again, still curious. “So, why you guys talking about Zoro and bricks?”

“Because that’s how dense he is,” Sanji retorted. “Moss-head can’t tell that our darling Y/N is head-over-heels for his dumbass.” a trail of smoke slithered from between his gritted teeth. 

At the mention of your name, Luffy turned and cocked his head. “But your head is below your heels. Isn’t that how people work?”

“M-most of the time, yes,” Sanji let out a sigh and a low curse. You bit your lip a moment before electing to explain. “But that’s not--what he means is, er, that I....uh, oh how do I explain this? Um. I want to tell Zoro something. But I’m not sure how.”

Your captain stared blankly at you. As if you’d smacked yourself in the face with a plank of wood and he couldn’t sure why. “Why are you so scared?” He asked, point-blank. “Whatever’s the most you thing to do, do it that way. Don’t worry about anything else, Y/N.” 

Both you and Sanji shared a glance. The cook’s narrowed eyes told you he was a little bit sceptical. But he shrugged. He knew better than to question your captain’s logic. You, on the other hand, felt as if the sky had suddenly opened up. The next time you looked back at Luffy, your smile was as bright as the midday sun. “I think...I think you got the right idea, Luffy. I’ll give it a shot!”

Walking past both young men, you found your way to one of Zoro’s favourite napping places. Nami’s orchard. When you find him there, time seems to pause for a moment. The wash of the waves against the ship, the scent of the sun and the salt of the sea. That tang of citrus and those bright spots of colour in the trees--all those things seem hushed now. All you see is that head of mossy green hair and the entrancing rise-and-fall of his breath. You found a rake near Usopp’s garden boxes. It was like you had told the sniper earlier. If you prod a sleeping swordsman, you’ll get skinned alive. That is if you stand within swords-length. 

Blades of grass softly crunch under your shoes as you tip-toe your way to the tree where Zoro is resting. When you’re close enough to reach, you turn the rake over in your hand; electing to poke him with the wooden tip instead of the metal points. If he felt the metal he might mistake it for a weapon and a genuine threat. Goodness knows you and your old bounty-hunting crew had plenty of threats to your sleep over the years. 

One poke. No response. Two pokes. A groan and a slight shift. Then the snoring returns. You poke him three times; poke-poke-poke. He groans and shifts, his brow furrowing at the disturbance. But he still doesn’t open his eyes. You huffed to yourself. You really thought the three-pokes would work. Three was Zoro’s favourite number, after all. Patience fizzling along with your nerve, you finally jab him in the side. 

“Zoro!”

The swordsman jolts awake. He looks up, seeing the broomstick near his shoulder, and traces it to you. “Why are you poking me with a rake?” 

The moment his eyes land on you, all your fizzling patience and brazen nerve seem to vanish into the air. Butterflies surge from your stomach in a tidal wave, suddenly clogging up your throat. Your heartbeat jolts in speed at the sudden onslaught. The rake clatters from your hands as you flounder in embarrassment. “T-to, to avoid being fileted by a grumpy swordsman.”

Zoro huffed. “Put that thing away,” You hurry to do so. It is a vain hope that you might beagle to drain the warm flush from your face by the time you return. All the while, your fellow swordsman scrubs the sleep from his face with one hand. “Why’d you wake me up?” 

“I-I, I wanna talk to you.” You abruptly drop yourself into the grass beside him. Standing above him in this orange grove somehow made you feel weird. If you were gonna have this conversation, you felt you needed to be on the same level.

“Okay, then talk.” 

“Er, okay. So…Zoro, I-I mean I’ve been meaning to tell you that I--” you hesitate. But this time you swallow the lump in your throat, summon your courage--and expose your beating heart. “--I love you.”

Zoro is silent for a long moment. His eyes never waver from where you now sit beside him. Swords propped on his other side, he has his arms wrapped around his knees. Ever since he woke up, his expression hasn’t changed. He just looks at you, plain and straightforward as can be when he says; “Okay.” 

You splutter. The single word response is nearly enough to throw you into conniptions. “Wha-what do you mean just, ‘okay’? I’ve been agonizing over how to tell you how I feel for-for ages! And all you have to say is ‘okay’?!” 

The swordsman snorted. “Like words are the only thing that matters. Your actions speak for you, Y/N. I thought my actions made it clear that I--” 

“...You what?” You blink, watching the spark of a blush rush vividly across the swordsman's’ cheeks. 

“I-I love you, dammit! There. You happy now?” 

The instant those words reached your ears, your smile bloomed like a sunflower. After all the ideas and voices and fears you’d heard today, you could hardly believe it--they were right! After all the years preparing for this moment, you could finally look someone in the eye and speak your truth. “I couldn’t be happier.”

[searchingwardrobes]

The Early Leaf’s a Flower: 2/11

I should have mentioned that the last chapter was kind of just an intro and the chapters going forward will be much longer. Here Emma and Killian get to know each other, but fate also starts being a cruel mistress to our precious babies. I did say this has a lot of angst, right?

I also took off the major character death tag because the only deaths in this will be canonical deaths of secondary characters or deaths of original minor characters. In short, Emma and Killian will have tragic lives, just like in canon. So buckle your seat belts and grab your tissues, folks . . .

Major thanks once again to the mods of the @captainswanbigbang for organizing the CSRT, and my crew of betas: @shippingtheswann, @optomisticgirl, and @distant-rose. This fic would be a mess without them. This chapter in particular owes massive thanks to @shippingtheswann . For those of you who read the original, there is more of Emma and Killian bonding as children thanks to her encouragement and input. 

Summary: She saw eyes that were the blue of the forget me not peering at her through the cracked door of the wardrobe. He saw hair as gold as the buttercups. Why does the wardrobe keep bringing them back to one another, if fate keeps tearing them apart? Or maybe fate has her reasons …

Rated: M for eventual sexy times, violence, canonical character death, and attempted rape

Trigger warnings: vague references to child abuse (physical and sexual), violence, and eventual positive Millian

Words: 4k and some change in this chapter

**Complete and updated every Monday** Also on Ao3

Emma: Age 10

The next morning Martha is beside herself with worry to find Lindsay gone. Emma lies and says she must have been asleep when the teenager left, and a lie has never made her feel so guilty. Children’s services are already there when the school bus comes for her and Tyler. Emma so badly wants to tell the social worker that it wasn’t Martha’s fault; that Martha is nice and she wants to stay here. But she’s too afraid of her lies to open her mouth.

At the end of the day, the school bus drops them off at Martha’s, and everything seems normal. Martha has even unpacked Emma’s suitcase. Inside the wardrobe are not only Emma’s meager shirts and jeans, but a couple of new outfits as well. There’s also a new pillow on the bed covered in bright flowers. A fluffy white bunny with a bright pink ribbon is propped up against the new pillow. Emma hugs it with delight.

She wants to tell Martha thank you for the things she got her when they gather around the dinner table, but for some reason the words won’t come.

Tonight, Emma’s Bible verse is “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.”

Emma can’t sleep that night. All she can do is keep glancing at the wardrobe, wondering if it really opened last night, if the eyes were really there. Finally, Emma tells herself she’s being silly. She rolls away from the wardrobe, and pulls the covers up to her chin. She closes her eyes and wills herself to go to sleep. But then her heart stops. There it is. The creaking again. The sound is longer this time, as if the door is swinging open, and Emma gasps.

She whirls around and screams when she sees a dark shape through the half open wardrobe, blue eyes reflecting the moonlight as they gaze at her. The door flings open and Martha rushes in.

“Emma, sweetie, what is it?”

“There’s something in the wardrobe!” she cries, turning and pointing. But the door to the wardrobe is completely shut.

Martha chuckles as she brushes back Emma’s hair. “Oh, that’s just your imagination running away with you.” To prove her point, she goes to the wardrobe and flings it open. Emma yelps, expecting to see the blue-eyed monster standing there, but all she sees are her clothes lined up in a row.

Martha tucks her in and kisses her goodnight, but Emma knows the truth. Something is in that wardrobe, and tomorrow night, she won’t let it scare her.

**********************************************

The next morning, children’s services are there again, this time to pick up Tyler and take him to his aunt who lives in the next county. At dinner that night, Emma secretly loves that it’s just her and Martha. Her Bible verse reads, “A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born to comfort us in our sorrows. - Proverbs 17:17”

After Martha tucks her in that night, Emma crawls out from under the covers and pulls her knees up to her chest. She rests her chin on her knees and gazes intently at the wardrobe. Her heart is thumping wildly in her chest, but she won’t hide in fear. Not tonight. She isn’t imagining things; and she’ll prove it.

Sure enough, just as she thinks she might nod off where she sits, the door of the wardrobe creaks slowly open. Through the half open door, she first sees those blue eyes, the bluest she’s ever seen. Then the dark shape is there. Emma’s heart is pounding, and her breaths come fast as she stares at the shadow. Part of her wants to duck under the covers, and hide, but instead she closes her eyes and counts to ten until her breathing evens out. When she opens her eyes, the shadow is still there. Maybe it’s just one of Emma’s shirts? Her eyes playing tricks on her, like Martha said? Emma eases to the end of the bed slowly on her hands and knees, and when she reaches the edge, right next to the wardrobe she can almost make out the shape . . .

But then those sparkling blue eyes widen in fear and the shape shuffles backwards quickly, slamming the door shut. Inside, Emma hears a thud followed by desperate shuffling and gasping. Then another thud followed by the sound of crying. Emma jumps from the high bed and pads the three steps across the cold wood floors to the door of the wardrobe. She reaches up for the handle, hesitating only a moment before slowly pulling it open.

All she can see at first are ten small toes peeking out from beneath the clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Emma reaches up and pushes the clothes hangers aside. Now she can see a head of dark hair resting atop two skinny arms that are folded around two skinny legs. It’s just a little boy! A little boy curled up into a tight, frightened ball. His sniffling and crying echo in the small space.

“Who are you?” Emma asks.

The little boy lifts his head, revealing those blue eyes she has seen the last few nights, this time shining bright with tears. His dark brown hair is in need of a trim and falls across his forehead, hanging almost in front of his eyes. His thin face is sprinkled with freckles. He lifts his hand and rubs it across his nose.

“I’m Killian,” he tells her.

“I’m Emma.” She cocks her head as she studies him. “Why are you crying?”

He blushes at her question, and straightens up, pushing his legs forward. “I can’t get out the way I came,” he tells her simply.

Emma offers him her hand. He crawls forward, taking it, and she helps him hop down out of the wardrobe. He wears a nightshirt made of scratchy brown fabric that reaches his knees. He shivers and wraps his arms around himself.

“Come on, I’ll give you a blanket,” she tells him, hopping up on the bed. He follows her, and she wraps a giant patchwork quilt around the two of them.

“This is warm” Killian says, holding it close.

“Martha makes them for the children she takes care of,” Emma explains.

“Is she your grandmother?”

Emma shakes her head, “No. Just a lady who’s taking care of me. I never knew my mother.”

Killian’s head drops, “My mum died.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma frowns. “My parents left me when I was a baby.”

“My father left me,” Killian says, “that’s why I’m a slave now.”

“A slave!” Emma exclaims. Killian winces, and she feels bad. She hadn’t meant anything against him. “We learned in school that slavery ended,” she hastens to explain.

Killian shakes his head sadly. “Not where I come from.”

Emma worries that she really did hurt his feelings, especially when he keeps his eyes on the quilt and won’t look at her. Then the grumbling of his stomach breaks the silence.

“Are you hungry?”

He shrugs. “I’m always hungry.”

Emma understands that. This home and her last one had plenty of food, but there have been others . . .

“Come on,” she says, jumping up from the bed, “let’s get a snack.”

Killian keeps the quilt wrapped around himself when he slides off the bed to follow her. She slowly inches the door open and motions him to follow her as she tiptoes into the hallway. Emma pauses at Martha’s door; she can hear the elderly woman snoring on the other side.

“You know,” she whispers to Killian, “I think Martha would let you stay.”

“No!” he protests in a loud whisper, his eyes going wide.

“But then you wouldn’t have to be a slave anymore. And she’s really nice.”

“I have a brother,” Killian says. “I can’t leave him.”

Emma’s face falls, but she understands. If she had any family, any at all, she would stay with them. She would never let them go. So instead of reaching for Martha’s doorknob, she grasps Killian’s hand through the quilt and tugs him down the hallway.

The linoleum is cold beneath Emma’s feet as they tiptoe into the empty kitchen. She reaches for the lightswitch, and when the fluorescent bulbs flicker to life, Killian gasps.

“What . . . what kind of magic are these lights?”

Emma giggles. “It isn’t magic. It’s lightbulbs, silly.”

“Oh,” Killian says in wonder, but he’s barely paying attention to her. The quilt slips from his shoulders and to the floor as he wanders around the room, wonder upon his face. “It’s all so clean . . . and shiny. This is your galley?”

“Uh . . . I don’t know what that is, but Martha does clean alot.”

Killian stops in front of the white refrigerator. He tentatively reaches out a hand and pulls the door open. The cold air causes him to startle back.

“It’s so cold!” he cries out.

“Shh!” Emma warns him.

“Sorry,” Killian whispers.

Emma tilts her head. “You’ve never seen lightbulbs or a fridge? Are you a time traveler or something? I saw that in a movie once.”

His brow furrows. “What’s a movie?”

“It’s . . . like a . . . pictures. That move . . . and talk.” She shrugs, not sure how else to describe a movie.

“I’ve never heard of magic like this,” Killian tells her in wonder. “I don’t know what time travel is, but this is definitely a different realm.”

Emma’s about to ask him what he means by realm, but then both their stomachs growl at the same time, and they both laugh. She grabs the carton of milk, closes the refrigerator, then carries it to the table.

“There’s glasses next to the sink,” she tells Killian, pointing. While he gets the glasses, she gets the Oreos out of the pantry. Martha had let her have two with a glass of milk when she did her homework. Something else Emma only thought happened on TV.

Emma doesn’t bother with plates, just sets the package of cookies in the middle of the table. Killian carefully pours the milk.

“I haven’t had milk since Papa left,” he tells her, “and never this cold.”

“You’re definitely a time traveler,” Emma states as she slides the plastic tray of cookies from the package. She takes out a cookie and hands it to Killian, then takes one for herself. “I’m gonna guess you never had an Oreo, then. People eat ‘em different ways, but I like to dunk em.”

She plunks her cookie in the milk, and Killian imitates her.

“I like to leave it in the milk for a bit so it gets real gooshy.”

Killian watches her intently, and she smiles. Then she pulls out her cookie and eats the half that’s soaked with milk. Killian follows suit, and his eyes brighten with delight.

“Mm, that’s good!” he turns the cookie and eats the rest without milk. “It’s good crunchy, too.”

Their only conversation for a few minutes is smiles and laughter as Emma teaches him all the ways to eat an Oreo: twisting it in half and licking the cream, taking bites followed by sips of milk, quick dunks. Then they both get a bit silly, crumbling the cookies in the milk and drinking it all up. Before they know it, the entire package is gone.

“Oh no!” Killian explains. “Will you get in trouble?”

Emma frowns as she brushes cookie crumbs from the table. “I don’t think so. I mean, Martha probably didn’t want me to eat the whole pack, but she’s too nice to hit me or anything.”

Killian nods, his shoulders relaxing. Emma props her chin on her hand and taps her lips as she studies him.

“This whole thing reminds me of a book I read,” she tells him. “These kids went through a wardrobe to a magic land with dwarves, a witch, and talking animals and stuff.”

Killian retrieves the quilt from the floor and wraps himself up in it again. “I’ve never seen any talking animals, but I’ve seen dwarves in the Misthaven port. And there’s a witch in the Glowerhaven port who sells potions and stuff.”

He says it so casually, and her jaw drops. “You live in a place that has magic?”

“Of course,” Killian says before finishing the last of his milk. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “You do too. The lights, the magical cold box, and the pictures that move.”

Emma shakes her head. “That’s not magic, that’s . . . um, inventions or whatever. Like in school we learned about Thomas Edison inventing the lightbulb.”

“Oh,” Killian said, “so people don’t cast spells or anything like that?”

“No.”

“And there are no dwarves or witches?”

“No. And if you told anyone you saw that stuff, they’d call you crazy!” Emma leaned forward eagerly. “What else magical have you seen?”

“Well, we see mermaids a lot -”

“Mermaids!”

“Uh huh, and Cook says he saw a kraken once.” Killan shudders. “I don’t ever want to see one of those monsters.”

“It sounds so exciting!”

“Not really,” Killian says, “most days at sea are long and boring.”

His eyes flutter and he shivers under the quilt, so Emma jumps up and grabs his hand again. She leads him back to her room where they climb back into the warm bed. It’s very late, and she knows they should probably try and sleep, but they keep finding things to talk about.

Suddenly, Emma’s eyes have drifted shut and her head has dropped to Killian’s shoulder, when a shaft of light falls across the bed. Emma and Killian turn their heads in surprise towards the wardrobe. The light is unusually bright as it falls through the open door.

“That’s weird,” Emma comments, her brow furrowing.

The two of them scramble down from the bed to peer inside the wardrobe.

“Woah,” Emma breathes, for no longer does she see her clothes or the back of the wardrobe. Instead, she sees a room of wood, rocking gently back and forth. Barrels and boxes fill the room, and men and boys sleep in hammocks hanging from the beams of the ceiling. Everything is damp, and Emma can smell salt and something musty. The air blowing through feels warm and wet against her face.

“That’s the hold of the ship,” Killian tells her.

He scrambles inside the wardrobe, but Emma grasps his arm, “Wait, you can’t go yet!”

He shakes his head, “My brother will worry. We’re all each other has.”

“Will you come back tomorrow night?” She asks, tentatively biting her lower lip.

Killian grins brightly. “Aye, lass.”

He turns to go, but then seems to hesitate. He spins back towards her, his face flaming red, and pecks a quick kiss against her cheek. Then the light is shining so bright in the wardrobe that it blinds Emma and she has to look away. Then Killian is gone, and Emma stands there with her hand to her cheek.

**************************************************

The next morning at breakfast, Martha seems different. Her eyes seem distant, and her words make no sense. Then half her smile falls down unnaturally, and she slumps against the table. Emma shouts her name, trembling all over, then dashes for the phone to call 911.

That evening, a social worker stands in Martha’s living room waiting for Emma to pack. Emma pulls her suitcase from the wonderful bed covered in Martha’s bright quilt. She grabs the bunny and buries her face in the soft fur. Her eyes catch the wardrobe, and she frowns. Killian won’t understand when she’s not here. She takes a deep breath and before she can change her mind, she dashes to the wardrobe and sets the little bunny inside.

When she walks out of the room, she can’t help giving the wardrobe one last look over her shoulder.

Killian: Age 10

Killian can scarcely believe that the fates have smiled upon him by sending him the wardrobe, nor that he’s had the honor of making a friend like Emma.

He also can’t believe he kissed her. He’s not even sure what came over him. His face had burned so that he feared his cheeks would be reddened permanently. Her cheek had been so soft, and her hair had tickled his nose. She was so pretty -

“Killian!” his brother hisses. Liam punctuates his reprimand by flicking Killian with the rag he’s using to swab the deck.

“Ow, what was that for?”

“What is with you, little brother? The captain will give you lashes again if he catches you mooning.”

“I’m not mooning,” Killian grumbles as he concentrates on scrubbing at the fish blood staining the slick boards.

The brothers fall silent as the ship’s captain and first mate walk past. Killian’s back throbs with pain, and he trembles from head to foot remembering the last time he’d been caught daydreaming. He stares at the stains upon the deck, scrubbing as if his life depends on it. The tension across his shoulder blades don’t lessen until the captain heads to his quarters to go over navigation with the first mate.

Killian glances up at his brother. Not only is Liam two years older, he’s taller, broader, and stronger. He also doesn’t go around daydreaming and earning himself lashes.

“Liam,” Killian finally dares ask, “have you . . . kissed many girls?”

Liam’s eyes widen as he lifts his gaze, then he arches his brow and seems to be holding back a teasing grin. Killian pretends to concentrate even harder at his menial task.

“Why, Killy? Has a mermaid flopped on deck lately?”

“We were just in port a month ago,” Killian grumbles.

“Aye,” his brother chuckles, “and you spent the entire time running around on the sand with the other village boys like the child you are.”

“It’s just a bloody question!”

“Okay, okay, calm down,” Liam capitulates. “Truth be told? No, I haven’t. I’ve seen just as many lasses as you have.”

“What about that one girl in Glowerhaven?”

“I . . . well . . . “

It’s Killian’s turn to laugh as his brother’s face turns red and he stumbles over his words.

“I was just leaning in when her father showed up and chased me off.”

Killian’s laughter rings louder, and he falls over, holding his middle. Liam scowls and flings his rag again with a snap. Killian frowns and rubs at the new welt on his arm.

“Guess you can’t help me then,” Killian snaps. He knows it’s immature, but he can’t help it - he sticks his tongue out at his brother.

**************************************

Killian stands nervously in front of the wardrobe that night, smoothing his hair down. The bosun always greases his hair when he goes to court the farmer’s daughter in Arendelle, so Killian has swiped a little from his trunk. The bosun also likes to take his lass flowers, so Killian grips a handful of wilted buttercups in his hand. They had been fresh when they were picked days ago at port. He hopes the captain doesn’t notice them missing from the vase in his quarters - Killian only swiped three.

He’s also hoping to steal another kiss from Emma tonight, and this time he’ll aim for her lips instead of her cheek. Killian’s a little nervous that she’ll slap him, though. Emma seems like the type of girl who just might. It’s one of the things he likes about her, actually. He lets out a deep breath and opens the door of the wardrobe.

Killian cocks his head and frowns when he sees the fluffy white plaything sitting inside the wardrobe. He pulls it out - it’s a stuffed rabbit with the softest, whitest fur he’s ever seen. It’s glass eyes are so bright they shine. Around the toy’s neck is a silky pink ribbon. He sets the rabbit down and climbs into the wardrobe. He slowly opens the door.

“Emma?”

The room is eerily quiet and empty. Emma is nowhere to be seen. He crawls down out of the wardrobe and looks all around at the large, strange room. The quilt he and Emma had shivered under is folded on the bed, yet a foreboding wind seems to blow through the entire house.

“Emma?”

Killian walks around, looks under the bed, behind a dresser. He stops at the door to the room, tentatively reaching out to touch the door knob. He’s just about to open it when a shaft of light shines behind him from the wardrobe door. His heart ricochets wildly in his chest as he dashes back to the magical piece of furniture. He has no idea what might happen if he gets stuck in Emma’s world, nor can he bear the thought of being forever separated from his brother. He drops the buttercups as he dashes across the room, accidentally crushing them beneath his bare feet.

He scrambles back into the wardrobe, tucks the rabbit under the crook of his arm, and hops out of the door on the other side. As he lands back in the ship’s hold, a small rectangle of paper flutters to the floor. He picks it up and reads it, thankful for once that Liam had nagged him to continue his studies after mother had passed. Emma must have left the toy for him. Maybe the note is from her!

“A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born to comfort us in our sorrows. - Proverbs 17:17”

Killian knows what a proverb is, but he’s never heard this one before. It must be common in Emma’s realm. His heart sinks that the words aren’t Emma’s own, but he takes comfort that she chose to leave her toy. He also hopes she meant that she was his friend and that she would never forget him.

After all, Liam is his brother, and he always comforts him. Just like the proverb said.

*******************************************

Killian jolts awake from a nightmare. He blinks his eyes to banish the images of blood splashing onto the deck, his brother crying, the fire across his back. His scars, though healed, still itch and pull at times. He reaches around to touch them gently, half expecting to find blood on his fingers. His body shakes as he releases a ragged breath. Just a dream.

He reaches beneath his itchy blanket and feels the soft toy Emma had given him a week ago. He pulls it out, holds it close, and breathes in the pleasant scent of it. Things in Emma’s realm are so clean and smell so lovely. How do they manage it? He tucks the plaything beneath his cheek, relishing the way it cools his skin. He hasn’t dared let anyone, even Liam, see the bunny. They would ridicule him for sure. He already receives more than his share of mockery for being the youngest on board; he certainly isn’t going to give the crew further reason to torment him.

Killian fingers the silky ribbon as more pleasant dreams fill his mind of comfortable beds, cozy quilts, and Emma’s smile. He’ll hide the bunny beneath his blankets before dawn, but for now, no one needs to know how he takes comfort from it.

Unfortunately, his nightmares have worn him out more than he had realized, and it’s long past sunrise when he blinks his eyes open again. He opens them to the sound of laughter.

“Look at the baby with his poppet!”

“What a pretty ribbon you have there, Killy-Cat.”

Killian shrinks in on himself at the nickname and the word “pretty.” The man adds kissing sounds to the insult, and fear swells in Killian’s chest that he might snatch him and drag him behind the supply barrels again.

A beefy hand reaches out, and Killian recoils. The sailor snatches the rabbit, thankfully, and not the boy. Killian’s relief is short-lived, however, when the men start tossing the rabbit to each other, mocking their little cabin boy with it.

“Stop!” Killian shouts, jumping from his hammock.

The sailors tease him, dangling the rabbit just out of his reach. He jumps up and races around, but he can never grab a hold of the toy. Panic grips him as he realizes how much he wants to hold onto his only tie to Emma. The wardrobe has disappeared again just as mysteriously as it had appeared, and that rabbit is all he has left of his only friend besides his brother.

One of the men grab Killian around the waist and toss him over his shoulder. Guffawing, they all head up the ladder out of the hold. Killian kicks at his captor, demanding he let him go. Where is Liam?

“Want your poppet, little girl?” Cook teases, dangling the rabbit over the railing.

“No, don’t!” Killian screams, which only make the men laugh harder.

“How bad do you want it?” the man who holds him asks, and before Killian can process what is happening, the brute of a man is dangling him over the railing. He holds Killian by the back of his nightshirt, and laughs as the boy kicks and flails.

“Let him go!”

Relief washes over Killian at the sound of his brother’s voice. But the huge sailor just knocks Liam aside as if he were no bigger than a gnat.

“What the bloody hell is this!” another voice thunders, and suddenly Kilian is being deposited with a thud back onto the deck. The crew scrambles to look more presentable as the captain marches forward, his face crooked and red with anger. “Ye scallywags have work to be doin’!”

“We was just teasin’ the cabin boy is all,” Cook explains.

“He got a poppet looks like, from the last port,” the bosun puts in. “It just tickled us, and I suppose we got carried away.”

“A poppet?” the Captain barks, and Liam steps in front of his little brother surreptitiously.

“See,” Cook says, tossing the toy to the Captain.

The Captain looks the white rabbit over, that permanent scowl that he always wears making it impossible to tell what he’s thinking. “Cabin boy!” he barks.

On trembling legs, Killian steps forward, his head down.

“Where did you get this?”

“A - a friend gave it to me.”

Killian is shocked when the back of the Captain’s hand connects with his cheek. The force of it sends his head snapping to the side. He bites down on his lip to keep from crying.

“Don’t lie to me, boy. First of all, no one on my crew is to be pilfering anything when we make port. It only brings trouble down on us all.”

There is a long, heavy silence as the man steps closer to Killian. He grabs Killian roughly by the front of his nightshirt and hauls him up. He shakes Killian until the boy sees stars.

“And second, this ship is no place for babies or little girls. If that’s what you are, then perhaps I’ll just keep your brother and drop you at an orphanage in the nearest port.”

“No!” Liam cries. “Don’t separate us, please sir!”

The captain drops Killian back to the deck with a thud, then unceremoniously tosses the stuffed toy overboard. When he turns to head back to his quarters, he stops and spits on the Jones boys.

“Then tell your brother to grow up.”

Tagging: @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @teamhook @bethacaciakay @let-it-raines @welllpthisishappening @wellhellotragic @winterbaby89 @xhookswenchx @courtorderedcake @branlovestowrite @hollyethecurious @vvbooklady1256 @profdanglaisstuff @carpedzem @ekr032-blog-blog @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @lfh1226-linda @ultraluckycatnd @spartanguard @shireness-says @scientificapricot @stahlop @resident-of-storybrooke @superchocovian @sherlockianwhovian @snidgetsafan @ohmakemeahercules @thislassishooked @ilovemesomekillianjones @nikkiemms@delirious-latenight-laughs​

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 63 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 63 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information   remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

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“I have to guess that he had lost track of the poisoned kit.  He ran several inventories of all the tools for sale, apparently trying to find it.  

“Master Selked’s mark had been sloppily placed on the tools and the kit was an obvious second.  I think that’s why Kurti took it.  She used it for mending fabrics in this cabin and kept it on that shelf.  I have to guess that she never used the awl because the fabrics she was working with were light weight.”

Barad leaned over and held out his bed hanging.  “This velvet was worn. She fixed it so that you can’t even see where the wear was.  I love Tanlin but I still miss Kurti.”  He let the hanging fall with a sigh and went back to his narrative.

“Mister Morgu finally figured out that the kit was here and sent Silor to get it.  They went ahead with the plot on their own.  We caught them just minutes after you were poisoned and the sailor from the Grython had taken his prize away.”

Kurin was outraged but not in the way that Barad had expected.  “You mean that you let Kurti use that deadly sewing kit?  Did she really die of lung parasites?  Ord can make you cough blood, too!  I’ve seen it!”

Barad was taken aback.  “She simply took a kit from stores.  I didn’t know it was the poisoned kit!  Yes, she died of lung parasites!  Her infection was well advanced when I gave her the cabin-girl job!  She hated going onto the invalid list and being forced to do no work.  I gave her something that she could do!  

“If I could have, I would have traded away this ship to stop her infection!” he paused for breath, then quietly went on.  “I told you that miss her still.  Were there any loophole in the Marriage Laws, I’d have married her, dying or no!

“Tanlin’s awakening just when she did saved my heart and possibly my mind.  At first, the physical resemblance to Kurti drew me to her.  It was quickly obvious that Tanlin is a very different person.  As I helped her to recover (Doctor Corin would probably say ‘got in his way’), I came to love her.”

Kurin softened, “I have seen the medical records and talked to Lady Tanlin.  I was off course.  I apologize.”

“Accepted.”

“You know, Barad, I have to get you off, if it can be done.  I hope for the sake of the Naral fleet that I succeed.”

Barad leaned forward, suddenly intense.  “Why?  We have agreed to submit to fleet justice.  They can do whatever the laws allow.”

Kurin gave him a slightly grim look as she answered, “You have.  Tanlin has.  Your crew will fight to the death to save the both of you, and you have the only war equipped ship in the fleet.  Some, Darkistry among them, regretted that it was necessary to ram the Fauline to get you back.  None of them is sorry that they did it.  They got you back and that is the only thing that matters to them.

“I think that even if you ordered your crew to accept a death verdict that encompassed either you or Lady Tanlin, you’d have a mutiny. They’d fight the Great Dragons themselves to save the two of you.

“If Sula and Huld are still here, they will probably have to sink this ship to stop the destruction that will certainly follow a death warrant or a Scattering order.  That would hurt Sula more than you know.  It would not stop her.  I don’t want to see any of that happen.”

Kurin rose and went to the door.  Before going out, she said, “The good news is that I will be able to represent you, as well as the rest. Now I need to see Purser Morgu and Silor.  Then I can begin drafting cases.”

Tanlin was waiting outside the door.  “T’ank ye,” she said simply. Further down the hallway, she motioned a guard aside from a door. “Morgu’s in ‘ere.  Silor’s been kept in t’e next cabin.  Oi t’ink t’at ye do need guards for t’ese twa.  Oi’ll be ane an’ Kimson ‘ere will be t’other.”  She drew the bolts and lifted the bars that blocked the door from sliding.

Kurin was suddenly struck by a thought.  She stopped Tanlin from sliding the door open.  “Does Mister Morgu know that I am alive?”

“Oi’ve nae seen fit t’ tell him so,” was Tanlin’s reply.

Kurin gave her an impish look.  “Don’t be surprised at how I deal with this interview then.  Wait a bit.”  She ran off toward the galley. It was about twenty minutes before she returned.  She was carrying what looked like two paddle duck eggs, a small packet and a tiny candle in her thinly gloved hands.  One egg was dyed a red color, the other a brownish hue.

Kurin hid them in her sash and conferred with Tanlin and Kimson for a moment.  They entered the cabin, Tanlin and Kimson first.  Tanlin guarded the doorway.  Kimson searched the room, then took his place on the other side of the door.

Morgu asked, “What’s the occasion, Tanlin?”

She held her silence.  A pillar of fine dust appeared inside the doorway. It disappeared with a flash of flame and Kurin was standing quietly in its place.  She just stood and looked at Morgu.  It took him a second to realize just who he was seeing.

“You’re dead!” he recoiled from Kurin but the cabin wall stopped his further retreat.

“I was.  You heard the whales?  I came back.  I always get what I want.” She turned to Tanlin and said, “Not that I gave you much choice, still you have my thanks for coming to the Dragon Sea.  It made coming back much easier.”

Tanlin picked up her cue flawlessly.  In apparent fear she said, “T’ey warned m’ t’at ye were a Dragon-wicken.  Oi didnae believe t’em.” She swallowed hard.  “Oi saw ye die in Sula’s arms.  T’e Fauline told us t’at ye were given t’ Dark Iren t’e next morning.  

“We tried t’ get away across t’e pole.  We’ve been trapped ‘ere in t’e Dragon Sea for weeks.  T’e whales came up an’ ye were aboard.  ‘Ow can we get free?”

Morgu listened to the exchange in rising horror.  He had heard those whales through the hull.  Kurin simply said, “I came to hear something that I already know.  To have a question answered — — by him.” She turned and pointed to the cowering Morgu.  “Whose idea was it to poison me and send me to my foster father?”

“Y, y, your foster father?” quavered Morgu.

“Dark Iren, Blind Mecat’s mate.  Mecat is my foster mother.  You know that.  That makes him my foster father.”  She smiled softly, “Now I have parents that I cannot lose.  I have nothing to fear in Dark Iren’s halls.”

She paused and looked slit-eyed at Morgu.  A grim smile playing about her lips, Kurin added, “Unlike some that I know of.”  

Almost irrelevantly Kurin said, “Sometimes it pays to learn from Dragons,” She reached out casually and chucked the frightened Morgu under his chin.  He flinched, feeling a hot burning sensation where she had touched his neck, and as her hand came into view he could see a red egg cradled in it.

Kurin displayed the egg to him.  In a much harder voice Kurin said, “This holds your life.  You felt me take it.  If I crush it, you will be gone in great pain.  If you crush it, your life is yours once more. Now think carefully, you have only one chance to tell me the truth that I already know.  I just want to hear it from you.  Truth, and your life is your own.  Lie and die — — — in pain.

“Whose was the idea?  Why me?”

Morgu stared in almost hypnotic fascination at the egg in Kurin’s hand. Frantically, he answered, “It was my idea but Captain Barad went along with it!”

Coldly, she wrapped her fingers about the egg.  “Did he?  All the way?  Did he help to kill me?”

Sweating, Morgu answered, “He backed out at the last minute!  Silor and I killed you!”

“Why?” Kurin asked in a tone so cadaverous that Tanlin was startled.

“Both the Captain and I hate the Longin!  You were vulnerable and your death would hurt the whole ship.”  He quailed, “You can ask the Captain!”

Kurin made a casual gesture as if she were pulling something off a shelf that was not visible to the eye and a brownish egg was in her other hand.  She smiled a truly terrible smile.  “I have already spoken with him.”

Tanlin, sensing a cue, broke in almost frantically, “Barad told ye true! Ye promised t’ give ‘is life back!  Please dinnae kill ‘im!  Oi love ‘im!”  She ended groveling at Kurin’s feet.

“Get up, Tanlin,” said Kurin calmly.  “I just want him to know what it is like to lose his life, if only for a short while.  Here, take it back to him.”  She gave the egg to Tanlin who held it as if it were precious.

To Morgu, Kurin said, “You have spoken truly.  Here is your life back. Just shatter it in your hand.  It will burn as much returning as it did coming out.”

As they left the room, they could hear the sound of an eggshell crushing.

Safely in the hallway, with the door shut, Tanlin leaned back against the far wall and had a fit of giggles.  “‘Ow did ye ever come up wit’ t’at?” she asked when she got her breath back.

Kurin took back ‘Barad’s Life’ and said, “I sell toys and tell stories and entertain children.  Sometimes with slight of hand.” The egg vanished, only to reappear in her other hand.  Then it vanished again and was pulled, with every appearance of effort from her ear.

Kimson was still looking at Kurin in something like fear.  He asked, “how did you appear in the room like that?  I didn’t see you come in at all.”

“Red weed flour dust,” Kurin answered.  “I tossed some into the air and set it off with that little candle.  While you were distracted by the flash, I stepped in.”

“Wye’d ‘e act like ‘t ‘urt wen ye pulled ‘is ‘life’ out o’ ‘is neck?” Tanlin asked.

“Because it did,” Kurin explained.  “While I was blowing out and dying these eggs, I rubbed hot sauce base on the outside of the index fingers of my gloves.  Before I closed the holes in the ends of the eggs I put some of the hot sauce base inside each one.”

“So. . .’is ‘life’ ‘urt ‘is ‘and t’e same way ‘goin’ in’ as ‘t did ‘goin’ out’?” Tanlin finished.  “A lovely touch.”

“You are a fast study yourself,” Kurin complimented.  “Your trapped here for weeks line and that bit of terror for Barad’s life made the whole thing live.  You would have been a good actress.”

Seeing Tanlin’s expression of hurt mixed with confusion and anger, Kurin said, “I’m not sure how I’ve offended you but I did not mean to.  Don’t you have entertainments and plays in the Arrakan fleet?”

Confusion clearing up, Tanlin replied, “Certain we do.  T’at’s respectable mummin’.  Mumming’s fun an’ ‘elps t’e small fry t’ learn t’eir ‘istory an’ Dragon legends.  Actors are crew ‘oo lie an’ cheat.”

“Then what I wanted to say was that you’d have made a great mummer.  OK?”

“Now t’at Oi ‘ave yer drift, aye,” Tanlin agreed smile returning. “Are we goin’ t’ play t’e same trick on Silor?”

TO BE CONTINUED

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[swtorpadawan]

Breaking Even

“Kriffing Nar Shaddaa.”

Captain Errul Marsh grumbled under his breath as his light freighter, the Devil’s Horn, finally broke orbit from the infamous Smuggler’s Moon. The Zabrak merchant captain – which, sure, made him a smuggler if you wanted to be crude about it – pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh. It was getting harder and harder to make even a (moderately) honest living in his line of work, especially where it concerned the Hutts.

But that was the galaxy for you. With war brewing between the Republic and the Empire everyone was quickly picking sides and carving out their territory. The true independents were getting squeezed out or just dying off.

Errul might have done business with the Republic. He might even have appreciated the Republic when they weren’t trying to arrest him over one of their silly ‘law’ things.

But Errul Marsh was, above all, a true independent. He owned his own freighter outright and incredibly he was debt free, even if he was just keeping his head just above water. He’d die with his ship before he gave any of that up.

It was an existence that had its price. He hadn’t seen or even heard from a family member in decades. Friends (the kind who hadn’t tried to stab him in the back, anyway) had been few and far between. Crew and companions aboard his ship had proved fleeting, signing on with him and staying for a time but each eventually leaving when they finally found something better for themselves. Lovers, likewise, came and went. Usually amicably and with no hard feelings, but sometimes only when they realized that the ace smuggler would never be tied down to anything, not even by love.  

He didn’t begrudge any of them – family, friends, lovers, all – anything. Everyone in the galaxy was chasing after something and they were welcome to chase it. Many of his old associates – the ones he’d stayed in touch with, anyway – had done well for themselves. Two of his erstwhile proteges were now captaining their own cargo ships. Others were running cantinas or small shipping companies. One had ultimately made a name for herself as a Mandalorian bounty hunter, of all things. Indeed, there were worse legacies a man could leave behind.

Still, as the Zabrak had inevitably advanced deeper into middle age, he recognized that his had become mostly a solitary existence. And he was comfortable with that, but still, every now and then…

Ah, well. Life was too short for regrets.

Regardless, loner or not, he still had to make a living. Paying off those Cartel ‘customs agents’ at the spaceport had cut deeply into his profits on this trip. In fact, after his projected expenses for docking at Carrick Station, what with refueling and the Republic’s precious ‘docking fees’ for non-Republic personnel, he’d barely break even after delivering his cargo of adrenals.

Errul exhaled again. He wasn’t that old for a Zabrak, but he was for an independent smuggler. This life would be the death of him.

Force help him, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The ship wouldn’t be ready to jump to hyperspace for about half an hour, and it wouldn’t reach Carrick for a couple of days yet. Still, there was no reason to prolong anything that needed doing.

Errul rose from his seat, feeling his back ache in protest. He’d been in hundreds (thousands?) of firefights throughout his life, and he could still beat any young up-and-comers on the draw if it came down to it. But the price being paid by his aging body didn’t make it any easier.

Silently telling his back to stow it, the old smuggler made his way to the cargo hold. The room was stocked with pallets full of stim-packs and combat adrenals, and his ‘arrangement’ with the Republic meant that this shipment was bound for their military. With fighting breaking out in so many theaters, the ‘Pubs couldn’t be too choosy these days about from whom they received their supplies.  

Errul surveyed the stacks. It was all in order. The Cartel agents had threatened to delay his departure as they ‘processed’ the outgoing cargo and verified the contents. Errul knew that game, and knew how to haggle them down on the inevitable bribe he offered them. The delay would have cost him with the Republic, and he certainly couldn’t let those agents spend too much time in his cargo hold, anyway.

“Barely breaking even.” The Zabrak sighed again as he stomped his foot three times on the floor panel to the right between the pallets.

“You can come out now.” Errul called out to the empty room. “It’s safe.”

It took several seconds, but finally, tentatively, the floor panel slid open, revealing the secret smuggling compartment he had installed years before.

Huddled within, looking up at him with a frightened expression, was a young Twi’lek woman.

She’s still rattled. He reminded himself. He’d have to play this carefully. Very slowly, making no sudden movements, he reached down, offering her his hand.

“It’s safe.” He repeated softly. “Nar Shaddaa is already behind us.”

The woman – the girl he should say – slowly reached up and took his hand. He helped her out of the hold, and she looked around anxiously.

Errul regarded her with care. Looking at her now in the normal lighting of his ship’s cargo hold, she was clearly even younger than he’d originally thought, having met her in the darkened chambers of Donje the Hutt’s extravagant sanctum. She was still wearing the yellow jumpsuit he had given her earlier – it was at least two sizes too large for her, but it had been all he had lying around that she could wear. It was certainly more appropriate than the skimpy ‘slave girl’ outfit she was still wearing beneath it that left nothing to the imagination. (There was no way he was going to have her running around his ship dressed like that, thank you very much.) Her face and lekku were adorned with elaborate markings which Errul judged to be natural Twi’lek birthmarks and not artificial tattoos. She was quite beautiful, with a painfully feminine figure and lovely blue eyes almost matching the shade of her skin. But then, physical attractiveness tended to be a much sought-after trait of Twi’leks working for Hutts.  

Certainly, with the female Twi’leks. Errul reflected somberly. Rescuing her from that disgusting Hutt on Nar Shaddaa, ferreting her to the spaceport undetected and smuggling her off-world had pressed even his considerable talents. He didn’t doubt for one moment that both of their lives would get very complicated if the Hutt ever found out what he’d done.

“Donje cannot reach me?” she swallowed, finally looking up at Errul, hopefully. Her hands had slid from Errul’s hand to his arm.

The Zabrak shook his head for emphasis.

“No, that giant slug can’t reach you here. In a while, we’ll be in hyperspace. After that, you’ll be out of Hutt space entirely, and you’ll be as free as a bird.”

The girl blinked up at him with her blue eyes, still gripping his arm for comfort.

“I…. thank you, master.”

Errul shook his head vigorously again. He had to put the kibosh on that idea right away.  

“I’m not your master, kid.” He insisted. “Call me ‘Captain’. Or Errul, if you like. You don’t have a master anymore.” Errul tried to give her a comforting look. “That’s what being ‘free’ means.”

The smuggler let that sit with her for a moment. He figured she’d probably been born into slavery… or maybe she’d been taken so young that she didn’t remember anything else. The Twi’lek looked down at the floor, and for a moment, Errul was worried he’d lost her entirely. But after a long moment, she looked back up at him with a hopeful look in her eyes.

“Free.” She whispered, like it was all a dream to her.

Errul grinned. “Free.” He repeated, for emphasis. The Zabrak tilted his head. “What’s your name, kid?”

The Twi’lek swallowed, nervously. Probably she’d been forbidden to use her real name in public. Forced renaming was a common enough practice among Hutt pleasure slaves.

“Rhi’kih.”

Errul then gave her his most charming smile. It was a look that had melted the hearts of hundreds of women over the years. (And, Errul reflected, a handful of men, as well.)

“Are you hungry, Rhi’kih?”

“I…” the Twi’lek looked up at him, uncertain, as she regarded his expression. Finally, her features softened and she swallowed again.

“Yes, I am.”

********************************** 

The galley wasn’t much to look at. To be honest, with the Devil’s Horn having only one permanent resident who wasn’t a droid – that being Errul himself – it didn’t really need to be anything special.

Yet another benefit of bachelorhood. Errul reflected. Unlike some of his contemporaries, he disliked over-decoration, preferring the utilitarian to any ostentatious aesthetic.

Nevertheless, he had always tried to keep it fairly well-stocked and in good order for when he did have company, and with the help of his Seetoo droid, it was kept clean as well. At this moment, there were exactly two frozen bantha steaks left, and Errul decided now was as good a time as any to break them out of the freezer and grill them up.

The girl - Rhi’kih, he had to remember – had sat down at the small table only at Errul’s prodding. She was still very skittish, taking everything in with trepidation. He couldn’t blame her, given where she’d been living.

Finally finished preparing the food, he served the steaks up on a pair of plates, along with glasses of blue milk for each of them.

“Here. Eat up.” Errul smiled, taking his own seat after distributing utensils.

The Zabrak took up his knife and fork and then tasted the succulent meat, closing his eyes in pleasure. Out of all the skills he’d picked up over the years, learning how to cook – properly, and not like the  bachelor he was – easily ranked in the top three in having improved his personal quality of life, going along with how to pilot a ship and how to talk your way out of a tight spot.

(Shooting a blaster? Oh, don’t be silly. He was born knowing how to do that.)

Opening his eyes again, he noticed that Rhi’kih was merely poking the steak with her fork, clearly troubled over something.

“Something wrong?” he asked, concerned. “Its not undercooked for you, is it?”

“Uhm. No.” She looked down embarrassed. “My… my master never let me use knives. No one taught me.”

Errul cringed inwardly. There were a hundred plus one evils resulting from slavery. One of the most underrated was the lack of basic life skills many oppressed people suffered from even after finding their freedom. It could keep them on the fringes of society forever, and perhaps, more likely to end up in the desperate circumstances that had seen them become slaves in the first place. Neither the Republic government nor anyone else seemed equipped to help them acclimate.

“Here.” Errul got up and came around the table. Very gently, he took her by the wrist and helped her grasp the knife. She let him, having apparently grown comfortable with him by now.

“Hold it like this. Good. Now the fork like that – yes. Good. Now cut…. Perfect.”

It took about a minute. But Errul was finally satisfied the Twi’lek had learned how to cut her own food adequately.

“It’ll get more natural with time. Trust me.” He reassured her, observing her progress as he took his seat back.

Rhi’khi finally tasted her steak. Her eyes lit up, and he couldn’t help but think of it as a sign of life.

“Good?” he asked with a grin.

“I…. yes!” she gasped.

Errul was rewarded with a lovely smile from the Twi’lek. It was the first time he’d seen her smile genuinely since meeting her. He’d seen the conditions under which slaves were kept on Nar Shaddaa, and what sustenance they were given. Occasionally, pleasure slaves like Rhi’khi would be fed rich food or wine from the plates and goblets of their masters, almost as if they were pets. The rest of the time they tended to be served an unappetizing gruel back in their pens. Neither option was particularly healthy in Errul’s estimation.

A reasonable nutritional diet – including bantha steaks – was another thing she’d have to adjust to.

As it turned out, Rhi’khi was famished. Her table manners needed some work, but she ate her bantha steak and drank her blue milk with gusto. Errul took it as a positive sign; she’d have to learn to pace herself, but that could come later.

Errul was almost done with his steak when he glanced up, realizing that the girl was eyeing him tentatively as if chewing something over.

He put aside his utensils.

“What is it now?” he asked.

The Twi’lek swallowed, then reached out, laying her hand on his.

“I owe you everything for freeing me… Captain.” Rhi’khi smiled up at him, coyly. It was the same smile she’d worn while dancing for Donje’s visitors back on Nar Shaddaa. Noting her brief pause, Errul suspected that she had had to stop herself from calling him ‘master’ again. “I am… very grateful.” Her fingers gently entangled themselves with his, her thumb brushing against his palm.

Errul felt a sudden but familiar warmth in his belly and down to his loins. This beautiful young woman – with her lovely figure, pretty blue eyes and coy smile – was offering him comfort. Even at Errul’s age, the urges still came, and he certainly couldn’t deny the Twi’lek’s sex appeal.

It was the Zabrak’s turn to swallow, as he looked up into Rhi’khi’s eyes.  

Errul Marsh prided himself on his ability to read people. During negotiations. During games at the Pazzak table. During a tense stand-off with guns drawn. And the fact that he was still alive after all this time was a sign that he was good at it. It had always been a talent, but he’d refined it over the years with invaluable experience.

So it was that he noticed things. In particular, the slight tension around the girl’s otherwise enticing eyes.  

No.

This was not a young woman who was genuinely smitten or enchanted by him. (Galaxy knows Errul knew what that looked like, even if it had been awhile.) No. This was a girl who was, even now, still worried that he would sell her off to the next gangster he ran into or that he’d otherwise abandon her to some unknown fate the moment she became inconvenient.

In her mind, this was about taking control of the situation in the only way she knew how. Rhi’khi was desperately trying to offer him something to ensure he would protect and look after her, this was only coin she could possibly offer him. It bothered him that she’d been conditioned to think that her sex appeal was all she could ever offer to the galaxy. Errul added that to the growing list of consequences of her enslavement. The fear of going back to Nar Shaddaa or the fear of the unknown would lead her to continue living the life she had been living, even after she had just risked everything to escape that very life.  

After all, it was all she knew.

That wasn’t what bothered him the most, though.

No, what bothered him the most was knowing – knowing – that not so many years ago, Errul would have taken her up on the offer in a heartbeat. By now, his lips would have been on hers, she’d have been propped up on the table and soon the clothes would have gone flying. (And few of Errul’s lovers had ever complained about his skills in the bedchamber.) Oh, he’d have shown her a great time; he’d have taken her on a trade run or two to some exotic planets and shown her sights few beings could even imagine. Beautiful beaches, majestic mountains, cities that were clean and comfortable in stark contrast to the filth and grit she’d seen on Nar Shaddaa.

He’d have let it last a week. Or maybe – maybe – as long as a month. (He’d only gone as long as a month with a woman a couple of times. It was better that way.) Certainly no longer than that. Then he’d have found something for the young Twi’lek, letting her down gently and making sure she had something to get her started on the rest of her life.  

After all, he’d have thought to himself, what she was offering him had been offered freely and was therefore his to take.

That was one of the lies people told themselves. But with age had come wisdom, and Errul liked to think he had given up lying to himself a long time ago.  

“How old are you, kid?”

The words came from his lips abruptly. Rhi’khi looked confused for a moment, then worried, as if she thought she had done something wrong, and might be punished for it. She withdrew her hand.

“I…. nineteen, I think.” She said with uncertainty.

Nineteen. Shavit. He was more than twenty years her senior. Force. He’d lived too blasted long.

“Hold on a second, okay?” he offered.

Errul rose from his seat and walked to the far corner of the galley, right next to the washer. He opened the small cabinet above, being careful to block Rhi’khi’s vision of what he was doing. (He didn’t have any reason to distrust the Twi’lek, but he hadn’t survived this long by being careless.) He removed the panel at the back of the cabinet, revealing a hidden biometric safe box. The Zabrak pressed his hand to bio-scanner, then entered a code into the keypad. The safe popped open.  

There were a number of trinkets located within, some appearing to be mundane while others would have caught the eye of any professional treasure hunter. Errul ignored the rest and took the one object he had sought. Then he closed the safe, putting the fake panel back in place.    

Errul turned back to Rhi’khi, setting the item down on the table. It was a small metallic cube, with ornate engravings etched on all six sides.

“Don’t worry. It won’t hurt you. Promise.” He gave her a soft smile. “Go ahead and touch it.”

Rhi’khi tentatively reached out and lightly brushed the foreign object with her fingertips.

After about a second, the cube suddenly lit up with the engravings emanating a blue light. A small holoprojection then materialized above it, revealing a Cathar woman wearing long robes.

“I am Master Juhani of the Jedi Order.” The projection spoke in an accent that was provincial, but the voice was clear and nevertheless confident. “And these are my teachings.”

Rhi’khi cried out in alarm, withdrawing her hand from the cube. All on its own, the object went flying off the table and through the air, ricocheting off the ship’s bulkhead before coming to a rest on the floor. The Twi’lek, plainly rattled, pulled her knees up to her chest, staring down at it in fear.

Errul just chuckled nonchalantly.

“Sorry about that. I had to be sure, and this saved me a lot of time.” The smuggler reached down and picked up the cube, setting it back on the table. It was undamaged from Rhi’khi’s inadvertent outburst, which he took a relief in. Errul knew it was nearly three hundred years old. “Like I said, this won’t harm you.” He regarded her with a satisfied expression, having been proven right. “I figured as much about you, when I saw you talk that Gamorrean out of ‘enjoying’ the company of your Nautolan friend back at Donje’s club.”

“What… what was that?” Rhi’khi asked nervously, still staring at the cube.

“This? This is a Jedi Holocron.” Errul tapped it, nonchalantly. “I’ve been hanging onto it for a while, mostly for occasions like this.”      

The Twi’lek swallowed, starting to regain her composure.

“I don’t understand.”

“Hmmm.” Errul regarded her, debating how to continue. “Have you ever heard of the Jedi?”

“I… yes.” Rhi’khi stammered. “My master… Donje, I mean… sometimes ranted about them. He called them ‘meddlesome Republic fools’. And he said that they fought the Sith.” She paused. “I think he was a little frightened of them.”

The Zabrak just nodded.

“Not without cause. Jedi and Hutts don’t really see eye to eye on much.” Errul sat down across from her, stretching his arms. “Jedi are… well, peace-keepers, you might say. When things are going alright for the Republic, they’re like diplomats. They go around resolving conflicts and helping to uphold the law. They’re pretty… noble, I guess. They’ve helped a lot of people when no one else could. Not as many as you’d hope, but a lot.” He chewed that over. “Of course, these days, they’ve been at war with the Sith Empire, even when they’ve had that sham of a peace treaty. So it’s been tough going these last few decades. They’ve got a lot of rules they have to follow, and they can be very pretentious. These days, they have to defend the citizens of the galaxy, uphold their own lofty principles and beat the Sith all at the same time. No one is going to succeed at that. But to their credit, they keep trying.”

“Having said that…” he continued. “I can honestly say that they do the best they can in a crazy galaxy.” Errul paused at a bygone memory, his voice taking a more conciliatory tone, then looked the Twi’lek directly in the eye.

“You’re Force-sensitive, kid.”

Rhi’khi just blinked.  

“The… Force?” she asked in confusion.

“Yeah.” The old smuggler settled into his seat. “It’s like this… invisible energy field created by all living things. It binds the galaxy together, or so the Jedi say. And some special people – like the Jedi and the Sith – can manipulate it; it gives them power.”

“You have that power. You’ve been able to talk people out of doing things before, haven’t you? Maybe not Donje or other Hutts, but others, right?”

Rhi’khi nodded nervously.

“Right. Basically, Rhi’khi, it means you have the chance to become a Jedi.” He paused and looked up at the ceiling. “Or a Sith.” He added dourly. “If you like, I can introduce you to someone on Carrick Station, and, if you decide it’s what you want, they’ll test you to confirm what I just told you. The Jedi usually recruit kids young, but they’re less discerning these days. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but I’m confident they’ll take you in and teach you how to become a Jedi.”   

Errul paused here for effect.

“But I won’t do that if that’s not what you want.”

The Twi’lek stared down at the table.

“I don’t know what I want.” She whispered quietly.

The Zabrak nodded. No surprise, there. Rhi’khi had probably never been given the chance to think about what she wanted.

“Well, I think you’re in shock, kiddo. A lot of stuff is happening to you very quickly. I wish things were different, but here we are.” He gave her what he hoped was a comforting look. “Not everybody can quite get over the things life throws at them. And you’ve had way more thrown at you in the last few hours than a lot of people will experience in a lifetime.”

“But… if you can let go of it – what with growing up a slave, everything that’s happened to you, everything that was done to you – then maybe, just maybe, this is for you. And maybe, maybe, maybe someday you can help some other little girl from having to grow the way you did.”

The Zabrak considered what he had said. She deserved the truth. All of it.

“No promises, though.” He added firmly. “Even at their best, before the Empire came back, the Jedi couldn’t stop the Hutts from trading in slaves entirely. The best they could claim to accomplish was keeping the slugs in check. And like I’ve said, the Jedi aren’t at their strongest right now. It’s a dangerous life, what with the Empire hanging around.”

Rhi’khi seemed to chew that over for a long moment. Despite his reputation for being a fast-talker, Errul was actually quite comfortable with long silences, and gave her all the time she needed.

“What if I can’t do that?” she finally whispered.

He understood. Rhi’khi might seem meek and innocent at the moment, but Errul couldn’t imagine anyone going through her life without building up a sense of indignation, and scars on her soul that ran deep. If she were aware of that, then she was wiser than she let on.

“If the anger and resentment are too much, well, odds are you’ll become a slave again. Except not a slave to another Hutt, but a slave to your own anger. And to your past. I’ve seen it happen with others who’ve been through the kinds of things you have, even the ones who weren’t Force sensitive. They just… can’t be free of it. They can’t be free of what they’ve gone through. Even with otherwise good people, it eats away at them, over time, and it never ends well.”

The Zabrak looked away, not wanting the Twi’lek to see the look on his face just now. He was speaking from experience, but that experience wasn’t something he was ready to share.

“And then a lot of them wind up doing to others what was done to them.” Errul continued, speaking from experience. “They all have justifications, of course. Little lies they tell themselves. ‘Oh, the galaxy owes me this’ or ‘these people deserve what I’m doing to them because their ancestors killed my ancestors’. It’s all a load of druk.”

“People hurt other people because they can’t let go.”

Trusting himself now, Errul took a breath and turned back at Rhi’khi, giving her a hard look in the eye. She was still watching him closely.

“The ones who do that who are Force-sensitive? We call those Sith.”

The girl shivered again, wrapping her arms around herself.

His expression softened at the sight. He’d given her the ice bucket of water to the face. The least he could do was offer her a towel.

“But… if neither of those choices appeal to you, the guy who runs the cantina on Carrick Station owes me a favor. He’s a tough boss, and the pay isn’t that much, but he treats his waitresses right. He doesn’t put up with any flyboys like me messing with them, y’know? I could set you up. You could work for him for a while, just serving drinks and finding your feet, until you found something better.”

“As for this ‘Force’ business… well, maybe it will let you just live your life.“

“I promise I’m not going to make you choose anything. I’m just telling you what I can do to help you, since you look like you need it.”

Rhi’khi was looking up at him again. She probably didn’t completely understand everything he had said, but she seemed comforted by his words nonetheless. Maybe she liked having a third option, or maybe she just liked listening to his voice. That didn’t really matter right now.

“Well. I’ve just dropped a barrel of Hutt manure on you, kid. I’m sorry to do it like this, but I find it’s for the best in the long run.”

Errul polished off the last of his blue milk, then cleared the table. He put everything away in the washer, set the machine to run, then turned to her again.

“I don’t pretend to know what’s best for you. But I’ll give you as much time as I can to think all this over.”

He moved to stand, only for Rhi’khi to reach for his hand again.

“Captain, wait.” She suddenly interrupted.

Errul noted she didn’t need to stop and start again to remember to call him ‘Captain’ and not ‘Master’. He smiled at her progress and stopped, sitting back down.

“How… how do you know all of this?” she asked. “If you are just a ship captain, how do you know about the Force, and me, and… why do you have this?” she looked at the holocron again.

The Zabrak slowly grinned. She was a sharp one. Most people struggled to use their intelligence in tight spots; when you’re threatened and focused on simple survival, it was hard to think things through. He’d seen enough of that in the refugee camps growing up. But if you offer folks just a little security and comfort, a little breathing room, sometimes they could surprise you with what they could come up. Rhi’khi may have been under-educated and naïve, but he was suddenly confidant that whatever path she took, she’d figure things out, in time.

“Well, let’s just say that once upon a time, a Jedi helped me out of a jam.” He answered wistfully. “They took the time to tell me about a couple of things. As for why I have the holocron… well, it just sort of fell into my lap during a little misadventure on Dantooine this one time, years ago. It’s no good to me personally; I’m not Force-sensitive. But it’ll make a useful bargaining chip if I’m ever in a tight spot… or for confirming cases like yours.”

The Twi’lek took that in and released his hand, thinking.

A chime sounded throughout the ship, and Errul cocked his head.

“I’ve gotta get that. We’re ready to jump into hyperspace.”

With that, Errul stood up. Rhi’khi turned and stared down at the holocron, lost in thought. The Zabrak made for the door and then stopped, turning just enough to speak to her over his shoulder.

“Just remember: Whatever you choose, that’s your choice, and yours alone. That’s the hardest lesson of freedom. What’s happened to you up until now was someone else’s doing. What you do after this is yours.”

As Errul stepped out of the galley and prepared to head back to the cockpit, he hung back for a second out of view around the corner, watching the young Twi’lek mull over her future. He certainly didn’t envy her the choice before her, but he needed to make sure she was okay to be alone right now.

Slowly, tentatively, Rhi’kih reached for the holocron. As she touched it, the little holo-image – the ‘Gatekeeper’ – once again materialized.

“I am Master Juhani of the Jedi Order.” The Jedi started again. “And these are my teachings…”

Errul observed as Rhi’khi watched the projection, a look of fascination coming across her features. As she listened to the words of the long-dead Jedi, she seemed to Errul to become more relaxed, a small smile coming to her lips. A natural, organic smile – not the coy put-on she’d shown him earlier.

The Zabrak turned away. He didn’t pretend to know his own destiny any more than he knew Rhi’khi’s, but maybe both of them were about to take the next step on their respective paths.

Errul sighed again as he sat down in the chair of his cockpit, finally pulling the lever and triggering the jump into hyperspace. The stars outside the cockpit canopy shifted as the Horn made it’s jump, as the galaxy seemed to bend around the trusty old freighter. It was a welcome sight. No matter how many times he saw it, it always relaxed him.

This had already been too much philosophy for him in one day. He decided to blame it all on that Reactor Core he’d had at the cantina before he left Nar Shaddaa. That Rodian bartender was a good listener, but he always put too much spice liquor in his concoctions, and no doubt that was making Errul sentimental. It made him reflect back on what he’d thought to himself earlier.

If it wasn’t ‘this life’ that would be the death of him someday, then it would be sentimentality. He didn’t doubt it for one minute.

He thought back to Rhi’kih listening to that holocron in the galley.

“Yeah, barely breaking even.” He whispered with a smile. He shook his head. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Kriffing Nar Shaddaa.” He grumbled.

  END

**************************************** 

Author’s Notes: I’ve never written about Errul before, but he’s my oldest ‘active’ O.C., as I developed him way back when I was on Free-to-Play. I eventually abandoned his game play, as in my mind, I don’t see him as an ‘Outlander’ type figure. But I keep him around. I saw some talk on Tumblr complaining about the player’s tendency to make our O.C.s on the young side. Errul, in my head-canon anyway, is a smuggler on the wrong side of forty.

People do change. They learn and they grow and they don’t stop doing that the moment they turn into an ‘adult’. (Which is totally a made-up word anyway.) True, the changes aren’t always for the better, but they do come. How you feel about things twenty years from now may be very different than how you feel about things now. That doesn’t make your opinions any less valid; it just means that they don’t define who you are.  

Juhani is here just because I like Easter Eggs.

The character of Rhi’khi is inspired by a Twi’lek slave in Nar Shaddaa who was planning to escape with a smuggler in a bit of ambient dialogue within the actual game.

I remember reading an article about people who defected from North Korea, and the immense challenges they faced adapting to the modern world. Even given assistance by South Korea and other countries, most of them have no practical job skills and an education that was incomplete to say the least. It was very sobering.  

Oh – and spoilers – Rhi’khi ‘grows up’ to be the Barsen'thor of the Jedi Order in this iteration. The first lesson there is you never know what the person you help might go on to do. The second lesson is don’t worry if you feel you’re getting a late start on pursuing your life goals. Honestly, it is not a race. It never was.

Good luck, and may the Force be with you.

[whirlybirdwhat]

East Sea of Monsters - Chapter 20

There’s something hiding in Sunny’s Shadows, and sometimes it feels like Chopper is the only one who doesn’t know what it is.

-

Can’t believe we are at Chapter Twenty!!!! Think is this the longest multi-chap fic  I’ve posted, thank you all so much for the support!!

Read the entire series on Ao3 for better quality and author’s notes, especially warnings for content within the fic!! Tag “Ficart” on my blog should also show some fanart and podfics for this fic, as well as the link to translations! give them some love! 

-

Seeking - Chopper

Chopper’s captain is a selfish monster – this, Chopper knows well, in the way that his Captain has bloody fists and has torn gods with a smile.

He laughs in the dark, for he does not want the dark, and chases away tyrants because they hurt a friend. He welcomes strangers into his crew, women who stir revolutions and men who are all but bone.

He has climbed the cold mountains and stood behind a flag not his own for a small, insignificant reindeer. He is Luffy, who has struck down armies and governments and islands and kingdoms, all to save a friend.

All to get what he wants, and for so long, Chopper has been part of those precious few that Luffy calls crew.

So why, why does it feel like Chopper’s just falling behind? Falling out of reach, out of his stars endless orbit?

People walk aboard the ship at night away from Chopper’s prying eyes and he has to know, he must know what they are keeping from him, why he’s not part of this inner circle

He swore to be a monster for Luffy, and if a monster he must be, he had hoped Luffy would still accept him, for his captain loves him and is a monster too

But that’s not the case.

They are hiding from him, hiding something that they don’t want Chopper to know, and it’s been going on for a while now, perhaps sense the beginning.

(What do you say, he wonders, when it’s been before your very eyes in inhuman instinct and the smell of rotting flesh?)

Why do you hate me now? He wants to ask but can’t because this is his home and if he’s not home here, then he can’t be anywhere else.

Ever.

-

The truth comes as all thing Straw Hat do, in a moment that passes between things such as sanity and well into the world of something strange.

Typically, it would be wonderful as well.

It’s not.

The New World is harsh in the way that no other place is. Fire rains from the heavens and lighting brightens clear skies. There are pockets of storm and raging seas, all unpredictable, and an aura of danger that sharpens every sense.

(Every color, every scent, every sight and smell and breath and burst of laughter always seem brighter if they might be your last.)

There are also stretches of calm – and this is one of them. Islands move in the New World, or at least the waters do. Weeks and months and days blend together under the blue sky of the Grand Line – every island is a refuge from its harsh waters, but a rare refuge at that.

(They are pirates, of course, they have no home but the sea but occasionally… occasionally a soul must step foot on land to know what blessings the sea has – and what dangers a sailor courts to be welcomed into her embrace.)

Now, there are no islands in sight, and have not been for the past three weeks. The waters are dry in these parts, and normally, Chopper knows, Sanji would not be worried, but there are few fish to supplement their supplies and no enemies crossing their paths.

A crew of nine does not need much to subsist, but their crew consists of people with harsher metabolism’s than most.

There is no danger now, but there will be soon. Chopper knows this, as does Sanji.

(Chopper is merely considering with the welfare of the crew, but there is a deeper worry in Sanji, one that causes him to look towards the back of the meat locker with worry, so much worry, as his special meats supply starts to dwindle down. It’s Luffy favorite.

He doesn’t know why Sanji’s so worried. Luffy can survive a couple days without whatever kind of meat it is…right?

Maybe he should ask.)

(He doesn’t.)

They start rations on week three and a half.

The crew is agreeable, especially with the hard lilt to Sanji’s eyes but –

There’s something more to their movements and how they all get restless. The Straw Hat crew has never faced any adversary with nervousness and unease as a whole, so why, Chopper wonders, are we (they) doing it now?

They cast eyes towards Luffy, who is innocently sucking on a bone from the last meal, and Chopper wonders if this is another thing they are hiding from him.

(C’mon, he wants to scream, I’m your doctor! Trust me! Why can’t you trust me? I grew stronger too! I fought and trained like the rest of you! Why why why? Is it because I’m a monster now?)

Chopper doesn’t say anything, and watches as the crew leaves the galley, Sanji snapping a quick word at Luffy before leaving.

Chopper leaves too, and wonders why the Sunny suddenly feels so cold.

(Where’s the truth that soon to come?)

-

Chopper, before, before Marineford and training and a Captain so hurt, sensed something from his crew, something that made (makes) his hair stand on end and every animal instinct scream, despite his love for his saviors.

It came from Usopp and Luffy and Zoro and Nami and Sanji, and the way they would smile in the dark or smell or breathe a little too off. But Chopper ignored it, for they were his crew, and trained himself during his two years of training to accept rather than fear.

He can’t help but wonder if they are feeling what he felt (what he feels still), now in regards to him.

It hurts, more than he’d like to admit, especially when (Luffy smiles all jagged edges Usopp seems to bend and twist and scare Nami breaths and smells like ozone Sanji feels like bone and Zoro is lost on The Sunny but winks with two heads at Chopper-) they smile at him like nothing is wrong, and praise him in battle.

He loves this crew, so why, why?

Why doesn’t Luffy accept the monster?

-

Sunny is different than Merry, though Chopper loves both. Merry was white and young and lovely in the sun (but at night her shadows were never colder and there were always odd splatters on her hull.) Sunny is golden and bold and young too, not like a child (led to slaughter) but like an adventure at its start.

(The shadows in her hull and the splatters on the kitchen floor seem new, in the way that Merry’s weren’t, and of course they are for Sunny was built for them, but Merry… it seemed like there were shadows born onto Merry that they brought to Sunny.)

It is a surprise when Sunny starts feeling like Merry did.

(Like the night when the Doctor died, or nights when Doctorine couldn’t save a patient. The. Air of death and the stench of decay setting in, the sight of bodies, pale and unmoving, and sounds of anguish of those left beyond echoing through the air… Like hallowed grounds, when someone died, like an absence in the earth.

Chopper does not forget nights when all feels lost.

(Men die when they are forgotten, after all.))

Chopper doesn’t know why though, why there is sudden coldness mixed with home.

Because, suddenly, Franky is fashioning some sort of chains with Usopp, mixed with the sea stone they swore they would never use and Nami keeps checking in. Suddenly, Robin has more eyes everywhere, and Zoro’s scent (always tinged with blood) is now spiked with the worry he gets when the crews in danger. Suddenly, Brook is always on deck, playing a calming song and Sanji is giving Luffy more than the rations allotted him to have.

(The ‘special meats’ have run out.)

And Luffy…

(A hint of trepidation haunts the crews every step.)

And Luffy…

(Well. Here the thing- Chopper doesn’t know, because Luffy should be acting lethargic and hungry with the lapse in food but instead he’s tight lipped and unmoving – as if he moves to fast he will jump out of his skin. Luffy is tense and jittery and not meeting anyone’s eyes, so unlike his bold, uncaring self. It hurts, because Chopper wants to help his Captain but he can’t bring himself to move, because what if?

Is that really his captain?

Chopper is not, because his Captain certainly doesn’t have spikes on his skin or blood on his teeth, now, right?)

-

There’s something in the Shadows, Chopper notices.

Something dark.

(He’s always avoided the shadows before.)

It stalks in the night, slow and comfortable with the shapes of Sunny’s hiding spots. It hesitates, sometimes, when it’s so close that Chopper can feel its breath running down its back, and flees when Chopper turns, so that nothing else Is on deck save for Luffy or another of his crew mates.

Chopper doesn’t feel safe sleeping, not when he can smell the hunger radiating off of it.

He tries to distract himself with his studies, tries to have Robin and Franky distract him too, but it never seems to work. When he suggests a game (Hide n’ Seek, despite his hatred for it before (a fear to override a few)) Luffy and Usopp shake their heads.

(Well. Usopp does. Luffy’s sitting tense and with hands gripped tightly behind his back as he rests near Zoro. If Chopper could see it, he would see Zoro’s hand clenching Luffy’s wrist together, stopping him from clawing at himself or others in nervous habit. A precaution. A warning. A failsafe.)

“Not the best idea right now, aye Chopper? Why don’t you go see if Sanji’s ready for a meal, okay?” Usopp says while Luffy is far too quiet for normal.

(He’s been quiet a lot, recently. Chopper’s worried.)

The reindeer does as Chopper requests, and peeks in on the kitchen.

He has the strangest feeling that the beast is behind him again, the thing that lurks in the shadows, keeping him from sleeping soundly, but when he looks back, all he sees his Luffy shoving his face into Zoro’s shoulder.

It’s nothing… right?

-

Chopper misses the oddities of when simple games used to unnerve him. He wishes they were back to those times, instead of now, when every step is like waiting for an inevitable tripwire.

Dinner is small. Only a simple meal of pasta and water, with some sparse meatballs on top.

Luffy keeps his hands to himself and doesn’t snag anyone else food. He’s shaking, if anyone looks too closely, and if Chopper himself wasn’t half frightened by the look in Luffy’s eye he’d be ordering Luffy into the infirmary.

As it is, he looks at the way Luffy fidgets and keeps quiet.

Luffy’s just hungry, Chopper assures himself, we all are.

(He’s just scared and Chopper doesn’t know if he’s referring to himself or Luffy.)

After dinner, Luffy’s supposed to take watch but Zoro goes up with him.

(A conversation happens between the two’s eyes, Zoro the only one to get Luffy to meet him and its one Chopper will never be able to decipher, wonders if he even wants to.)

It’s not Luffy that comes back downstairs after watch, but Chopper is too afraid to turn over and look to see if it’s true.

(Hot breath runs down his back, and Chopper remembers that just because he has horns and a fruit it doesn’t mean that reindeer aren’t still prey animals.)

-

Day ten of rations, day five after the meats in the back of the freezer and run out and Luffy stops shaking.

He stands, in the middle of the deck, and the sun grows cold.

(Whatever Luffy is, he doesn’t fit into his skin, the mist surrounding his essence (a shield for the rest of the world.)

Luffy’s head cocks to the side as he fingers still, and Chopper looks at him, truly for perhaps the first time in a while, and wonder why he has been so blind. In Luffy’s stillness, scratches and startling thinness and dark spots emerge where there once was none.

I failed, Chopper thinks, and doesn’t know why he hasn’t been treating his captain, I failed.

Where did the sun go?

Luffy speaks. “Sanji,” He says, and is voice is like spiders on skin and maggots on corpses – exactly the tone it should be but always, never right. There’s power thrumming through his voice, like an unbridled beast, and Chopper, unwittingly, takes a step back.

“Sanji,” Luffy says, and Sanji steps forward, smoke in his step. “Help.” And Luffy breaks but not in the way Chopper knows – no, in the way that beasts do when they have been pushed too far on a hunt.

(Too long without food, the cold winter blows and all that’s left is red red red red red red death)

Luffy lunges as Sanji does, and then Luffy’s on the ground, held by strong legs and a pair of sea stone cuffs.

(He’s not really fighting now, Chopper knows, because Luffy’s stronger than the seastone they have when he wills it, but beasts don’t have will do they?)

(Chopper does. Luffy does.)

Sanji drags Luffy, so lethargic now, that unsettling restlessness gone until Luffy Is thrown into the Bay 6 of the Soldier Dock System (and how, how has Chopper missed the metal walls and places for hooks along the edges?) where he is cuffed and hooked to the wall.

Sanji gives Luffy a tight hug, hand holding his jaw so carefully away from him, and walks out.

He notices Chopper then, and softens at the horror in Chopper’s eyes.

“Chopper,” He says, and that’s it before he brings him away from their chained, starving Captain and up to the top deck.

As Sanji shuts the door with heavy chains, Chopper catches one last look at Luffy, slumped tiredly to the ground.

It’s not Luffy.

(the shadows…)

-

In the galley, between Robin and Nami, Chopper listens to a story weaved about a demon sea, and crew mates who hail from it. It’s not the entire thing of course (Chopper swears something is slurring Nami’s words together so that she can’t tell it all) but it’s enough to let the horribleness melt from Choppers bones.

They weren’t keeping secrets from him because they’d thought he was a monster, but because they’d thought he be scared.

And maybe he is, but most of all, he’s angry.

“I COULD HAVE HURT YOU! I DON’T KNOW YOUR PHYSIOLOGY, I COULD HAVE GIVEN YOU SOMETHING, SOME HERB TO HELP WITH SOMETHING AND KILLED YOU!” He screeches, mushrooms flashing through his brain. “I’M YOUR DOCTOR! TRUST ME!”

Nami shushes him, with assurances that they do, of course, but Choppers mind is on the most pressing subject.

Luffy.

Like a trance, he slides from his seat and onto the floor.

Luffy, he thinks, avoiding his crew mates to walk to the infirmary for a few precious materials.

Luffy.

My captain.

Chopper walks to Bay Six.

-

(Of course, he realizes that Luffy is the presence in the shadows and that his captain was hunting him. But, quite frankly, he doesn’t care to think about what the special meat was or what Luffy might have done had he not restrained himself, he only cares that his captain is hurting and he’s done nothing.)

(Sunny and Merry, floating above him, let their protection fall, and let Chopper see what Luffy asked them to hide. Their captain is hurting, and he must survive for they love him too.)

(The Veil has no mind, but there is laughter, ringing through the air, as a child realizes the monsters were not besides him or in him or under the bed but in his hero, his savior, his captain.

Tis a cruel world, isn’t it?)

-

Bay Six is dark when Chopper arrives. Dark and scary and so very, very lonely.

(Chopper thinks of two years without crew, and then thinks of Luffy and lets himself have one, single tear.)

When he pushes it open, there is someone waiting for him.

“Luffy,” He breathes out, and instincts hit him like a brick.

There is fear, and then there is terror, and then there is horror. Chopper is well past all these, into something far greater – the kind of emotion that occurs when heroes fall and all that is left is something dark and broken and unnatural.

The emotion prey gets when faced with certain, absolute death.

Before him is something (One who Feast, King of Beast, Demon of Pits and Hell, Hellshaker hell raiser, Voices would scream if Chopper could hear them) that isn’t human. It reeks of death and rotted flesh, a smell Chopper has known before, with blood tinging the scent with its own abhorrence.

All he sees is Luffy, but it’s not him. It can’t be.

“Luffy,” Chopper says again, and this time Luffy looks back. “Let me help you.”

Blood drips from one of Luffy’s cuts onto the ground.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

“No.” Luffy rasps, and its final, the way he says it, but Chopper can’t help but protest.

“Please! Let me do something, please, Luffy, Captain. You always help us but let me help you! I can do something, anything if you just let me-” Chopper is cut off by the force of a Conquerors Will slamming into him.

KNEEL.

It’s not love he feels, this time, like he usually does when Luffy’s presence washes over him.

This time, it is a heightening of the horror that he already felt, an execution that fells him to his knees, trembling, a force of will that makes him seem small and afraid.

Luffy, he can’t even bring himself to think, because this is his Captain but…

KNEEL.

Before him is teeth and hunger and horns, scars and scales rising with fire and eyes, eyes crawling to stare at Chopper with nothing but a ravenous greed.

It’s a selfish beast, and now it is a hungry beast, but before it was his Captain – it still is his captain.

(The Veil is a presence that which can be torn down by a will greater than the force itself. Conquerors who know it, breath it, live it, treat it as a play thing, a curtain to peel back and forth at will to show the truth. Few know, but all who see believe, and the veil has bowed to few in the past.

Luffy, who is never without the veil even among what some presume to be his kind, can shake the veil like he has torn down governments and islands and war lords.

Ruthlessly, and without mercy.)

KNEEL.

He falls to his knees.

“Chopper,” Luffy says, blood spilling from his mouth and dripping onto the floor, painting it in reds and blacks. “Go.”

Chopper does not want to go, but what can one do when faced with the soul of a conqueror, captain, king in the body of something from the depths?

Chopper leaves, and sobs outside the door because no matter how terrified Chopper is of Luffy, Luffy will always love them. Save them.

Be alone for them.

Chopper loves his Captain, and wonders why he ever thought Luffy wouldn’t like Chopper because he was a monster.

-

A Marine ship passes by in two days, but not before Luffy howls in his chains and every night is spent silent and huddled in the dark.

(Not before Zoro and Sanji stand guard by the door and knock their captain back every time he gets deranged enough to escape.)

Zoro and Sanji head out and come back with six prisoners. Chopper wonders what they want to do with them, when the Marine lifeboats are right there, but then they walk down to Bay Six and Chopper understands.

He doesn’t want to understand

(The thing about Luffy is that despite everything, despite his selfishness and greed, he will never demand something so significant from them. Only ask.

Join my crew, he will say, and take you anyway, but he will never demand that Chopper not help anyone but himself.

If Chopper truly wished it, he could demand that they let those marines live, in remembrance of an oath he never took. Instead, he helps Robin bring crates of fruit and meat aboard the Sunny, and ignores the screams from below and the blood on deck (Sunny will take care over it before long.)

Luffy would never demand that Chopper become a monster for him, but he does not ask either, and that makes Chopper give himself again and again and again to him.

If the price of his captain's safety, his sanity is perhaps some of Chopper’s morality, well –

He’s a pirate. He sought this out himself.

(It’s not a game, not anymore, and the Straw Hat Flag is the sign of Chopper’s freedom. If he is to deny that, then he is to deny that Straw Hat Luffy will never be the Pirate King and that is a lie.)

Chopper accepts the weight of knowledge and cries himself to sleep.

-

Luffy is alright soon enough, and they reach an island in another three days. This time, Chopper knows about the blood on Luffy’s lips and doesn’t question it.

(Rumors of men gone missing flutter through his ears at night, women weeping in the dark and children crying because they don’t understand loss.)

(Luffy needs it, Chopper knows, and he will never deny his Captain something so important, no matter how much it strikes blades at his heart and settles poison in his stomach.)

But now…

The beast in the shadows isn’t so terrifying anymore. And when Luffy comes down the ladders from watch, Chopper sleeps tight, knowing his Captain is there, and that Chopper now knows the truth.

His crewmates can sleep easy, heal easy, because Chopper can find dark tomes of demonic medicines to heal his crew and with the power of a conquerors slicing will, he can save them all, three heads or no skin or made of storm instead of bone.

(There’s more to Luffy he knows, even now.)

(Trust us Luffy!)

(His captain doesn’t talk about himself.)

Chopper climbs into Luffy’s arms, the upmost trust in his eyes, and knows that everything is finally okay.

Everyone is here.

Alive, Safe, and sound.

(Luffy would never eat them.)

(Right?)

[thomasstalsworth]

Too Old ... Prologue

The mooring was not far.

A familiar walk that he knew quite well. Tides knew how many hours, days and more he had spent at Stormwind’s harbour. Weeks on work, weeks off, labours and endeavours both above and below the strictest board. He walked the length of the harbourway with his arms at his sides, hunched somewhat forward and shoulders flexed to help keep him awake.

“Innit’ boys! Innit’! Don’t let off the load! Whale her in - whale her fuckin’ in!”

A cry broke his attention as he walked past one of the dockheads. Early morning had given the harbour to a pink spray of light, scarce enough for the common man’s sight -- but Tom was no common man. He had his plenty share of early morning labours beneath his belt. Plenty share.

Though none would notice, he gave a nod of his head and stuck a thumb to one nostril, heaving a breath to send and dislodge the mucus left in him. A wart-like salutation to those workers and dockhands and day-labourers currently heaving on the axle to bring in cargo to deck. But it was a salutation nonetheless. Work he knew. Work he knew well.

Steady forward, that he managed.

Down the harbourway, South as the crow flew, he kept his steady pace toward the mooring of the Dancing Dolphin. A vessel that was, as of the prior evening, without a captain. That situation was one he had the unfortunate task of rectifying in the early morning light.

“Oi! Sorry -- sorry. Fault a’me.”

Tom gave a dismissive hand to the young lad who bumped shoulder with him. Young creature that the lad was, he was walking backward with no attention as he lugged a wheelbarrow. Clipped Tom on the shoulder, enough to dislodge his stride a step or two. He kept onward.

Moray was the only option. An obvious choice not just by his experience and temperament but by his rank. The man was the first mate, after all. Albeit first mate to no captain any longer, as of Tom’s own furious word the prior evening.

He paused one step to scrape his face. A foul prior evening to recollect, and so he did not tarry his mind on it. There was work to do, the crying and the screaming was done.

There was work to do.

He rolled one shoulder and flexed his jaw as he came about the dockhead wherein the Dolphin was moored. As much to ease the swell and ache of his muscles -- sleeping on sand was a young man’s endeavour and he was young no longer -- as to keep him awake -- sleeping nary a wink was a young man’s endeavour, and indeed, he was young no longer.

Scarce a soul was alive to consciousness along that particular dock. Only a few schooners seemed settled to the rope and anchor besides the Dolphin herself. Luxury vessels for the spare measure of those with coin to slip aside for an afternoon, an evening, a week perhaps on sail for no profit. Still despite his title and status and all else he had come into, Tom felt so disparate from those creatures. Perhaps he still was apart from them though; he had work to do.

He paused at the gangway of the Dolphin.

It was less than what -- twelve hours ago, more, less? -- that he had stormed off the same gangway beside Sigurd. A fury within him despite the calm demeanour without. But anger was quick to burn and quick to burn out. Pain last longer, Tides knew how well he understood that. The stretch of evening behind him could attest to such.

He came aboard the Dolphin to no fanfare. Few souls were awake, those who were looked to him only briefly before dipping their head and gaze anywhere else. Fear? No -- perhaps something between fear and an awkward sensibility. Doubtless the situation held some appearance, despite it not being voiced.

It would be voiced soon enough.

He carried on past the main deck, trekking up with a ‘clack!’ of his wooden leg along the stairwell to the quarter. Moray was not a man to sleep beyond the first dreaming of Sun on the horizon, he knew that well. They had sailed together enough times and fought bare-fist even more. If Moray was anywhere, he would be at the helm to settle compass early or somewhere around the captains’ quarters looking for --

Well, looking for someone who was not there.

The first shred of genuine sunlight started to pierce the precipice of the sky, and Tom paused to glance toward it. There was a break in the halo of gold where the Stormwind lighthouse crest the horizon, and he sighed to behold it. Perhaps not out of awe, no -- he had seen that lighthouse enough times for enough reasons to be null against the beauty. Perhaps out of explicit acknowledgement from the cosmos that yes, yes the past twenty four hours did happen.

Nothing to be done about it any longer.

He turned and headed into the hallway and stairwell landing that pathed from the quarter deck, below the helm, toward the captain’s quarters. And there, just as he had expected, he found the man he sought.

Moray was outside the captain’s quarters, giving a soft ‘rap-rap!’ of his knuckles against the door. By the way his barrel-frame was postured and the mild thinning of his hair was tucked downward, as if to hear inside the room, Tom could tell that was not the first time he had knocked.

Tom paused, sighing quietly for what was to come.

“-- Moray.”

The man in question turned about, confused in the eye at first, but his naval posture returned immediately upon noticing that it was he, the Admiral Stalsworth, that spoke. Even so many years of tide behind and under the both of them, together and apart, the man straightened and stocked himself with both hands tucked to the base of his spine.

“Admiral. I did not expect to see you, I apologize.”

Tom nod at that, giving an expression of tilt lip that he hoped looked more humored than sad. Although sad was what he felt, down to the salt and gullet of his bones.

“Aye, aye t’that. I naw’r thought I’d be seein’ you this mornin’ either. -- Y’been to th’galley yet?”

Moray’s dark brow turned upward, a short glance given back toward the door of the captains’ quarter. He jut a thumb in the direction as well after a moment.

“Ah -- no sir. I have not. Perhaps you could help me, I am attempting to rouse the Captain yet she appears more interested in drooling into her feather-pillow than rousing for breakfast bell.”

Tom’s lips came a bit taut, cheeks pouched as he nod once.

“Mh, that so?”

“Aye, sir. She has been -- “

Moray caught himself as if he had more to say, but deigned not to share in entirety. The phrasing was key, of course, as it often was in conversation to strict and naval superior. Not to mention parent.

“-- busy. It is not the first time she has roused a bit later than the first morning bell. No fault done, of course.”

Tom fought the urge to scrape his face and expound a sigh. He was a good first mate, still.

“C’mon down ta’ the mess with me, Moray. Galley’s sure ta’ have atleast a dripping a’ hot coffee this late in th’morning.”

Late, he said -- it was doubtful the hour was past five and a half in the morning.

Moray double-took on the captain’s door, but he gave a bob of his own chin and followed after Tom as he headed down the stairwell -- both careful not to notch their noggins on the tight spacing of it -- toward the galley in the belly of the Dolphin.

Into the guts they went, passing the few sailors of the vessel who were awake and working their morning shift. Tom did not forget to note how few of them seemed to be -- well, doing something. There was a casual … not quite laziness as it was not lazy to not be at performance of work if there was no work to perform. A ship could only stay so long at port before there was naught else to do except shine the mugs, trim up the hammocks, and have a wank.

Thankfully they did not pass any such of the latter in-the-midst.

For the credit of the crew of the Dolphin, the galley was well-stocked. Indeed, it was not as if the Company ever allowed any vessel to go without strong larder and pantry, but all the same. It was what one did with their supply that was often the difference between an excellently fed and happy crew, and one that would go to blows over a stray toe-nail.

Tom knew that well. Tides and Light and shit in a boot, he knew that damn well. His first runs across the ocean were all done under the profession of ‘kid who can turn shoe leather and potato gruel into a decent breakfast’.

Despite the reason he was there in the galley that morning, and what he was there to explain, he felt a little pride in the fact that his child had managed to educate and retain a crew who did well to feed and supply one another. Hopefully they would keep to that in the lasting of their lives.

‘Skrrt!’

Tom pulled out a chair in the middle of the near-empty galley. Most of the morning crew seemed to have already eaten and guzzled their share of coffee and tea. But there was still some hot brew to be had, not even lukewarm yet, and Tom had done the kindness of grasping both he and Moray a tipple.

Moray, himself, who seemed more and more suspicious to the Admiral -- although through the bare veins of stoic sense that he always held. A stone-face the man, even moreso than Tom’s other favored sailor, Captain Florence.

Both men sat, scuttling their chairs up to both lean forearm against the table. A platform of function rather than fashion, still it held a wood-tarred love and care that both prided the Admiral and brought fresh ache to his gut.

Emotions to engage later, alone.

“I’d ask if ya’ want cream or sugar, but I know you’d throw th’pot in my face.”

Tom managed to bring up a smile, sipping at his own cup of black coffee as he looked over the table at Moray, who did the same.

Both men settled their pewter mugs of caustic, syrup-thick sailor’s breakfast at the same time.

“Hardly, sir. I would not dare break something so precious as a coffee pot. I’d hit you with the chair.”

There was a pause, a thankful break in the dull tension in the air of the vessel, and both men barked a few laughs and steady weathers of the gut that came with timed-honored camaraderie

Then the pause was longer, and implication returned to the air. Moray spoke first.

“-- I suspect there is something you need to tell me, sir. I mean this in no manner of disrespect, but rare has it been cause for you to come and simply share a cup of black brek with me.

Perhaps without even thinking about it, Moray punctuated his words with a glance back toward the stairwell they had came from. A glance toward the captains’ quarters, as if his Captain was about to waltz down and scrub the sleep from her eyes in the petulant manner she often did.

Tom nodded slow and with a certain kind of down-cast glance that men held to them when they had poor news to spread. Boyhood guilt or scuttle, no -- it was a man’s sort of caught jaw and slow intake of breath. He looked up to Moray, both men catching the gaze of the other.

“Captain Atwater has been removed from th’service of th’Company an’ stripped of her rank. She is no longer th’operatin’ officer of th’Dancing Dolphin, nor your commandin’ officer. She is not, as of now, an employee nor adjunct of th’Anchor Trading Company, per my own order.”

The pause that followed may have been fifteen, twenty seconds, but it felt like the rest of the day from break of sun until the dying dusk. Tom held Moray’s gaze, though both men were steel in the face. Perhaps doubt to his own, but Tom could not help but think Moray held the greater metal about him. Eventually he spoke.

“.. Permission to speak freely, Admiral?”

Storms were strange things. Every sailor knew them well, well enough at least to respect them. What conjurations of the world brought about the swells of water and power of air; thunder and lightning and hail, felfire and every other kind of strength to bend a ship to heel -- sailors knew to respect them. It did not matter, in the end, why they happened. Only that they did. And to endure was as important as to sway or as to avoid. To run rope and sail was to be playing mercy with the most powerful portion of the world. Endure, that was the sailing way.

“.. Aye, permission granted.”

To his credit, and Tom did give the man his credit for it, the entire table was upended faster than he could push back in his chair. Tom almost ended up on his ass, saved only by a grasping hand to use his own chair as a brace as the wooden table flew so far as to ram the ceiling of the mess. Hot coffee was not a kind thing to have anywhere but slowly, carefully along the tongue. The beverages of both men flew in an arc, leaving a reasonable portion over them both.

“She is the reason I AM ALIVE! THE REASON THIS CREW IS ALIVE!”

Moray’s voice was a roar, a bellow, a beating charge of a gorilla in the depth of Stranglethorn. Tom would know, he had faced down his fair share of such beasts at the working end of a double-barrel.

The first mate to a now-defunct captain bellowed from within his chest, a hand extended in fury of muscle as he jabbed and demanded explanation. He came as close to blows as he could, stepping upon the Admiral with a breaking step.

The sound caused any crew on the deck, or even the next, to scurry off to the main.

“And the reason you were there to begin with, with no help, no reinforcement a’ any other.”

Tom spoke calm, and clear, and with the kind of settled anger that came when a man was done screaming, done yelling -- done. When judgement had already been passed and there was naught else to do but to repeat, and uphold, and retain it.

“She act’t with impunity, she act’t with a martyr’s heart, an’ she did all such without any spittle to th’rest of the Company despite th’threats faced. Th’die is cast, Moray, ain’t none t’be done ta’ change that. Aye? Y’know that, I damn well know you do.”

Tom may have been beyond the power of indignation and rage, but Moray was not. A man who was otherwise stone, serene, stoic, now he was hot in the face and swollen with blood.

“No, you do not tell me what I know. You were not on this vessel, were you, hmm? You know exactly how a single second of circumstance can change everything. You know that the captain’s word is law.”

A heave of breath left Tom, and he raked his sleeve over his neck and face to remove the leavings of warm coffee.

“Aye, I do. So’s the word further up.” An unspoken mention of his own title left in the air.

Moray breathed with the power of a man who was about to -- or just finished -- a fight. But he did settle in the spirit, or at least in the body. He stood with his arms at his sides, albeit fists clenched, meeting Tom’s gaze.

“I made th’call, Moray. These last months coul’ have been far better fer’ th’crew, fer’ you, fer’ HER, an’ fer’ the Company if she’d have put even one thought inta’ eatin’ whatever sense a’ pride or personal vendetta or fuckin’ martyrdom or whatever it is she’s got boiled in her. This ship? -- “

Tom motioned to the vessel within which they stood, tussled with coffee and roaring words.

“-- This ship could’a taken two round trips ta’ Barrowfield n’ back with steady grain an’ good work, paid work, in th’time she’s kept it grounded here in Stormwind. I ain’t about ta’ ask you about what she’s been doin’, what murder-mystery horse shit she’s gotten herself into.”

He paused, steadying his own rising conjurations of parental disagreement and anger.

“-- Not m’place. Ma’ place is ta’ ensure the best for all of this Company an’ the peoples upon which desperately rely on us. I don’t know if y’heard but th’Fourth War is over. People are hurt. People are hungry. People need work.”

It was a stinging point of argument, but Tom used it because he knew he had to. He had to try to get some semblance of sense of the larger picture through to the man.

But often the best traits of men are the worst, through whatever lens one viewed it through.

“Hurt and hungry, you say?”

Moray’s voice was steel, leveled and measured now without the power of a jungle beast.

“I do not play odds, sir.” He emphasized the deferential title, staring at Tom.

“You put your daughter out hurt and hungry. That’s your choice to make. Not mine. But she is my Captain and I will abide by that trust.”

Both men held their ground, staring and grasping to their battlements. A warfare of the mind.

Eventually though, Tom was the first to open the gunneries. He swiveled his shoulder and point his arm and forefinger toward the door of the galley, out to where it bled to the main deck and -- beyond -- the gangway.

“Then go. I ain’t about t’hold you here if that’s the make of things. You want to leap down th’hole of irresponsible horse shit that she has decided to stake herself on, fine. You go. Damn well I don’t want that, because I sure as fuck need ta’ fer’ what is about to come, but despite what anger you’ve got in yer’ belly right now, you know I’m right.”

What Moray did or did not know, or would come to know, was rather irrelevant. O’ Captain my Captain, his soul spoke to him, and rare was it that he and his soul made any kind of polite conversation any longer.

Without a word, Moray undid the pinning of rank upon the lapel of his coat. He flicked it between thumb and middle finger, letting it rattle and clink across the galley floor, all muddied with coffee. Beneath his coat, he removed the two pistols upon which he had been issued by the Company, opening their breeches to unload the cartridges for the sanctity of safety. He dropped them and the pistols to the galley floor, eyes unbroken from Tom’s own.

The saber at his side, Moray kept. That was his, and he would leave with it.

And so he did, with a final point of eye to match Tom’s own, he marched out of the galley and the Admiral listened with the briefest hope of return even as he walked down the gangway and onto the dock, only to be gone. Gone and carved from heart just as she was.

Tom shut his eyes, breathing the stale scent of coffee, wood tar and sea brine.

There was still work to be done.

Through the communication stone within the outer pocket of his coat, Tom spoke by proxy. His thumb ran over the runestone, and offered up speech by a particular channel to one party only.

“-- Florence? It’s me. I’m helmin’ tha’ Dolphin to Stormholme this afternoon. When I come inta’ harbour we need ta’ speak. There is task what needs done an’ done quiet.”

With only a minute’s pause to collect himself and reacquire his sense of command. Tom walked out onto the main deck. Those members of the Dancing Dolphin’s crew that were awake and at-stations, lax as the tasks they had were, turned to look at him.

“-- Aye, y’have all seen, heard n’ assume’t correctly. Miss Atwater n’ Mister Moray are no longer officers upon this vessel, nor within th’Company. Any who have issue with such order are welcome ta’ make mention a’ such an’ reacquaint their path a’ career at the endin’ of this last voyage. We will be takin’ sail back ta’ Stormholme, Kul Tiras. Any with qualm to be made known or complaint can say so then.”

Tom paused, eyeing the crew. He turned and started up the stairwell to the quarter, not stopping until the distinct ‘clack-clack-clack!’ of his wooden leg reached the captain’s wheel.

“-- All hands, ready fer’ sail!”

[bisexecutioner]

collateral;

What wasn’t visible to the Admiral’s eye was the history that simmered between the two spirits at the docks. It felt like years ago that Lee had made her acquaintance, when she’d sprouted up in the ranks of the Ashvane like a weed. She commanded attention for her beauty, naturally, but moreso in her ruthlessness. She was utilized far more than the brutes of men that the Company employed to pummel down those who couldn’t deliver; no, her methods were much crueler, worming into their ribcage and striking at the heart. When she left, she’d bring with her their possessions, both material and otherwise. Her vexation was so famous, it was the first conclusion one would point to, upon seeing men wandering the port streets without aim.

Despite this, there was no wondering as to how she had earned Lee’s affections. She enthralled him, if only for the fact that he knew she could dismantle him easily — yet she didn’t. She let him be. She let him know her, at least what she bothered to show. He was powerless to deny the pleasure he received from being the envy of other men and women, simply by being in her company. 

It had never been affirmed verbally, but public exposure solidified the conclusion of their partnership. Vic didn’t mind the idea of being his, for he turned cheek when she slept in other beds, and she liked having someone near who listened well, but kept quiet. He was an expert at minding his business. Together, they were able to exist as two separate entities rather than one; such often dealt the killing blow to her relationships, when the other started to blend into her own being, or attempted to suck her into theirs.

They’d been together more than a year by the time she left town. There was not much sadness in the separation — after all, they’d been a loveless coupling. But there was a mutual respect, one that bound them as friends, or at the least, coworkers. His affections had never quite died. If she called for him, he would come. He knew it just as well as she did.

Here they were in Stormwind. With the Azerite trade dwindling, Lee was pressed for cash, which strained his ability to be her errand boy. Fortunately, they were always able to come up with something when they put their heads together.

Victoria passed for her mother’s kin well enough to walk about Orgrimmar freely. It hadn’t taken much poking around the city, including the outside of it, to realize that Alliance ships were leaving the area with more than they’d arrived with.

“Gold?” Lee was initially unconvinced. “How are ye sure?”

“Saw it myself.” Vic hummed, shielding her joint from the winter winds which lashed about their forms. The breeze coming off the water at the Stormwind Harbor was especially chilled. “Must be some agreement, hm? I imagine that the boy king’s men weren’t particularly thrilled about helping the enemy. Peace doesn’t line pockets.”

Lee set his jaw, glancing over to the merchant ship that Vic had pointed out. “Don’ look military.”

“Probably isn’t. That would be too obvious.” She lowered her joint, laying her snake-like gaze upon him, eyes narrowed. “Fifty split, Mainsworth. I would estimate an amount much higher than a few months wages.”

He tilted his head from side to side, bare arms crossing against the wind. He didn’t seem to mind the fact that he was dressed poorly for the shift in weather. “Wot do you need me fer.”

“Backup.” She responded plainly enough. “A man guards the hold, I’d prefer him out of the way. I haven’t seen any other crew, but there could be. Not to mention that ships around here have guns.”

“Unused, I’d bet.” He’d hum. “They’s all settlin in fer winter. Sittin’ ducks.”

It was then that the Admiral arrived, cutting their conversation short — though, an unspoken arrangement had already been reached. Whilst they headed off, she noticed that Alexa made for the ship in question, though elected not to mention such to her company.

tw: violence 

They waited for nightfall. The first mate milled about the deck, securing sails and hatches, before heading into the cargo bay for the night. Stepping soundlessly aboard, Lee picked the lock with a few well angled flicks of a metal tool, easing the door open with his shoulder. Vic followed behind, a leather hood attached to her long sailing jacket obscuring her face. 

As they crept down the stairs, she allowed Lee to lead the way, notching an arrow into her bow and keeping it aimed down toward the ground. At the foot of the stairs they were able to see the first mate with his back to them, organizing the crates by contents. At the far end of the hold, Vic was able to make out several unmarked boxes, which she easily inferred to be hosting the precious cargo they were after.

Detaching his bat from his belt, Lee slinked forth towards the figure, carefully maneuvering around the stacked crates. When in range, he stood and swung the weapon for the side of the man’s head in a sickening wallop. It was a blow hard enough to make most men crumple to their knees; but the sturdy Westfallen native merely stumbled to the side, grabbing to a stack of crates for support and groaning out in pain.

Vic hissed through her teeth, knowing they had only a few precious moments before he either called out or fought back. She rose her bow before then. Drawing the string back to her cheek, she exhaled a silent breath, then let the arrow fly. It soared between the high stacks of cargo and thunked into place between the man’s shoulderblades. He stumbled a bit further, until the poisoned arrowhead incapacitated him entirely. He fell to the floorboards face first; and a few moments later, heaved his last breaths.

Lee stood back for a moment, eyebrows raised. He’d no intention of being privy to a murder; but realizing that he was, the sailor kicked himself into gear. Rushing to the back of the hold. he removed one of the burlap sacks attached to his belt and handed it off to Vic, who joined him soon enough. Together they cleaned out hefty amounts of gold ore, loaded it into the sacks and onto Lee like a pack mule, then hauled ass out of the hold and off the ship entirely.

Of course, one contingency had not been planned for. From within the galley, the captain’s dog had picked up on their arrival, and was sounding his natural alarm. They had just made it onto the dock when the galley door swung open, releasing the beast out into the open. Vic couldn’t feel indignant, not when protecting it’s home was an admirable instinct — but she certainly didn’t appreciate having a snarling, enraged hound snapping at their heels, testing both the speed and stamina of man and woman alike. The distance had nearly been closed by the time they reached the dinghy they were to make their escape into. Lee jumped into the boat first, followed by Vic; though the beast triumphantly caught the end of her coat tail, ripping off a large square of leather. She scrambled back into the boat, sputtering, “Lee—!” Though he was already on the move, driving the oars into the water and sending them back from the shore, moments before the dog would have jumped in with them.

They sailed south along the beach to Westfall, catching their breaths. Vic leaned her head down into his lap, and eventually began to laugh. A cool, breathy laugh that traveled out into the air, and across the water like ice.

[ @preyontheweak​ ]

[aurorasmitty]

‘cause there’s a beauty in being broken, i’ve been seeing it || aurora & hook [closed] {part 2}

Aurora paced in her room, feeling an angry injustice at how her life had turned out. James was always going to be a weakness to her; he could tell her the most vile things, and then turn around and ask her to go to bed with him, and she’d do it! She had no willpower around him. It was as if he had some sort of hold on her.

When she had first joined the crew, Rory had been so happy. What she had told Sam was true; she never said no to any of the men for fear of what they might do. But at the start of it all, she stayed in Hook’s cabin. He had been charming and sweet, and offered her something that no one else had been willing to: revenge. 

The months that followed had been utter bliss. Rejuvenated by the idea that killing those that haunted her dreams and quiet moments, and melted by the captain’s sentiments and kindness to her, Rory had thought she’d found her happily ever after. 

James had bought her pretty dresses, nice perfumes, adorned her with precious jewelry. He had punched a pirate for making a crude gesture at her behind her back. Hook always made sure that she had her heart’s desires, although she never asked for much. All she had truly wanted, was to be with him. 

Three months had passed; they talked to each other about everything, and Rory had never felt so connected to someone before in her life. Sure, his blood thirst for Pan was a little odd, but after he’d explained what the demonic boy had put him through, she understood. She too, was after blood, after all. He knew more about her than anyone, and she felt so safe with him. She could not have known how three words would have changed everything. 

Fifty five years ago...

Midnight peeked through the captain’s window and blushed, before heading on her way to make her rounds over the world. Aurora stifled her moans as she let her head fall back. Hook had his hand on her waist, keeping her in place on his lap, and the sheets fell around them in a wrinkled mountain range. He was looking up at her in an intense concentration, trying to hold off until she was where she needed to be. 

After they both came crashing down together, Rory lay atop his chest, the two of them in a sweaty, heaving pile. Every time together was similar; rough and passionate, lots of yelling. She was sure the crew was tired of it, but she didn’t care, and neither did he. They wanted what they wanted, when they wanted it. 

Rory disentangled herself from his legs, and rolled to the side, resting her chin on his warm shoulder. 

“That was...” he started, wrapping an arm around her. 

“Incredible,” she finished for him with a satisfied sigh. James leaned forward and kissed her damp temple. 

They lay like that for a while, the boat tipping them forward and back in time with the gentle waves. Aurora felt a warmness wash over herself, skin tingling where his hand sat, and she closed her eyes, a smile forming on her lips. 

“I love you,” she murmured, resting her head on his arm. 

Fifty four years and 364 days ago...

“Do you like it?” James asked from the doorway of a freshly cleared out room. He had his arm around Rory’s shoulders, hugging her into his side. 

“Yeah...” she said slowly, and looked up at him. “What is it for?” She asked, confusion washing over her face. 

“For you,” he smiled down at her.

“What do I need a cabin for?” She asked, a nervous chuckle following. “I stay with you,” she explained, glancing between the two bunks, and then back up at him.

“I thought you’d like your own space! You’re right down the hall from me now,” he told her, in a far too cheerful tone.

“Well...I didn’t mind sharing with you,” she said, shrugging his arm off of her. 

“I have a lot of work to do, and you shouldn’t have to be holed up in there with me all day, sitting quietly so as not to disturb me. Now you can have your own place you can go and do whatever you like,” James explained. This wasn’t just a room to do whatever she wanted; this was literally just a room with bunks in it; it felt like she’d done something wrong and now she was going to have to go sleep in the doghouse. A sad feeling washed over her.

“James, if this is about what I said last night, it isn’t necessary. I didn’t mean anything when I said that I lov--” she started to lie, and James raised his hand. 

“No, I know. I just thought you’d like your own space.”

“I do, I just--”

“Well, it’s settled then. Your dresses are in your closet already. I’ll see you around, yeah?” He cut her off again, before kissing her sidebrain and heading down to his room. 

Fifty four years and 350 days ago...

“Yeah, no, we’re not together. Never were, Starkey. Go ahead and try your luck. Haven’t had her in my bed for two weeks,” James’ voice carried through the galley door. 

Rory stood just outside, back to the wall. She was furious. Every time she had gone to him the last two weeks, there had been some sort of excuse as to why he couldn’t see her. Now it was clear. He was finished with her; they had never said it was anything official to begin with, but still, after three months of near daily shagging exclusively, one would think that it meant something. 

Rory was about to turn and leave, even though she was starving, but then the pair spoke again, and curiosity got the better of her. 

“You won’t be pissed off with me?” Starkey asked, and Hook laughed. 

“No, mate, seriously. Look on her as the ship’s whore for all I care,” he stated callously. “She’s a good lay, too,” he added with a laugh. Aurora closed her eyes as the hollow pit in her stomach swelled with rage, and she took a deep breath. When she opened them again, the fire in her stomach sprang to her eyes, and she decided to take action. 

Rory dropped her trousers, and pulled the oversized shirt she was wearing tucked in down over her bum. She brought her belt around her waist, making a sort of shirt dress out of it. She tossed the trousers into a broom cupboard, fluffed her hair, and flounced into the galley.

Ignoring the captain and Starkey at the table, she moved to the easiest target, Cookson. He always got nervous around her, and with her new attire, his eyes struggled to look anywhere but her tanned, exposed thighs. 

“Hiya Henry,” she said in a cheerful voice, coming around to his side at the counter. “Whatcha making, handsome?” She asked, leaning back against the table, letting the hem of her shirt rise a little higher. The cook visibly blushed, and glanced at Hook for help. He must have heard James’ crude comments, and Rory wasn’t about to back down now. 

“Uh,” Hank started, eyes darting back to the potatoes he had been chopping. “Stew,” he replied, and Aurora gave him an over the top smile. 

“Ooh, very nice, I can’t wait for supper. You are the best cook on the seven seas, you are,” she smirked, running her hand along the back of his shoulders and she stood up straight, walking round the counter. “What are you boys talking about?” Rory asked, turning her attention to Hook and Starkey. She wandered over to them with a smile that didn’t let on how much she wanted to smack James. 

“Oh, just maintenance on the ship,” Starkey lied easily.

“Huh,” Aurora replied, and then leaned her hands onto the table, presenting a nice view for Cookson should he happen to look over. 

The sound of a knife dropping and him scrambling to retrieve it meant that it had had the desired effect. “So, James,” she started, turning to face him just in time to see him retreating from an arched neck to try and see her behind. “You busy tonight?” Rory asked, swaying her hips from side to side where she stood. Disappointingly, as Rory expected, James nodded. 

“Yes actually, I have some things to go over with Smee,” he said, clearing his throat. 

“Oh, what a shame,” she half pouted, and then tapped her hands on the table a few times before straightening up. “I guess a girl’s got to find her own entertainment tonight,” she murmured, strutting towards the galley door. 

Just as she arrived, Aurora stopped and turned around. 

“You busy tonight, Johnny?” She asked Starkey. If she wasn’t so pissed off with Hook, she’d have been amused with Starkey’s subtle glance at the captain. Hook was staring at her, jaw clenched now, before he gave Jack a minuscule nod. 

“Nah, I’m free,” the pirate replied as soon as he got the go ahead. 

Aurora put on an award winning smile, despite how much she wanted to scream. She walked out the door, hips swaying as she used to do walking down the boulevard with Devyn back home to get boys to honk their horns at them. She quickly turned around, holding onto the door frame as she leaned into it, biting down on her bottom lip gingerly.

“How about now?” She amended, raising her brows suggestively. 

Starkey slipped quickly out of the booth to follow her, and she caught the cold gaze of Hook watching her before she took Jack’s hand, and led him towards her new room. If it was a ship’s whore James was making her out to be, a ship’s whore she would be. 

[inqorporeal]

WIP Wednesday

I don’t do these a lot because I don’t like to spoiler my stuff. But here’s the opening chunk of that still-untitled Post-66 Pirate AU idea I tossed out there a while ago. 

If anyone had asked Hondo what he had thought when news of the Jedi purge reached his ears, he would have laughed and denied interest.

“There are so many more interesting things to worry about, after all, and I have only rarely had dealings with the Order.”

Behind closed doors, where he could scour the shredded, fragmented remains of the HoloNet -- mostly pirate (ha!) datanodes run by independent operators, who had protected their investments from the new Empire's grasp -- for the lists of confirmed dead, it was quite a different story.

Knightfall, they were calling it. Hondo had been familiar enough with certain Jedi to know the double-meaning held real truth; the war might be declared over, but the galaxy felt darker. Colder.

Hondo Ohnaka was not one to openly mourn -- as with his crew, he preferred to celebrate the memories than weep over the loss -- but seeing young Katooni's name on the list had left him feeling speared through the chest. Granted, he had only lured the children back in hopes of ransoming little Ahsoka for the kyber crystals, but Katooni had surprised him with her ingenuity. Ah, she would have made such a fine scoundrel! If he'd had more to drink than usual that night, no one had dared to comment on it.

It was a guilty relief to not find Ahsoka's name also on the list. She was a smart girl; she would be fine.

He kept telling himself that, anyway.

The day he found Skywalker's name on the list was the same day they abandoned the base on Florrum. Some Imperial twit had decided they couldn't tolerate the presence of honorable pirates and had chosen to flatten the base with an orbital bombardment rather than engaging in a proper fight. Too many of Hondo's crew failed to make it past the blockade to hyperspace; they had been forced to scatter and regroup at an old deadspace outpost nobody used anymore.

Because the Empire had shot it to pieces.

Hondo stared out the viewscreen at the broken station -- its hull deeply rent with charred gashes, surrounded by a haze of wreckage and void-frozen corpses -- and for the first time wondered if a future was even possible anymore.

From then, they were forced to remain mobile, never overstaying in a particular area. Pickings were growing slim, now: too many refugees with nothing worth taking, too many Imperial operations groups lurking the major exchange points. The wealthy increasingly remained in well-policed sectors like the Tion Hegemony and the Corporate Sector -- their private security forces blessed by the stinking Emperor in exchange for slavish loyalty.

Hondo was in his cabin running through the navigation charts -- painstakingly created over years, with new routes that bypassed the trade lanes -- about two months after Knightfall, when his comms specialist poked her head in the open door.

“Got a signal, Captain. It's a weird code, dunno where it's coming from.”

“Ho?” Hondo hopped up from his desk -- anything for a distraction from the increasingly depressing prospects of finding a sector in which they weren't (yet) known -- and followed her to the bridge. “Let us see what we have here.”

It took some time -- and some costly flying, breaking the remains of his fleet into smaller groups -- to triangulate the signal's source: a beacon dropped in an asteroid field on the outer reaches of an uninhabitable system. The code, however… oh, Hondo knew that code. He was one of perhaps only a handful of sentients entrusted with it, and assembling a response took the better part of a day. Their patience was rewarded when a small ship, barely more than a shuttle, emerged from its hiding place on one of the larger asteroids and made its cautious way out.

As hiding places went, it was a surprisingly effective one. One would have to be quite the pilot to make it through. Hondo commanded the hangar bay be opened and rushed down in time to see the battered craft settle in the tiny space between the other ships.

When the ramp finally opened, Hondo could have wept with relief. He restrained himself from running to the man who emerged warily, instead walking forward with his arms outstretched in welcome.

“My friend! It relieves me greatly to see you alive!”

General Kenobi -- oh, who was Hondo kidding, he had long since landed on more familiar terms with the Jedi -- cast nervous eyes around the hangar. “Hondo. I… had hoped that was your ship I'd spotted.”

Pressing a hand to his chest, Hondo gasped, “You truly hoped it was me? Obi-Wan, I'm touched!” Now in range, he reached out and grasped the human's shoulders. “You look dreadful, my friend. And, not to put too fine a point on it, but you smell dreadful as well. Does that tiny craft have only sonics? You must have been hiding there for some time! Come, come, we will find you something less, eh, aromatic to wear--”

Obi-Wan was protesting and finally raised his voice over Hondo's relieved babble. “Please! I need to talk to you first.” He pulled Hondo up the ramp into the shuttle, which was most definitely going to be stripped for parts and tossed back among the asteroids before they left this system.

Given the events of the past few months, Hondo could forgive his friend's paranoia. “What is it, Obi-Wan? How did you end up out here?”

The Jedi sagged into one of the few seats in the cramped lounge/galley. “I was trying to reach Tatooine, but there was an unexpected Imperial presence in the system. I got as far away as I could, but I'm almost out of fuel. And supplies.” He gave an exhausted laugh and scrubbed his hands over his unshaven face. “It's been a very long week.”

“So I imagine!” There was an additional smell in the air that Hondo couldn't quite place; he glanced around without being too obvious about it. “But why would you want to go to Tatooine, of all the dustballs? There are many more pleasant worlds to choose from.”

The Jedi ceased his fidgeting long enough to give the pirate a measuring look. “I was… on a mission, I suppose. But the Star Destroyers made me reconsider. You're not being pursued, are you?”

Hondo had to laugh; it came out sounding more cracked and fragile than he liked. “Us? No, no more than any other pirates now. We cannot stay in one place too long, you see.”

Obi-Wan was nodding as he spoke. “It might be for the best,” he murmured, more to himself, but Hondo tilted his head in curiosity. The Jedi shook himself and offered a small, half-hearted grin that didn't quite reach his exhaustion-bruised eyes. “Do you remember all those times you invited me to join your crew?”

Hondo’s heart leaped at the question, but he could play the cagey game, if that would set Obi-Wan at ease. “Of course! Your skills would be an invaluable asset -- and if I may say, you are every bit as conniving as a pirate should be, my friend. The life would suit you.”

The other man's mouth twitched with actual humor. “If your offer was in earnest, then consider me speculating. However, I have a… complication.”

“There are always complications.”

“Indeed.” Obi-Wan gestured for Hondo to wait as he went into the closet-sized cabin; he emerged a moment later with a blanket-wrapped bundle cradled in his arms. “This is my complication.”

Hondo stared at the sleeping… infant? He had never before seen a human so young or tiny. Carefully, he tugged part of the blanket back so he could see the chubby pink face. Something about the way Obi-Wan held the child suggested much more than simple protectiveness.

“Obi-Wan,” he said softly, “who is this?”

“One of the last Jedi younglings, rescued from the purge of the Temple.” It wasn't entirely true, from the way Obi-Wan's eyes shifted, but Hondo would let him keep the story. No wonder he clutched the bundle like it was priceless. “He must be kept safe from the Emperor. We had thought Tatooine would be beyond his notice, but it seems not. But it is very difficult to locate a ship in space….” He trailed off, glancing up at Hondo with cautious hope, even as Hondo filed the mysterious ‘we’ away for later questioning. “Staying with you might be safer.”

Hondo genuinely liked younglings. Oh, he would play the role of gruff disapproval, as expected, but in truth, he loved children. The thought of raising a Jedi child on his own ship was rather daunting, true, but…

He remembered little Katooni's youthful energy, her pride at her success in assembling that precious lightsaber. Her determination to absolutely show Hondo up. Having another determined little one, to teach, to nurture in these dark days after Knightfall… it sparked a little warmth in his chest. Or perhaps that was the result of the miniscule hand with its impossibly small fingers which had fumbled to grip Hondo's index finger. “He is as welcome here as you are, my friend. Does he have a name yet?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “It's Luke. His name is Luke.”

[umberleedevoted]

#11 Baubles

It had been weeks. The training was hard. Physically hard yes, but moreso, it taxed the spirit. Spellcasting was an ability tied to belief, intention, and fortitude. 

Lela sat in a heap on her bunk, the ship rocking underneath her. She absently run her hands over the ivory and silver horn than customarily adorned her belt. 

“such a treasure...” she whispered, as he thumbs brushed the intricate grooves of the bauble. On any other ship, she dare not display a treasure so openly, but these men respected, or maye feared, the title that she was working to earn. In fact, the crew primarily stayed out of Lela’s way unless they had a direct question.

While Lela felt no risk of bunkhouse robbery, she was still careful about how publicly she displayed the treasure. It usually hung around her belt, but she made sure it was tucked in the small of her back during chores, or training. She upgraded the chain that adorned it with a secondary piece of diver’s cords; just in case.

While the mystery of horn was always present in Lela’s mind, she had no avenues to pursue her curiosity. She couldn't ask these sailors and deckhands about faith and mysterious baubles. There was the old man. While she feared no theft from her crew members, she couldn't read the old man. Some days, he would be kind and informative other days his lessons would preach cruel and capricious ideals.

“If you want to stay alive, you must be willing to do what others cannot. Let people die. Slit a man’s throat- whatever it takes”. 

This was the exact lesson that steered Lela away from asking her clerical teacher about the bauble. What if it was valuable. What if he wanted it. 

Lela’s hand reflexively rubbed her neck at the thought. 

“Slit a man’s throat” she mumbled. 

Umberless was not a traditionally “good” God. She was considered an evil goddess of the sea. The healthy fear for her is why she is so openly worshipped in many island and port cities. Lessons had taught the genasi that the “Sea-bitch” had simple tennents. Strength, respect, sacrifice, and power. There was an inspiration on the inside cover of the beaten leather bound book of prayers and readings that the old man gave her.

“The sea is a savage place and those that travel it had best be willing to pay the price of challenging Umberlee's domain. All should know the bitch queen and fear her, for the wind and the wave can reach everywhere if sufficiently angered. Fair offerings bring fair winds to sea travelers, but those that do not pay their respects will find that the sea is as cold as Umberlee heart. Spread the word of the might of Umberlee, and let no service be done in her’s name without a price. Make the folk fear the wind and wave unless a cleric of Umberlee is there to protect them.”

Ironically enough, this book sat under her favorite bauble at this very moment, as Lela sat there, in a heap. The bunkhouse was quiet, minus a few watchmen who slept after retiring their night shift on deck. The morning sun peaked in the window behind Lela, as she sat. 

“I know you saved me...” she whispered, Taking the horn in both hands. 

“But why...”

Her revelary was broken

“SALT! get to the wavespeaker’s quarters, he’s requesting his ward”.

The crewmember only stayed in the bunkhouse doorway a moment.

“Ay!” she said absentmindedly. 

She reattached her small prayer book and precious horn, and made way for the old man; the wave speakers, cabin.

The sunshine was momentarily blinding in comparison to the dark bunkhouse below deck. On the deck of the Bastard’s Bellows, crew members worked to clean the deck, secure ropes, build barrels, and innumerable other tasks. The ships wasn’t huge by any stretch of the imagination, but it was well taken care of. The genasi, who could hold her own on ship, didn't feel out of place on this ship, but she did feel out of place around these people. They were tolerable enough... but they viewed her like an oddity. A fish to be sold at market. One of the few exceptions was Lucius. He was a red tiefling that worked int he galley. They sat, and talked, and sometimes he would sneak her extra wine for sparring lessons. Sparring lessons that would now be put on hold while Lucius was on the mend. 

Her blue, bruised knuckles rapped on the cabin door, it fell open.

Inside was a comfortable cabin room. Lela always noticed the smell first. Incense. Seawater. Pipe tobacco. The far wall had a stone statue of a pleasing female shape, covered in seaweed and shells, her faced locked in a snarl as a wave at her easte tossed and churned. Lela envied Umberlee’s ferocity. She liked this room, minus one thing. The deceptively pleasant faced man who sat crossed legged in the center of the room, like a statue spoiling a garden. Wavespeaker Gullus. 

“Come in Salt”. he said with a smile, and rose to his feet. 

‘Wavespeaker, I didn't think we had a lesson, I’m sor-”

A raised hand brought the genasi to silence.

“We didn't have a lesson- please look me int he eye Salt, there's no need to watch the floor like I’m a judge and you’re a guilty teenager.”

Her gaze rose to meet the old man’s aged and bright eyes. 

“I asked you here because I wanted to explain myself, please sit.”

Lela crossed the room and sat on the rickety chair that accompanied the meager desk, which was covered in papers, candle wax, and books.

The old man began to slowly pace

“You came aboard this ship to become a cleric of Umberlee. You crossed that gangplank and saw my smile, and the crews eagerness to leave port. I explained the truth. That it would be rough. That you may die. I feel as though I misrepresented the most difficult part of your journey”.

Lela cocked her head in curiosity. 

“As we trained, I could see that you exhibit traits not average in a wavespeaker. Kindness, empathy, and general respect for life. I wasn’t counting on that when I discussed your recruitment with Peridot. I judged you only on the color of your skin, your kinship with the sea; and I did you a disservice.”

“The other night hoped our friend Lucius would die. Not that I don’t enjoy his cooking, or stories, or think he is an asset to this crew; but because you needed to understand that Umberlee takes and takes and doesn't care about “friendship”

The old man’s face remained soft. 

“I hoped his death would help you with your studies. To connect to the sea ,and realize that spells will make you strong. But no. You channeled your anger into empathy and saved your friend.”

Lela was clenching her fists, but her face remained passive. “He wanted Lucius to die?!” she thought. She could strike out now and cut the old man down before her could scream out. She imagined plunging her precious horn right through his silvery blue eyes.

“I won’t pretend to know how your mind, and spirit function, but I see greatness within you. You saved your friend Salt, using a spell. That was the test, channel Umberlees power, one way or another, you’ve earned this.”

Lela’s rage was boiling but confusion began to replace cognitive thought.

The old man was extending his hand, and in it was a small pendant, carved of wood. It looked dark and wet. It was of two curling waves facing away from each other. The symbol of Umberlee!

“This emblem will help you focus your magics, Our classes will be focusing more on prayers, and what those prayers mean. Take your afternoon to yourself, Salt, but realize one thing: you WILL need to kill. Not in self defense, but the sea is a cold place”.

She was flabbergasted. Confused. Angry. Appreciative. She couldn't form thoughts or words at what this gift meant.

The old man motioned to his door, and like a spectre she felt her perspective floating, she was walking without intention or conscious thought, and before Lela knew what was happening, the door shut behind her, a small wooden emblem clenched tightly in her hand. She was a real initiate. 

Like her own little treasure trove, Lela sat on her bunk, baubles spread before her. Her prayer book, her emblem, her horn. She traced each one, and with a large exhalation thought about the old man’s words. “ I hoped  his death would help you with your studies “. So cold. So callous. Was this what she would become? A cold killing shark in the body of an old man?

She sat for some time. just thinking of the last few weeks. Leaving home. finding another. Realizing that her ancestry meant something to people.

She sat their with her baubles. on her bunk. and tears filled her eyes.

[mugiwat]

Smoke and Spices

A small sanuso/usosan ficlet I made. Rest In Peace when you ship dead ships so no one makes new fanfic, so you just gotta make your own. Msg me if you want me to make more/discuss about one piece :)

——

It was always smoke and spices that drift past his nose on these breezy days. Merry was quiet as she sailed smoothly towards their next adventure, always harboring and protecting her beloved crew. It was days like these that make his stomach particularly fluttery in the anticipation of the next island they would be embarking to, the fear of danger and the excitement of his curiosity tumbling together.

His hands worked diligently as he poured various combinations of gunpowder into tightly packed balls for future use. With his tongue sticking out from the right side of his mouth, Usopp finished the last of his ammo.

He wasn’t much of a fighter. They had Luffy, Zoro, or Sanji for that, really. Even Chopper, Nami, or Robin were better for assistance. Usopp did two things: lie and run. That being said, the trials on Skypiea and back in Alabasta were won through outsmarting, not by brute strength. He couldn’t stretch or slice or kick, but he could outwit.

The subtle swaying of the ship placed an almost mystifying trance of laziness on its passengers. The sniper packed up his ammo very carefully and rose up to place his mini workshop back in its rightful place. Glancing around, he noted the mix of yellow straw with green as an audible snore echoed across the deck. He rose his brow at the sight, but continued on towards galley. Usopp walked up towards the door and was suddenly hit with the scent of spices, triggering a sudden flutter in his stomach. With a sigh, he pushed through the door and entered the shared dining hall and kitchen.

When he first developed this idiotic crush, he could only pinpoint somewhere in amidst the Alabasta desert and the name of Mr. Prince. Usopp always knew he felt attracted to both men and women; he was always fond of Kaya and the occasional ship merchant crew that visited Syrup Village contained a certain boy his age that he always was too shy to talk to. However, those were minuscule attractions compared to that of the Straw Hat Pirate cook, Sanji.

What was it about this guy anyways? He was a womanizer, straight as a stick, and he was a total asshole. But maybe it was his concern for Usopp, consoling him with a simple cup of hot cocoa through his anxiety attacks. Maybe it was his protective personality, like the time he retrieved the sniper’s precious goggles from Mr. 2. Or maybe Usopp was just attracted to those long legs and soft blond hair? It was an infuriating mystery nonetheless. And it never helped that on days like these all he smelled was smoke and spices.

Drawn out of his thoughts, Usopp was greeted by Sanji’s back as he faced the stove, cooking up their dinner.

“It’s not ready yet. I hope you’re not here begging for snacks.”

Usopp frowned slightly, moving towards his designated storage area.

“I’m just putting away my box. Although if you say snacks too loud, Luffy might come busting in here.” He replied, placing the box on the ground.

He sniffed the air and glanced over to what Sanji was making. “Is that... clam chowder?” He asked, wandering a tiny bit closer. He kept his distance, knowing a leg could kick out at any moment if he was deemed threatening.

The cook paused in his chopping and glanced at the pot. “Yeah.” Was the simple reply.

The sniper hummed slightly and went back to the closet, browsing for his paint supplies. Usopp pursed his lips slightly, recalling his mother making her own homemade chowder all the time as a child. What was that ingredient she always put in there...? It was a ground something....

“Ah... nutmeg.”

“Excuse me? What?”

A sudden blush bloomed on his cheek as he realized he said that out loud. He turned around to see Sanji looking at him with a slightly threatening and expectant look. It was taboo to insult the chef’s cooking. He knew his stuff and was a five star chef after all. Usopp knew he was about to get kicked and possibly deprived of dinner as well.

“Uhhh... uhm... it’s j-just my mom used to make clam chowder for me as a k-kid... she used to put nutmeg in as a s-secret ingredient. S-sorry Sanji, I didn’t mean to criticize your cooking, it was just a passing thought.”

Silence. The only sound was the subtle waves outside and the pot beginning to boil. It seemed as everything held its breath as the cook mulled over what the sniper had said.

“Hm. I never thought of that.” Was the only reply as the ship seemed to exhale and relax back into its normal lazy lull.

Usopp gulped and nodded, licking his lips nervously. He looked at Sanji as the cook proceeded to pull out their nutmeg and grind it into the soup. He then took a spoon to taste, nodding in satisfaction. Something about that sequence of events warmed the pit of the sniper’s stomach. He was able to help the cook even in his own expertise. The next words just about gave Usopp a heart attack.

“It seems that inventing party tricks isn’t the only thing you have a knack for. Thanks.”

“Oh... yeah... you’re welcome.”

“Now get the hell out of my kitchen. Luffy is gonna barge in here any moment, thinking I’m sneaking you food.”

He smiled slightly, the butterflies acting up again as he did an instant replay of Sanji’s words in his head. The warmth spreading through his chest as he puffed it out slightly, feeling proud of himself. With that, the sniper abruptly turned, grabbing his paint supplies, and left the kitchen with the smell of smoke and spices trailing behind him.

[piratetrafalguy]

20 Years at Sea, Day 16 - Love

Title: Captain’s Love

Rating: T

Summary: You see, Luffy had this sneaky, endearing way of creeping into people’s hearts. Endearing, because he didn’t do it on purpose, or often didn’t seem to realize he’d done it all. Sneaky, because by the time his victims had realized it had happened, they were already too enamored to really care.

His crew mates, of course, are not immune.

Alternately: Just a few of the ways Luffy wormed his way into his crew’s hearts.

A/N: Gah, another late one... -_-’

(Read it on Ao3 here)

For Usopp, it was the first time Luffy had asked, “So, what happened next?”

At the time, the question had come seemingly out of nowhere - Luffy had only just plopped down beside him, after all, and that seemed like a weird way to start a conversation, even for the strange boy he’d just started calling captain.

When Usopp had said as much, Luffy had only frowned at him, as though Usopp was being the weird one, and then poked Usopp in the side. “After you defeated the leader of the giant beetle lord. What happened next?” he’d repeated, referencing the tall tale Usopp had been telling several hours ago, before they’d accidentally almost killed Zoro’s old bounty hunter friends.

Usopp had blinked at him stupidly, surprised Luffy hadn’t already forgotten about it. “T-that… didn’t actually happen, you know,” he’d said finally, staring down at the Merry’s railing so he wouldn’t have to keep facing the captain’s disturbingly wide and hopeful eyes. He’d never been in the habit of admitting his lies, but in that moment it had felt… wrong, somehow, to let Luffy believe otherwise.

“So?”

Usopp had startled, then, and looked up to find Luffy frowning at him again, head cocked and one finger up his nose.

“You… still want to hear it?” Usopp had asked hesitantly, a feeling he usually only associated with Kaya warming his chest.

Luffy had beamed. “Of course!” he’d exclaimed, before wrapping a rubbery arm around Usopp’s shoulders.

There would be other moments after that one, of course; smiles and laughter, bold proclamations, and a hand extended in forgiveness when Usopp still wasn’t sure he’d deserved it.

But for Usopp, that moment would always be remembered as the first.

~*~

For Franky, it was every time Luffy marveled at one of his inventions, sparkles literally dancing in front of his eyes.

“So cool!” he exclaimed, oohing and aahing over Franky’s newest upgrade - a shoulder cannon he did not, strictly speaking, have an actual use for yet, but was sure to be helpful sometime down the line. Probably.

“It’s a beam,” Franky explained, just to see Luffy’s jaw drop in excitement.

“A BEAM~!” Luffy shrieked, positively drooling in delight as the stars in his eyes starting shining even brighter.

“Okay, but was does the beam even do?” Sanji asked, with a skeptical expression both Robin and Nami were sharing.

“Who cares? It’s a BEAM!” Luffy cried, arms pumping in the air excitedly. “Franky, you are the COOLEST!”

It was not the first time Luffy had expressed the sentiment, but it was the absolute certainty that it wouldn’t be the last that made Franky break out into his “SUPER!” pose.

Because for Franky, it would always be his captain’s unbridled excitement.

~*~

Zoro didn’t know the exact moment it happened to him. More than likely, there wasn’t one; his and Luffy’s relationship had never been the same as the rest of their crew mates’, so it wouldn’t surprise Zoro if they were different in this regard, as well.

That being said, while Zoro couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment Luffy had started to worm his way into Zoro’s heart, he did know the exact moment he realized his captain had settled there.

The utter, heart-stopping panic Zoro had felt at seeing Kuma start to lift Luffy’s unconscious form had haunted him for far longer than the pain he’d agreed to take from his captain’s body ever had.

And if that surprising spike of emotion had meant setting aside his own dream for Luffy’s life... well.

Luffy would have done the same for him.

~*~

“She’s a good person.”

She hadn’t realized it then, but looking back, Robin was certain that that was when it had started. She hadn’t believed the words, then - still didn’t really now, if she was being truthful with herself - but they had still left a peculiar sensation of warmth in her chest, a feeling she hadn’t recognized at the time but could easily name now.

Certainly, there were several things that Luffy had said and done since that had shown the depth of his loyalty and care:

The casual way he showed physical affection, or when he would lay his head down on her lap for a nap when Sanji wasn’t around to shout at him for it.

How he seemed to consider her advice more than any other member of the crew bar Zoro.

“ROBIN!” and “Sogeking, shoot down that flag.”

But for Robin, those first few words - “She’s a good person” - would mark the first time she had ever felt love for her captain.

~*~

For Nami, it was the moment she had felt warm, worn straw touch her head.

Because she had understood the magnitude of Luffy entrusting her with his hat - his treasure. Even after everything that had happened directly after that moment - destroying Arlong Park, and bringing the person who’d taken so much from her to his knees - that one gesture would be the thing that stuck out.

Because after all she had done to him - after she’d lied to him, used him, and stolen from him - she’d still been entrusted with his treasure. He’d still trusted her.

You’re my friend, that one gesture had said. You’re my crew mate, and I won’t let anyone hurt you.

Not any more.

Nami had returned the gesture by promising to navigate him anywhere he wanted to go - and by also silently vowing to mend that stupid (precious) old hat whenever it was needed (which would end up being quite often on their long, dangerous journey).

She’d get him (and his hat) to Raftel if she had to strap him to her back and swim him there herself.

~*~

For Sanji, it was much more than jubilant cries of “Sanji! MEAT!”

It was the bright boy who didn’t laugh at his ridiculous dream of All Blue.

It was offhand remarks of “Sanji’s is better,” whenever they ate a dish that wasn’t cooked by Sanji but the rubbery captain recognized as something Sanji had served before.

It was smacking away fingers trying to sneak a bite when they thought Sanji wasn’t paying attention, and puppy-dog eyes demanding ‘pirate lunchboxes’.

It was a laughing boy proudly holding up his newest catch, followed by excited requests for Sanji to cook it.

It was steadfast loyalty, and a bloody, bruised face exclaiming, “It’s delicious!”

It was secret, knowing smirks in the middle of battle, orders that never needed voicing because Sanji could hear them without any words, and a bond much tighter than anything Sanji had had with the brothers he was related to by blood.

So, like Zoro, Sanji didn’t have a definitive moment he could point to and say, “That. That’s when that little shit snuck in.”

(“Sanji! Meat!” Luffy had cried that first day, making Sanji bite through his cigarette to hide his smile.)

All Sanji knew was that - even though he had long ago claimed it was only reserved for ladies (and cooking, and the All Blue) - there would always be a place in his heart for Luffy.

~*~

For Chopper, it was absolute acceptance...

(“But I’m a reindeer! And a monster!”

“Shut up! Let’s go!”)

...as well as unfailing confidence.

“I just don’t understand how you can let yourself get so hurt!” Chopper wailed, flailing his arms as he took in Luffy’s newest assortment of injuries.

Luffy laughed. “Cuz I know you’ll always just patch me right back up,” he said cheerfully, and patted Chopper on the head with his uninjured hand.

And maybe others would hear it as carelessness on Luffy’s part, or just another example of his devil-may-care attitude and reckless nature. But what Chopper heard was, ‘I know you can do it,’ and ‘I trust you, and I’ll always trust you in the future, too.’

“That doesn’t make me happy, you bastard~!”

‘I won’t let you down, Luffy!’

~*~

For Brook, it was the uproarious, uninhibited laughter.

Or, specifically, that first burst of laughter he’d heard from Luffy in the Sunny’s galley, after treating the Straw Hats to their very first skull joke.

Brook had been a bit worried at the time; it had been several decades since he’d been around people, after all, and the looks his soon-to-be crew mates had given him at the joke had not been promising. Except -

“Skull joke!” Luffy had parroted, before cackling like a hyena.

It had grown from there, with an upside-down face grinning at him from the top of a piano (“So… can I join your crew?” “Sure!”). With more laughs and bigger grins, and casual affection in the form of warm hugs uncaring of a sharp, angular body made entirely of bones.

Yes, Brook had lived a great many years, and seen and felt a great many things…

But none would compare to the way his heart had positively burst at the sight of his would-be captain laughing at one of his stupid skull jokes.

(Even if he didn’t have a heart to burst, yohohoho~!)