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holykillercake · 4 years

Text

One Year

pairing: Zoro x Reader

word count: 2k

summary: No summary this time. I´ll just say this ¨Bartholomew Kuma and Sabaody¨. Read at your own risk. Seriously, ¨KUMA AND SABAODY¨, do you understand?

highlight: ¨Everyone did their best, but no one could have done better.¨

warnings: angst with happy ending; Sabaody Archipelago spoilers (?)

notes: Hey guys! This was a request from @roronoatrash in which ¨Zoro who has 0 sense of direction seemed to always find his way back to is s/o, and his s/o only.¨. I really hope you like it!💚 This is also the first time I write a Devil Fruit user, so I'm considering a sequel to develop the character and add more humor.

𝕷𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖘, 𝖗𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖘, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊!

It was a cloudy and melancholic day in the New World. The men on board were leisurely enjoying their afternoon; some drinking, some napping, some eating. The air was humid and cold, and the tides were strangely calm. No one seemed to care. After all, that was the New World.

¨Boss!¨ the lookout shouted from the crow's nest ¨Something is falling from the sky! It´s going to land on deck!¨

All men tilted their heads to look at the sky, watching a tiny black spot become bigger and more recognizable.

¨Is that what I think it is?¨ the captain asked himself, not believing his eyes.

¨Boss, is that a girl?¨

¨Yep, I think so.¨

They stood still watching what they suspected was a girl fall from the skies. The red-haired took a quick glimpse at his first-mate and officers, and since no one moved, he felt safe to assume that that was not a threat. Mainly because whatever was falling towards the ship looked dead already.

The body fell through the main deck and went straight to the lower level of the ship. The captain and his officers stood around the hole on the wooden floor, observing the unconscious and injured body of a girl.

¨I´ve seen some crazy things rain around here... but this is new.¨ he spoke.

They were ready to have someone dispose of the dead body when the girl opened her eyes, putting herself on her shaky legs. Blood dripped from her eyebrows and nose, and she had bruises all over. Her eyes wandered around as if she was looking for something.

¨Z-Zoro...¨ she spoke when her teary eyes met the captain´s ¨I-I need to find Zoro.¨

That was all she said before falling on her knees and collapsing.

</>

Almost a year has passed since the tragedy in Sabaody Archipelago. A year passed since you were defeated in the fight against the marine force. Your gashes closed, and your bruises healed, but there was a wound that would not go away, even after one year.

So much had happened since that day. Luffy had broken into Impel Down, fought in the Paramount War, and lost his brother, Ace. A few days later you received the hidden message he had left you, saying that you were no longer going to meet in Sabaody in three days but in two years.

It took you a while to understand the situation you and the rest of the Strawhats were in, and it took you even more to let go of your selfishness and trust them. The guilt for not being strong enough to protect yourself and your comrades ate you alive during the first weeks, but then you considered how they must be feeling too. No one could have done better.

Everyone did their best, but no one could have done better.

For one year, whenever a News Coo flew by to deliver a newspaper, you would run and grab it before anyone did, hoping to see another message from your friends. But the status of your captain was the only one you knew so far. You knew he was training with Rayleigh-san, and this whole two years thing should have been his idea.

When Bartholomeu Kuma used his Devil Fruit powers on you, you ended up landing on the ship of the Red Hair Pirates. They would always tell you how you rained on their Red Force and broke the deck floor. They said you were looking for someone, and during your stay in the infirmary, you would always call for the same person.

For months nightmares had you waking up in the middle of the night panting and crying. The same one, torturing you in an infinite and merciless loop.

Every detail, color, and noise. Everything was so precise and clear in your head.

When he fought still injured from the last encounter with the Shichibukai; when he stood up and faced the Warlord fearlessly. Even with the damages caused by Kizaru and the Pacifistas, he stood up.

And maybe your eyes fooled you, maybe your exhausted body played a sick trick on you because he was there until he wasn´t.

Right in front of your eyes.

His cropped green hair and tanned skin, the vibrant red and white striped shirt, the scar across his chest, the haramaki, and the swords. Gone, simple as that.

But after all the training that you had with the Red Hair Pirates, you seemed more in peace with yourself. After one year, the nightmares would bother you only every once in a while. You were not prepared for the New World before, maybe still aren´t, but you will get there.

And they made everything easier. It was no mystery why Luffy liked them so much. Whenever you were not engaged in a fight or some other Emperor crap, those guys were incredibly light-spirited. And the moment they realized you were part of Luffy´s crew they treated your wounds and welcomed you onboard.

Shanks agreed to have his men training you, but he made very clear that no one would babysit you, so it was ¨keep up or keep out.¨. You spent most of your time with Yassop, Benn, or Roux, for they were the best in the abilities you exercised.

Inside the Strawhats you were a stealth agent, mostly because of your Devil Fruit, the Nagi Nagi no Mi, once possessed by a Marine Commander. Another Supernova, the Surgeon of Death Trafalgar Law had told you that before shit broke in Sabaody.

You used that combined with your fighting skills to breach the enemy´s first line of defense before they saw you coming. Usually, Usopp would assist you with the sniper training, trade he ¨learned from a friend¨, Sogeking.

His father was an extraordinary sniper, and he used the same kind of firearms as you, differently than Usopp´s slingshot. Benn´s combat skills were remarkable, and Roux was exceptionally fast for a man his size. You haven´t had a lot of opportunities to fight the Red Hair himself, though you had a strong will, his Haki was something you have never seen before.

¨We´re going to a bar, kid. You´re coming?¨ Benn asked you with his cigarette on his lips.

You pondered a little over his invitation but decided to decline it. ¨Thanks, Benn, but I´m keeping a low profile tonight.¨ He nodded and smiled, turning to follow his crewmates ¨Don´t drink too much, we have training tomorrow!¨

The first mate laughed shortly and spoke without looking at you ¨Roger that, kid.¨

You walked the opposite way, wandering between the vegetables and gimmicks tents, feeling the kind sunset kiss your skin. There was some music playing, kids running around with ice cream in their hands, laughing loudly and happily. Marketers were announcing their prices, housewives were thinking about delicious recipes to prepare for their families, and couples would sit together around the font, swearing love to each other.

Every day was like that. The citizens would wish their neighbors ¨good morning¨ from their windows; bakers would open the doors early, letting the delightful smell of fresh bread wake up those who slept in.

How could you, in the middle of all that happiness, feel so sad and lost?

You sighed and made a route change. Maybe you needed a little bit of booze.

The island where Shanks had decided to dock was in the Grand Line, a place where they were known and welcomed. So you knew where they were, and it would be a short walk to get there.

¨Y/N?¨

You turned automatically, thinking that a crew member had gotten lost and was looking for his captain - or boss, how he likes to be called.

But when you saw the man standing in front of you, everything stopped. The music, the kids, and the love promises.

At some point, you started to cry and hyperventilate, believing you were in another nightmare, and you would have to go through that day all over again. Your lover carried pain in his eyes as well, like his fears were the same as yours.

Those minutes you stared at each other felt like hours while you kept every detail of him in your memory. His hair was slightly longer, and his complexion was paler, even with the sunset painting his skin.

¨Z-Zoro...¨ you whispered shakily.

He gave a step forward ¨Y/N... it´s you...¨

You ran in his direction as soon as your name fell out of his mouth. Your arms embraced his neck, and your legs gave up when he held you tight against his body, whispering comforting words as you broke into tears.

¨I...¨ nothing but sobs came out.

¨I know... me too.¨ he fondled your hair and hid his face in the curve of your neck. And there stood the both of you, not wanting to let the other go.

</>

¨How did you know I was here?¨ you asked and he blushed a little.

¨I didn´t... I had to buy stuff for the castle, and I got lost.¨ a loud laugh came out of your mouth. It was so obvious, how didn´t you guess that?

¨They didn´t give you a log pose?¨

¨They did, but I took a nap and when I woke up, I was here.¨

You spent the rest of the day cuddling on the beach sand. Zoro was laying on his back, and you were resting on his chest. You had one year worth of conversation to catch up on, and neither of you rushed to do so. He told you about Mihawk, the creepy island in which the only native habitants were copycat human drills, the boat he destroyed, and even how he begged the Warlord to train him.

The sun had started to hide behind the sea, and the warm sand was cooling down. The sound of the waves crashing on the shore together with the salty breeze made you question if you had died at some point, and that was heaven.

¨You´re paler.¨ he chuckled.

¨It´s not very sunny where I´m living.¨

¨Hm...¨ you hummed ¨And how long did you take to figure out Luffy´s message?¨

¨Oh...¨ he thought for a second ¨ I knew right away.¨ you giggled and doodled on his chest with your finger.

You felt his chest go up and down as he let out a sigh.

¨I missed you, Y/N.¨ he hugged you tighter.

¨I missed you too.¨ you stayed in silence for a few minutes ¨Anyway, when are you setting sail again?¨ You asked him softly, and he tensed up. ¨I know... ¨ your lips began to tremble ¨ I don´t want to go either, but what happened in Sabaody... I don´t want that to happen ever again.¨ you bit your lip as tears started to roll on your cheeks.

He wiped the tears with his fingers and pulled you closer. None of you wanted to part ways again, but not only those were your captain´s order that was your future. If something like that happens again in the New World, a two-year separation would be the best scenario possible.

¨It won´t. I promise.¨

When the night came, you decided to stay on the beach and talked until you fell asleep under the stars. The best sleep you´ve had in a long time. No nightmares, no agony, and no pain. Just the warmth and peace you missed so much.

On the following morning, you helped him get the provisions for Mihawk´s castle. You toured around the city holding hands and joking, kinda like the couples sitting by the font, enjoying every second you had before he left.

If he didn´t get lost trying to go back to Kuraigana Island, it would be a quick trip. You assisted him with the bags and walked him to his boat. Your heart ached to say goodbye to him, but you had to. The circumstances were bigger than the two of you.

¨I love you, Zoro.¨ you hugged him and tried not to cry again.

¨I love you more, Y/N.¨

¨Careful with the naps, ok?¨ he chuckled and nodded ¨One year. We´ll meet again in one year.¨

¨Wait for me. I´ll go get you, and we´ll return to Sabaody together.¨

¨But how will you know where I will be?¨

¨It doesn´t matter where you´ll be. I´ll always find you.¨

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nafeary · 4 years

Text

Napoleon, Theo, Dazai, and Jean reacting to College Student!MC Stressed by Deadlines

Requested by @hqissodelicate:

hey toni boo, sara/delicateikemenmemes here ❤ i've been Going Through It with school 😔 so i was thinking of how my boos napoleon, theo, dazai & jean would react to MC who's a (stressed, exhausted) student who got yeeted to the mansion in the midst of a bunch of deadlines? thank you boo & i hope you're drinking your water 💙😤

✧✎ A/N: I’m sorry it took me this long to finish... but this was super fun to write and it helped me get back into writing after such a long break due to school bs. I’m not too satisfied with Dazai’a and the haphazard scenario/headcanons mush, but I still quite like this I think. Thank you for the request dear! Take care and drink water, everyone!

Warnings: Stress and mild mentions of anxiety, and like one mention of sexual intercourse

Napoleon Bonaparte

“You’re just a chore, after all.”

You whirled around. “Don’t act like your job is going to be that hard,” you could only scoff in annoyance, “I’m going to be inside my room all day, anyway.”

At first, Napoleon was slightly confused by your statement. Wouldn’t you want to explore this new world at all? But according to code, he’d just smirk and go (sleep) do smth

And true to your statement, you did stay inside your room for the most part

It’s not like your quadrillion essays would write themselves

It’s not like your college would just excuse your tardiness

It’s not like—

“Nunuche, you sure you don’t need a break from... whatever you’re doing?”

Napoleon was quite suddenly standing besides you, trying to read the mess that you’ve created.

“And who gave you permission to enter?”

“Me, obviously. I did have the impression that you were in danger, judging from the amount of curses I perceived.”

You could have died from embarrassment. Of course he had to hear your yells of frustration, stemming from the fact that your laptop was out of order, that you had no idea how to use ink properly, and—

“Have you realised that you regularly zone out?”

“I suppose? But if you wouldn’t mind, I really need to finish...” you trailed off, gesturing to the papers in front of you.

However, at his inquisitive gaze, you decided to explain that these were essays that could very well decide how you’d pass university, and, upon further inquiry, elaborated how a modern student’s life looked like

He never interrupted you unnecessarily, only to ask questions when a concept was too modern for him to comprehend

Your cursed assignments certainly made your life in the past harder to enjoy, but it also brought you and the emperor closer than ever

Unable to access the internet—or visit the college library—you had no proper sources for you references (considering that Comte’s library had no modern content, naturally)

You also didn’t want to bother Sebastian, especially since him and Comte had shown so much understanding for your peril that they practically forbid you from helping him out around the mansion

Their reasoning didn’t make you feel less bad though

Hence, you only had one option left that could complete your last essay

Which oh-so conveniently encompasses the Napoleonic Wars, something you truly did not want to burden him with

“Napoleon? Remember those essays that I have to finish for my university courses?”

“Of course.”

You were twiddling your thumbs, contemplating whether your grades are worth revisiting unpleasant memories, aka the taboo of the mansion

Abruptly, he grabbed your cheeks with just enough force to turn you away from looking at your feet, but not enough to inflict pain. “If there is anything I can help you with, I’d never shy away from it.”

Begrudgingly, you inquired him about his reign with as little focus on the gruesome details as possible your professor be damned

And holy shit, he’s amazing at writing? And Not just cringey love letters? Panty Sniffer Napoleon brrrrr

As you grew closer, he’s spoil you with vitamin-rich snacks (going as far as asking Arthur and Sebastian for medical advice)

He enjoys carving cute shapes out of fruits and eggs because he knows that their and his adorable presence will prompt the perfect amount of distraction to allow a small moment of rest

Says that it’s his duty as your guard and boyfriend to take care of your overworking habits

Expect frequent complaints from your beau, ranging from “how could they assign so many essays? Aren’t students just humans, too?” to “‘Reasons Why Edison Is Better Than Newton’? Do they even know what they’re talking about? Tch!”

Theodorus Van Gogh

You gleefully indulged in his charades for the first few days. They were a welcome distraction from your college work, after all

But the procrastination was accompanied by guilt, your anxiety building up every second you spent helping Sebastian with the chores, and gallivanting around town with Theo

A week passed before your sense of responsibility finally kicked in. So when Sebas came to wake you up just as the sun peaked past the horizon, you were already scribbling away on some sheets you’d found in your drawers

“Ah, good morning, Sebastian-san.”

“Good morning... what are you writing, if I may ask?”

“Just some essays for my college courses...” you said, glancing dejectedly at your notes.

Now that you didn’t have access to the internet, and your laptop’s battery was all used up, it made your work all the more tedious, but you had to set your teeth and do this.

“Give me 10 minutes, and I’ll join you in the kitchen.”

He had wanted to argue, but you didn’t let him. And when he saw you leaving the house with Theo later in the afternoon, he could only shake his head.

You felt like you owed the art dealer, especially since you blurted out his secret the literal next moment, so you committed to helping him while also keeping up with your work

Although, him calling you dog wasn’t nice either—even though, according to Sebas’ explanation, Hondje wasn’t exactly the equivalent to mutt

That cycle continued for days. Helping out around the mansion, getting pulled around by Theo, and writing your essays deep into the night

Not to mention all the worries that pressured your shoulders further and further into the ground

You were missing so many group project deadlines, disappointing people that relied on you... it was safe to say that sleep did not come easy, if barely

Just before you arrived at your room after a late night art exhibit did your body decide to fail you, tripping over nothing multiple times.

It prompted Theo to call you out before you could even think of rushing past the door, steadying you with a hand more gentle than you had ever experienced it to be.

“Sebas informed me that you’ve been working yourself to death.”

You silently cursed the butler. “I haven’t—“

“Give me your laptop.”

Perplexion ran across your mien, wondering how he could possibly have remembered such a modern detail from your countless rambles. “It’s batt— it doesn’t work right now, so it’s not like it would stop me from working.”

Arguing with the devil was a mistake.

He snaked his arms around you, holding the door handle in place with one hand while the other still kept you upright. “I don’t care whether you work or not, I’m not your mother. And regardless of its abilities, hand it over, knabbletje.”

What other choice did you have but to comply?

He ordered—yes, ordered—you to go to bed right that instant

If you hesistanly ask him to do the same (we all know what a hard worker he is), he’ll just press a guileless kiss to your forehand, telling you not to worry about him

The next morning, you were already worrying for your baby’s safety within the sadist’s hands when the devil invited himself into your room

“Ever heard of knocking?”

“Morning to you, too, Hondje.” He sent you an overly handsome smirk, handing you the laptop tucked underneath his arms. “You won’t be able to use that spider web Sebas told me about, but writing should work.”

You stared at Theo in disbelief, all the while internally laughing at him misinterpreting the World Wide Web. Deciding to trust in him, you clicked the power button. And sure enough, it sprang to life. “What... how in the world did you...”

Leo overheard you and Sebas talking about solar energy sometime… hush, just run with it

He fell into the seat next to you, propping his chin upon his fist. “I didn’t do anything. Just asked Sebas whether there was a way for you to use this. Leonardo took notice and tinkered around with it. Don’t ask—ah!”

You threw your arms around his shoulders, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. “Thank you for taking care of me, Theo.”

Would you have lifted your face, then you’d have caught a glimpse of the vermillion shading his cheeks. “I didn’t do it to help you. I simply can’t risk having you become a liability at work. That’s all.”

Anyway, tsundere tendencies aside, you know what another big factor of dating Theo is?

King if you’re not allergic, understandably, if so, he’ll change his clothes before even thinking of visiting you

On days that you decide to be especially stubborn, he pulls you outside, all the whilst whistling for the jolly golden retriever

And as soon as he comes running, your mind goes brrrrr cute dog

Although, he’ll try his best not to distract you from work. He knows from personal experience that it’s a much bigger annoyance than help

Thus, he’ll certainly use his connections and amiable rip Shakes relationships with the residents to help you out with the research process

Also, with his superior memory, he knows what generally makes you happy and relaxed, so he’ll be his usual observant self to decipher just what would help you perfectly relax/finish your work

Hardworking boi, please love him

Dazai Osamu

Dazai is the type of person that doesn’t mind upsetting people and risking someone’s disdain if it supports that person in the long run

And he’s able to read people like books, so it shouldn’t be surprising that he knows you’re overwhelmed before you even realize it

You’ve been going to sleep too late and waking up too early? He’ll gently force you (if you’re 100% against it, he won’t do it ofc) to sleep beside him, making sure that you won’t rise with the sun for once

You’ve been exposing your wrist to heavy sprain? He’ll teach you some handy-dandy 5 Min Crafts techniques that are guaranteed to send your hands on a vacation

You've been suffering from writer’s block? Time to go on a lovely stroll through nature with your boo

Your shoulders and neck are hurting beyond sanity? He swears by hot springs, so the thermae is his go-to for when you need to relive some muscle kinks

He never fails to procure the perfect amount of bubbles and temperature. And depending on how comfortable you are with it, he’ll offer to wash your hair.

And since dude got Disney princess hands, you most probably fall asleep, but our man is there to hold you above the water

His bare thighs are an added bonus, sending your mind into spirals faaaar away from college work

After you’re done bathing, he’ll ask you whether you’d like him to braid your hair (if it’s long enough), and his Disney princess hands will not disappoint

In the beginning, it was incredibly vexing to have a security cam in the form of a handsome man always on the qui vive

But at some point, you started embracing Dazai’s overwhelmingly passive—you knew exactly what he was doing whenever he’d do something random—protectiveness

Especially since it didn’t only help you complete your work; on the contrary, you were always excited to spend time with the Japanese writer

But that didn’t curb your confusion at the whole debacle. Why was he this focused on your well-being?

So, you decided to confront him

“Dazai?” Once again, you were relaxing in his arms, his fingers threading through your hair lulling you into a dreamlike state.

He ticked his head to the side, pulling your entwined hands closer towards his heart. The sun streamed into the run at just the right angle, yet the golden light was not as bright as his vivid citrine orbs.

You sighed, unable to look at his stupid handsome face for too long. ”Why is it that you insist on taking care of me?”

“Someone has to, Toshiko-san.”

You’d have blurted out your feelings if it wasn’t for the sudden embrace you found yourself in. As guileless as it appeared, you knew he was trying to stop you from acting on your thoughts.

Deciding that you didn’t want to pressure him further (after all, you knew that he had a hellish first life), you accepted the unclarity of his feelings—even though his actions spoke loud enough for you to understand.

It was that day that you decided to repay him for all he’s done for you

And you wouldn’t let him yeet himself through a window in an attempt to evade the love sent his way this time

Even if it took decades, you wanted him to feel just as safe and loved as you did in his company

You were glad to have such a caring man by your side who helps you with managing you self care

You could only hope that he’d allow himself to be treated the same way

Please just take our love, boo. We love you

Jean d’Arc

Well fuck, how could he possibly help someone who’s stressed when he himself is a 24/7 McDonalds that only sells Chicken McStress?

Anywho, I feel like he’d be the complete opposite of Dazai when confronted with a stressed MC

He’d care just as much, of course, but he thinks that it would be better to give her space, since he himself understands the desire for solitude well

So yeah, I can see him not going out of his way to check up on you if you weren’t super duper close friends/lovers IF it wasn’t for his friend Napoleon

After all, it was him who gave your boyfriend a lil talk, convincing him that, perhaps even if someone needs space, they probably still need someone to look after them

Living with Jean is basically Ted Talks everyday

Anyway, he embarked on his journey to hopefully help you and and to relieve some stress that was wearing you down (according to the statement of several residents)

And, finding himself halting abruptly, our pessimistic little bean realised that he’s got zero idea what did help you attain bliss

So he opted for the next best option—things he knew that made his friends relax

Plan A

Hearing a few oddly reluctant raps on your door, you went to open it. As soon as you did, the beautiful man who’d captured your heart entered your vision, your eyes finding his amethyst ones immediately.

You two stayed like that for a moments, only breaking eye contact when he sighed and simultaneously thrusted a mug into your hand, already in the process striding back to his own room.

“Uhm… Jean? I’m a bit busy right now, but would you like to come in?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t you find it inappropriate for a man to enter your room, mademoiselle?”

“Jean,” you giggled at his archaic mindset, gently rubbing your thumb between his brows to even out the crease. “We’ve had sex before, you know. Of course you ca—“

Wrong thing to say. He stormed past you, vermillion cheeks practically leaving a trail.

Chuckling to yourself, you turned to the mug’s contents. “Hm? Hot chocolate?”

Plan B:

“If this doesn’t harbor your discomfort…” Your boyfriend reluctantly stood in your room’s corner, standing straighter than a rod.

Frankly, your essays have kept you entirely too busy, and you longed for the warmth of the French man’s feather-like embrace.

“On the contrary, I enjoy your presence.” And you went right back to scribbling away.

Jean frowned. “Haven’t you been writing stories since this morning?”

“They’re not stories… and, yeah? I believe so.”

Stepping towards your seated form, he extended his hand; you grabbed it without thinking twice. “Is everything alrig—whoa!”

With the ease of a seasoned soldier, he picked you up before haphazardly tugging you into bed with bewilderment maring your features. “You should sleep.”

“—what?”

He stared at you blankly, as if expecting you to fall into the land of dreams right that instant.

“Did something prompt,” you slipped your arms out from underneath the duvets, gesturing wildly, “this?”

It was hard to be upset with Jean, his clueless but genuine persona the reason why you fell for him, yet you couldn’t disguise the irritation coursing through your veins—you had work to return to, after all.

“I think you need to rest, mademoiselle.”

Your blinking made him avert his eyes, explaining quietly, “I am uncertain what supports your release of tension, so I thought that perhaps sleeping could help since it certainly does show affect with Napoleon.”

“Ah, and you made me hot chocolate since that’s what calms Mozart.”

After internally simping for his soft and wholesome dumbass energy, you pulled him to bed beside you, claiming that it would help you relax (but only after telling him that it was okay for him to ask for your preferences)

And falling asleep to the heartbeat underneath his broad chest is definitely a 5-star-resort vacation

He’d eventually ask his relationship advisor Napoleon whether it is okay to have you help them out with his reading/writing lessons (you

You, alongside Napoleon, steadily agreed, despite knowing that it was a ploy to keep you away from overworking

Please also love this boy, thanks

Tag List of the most wonderful sweethearts (just message me if you’d like to be added <3): @juminly @kisara-16 @sweetlittlemouse @thesirenwashere @nad-zeta @delicateikemenmemes

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foolgobi65 · 3 years

Text

varshadhara

one.

Sita has been married a year when there is news of a drought, cloudless skies that refuse to darken and dust that does not become soil. 20 villages chose a single representative to beg for aid from the Emperor himself, and Sita’s husband is drawn when he finally enters their bedroom that night.

“They are dying,” he says quietly, a confession that even later Sita is never sure he meant for her to hear. His eyes close as he begins to remove the ornaments that mark him the eldest, the favorite son, heir to all his father has conquered. Sita, seated on the bed, watches as her husband looks down at the ruby necklace whose clasp he has just undone and calculates how many meals he could buy with what lies so easily in his palms.

“Years,” she confirms, hands playing with the edge of her cotton upper cloth for want of something to do. Her voice startles them both, somehow too loud and too soft for the strange hush that has fallen on the palace so many hours after sunset. “But only because the jewelry you wear is more precious in this city for having been yours.”

He looks up, curiosity a glint in his eye and hands at the heavy earrings the Emperor insists on for court. He seems glad to see her. “Would it help?”

“Yes,” she says, ignoring the way her heart clenches to hear the hope in his voice, “for now. But what about in a year, should the drought continue?”

Her husband glances at the chest which keeps his gold, the fruit of a generation’s worth of tribute from kingdoms that span the earth.

“What a tragedy,” he drawls, fingers slowly teasing out the crown from the wonderful tangles of his hair, “to lose all these heavy jewels in pursuit of my duty as king.”

Sita startles into laughter and reaches out to take her husband’s burden, ignoring the surprise that flickers briefly across his features. He is always so surprised and then so grateful for what to Sita are the smallest morsels of tolerance. She does not think about why this might upset her. “And as my Lord’s faithful wife,” she says cheerfully in response, “I suppose it would be my duty to donate my ornaments as well.”

Both of them linger on Sita’s wrists, the ones she keeps nearly bare save the one golden bangle around each that at least proves her a wife. They smile: tragic indeed.

“My father has proclaimed that the drought stricken will not pay tribute,” Sita hears hours later, low in the moments before she finally closes her eyes, “but there must be something more we can do to help.”

She could live like this, she thinks, at the moment she slips over the edge between the worlds of life and dreams. Sita is content. This could be enough.

----

two.

By now all of Ayodhya must know that Janaki, foundling daughter of the Videhan king, was not expected to marry -- the year that she has spent in the blessed state so far has been tumultuous, to say the least. She grew up a goddess, but more than that she grew up sheltered from palace politics and finds herself embroiled in more than one controversy due to her own ineptitude.

Her sisters, each of them younger than Sita, were married to her husband’s three brothers before they became women true and so are kept as maidens in the palaces of their individual mother in laws: far from their eldest sister who lives, as is traditional, in the rooms of her husband.

What would they say, Sita wonders, if they knew their sister to be equally virginal only weeks before the first anniversary of her wedding?

Sita sets the ceremonial platter on top of a stool and kneels, gently picking up the woolen blanket covering her husband as he sleeps on the floor. The difference in temperature, they have both realized, is usually enough for him to wake and so it is today when his eyes open. Together they fold not only the blanket that covered him but the two others that make what serves as his mattress on the ground, one of her husband’s many concessions to his ungrateful, accidental wife.

“I was never supposed to be married,” she had whispered the night of their consummation, tears streaming down her face and tone as possibly close to a shriek while knowing that servants listened at the door. “I know nothing of how to manage a royal household, much less satisfy a husband!”

The black rimming her eyes must have mixed with her tears, leaving Sita a fright. The combined talents of Ayodhya’s finest ladies-in-waiting ruined by the anxieties of a girl utterly unsuited to serve as their canvas. Sita’s husband, a man who wielded enough power at 16 to force each of Sita’s baying, blood-lusting suitors -- some of them thrice her husband’s age -- to their knees in supplication, had barely walked into the room when confronted with the sight.

“I did not need the protection of a husband,” Sita had said then, back turned. “I would have died before any of those lechers disguised as failed suitors tried to touch me.” She choked back a sob. “It would have been better for us all if I had.” Years later her husband confesses that sometimes he still hears her like this in the moments before he falls asleep, even when they have spent more years than not tangled as one in bed. Sita never tells him how close it all was in the end, how tightly she was gripping the knife when someone heard that a young anchorite had not only lifted, but broken the Great God’s bow. But on her wedding night, when Sita opened her eyes it was to the sight of her husband, his own blade drawn. She flinched, but he only raised his own palm and ran the edge against skin to draw blood.

“A woman,” he said in answer to her unvoiced question, “is supposed to bleed on her first night. The washerwoman will be paid handsomely for her knowledge in the morning.”

Sita flushed, shoulders straightening of their own accord at the implication.

“And as a virgin bride myself, I will bleed as any other” she said, hands fisted at her side in brief, overwhelming rage. “My reputation does not need you to shed blood on my behalf.”

Her husband had only nodded, moving towards the side of the bed opposite to where Sita sat in order to smear his palm once, twice, thrice until he seemed satisfied with his handiwork.

A million questions ran through Sita’s mind. “I hope your sleep is restful,” was all her husband said in response, grabbing a blanket from the foot of what was to be their marital bed and arranging himself on the floor.

Nearly a year since, Sita’s knowledge as to the running of households has not increased, nor, she suspects, has her knowledge regarding the satisfaction of her husband. He keeps long hours, spending as much time away from his wife as possible. The people of Ayodhya, used to the years that might have passed between visits from their woman-drunk sovereign, are enthralled by the near constant access to their Crown Prince, and this during the years when it is acceptable, nay even appropriate to be devoted to naught but one’s own pleasure.

The women of the palace, caught between their desire to honor their collective son and their need to denigrate his strange, uncouth wife, stay silent.

----

three.

“In Mithila,” Sita’s husband begins, breaking their easy silence that has fallen over this morning meal, “what would you do in times of drought?”

Sita startles, the palm frond she was using to keep away insects as her husband ate, slipping to the ground. Though they can now speak of many things, they have never spoken of Mithila -- it is encouraged for new brides to sink themselves fully into the environs of their new, forever home. In this, at least, she is like every wife before her: the ways of her past can have no place in her present. Every day she must attempt to forget who she once was.

“I am only a girl,” Sita answers carefully, eyes lowered as she was told women do. “Such a question may be better answered by my Father, or one of the preceptors versed in these matters.”

There is a silence, but Sita, unable to lift her eyes to her husband’s face, cannot tell if he has accepted her falsehood. The Raghuvanshis, she has been told time and time again, are a line of honor. They do not lie.

“Did you think--” she hears, and then a sigh. “I know who you are, my lady. Are we not friends, at the very least?”

Sita clenches her jaw, picking up the palm fronds once more. She is no longer afraid of her husband, at least not as she was at first. But he cannot want the answers he seeks, not truly. “I am a princess of Ayodhya,” she says, as she has to herself every morning since she woke up next to her husband’s blood on the bed and his body on their floor. “I am your wife, sanctified by the Lord’s Bow and the sacrament of the Holy Fire.”

“Yes,” her husband agrees. Sita cannot help but note that his tone is gentle. “And in Videha, you are considered a Goddess too.”

He says it so easily, as if Sita does not live balanced on the sword-edge between damned and divine. For a moment, she lets herself imagine what it would be like to be known.

There is a story known in Videha, of a drought so ferocious that a King long without child was forced to seed his own lands with the merit of his good deeds. Of the four days of labor that resulted in a baby girl, delivered from the womb of the Eternal Mother Earth. A child covered in an afterbirth of soil where there had only ever been useless dirt.

And yet this too is known: children are the only dead who are buried, their bodies believed too beloved to be consecrated to the fire and burned beyond reckoning. Instead they are covered in wool and laid to rest in the lap of Mother Earth alongside a plea for Death to be gentle.

Sometimes these children are wanted. Many times, the bodies buried are the ones who are not.

This is all that is known: when the King knelt to deliver the child, what had previously been blue sky broke into the first of that year’s monsoon, nearly a decade since the last.

Foundlings left to die do not wear the garb of royalty. Goddesses do not wed.

What would you call me, Crown Prince?

“I am a princess of Ayodhya,” she says, the words suddenly heavy, like stones in her mouth. Her silence protects her sisters from the taint of Sita’s own uncertainty, and Ayodhya has no need for Gods not its own. She waves away an insect that attempts to rest atop her husband’s left ear and resigns herself to her fate: “I am your wedded wife.”

“They are dying,” he says softly, but he speaks to himself. Sita thinks of the easy way they can speak now sometimes; at nights before they retire, or over a morning meal. Her husband is right -- they are friends, if nothing else, and she owes him more than this. Viciously Sita tamps down on the guilt she feels roiling her stomach, rebelling against a stance that suddenly feels like betrayal.

----

Four.

“It is strange,” Mother Kaushalya remarks, as always, “that you were never taught the ways of Royal Women. Is this how girls are raised in Videha?”

Mother Kaushalya, who has only known the Kosala for which she is named, has latched onto the strangeness of Sita’s far-off homeland as a possible explanation for the ways in which Sita grates mountain-rough against the silk of the Imperial Palace. It is useless of course, since a slight against Videha must inherently touch Sita’s sisters, who in the last year have already developed a reputation for grace, gentility, and an overflowing well of kindness towards all blessed with their presence.

Mother Kaushalya, according to the servant-slaves Sita eavesdrops on, has been heard quarreling with Mother Sumitra, begging for “at least one of your darling girls, my Lady, for you know that it can only be selfishness to keep them both when your elder sister has none!”

Sita, tugging awkwardly at the overwrought necklaces she must wear when in Mother Kaushalya’s presence, can only agree. She, more than anyone, knows what she lacks. There have been rumors recently that all three of Dasharatha’s Chief Queens have made a petition to the Emperor to find a new princess worthy of the Crown Prince’s hand.

Sita can only hope that when the time comes, her husband will allow her access to the Imperial Library, or at least will deem it proper to have one wife devoted to the worship of the Gods: philosophy and piety are so easily confused, after all. The best life she can now demand is one where she recedes into the background of the Imperial Palace, unneeded and unknown by all. Never will Sita oversee the workings of a kingdom in the manner she was raised, nor will she sit atop an altar and listen to those petitioners who make pilgrimage to weep at her feet.

Some days, Sita does not even know if she is a woman at all, if these mothers and wives are capable of knowing and carrying the grief of a nation inside their fragile bodies. Every night she dreams of the drought ravaging the villages near the outskirts of Kosala, of how once a year Sita was carried by 50 men to the fields of Videha so that she might press her feet into the soil that made her womb and call forth the rains that heralded her birth.

But then she too dreams of this: a mother weeping, swollen with child like other mothers who have knelt in front of Sita. A mother who delivers a daughter in the ordinary way and buries her alive.

“Goddesses,” the Sage Parashurama had said the year after Sita was installed in the palace of Mithila, “are not meant for marriage. Videha is fortunate that after the reign of Janaka it will be guided by the light of the Divine.”

He paused then, as they all do. “And if the Lady were not a goddess, well --”

They never finish the sentence. The threat is implied.

Sita cannot be meant for love, not in the way of women who are meant for marriage. How can she, when she was meant to sit atop a dais as the physical embodiment of a force of nature, just as easily as inside the hearts of believers? How can she, when she lives her life in the fear that she will be caught out and banished, back into the grave she was meant to die in?

Women are meant for friendship. Women are meant for love.

“My apologies Mother Kaushalya,” Sita says, shaking her head and trying to convince herself that she does not rage against the fate that stretches fallow before her, “I was not raised to be much of a girl at all.”

The real trouble, Sita thinks later, is that despite everything she has somehow found herself liking her husband anyway.

---

five.

“My Lady,” a servant twitters three weeks after the Emperor promises debt relief to the drought-stricken. “My Lady, your Lord husband has need of you!”

Sita looks up from the flowers she is carelessly attempting to string together in a garland, perhaps to festoon a doorway, perhaps to drape around one of the many idols of Surya, the progenitor of her husband’s race. They have not spoken in the week since he asked her about Videha and she refused to answer. “He does?”

“He does,” the servant responds with some relish, ready Sita is sure to reap the rewards of being the bearer of such premium gossip the moment Sita’s back is turned. Sita’s husband has never before indicated such a preference for her company. “He asked that I bring you to him, and not in the garb of royalty.”

“And you are sure that this is my husband?” It is not altogether seemly for Sita to be expressing such doubt that her husband might be asking for her, especially when such a request -- even to appear in plainclothes -- is not unusual for those young and in love, seeking respite from the rhythms of the palace by traveling outside its gates. But really, her husband?

The servant, a girl perhaps only a few years older than Sita’s 16, only raises an eyebrow and widens her grin. “Should I call for one of your maids to help you dress?”

“No,” Sita responds absently, lost in the contemplation of what game her husband could possibly be playing. “Did he say if he had any preference as to what I wear?”

“He did not, my Lady, but if I may I think you had better choose something blue if you have it. The color sets nicely against your skin. Silver jewelry instead of gold, if you have that too. ”

Sita does, buried at the bottom of a trunk of clothes she had carried with her from home. But before that --

“Here,” Sita undoes the clasp of the pearl necklace sent to her by some princeling attempting to curry favor with the crown. There is no true harm in people knowing she has left the palace in her husband’s company, but she is off-center enough to want this a secret as long as she can buy it so. “For your silence, until we return.”

In the time it takes Sita to strip out of silk and re-knot her old lower cloth of coarse blue cotton she has thought of a hundred different potential scenarios. Had she been alone, she might have had to slouch out of her own rooms with her head down so that she might prevent recognition -- in the company of a servant, Sita is passed over as one as well and strolls quite comfortably into the sunshine, following a path she has never taken until they find her husband leaning against the wall of one of the palace’s more minor stables.

“My lady,” he says, seeming to shake himself out of some sort of stupor and leveraging himself fully upright. “Antara,” he says then, turning to face the servant he had charged with fetching Sita, “you have my gratitude.” He leans down to pick up something wrapped in cloth before walking to Antara with a winning smile while pressing the package into her arms.

Sita knows something of her husband, but not like this. She is charmed.

“I came across the mangoes your sister likes when I was making my way back from one of the border kingdoms,” her husband says to Antara. “Tell her that I look forward to hearing more about her adventures when she is feeling well enough to take visitors.”

Antara’s eyes gleam and grow misty. “Oh,” she says, lips trembling as she folds her hands around the parcel and takes her leave, “and we have only just gotten her head to shrink back to its usual size after the last time!”

Alone at last, Sita’s husband’s earlier flash of ease vanish into the ether. Sita tries not to take offense at being more a stranger to him than the woman he sent to fetch his wife. “My lady,” he says again, but cannot seem to say anything more. Sita, feeling the awkwardness of the last week’s silence and her own slight guilt besides, takes pity.

“The girl?”

Sita is rewarded with a smile of her own, small but sincere. “Bedridden, but wonderfully vivacious still. There are bouts of illness where she is worse off than usual, but she believes me nothing more than a particular playmate and I try to see her when I can. The parcel has medicine a far-off physician swore had done a similar patient some good, but Antara would never accept unless I passed it to her like this.”

Sita blinks. “But you are her sovereign!”

Her husband shrugs. “I am her sister’s friend, and I find that everyone is entitled to some amount of pride. It is difficult to accept that you cannot help the one you love best alone.”

She nods, satisfied as she has been in the past with the knowledge that at least she is not married to a stupid man, And, she supposes, not a cruel one either. “How old is the girl?”

His smile widens slightly in apparent reminiscence. “She will be seven in two months' time.”

“Does she have a doll?”

“One,” Sita’s husband says slowly, brow slightly furrowed, “but bedraggled.”

Sita may not know how to comport herself as wife nor princess, but once she was a Goddess who heard the entreaties of those who cared for their beloved ill. Still, she remains a sister. This, Sita knows how to do. “If you approve, I will make her a new one that you can take with you. I used to make dolls for my sisters out of dried grass and cloth when we were children.”

For a moment, her husband looks stunned before he manages to school his features into something like equanimity once more. Still, he slips and there is something helpless about the way he is suddenly looking at her. “You are kind,” he says, but low in a tone that makes it clear that he is not truly speaking to Sita so much as about her to himself. “I am always glad for that.”

Sita blushes, unsure about how to respond to a compliment not exactly meant for her ears. It is not something she ever expected to hear from anyone in Ayodhya, much less the husband she condemns to spend his days wandering the countryside and his nights at rest alone on his own stone floor. “Why did you call me?” she decides to ask instead.

Again, her husband shakes his head as if rising from a reverie. His usual self-confidence suddenly melts into trepidation. What could he possibly want that discomfits him so?

“At the Kosalan border,” he says slowly, eyes focused on some point behind Sita’s shoulders, “there are a few villages that, at some point in the last few years, welcomed some families from afar.”

There is something about the way he speaks that begins to knot Sita’s stomach. She has the beginnings of an inkling, but nothing so concrete that she can speak it aloud. She nods for him to continue.

“Neighbors share stories in times of plenty as well as times of scarcity. These last few months there have been stories about former droughts, experienced by foreign kingdoms.”

Ah. Of course.

“This is not Videha,” Sita says, but she speaks almost as if she is in a dream. She cannot deny her divinity, not without inviting further scrutiny of her orphanhood. But neither has she ever truly believed that it is her feet that coaxed the rains to Mithila. Her father sowed the fields with the merit of his good deeds. Her father found a babe in the trough. Coincidence does not imply correlation.

What would happen if the stories were wrong? If Sita walked the lands but the sky remained a bright, barren blue? In some faint corner of her heart, she feels resentment towards her husband for having made her think of this at all.

“Yes,” her husband agrees, “I told them so. But they insist I bring you to meet them if only to speak as their princess.” He winces slightly, eyes shifting desolate to the dirt. “Hope sometimes means the difference between death or life in these instances, and at this moment I have nothing else to offer.”

Helpless, Sita thinks again. Her husband, Crown Prince of Dasaratha’s empire that extends further and exacts more in tribute than any before, stands helpless before his wife. They are friends, he had said, and even before that, he is the one who has always been kind. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but no words find themselves on the tip of her tongue.

Her husband, eyes still averted, nods as if he has understood. “It was foolish to ask, I know, and perhaps you even think me cruel. You do not speak of who you were in Videha, and I should not ask this of you as my wife.” His jaw sets. “I will take you back to the palace.”

What would happen if the stories were true? If, as in her dreams, Sita walked the lands here in Kosala and the skies still split?

“How will we go?” she asks quietly, unable to force her voice firm. The words leave her mouth unbidden, but she knows they are right nonetheless. “How long will it take?”

She can almost hear her husband’s neck snap as his eyes rise from their study of the ground to gaze at her with all the intensity of the vicious sun. If before he was stunned, now he can only be described as pole-axed. His face is suddenly host to so many overwrought emotions at once that it is rendered as illegible as the times when he forces it blank. She has never seen him so, but that is not unusual. She had not seen him even wearing the smile he gave Antara.

This, she wonders, if anyone anywhere has witnessed ever before. She wonders, even as in her heart she knows the truth: they haven’t. None but Sita.

“Will you really come?” His voice is almost plaintive, like a child asking something he already knows he cannot have. But what does the most powerful man in the world know of want?

“I will,” Sita says, head spinning with a thousand questions, a thousand fears, a thousand hopes. She bites her lip, suddenly overwhelmed by her own uncertainty. “I cannot promise --” again, she loses her voice before she can finish the sentence that would throw her status into such uncertainty.

“I know,” her husband says, answering her unasked question. “I always knew. It would not matter to me either way.” He too seems to break off, struggling to find the proper words. He takes a step forward, and then another, and then one more until he stands in front of Sita, close enough that if he reached out he could clutch at her wrists. “Janaki,” he says, voice dripping with an honest earnesty that suddenly reminds Sita that if she feels herself a girl in Ayodhya then her husband too is a young boy, aged artificially by the weight he is always carrying on his shoulders.

“Janaki,” her husband says again, and Sita takes a breath. He is very handsome up close this friend of hers, the man who is her husband. “You will always be safe with me.” He smiles slightly, and Sita feels the corners of her own lips curling in sympathetic response. “As you say, you are now my wedded wife. There is nothing anyone could say about you that will change that. You can be more, but from now on you will never be less.”

For years Sita was old as well. More than anything else, she was lonely. She is lonely still.

What would you call me, Crown Prince?

My wife.

“I will try,” she vows, refusing to think about what it will do to the villagers for whom the drought continues after she walks the distance of their land. For once, she knows what will happen: she will remain her husband’s wife. In many ways, this is more the moment of her marriage than the one in which he tied the sacred thread around her neck than the one in which he broke the bow of the Great God.

“I will,” she says again, and Sita is unsure if she is promising to be wife, princess, or Goddess. All three, perhaps. “For them,” she swallows and throws all caution to the wind. “For you, I promise I will at least try.”

---

Sita walks for hours, hair falling out of the twist she had pulled it into after dismounting from the saddle she had shared with her husband traveling by horseback to the place that still believed there lived a goddess that could quench dry land.

She walks and walks, walks and walks and walks until her feet begin to crack and then bleed after such long exposure to the harshness of dead earth. Then, she walks some more. Thirst left her an hour ago, but now she struggles against exhaustion. Every step threatens to pull her down into the dust, and she knows, knew, that this would happen. She knew that she would prove their faith false, and leave them worse for having met her. She knew, and yet --

She had hoped, still.

There are no living goddesses who walk the land like Sita to call forth the rain. It is a ritual that has its roots in her father Janaka’s sacrifice, seeding the earth with the merit of his good deeds. Once, she had asked him what he felt when he had been plowing alone in the moments before he manifested a miracle.

“I suppose I should tell you that I prayed,” he had said thoughtfully, hand coming up to stroke absently at his beard, “but I did not. My people were suffering, and there is nothing even an intelligent man can do to mitigate the effects of a decade of drought. I was supposed to be thinking of all the good I had done, so as to imbue the ground with that goodness. But more than anything, every moment I was there I wanted it to rain -- more than anything I had ever wanted before. I felt like I would have done anything then, given anything, if only it would rain. By the end, I knew it would. It had to.”

In Videha, Sita had walked as ritual. She had lived in times of plenty.

In Kosala, there is a drought. She has seen with her own eyes the shrunken bodies of villagers who have no food. Whose voices are raspy with thirst. Together they had collected all the water they had left and had Sita sit, cross-legged before them as they washed away the dust of the road. Sita’s husband has promised that she will be his wife even if she proves a woman after all, but suddenly she knows why the rain fell. Her father too had known; in his own way, he had even tried to tell her.

In Kosala, Sita wants. She is a woman, and in this moment she wants as she never has before. She wants it to rain, more than anyone ever has wanted anything anywhere. More even than her father must have wanted because she wants not only for herself and her people but for her husband as well. Perhaps for him most of all, whom she has seen wrack his mind for weeks. Who has defied what convention or good sense would tell him and instead placed his faith in his wild wife, bringing her to the outskirts of his kingdom in hope of a miracle. Far from the palace, Sita knows herself. She knows what she wants. She knows now, with blinding certainty, what will be.

She wants to be loved, and she wants to love in turn. She wants it to rain, and so it will.

She walks until her body fails, certain in her knowledge that the rain will come. It has to. She trips, and suddenly she hears the gasps of the crowd that has kept vigil at the sides as they did in the time of her father before her. She trips, she falls, and just as she loses consciousness she hears the impossible roll of thunder on a cloudless day.

Sita hits the ground, and it begins to rain in Kosala.

---

coda. (2, 3, 4)

It is late when Sita wakes, eyes opening to the ceiling of a small hut as the raindrops patter against the roof. Outside she can hear shouts of glee, the beat of drums, the exultant songs of villagers who know that they can soothe their hoarse throats with water.

“Was it always like that?” Sita looks down to the foot of her bed where her husband kneels, hands gently rubbing ointment into her wounds before wrapping them with strips of his upper cloth. She hums in question, uncertain of what he means. “When you would walk in Videha,” her husband clarifies, eyes never leaving his self-appointed task, “was it like it was today?”

She could say yes, and imply that this is what goddesses do. Raghuvanshis do not lie. “No,” she says, and marvels at what a struggle it is to even speak. “Never.”

He nods, as if this was the only answer he expected. “Then it really was you,” he says softly, and suddenly Sita notices his hands are shaking as he winds the last of the cloth around her left foot. “You walked, and the gods answered your call.”

“Yes,” Sita says in a whisper. It is a thought too large to bear. He must have questions, she knows, and she owes her husband an explanation. She wants to tell him everything she remembers, everything she now understands, but in this moment there is nothing she can bring herself to say.

Finally, he looks away from her feet, shifting so that it is easier for Sita to look and see his red eyes.

“You cried,” Sita says inanely, stupid again but now in shock.

Her husband laughs, the sound just on the verge of being a sob. “It rained.”

He looks away.

“Before I found your pulse, I thought you had died.”

---

They leave in the morning once more on horseback, Sita clutching her husband’s waist and content to expose her aching, bandaged feet to the elements having long lost her shoes. The villagers offer breakfast, but Sita and her husband communicate wordlessly like she has seen other married couples do, and say together that they must respectfully decline. It will take another cycle for the crops to truly flourish, and there is more food than anyone can eat at home.

For a moment, Sita is jarred at the realization that Ayodhya is what she means when she thinks now of “home.” Mithila, of course, is home always -- but it is different now. Sita’s father called down the rain in Videha, but it was Sita alone who split the sky for her home last night.

After about an hour her husband brings the horse to a halt and jumps down, walking until they reach a lush orchard. Sita swings her right leg around and falls into his arms. For a moment she feels him lower her before he remembers that she cannot walk and shifts his grip, left arm grasping under her knees as Sita wraps her arms around his neck.

“You like jamun fruits, no? You keep them in our bedroom sometimes.”

Yes, Sita does. “Do you?”

Her husband shrugs. “I like these jamun fruits.”

“And where are we?”

“The crown plants orchards at places along the main roads so that travelers might find some respite.” He smiles, looking up at one of the trees. “This is the one with the best jamun fruits in Kosala. And this,” he lowers Sita to the ground underneath the tree and she lets go obligingly, “is the best tree of the orchard.”

It is a romantic claim to make, that there is a single tree that produces the best fruit in the land, but Sita’s husband does not say it as one might when repeating a fancy. Intrigued despite herself, she asks: “How do you know?”

He palms the bark, fingers searching for something that he finds in a particular divot. “A few years ago a squadron of warriors tested the fruit of every tree. This was the one they liked best.”

Sita is skeptical. “And you believe them?”

“Well,” her husband amends, that same mischief he had shown Antara in his eyes, “this is certainly the one I liked best, and the rest agreed as well. It might not be to your taste, given that you are a woman of refined taste in this sphere and I merely a man who prefers mangos.”

“We shall see,” Sita laughs, bedraggled and thirsty and tired. Still, she feels like she has never laughed like this before. In her past she has certainly felt joy and found laughter, but in her happiness now she floats. She had always felt so heavy before. “Let me have my breakfast, and I will be the judge of that.”

Her husband is graceful in victory -- it is not perfectly the season, but Sita swears she has never tasted so sweet a fruit.

---

“Her feet are bandaged,” Kaikeyi observes when the cacophony that accompanies their return to the palace dies down to a dull roar. It is an easy thing to notice when Sita is being carried in her husband’s arms. Kaikeyi was always the quickest of Dasaratha’s queens and proves herself to be the one best informed when her beautiful face twists in withering disgust. “You cannot possibly think that your wife ended the drought by walking.”

Sita cannot tell if the emphasis is on the words “your wife” or “walking.” Both, she thinks, offend the very marrow of an Ayodhyan sensibility that has spent half a year shoving gold at pandits to fund a sacrifice that will finally please Indra.

This is what Sita, married into a family that does not lie, plans to say: “We are glad to see the rain.”

This is what her husband, whose words at 18 already carry more weight in this family than those of his father, says instead: “She did. I saw it with my own eyes.”

#maya writes #ramayana #lmao found this in my google drive and decided light blasphemy was a really fun thing to do at this point in time #i havent written anything non academic in a year so please please let me know what you think!!

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mybeautifulchristianjourney · 3 years

Text

Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

How Christ Comforts (John 14:1-2)

The words of the fourteenth chapter of John were spoken by the Master to His friends in a time of deep grief which seemed inconsolable. Yet He said, "Let not your heart be troubled." This seemed a strange thing to say to those men that night. How could they keep their hearts from being troubled in such circumstances? To think of all that Jesus had grown to be to them! For three years they had been members of His personal family, enjoying the most intimate relations with Him.

How much a friend can be to us, depends on the friend. If he has a rich character, a noble personality, power to love deeply, capacity for friendship, the spirit of pure unselfishness; if he is able to inspire us to heroism and to worthy living - what he can be to us is immeasurable. Think what Jesus Christ, with His marvelous manhood, must have been as a friend to His disciples, and you can understand something of what His going from them meant to them.

Then He was more than a friend to them. They had believed in Him as the Messiah, who was to redeem them and lead them to honor and glory. Great hope rested in Him. His death was, as it seemed to them - the defeat and failure of all their hopes. The announcement that He was to leave them, swept away, as they thought, all that made life worthwhile. There are human friends whose death seems to leave only desolation in the hearts and lives of those who have loved them and leaned on them. But the death of Christ was to His personal friends and followers - the blotting out of every star of hope and promise. Their sorrow was overwhelming.

Yet Jesus looked into their faces and said, "Let not your heart be troubled." It is worth our while to think of the grounds on which Jesus could reasonably say this to His disciples, when they were entering into such great and real sorrow. The first thing He bade them do, was to believe. "Let not your heart be troubled: you believe in God, believe also in Me." Thus far they had believed in God. Jesus had taught them a new name for God. They were to call Him Father. He had not been known by this name before - but Jesus used no other name for Him. The word Father is a great treasure-house of love-thoughts. It told the disciples of personal thought, love and care, extending to all the events of their lives. The very hairs of their heads were all numbered. It told them of goodness which never failed. It was a great lesson they had been learning, as they came to think of God as their Father. In the shock of the last terrible days; however, the danger was that they would lose their faith in God. But Jesus said to them: "Believe in God. Let nothing take this faith out of your heart. Let nothing take from you what you have been learning from Me about God."

"Believe also in Me." They had accepted Jesus as the Messiah. You remember the splendid confession made by Peter, "You are the Christ, the son of the living God." In this confession, all the disciples had joined. They believed that He had come to be the world's Savior. Now, in the announcement that Jesus was to die at the hands of wicked men, there was danger that they should lose their faith in Him. But to save them from their loss of faith He exhorted them to continue to believe. Not one of their hopes had perished. "You believe in God, believe also in Me."

We are always in danger of losing faith in time of sorrow or any sore trouble. Many times people are heard asking such questions as, "How can God be a God of love, and allow me to be so bereft, so stripped of good things? Where are now the promises of blessing which are made in the Scriptures over and over again? Has God forgotten to be gracious?" To those questions of doubt and fear the answer is, "Let not your heart be troubled: you believe in God, believe also in Me." Let nothing disturb your faith. Though it seems that God's love has failed, that God has not forgotten you, that Christ is no longer your friend - still continue to believe; believe in God, believe also in Christ.

Sorrow is full of mystery. We go everywhere asking, "Why?" "This is not love," we say. "This is not goodness. This is not salvation." We cannot answer the WHY. Should we expect to know why God does this or that? How could we, with our narrow vision and our small knowledge, understand the plans and purpose of God? God does not plan to give us an easy time in this world - He wants to make something of us, and often the way to do this - is to give us pain, loss, and suffering.

A German writer speaks of the "hardness of God's love." Love must be hard sometimes. A writer tells of keeping the cocoon of an emperor moth for nearly a year, to watch the process of development. A narrow opening is left in the neck of the flask, through which the insect forces its way. The opening is so small that it seems impossible for the moth to pass through it. This writer watched the efforts of the imprisoned moth to escape. It did not appear to make any progress. At last he grew impatient. He pitied the little creature and, in a weak kindness to it, decided to help it. Taking his scissors, he snipped the confining threads to make the struggle easier. In a moment the moth was free, dragging out a great swollen body and little shriveled wings. He watched to see the beauty unfold - but he watched in vain. "It never was anything but a stunted abortion, crawling painfully about, instead of flying through the air on rainbow wings." Nature's way - that is, God's way - with moths is the only true way, although it is a way of pain, struggle, and suffering. Human pity may make an easier way - but the end will be destructive .

God's love never makes this mistake, either in nature or in dealing with human lives. God lets us suffer - if by suffering we will best grow into perfect beauty. When the mystery of pain or hardness comes into our life - let us not doubt. Let us suffer and wait. The disciples thought all their hopes were gone - but in the end they learned that no hope had perished or failed. Blessing and good came out of what seemed irretrievable disaster. "You believe in God, believe also in me," is always the word of faith and comfort. Trust God. Nothing is going wrong. You cannot understand - but He understands.

The disciples were in great distress because their Master was going away from them. They were dismayed as they thought of their loss. They thought they could not live without Him. But He explained that He was going away - for their sake. They thought they would not have His help anymore, and He explained that He would still be active in their behalf. "In my Father's house are many mansions… I am going to prepare a place for you."

He told them where He was going - to His Father's house. These are precious words. They tell us that heaven is home. On this earth there is no place so sweet, so sacred, so heart-satisfying as the true home. It is a place of love, purest, gentlest, most unselfish love. It is a place of confidence. We are always sure of home's loved ones. We do not have to be on our guard when we enter our home doors. We do not have to wear masks there, hiding or disguising our real selves. Home is a refuge into which we flee from the danger, the enmity, the suspicion, the unkindness, the injustice of the world. Home is the place where hungry hearts feed on love's bread .

Mrs. Craik in one of her books had this fine picture: Oh, conceive the happiness to know that some one person dearer to you than your own self, some one heart into which you can pour every thought, every grief, every joy; one person who, if all the rest of the world were to calumniate or forsake you - would never wrong you by a harsh thought or an unjust word; who would cling to you the closer in sickness, in poverty, in care; who would sacrifice all things to you, and for whom you would sacrifice all; from whom, except by death, night or day, you never can be divided; whose smile is ever at your hearth. Such is marriage, if they who marry have hearts and souls to feel that there is no bond on earth so tender and so sublime.

This is a glimpse of what a true home is. The picture is sometimes realized on the earth. There are homes which are well-near perfect. But the home sought, will be realized full in heaven. The Bible paints heaven in colors of dazzling splendor, its gates and streets and gardens and streams and fruits, all of the utmost brilliance; but no other description means so much to our hearts as that which the Master gives in these three words, "My Father's house" - home!

"My Father's house." That is the place to which we are going! That is the place where those we have lost awhile from our earthly homes, falling asleep in Jesus, are gathering. That is the place to which the angels have carried the godly dead. What a vision will burst upon our eyes when, some quiet day or night, we shall fall asleep - to awake no more on earth - but to awake in heaven, in our Father's house! You have read of men coming over the sea as immigrants, and landing in a strange city as utter strangers - throngs all about them - but not one familiar face, no welcome in any eye, no greeting. But it will not be this way with you when you leave this world and enter heaven. Loved ones will meet you and receive you with joy.

Jesus said also to His disciples, "I go to prepare a place for you." They thought His dying was an interruption of His work. The Messiah they had conceived of was to live and be a glorious King, conquering the world. Suddenly they were told that soon they should not see Him - He would be gone. They were bitterly disappointed. All their homes were now to perish. Jesus comforts them by telling them that the reason He was going away - was to prepare a place for them. Nothing was going wrong with His Messiahship. They had misunderstood it - that was all. He could easily have escaped from the plots of the rulers, the betrayal of Judas, the arrest by the temple officers. But hat would have been to fail in part of His work.

The reason He was going away - was that He might continue and complete His work in heaven. "I go to prepare a place for you." The thought is very beautiful. How does Christ prepare places for us? We need not understand - but it is a sweet thought to know that He thinks of us - as you think of a dear guest who is coming to visit you - lovingly, and prepares for your coming. You good women, when you are expecting a friend you love very much, make the guest room just as tidy and beautiful as you can. You think of the friend's tastes, and prepare the room with this in mind. You put up a picture you think will please him. You lay on the table the books you know he will like. You gather his favorite flowers and place them on the dressing bureau. You do everything you can to make the room beautiful, so that he will feel at home in it the moment he enters it. Christ is preparing a room for you!

There is something else here. "If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there you may be also." This is more of the work Jesus went away to do for His friends. First, He would make ready for them, build a home for the, prepare a place. Then, when all things were ready, He would come for them and take them home. That is what He does when we leave this world. Men call it dying - but dying is a gloomy, forbidding word. Jesus said, "Whoever lives and believes on Me - shall never die." What we call dying - is really only Jesus coming to receive us unto Himself. Why, then, should anyone dread to leave this world? It is the Master coming to tell you that your place in the Father's house is ready for you - and that He has come to take you to it! When Stephen was being stoned to death - he had a beautiful vision. He saw the heavens opened, and the Son of man standing on the right hand of God. As the mob stoned him, Stephen was calling upon Jesus Christ and praying, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit!" (see Acts 7:58-60). It was the Savior coming for His servant. The place was ready for him. His work here had been short - but it was all that had been allotted to him. His departure was tragic - he died at the hands of a religious mob; but it mattered not how he was taken away - really it was Jesus who took him away - receiving His spirit into strong, gentle and secure hands.

The comfort to us in our sorrows and bereavements, is that nothing has gone wrong, that God's purpose is going on in all the wrecks of human hopes. Your friend passed away the other night. You thought he would have been with you for many years. You had plans covering a long future of happiness. You were appalled when the doctor said that your friend could not live. Life to you would be dreary, lonely and empty without this one who had become so dear to you. You say: "My friend stayed so brief a time! I could almost wish that I had not let my heart fasten its tendrils about this dear life, since so soon it was torn away from me!" Say it not! It is worthwhile to love - and to let your heart pour out all its sweetness in loving, though it be for but a day - and then to have the bliss give way to grief.

#Devotional Hours Within the Bible #J.R. Miller #John 14:1-2 #How Christ Comforts #September 10 #2021

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megashadowdragon · 3 years

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whats the point of yamato

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Here's my take: the Wano Arc is about the "burden of inherited will." By this I mean something like, the burden of upholding the promises and dreams of those who came before. We've seen inherited will as an unambiguously good thing in the series so far, but the Wano Arc is trying to complicate the narrative, by showing what a burden it can be to take on the dreams of those who came before. And this theme isn't just in one storyline, it's laced throughout the Wano Arc, in the motivations of so many characters: * We have Momo struggling with the burden of living up to his father's legacy as a leader, and the burden of the throne of Wano. He's anguished over this, he weeps, because it's a burden to live up to someone as great as his father. * In Oden's flashback, we seem him struggle with the burden of his own father's dreams (that he become the Shogun, settle down, etc), only for him to eventually return and take on the burden of the country (literally, he puts his followers on his back!). * We have the Scabbards struggling with the burden of achieving Oden's dream of opening Wano's borders. They spend twenty years waiting and suffering, or travel across the sea and suffer, all for the sake of their leader's dream. We see Ashura-doji grow bitter under this burden, we see Denjiro mentally break, we see Kine'mon refuse to have a joyful reunion with his wife, all because they suffer under the burden of an inherited dream. * Orochi felt compelled to uphold the will of his ancestors and depose the Kozukis and throw the country into ruin. There's a reason we see his ancestors basically manipulate him into pursuing his path. They pass on their dream to him. * So obviously we have Luffy also taking on the dream of Oden, to defeat Kaido and Orochi, etc. But it's not a coincidence that in this arc we have two characters to whom Ace made promises: Tama and Yamato. They've become part of Luffy's burden, because he inherited Ace's will. (That's one way Yamato fits in) * But we also have Yamato struggling under the burden of a will she does not want to inherit, her father's. He wants her to be imprisoned, literally chained to a will that is not her own. That's quite the burden, I'd say. But there's another will she would prefer to inherit, obviously: Oden's. I think in the conclusion of this arc, we'll see characters (Luffy, probably) say something about inherited will being something chosen, it has to be a burden you choose to bear, not one forced on you. Yamato will probably feature in this conclusion in a few ways: (1) as a character foil to Momonosuke. It's not a coincidence that they're the exact same age and each want to take on the will that was forced on the other. Momo was swept across the world and travelled with Luffy in order to fulfill his role as Oden's son, but he wants to be Shogun. He takes on Kaido's appearance (via his Devil Fruit). Yamato was chained to Onigashima, and wanted nothing more to escape and travel the world with Luffy, but Kaido wants her to become the Shogun. She takes on Oden's appearance. The arc will conclude with something about Yamato and Momo freely entrusting each other with the dreams of their fathers, or something. (2) as a feature in Luffy choosing to uphold Ace's will. By taking her with him and reaffirming a promise with Tama, we'll see Luffy choose to take on Ace's will. In this way, we'll see that what makes a will truly inherited isn't a bond of blood or destiny, it's a bond of friendship, trust, et cetera. Yamato's storyline will be used to punctuate that theme for Luffy and Momo, the actual central characters of this arc.

I feel like Yamato’s storyline is learning about inherited will and not having to actually be someone (Oden) to carry on their will/dreams.

Hannya, which Yamato’s mask is based on, are well known in Japanese theatrical stage culture for representing characters who are the physical manifestation of twisted female souls.

Yamato seems to be inspired by Oscar François de Jarjayes, from the shōjo manga The Rose of Versailles, who is a woman raised by her father as if she were a boy in order to succeed him as the commander of the Royal Guard at the Palace of Versailles.

an authors comment for chapter 945 oda talked about how he read rose of versailles and was surprised oscar was a woman

The Shogun must be a male of Seiwa Genji lineage according to Japanese history so this explains why she is referred to as son. Oda based Yamato on 2 people. 1) Yamato Takeru a crossdressing Japanese prince and 2) Oscar from Rose of Versailles. Yamato Takeru being the son of Emperor Keiko who crossdressed to kill his enemies. Oscar being a girl raised as a boy to succeed the throne. Oda is mixing Japanese folklore with Rose of Versailles to tell a story of Kaido trying to force his daughter to be the Shogun/a boy. Do you think I rip this from nowhere? Chapter 945 if I recall correctly on VIZ Oda is on the authors comments speaking on Rose of Versailles. Yamato wears a Hannya mask which originates from Noh theater and represents female obsession (Oden obsession) and I bet this arc has a theme of deliverance. Not just deliverance from physical chains but familial bonds as well. The people who refer to her as “he” miss the underlying themes the Shogun must be male and Kaido is probably upset he has no actual son. Yamato does not want to be the Shogun and referring to the last chapter Kaido is trying to tell her what her fate is. The Vivre Cards will not say (Male Heart) like in close reference to Kiku’s card and she will not come out and say “I am a man at heart!” She uses the pronoun boku which is ambiguous and abnormal which is in reference to the “Oden” funny delusional act she has going on. Coming chapters will reveal this more and more. Since the combination of the title card saying daughter -> the Hannya mask -> explosive cuffs and the Shogun theme it was clear she was being bruteforced into something.

Not trying to speak for everyone here, but to say people use "he" because they don't pick up on themes is simply not the case. People use "he/him" pronouns because so far in the story, that is how Yamato has made clear that he would like to be referred to and so people use he/him pronouns out of respect for those desires. I'm not trying to say at all that I disagree with the themes/connections you've mentioned, but to say that you've "cracked the code" and you know better than Yamato on how they should be gendered is disrespectful to them. It may well be the case that everything you said is true and that by the end of the arc Yamato will wish to be referred to with she/her pronouns, but like I said to just assume this before it actually happens is disrespectful. Imagine refusing to use he/him pronouns for a trans-man because you know that their father always wanted a son and assuming their desire to use these pronouns only exists to validate their fathers wishes. I'm not trying to draw a one to one equivalence with this example, I get that One Piece is a story where information does just exist but is introduced with a specific purpose, I just hope I can better explain why many people believe he/him are the correct pronouns to use for Yamato at this time. Frankly, I think the presence of Kiku as a trans-women in this arc might be odas way of setting up the exact scenario you mentioned with yamato while still making sure he doesn't come across as invalidating trans identities. Hopefully that makes sense. Again I'm not trying to be argumentative, only trying explain why many people believe it is more respectful to use he/him pronouns at this time for yamato DESPITE the themes you've mentioned.

Quick fact check: Oscar wasn't raised as a boy to succeed the throne, she was a raised as a boy to become commander of the royal guards

This might not be accurate as I'm just saying off the top of my head but in a way, Yamato might represent wano itself. She was chained up and abused by Kaido like he does to wano in a sense.

Yamato is literally old name of Japan, lol

Yamato by taking Oden legacy she is impersonating the man who's the main representation of wano to the world

On a larger scale we are fighting to save wano from kaido

On a individual scale Yamato who disguises as Oden who represents wano is fighting to save herself from kaido

It's like NAMI all over again

A girl who is representing an entire population and territory is fighting to save herself and the people and territory she represents from a fish that keeps her and her territory enslaved

Her not being part of the mainland is symbolic to Wano exactly lol, isolated from the other world and chained there by Kaido for decades. She, like the people of Wano, has this black and white perception of Oden that they blindly follow without looking into why he did what he did. Even now people are putting Momo on some pedestal worth dying for without understanding who he is, similar to their past expectations of Oden for his dad. Yamato is doing the same with her declaration of dying for him based solely on his dad and the stuff in the journal.

Yamato's development seems to fall in parallel to Momo. Momo had to deal with the expectations of being Oden's son and his people want him to be just like Oden they don't see Momonosuke Kozuki.

On the other hand Yamato similarly was thrust with a path set by Kaido her father but wants to be Oden this person who inspired Yamato to the point of worship that every action is posed with the question "what would Oden do."

The climax of both their arcs might be to just choose to be who they are and act as they would do not as their predecessors as they both could never be Oden for instance.

I sort of dislike how some people act like Yamato realizing not to “be oden” and Yamato joining the strawhats are mutually exclusive

if yamato does join the strawhats and is the 11th that would confirm the idea that yamato isnt trans she just cosplays as oden due to idolizing him if you believe the MFMM theory due to people noticing that in east blue the recruitment went zoro, nami, usopp, and sanji in grand line it was chopper, robin, franky and brook a male female male male .

jinbe is the 10th who joined in new world ( the male ) and it fits for him to be followed by the 11th a woman . ( so if yamato joins the strawhats and is the 11th ( meaning carrot doesnt join) yamato isnt trans

if yamato and carrot both join then yamato really is a transman

both okiku and yamato wore hannya masks

after okiku put on a hannya mask she revealed that she was a man in body but a woman in heart and a hannya mask represents female demon

yamato was introduced as kaidos son while in a hannya mask but after she took it off revealed she was his daughter

"Yamato" (大和やまと?), meaning "Great Harmony", is an ancient name for Japan (originating from the Yamato Province) and can can also refer to the Yamato period of Japanese history, which lasted into the 8th century. Relating to that, Yamato is the dynastic name of the ruling Imperial House of Japan and further refers to the dominant ethnic group of Japan, the Yamato people. Otherwise:

Yamato Takeru is a legendary Japanese prince of the Yamato dynasty, prominent in mythology.

Yamato is the name of a prominent WWII-era Japanese battleship.

Yamato nadeshiko is a phrase that refers to the idealized image of a Japanese female.

#one piece #op yamato #one piece yamato #one piece meta #op meta

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imissjoongsmullet · 4 years

Text

My Prince (2)

Pairing: Minghao x reader

Genre: fluff/(angst)

Summary: Life is not exactly easy being the royal gardeners’ daughter but at least it’s simple. When you’re suddenly called upon to serve as the prince’s personal servant, things get a little more than complicated, especially considering the secret history you and the prince share.

Part 1

Part 3

Warnings: general angstiness, a bit of a slow burn, very romantic, very soft, the fact that this will most likely become a long series cause I have no chill

Word Count: 3.5k

Author’s Note: thanks to everyone who was kind enough to reblog and/or leave feedback on the first part! It makes my day ♥ ♥ ♥ This isn’t my most popular thing on here but it’s got such a special place in my heart ♥ Also, I promise the next part will have a bunch more fluff so look forward to that~!

►

“Come on,” you hissed under your breath as you attempted to mold your hair into the shape it was supposed to be. If Tou Ma found it messy again she’d do more than just tell you off. If she found you late on duty on the other hand she’d do even worse, so you had to get going.

It had been a whole two weeks and you still felt like a complete novice at just about everything that was expected of you. You kept getting lost and forgetting the many forms of curtsies, you’d over-bubbled the prince’s bath, lost one of his hunting coats. One time you’d even dropped a platter of fruit in the presence of the empress. You were reaching new levels of embarrassment every day and slowly but surely longing for the days spent getting your nails dirty in the gardens with your parents. At least you’d been somewhat good at gardening. In here, everything you did was wrong; everything you were was wrong. And now, you couldn’t even get your hair to sit right.

Groaning as as yet another strand of hair fell down over your eyes, you twisted around and left the maid’s quarters, hoping no one would notice. Dashing through the castle you retrieved your things, trying desperately not to look as panicked as you were. By the time you arrived at the prince’s chamber doors you were panting. You pressed a few fingers against your chest, as if that would magically calm your heartbeat — it didn’t.

To your great relief, prince Minghao was still asleep. You set down your tea tray went to pull back the heavy drapes covering the opening towards his balcony. Now the morning light fell onto his soft features you found it hard not to stare. To tell the truth, you often found yourself staring at the young prince. Minghao had grown up well. He was only one year older than you, but he already looked so much more mature, both in good ways and bad. The way he held himself in body language and conversation astounded you. It was so far from how you’d known him all those years ago and, as handsome as you thought he’d become, your heart sank at the coolness in him. It was as if someone had turned off the lights behind his eyes.

Though when you looked at him now, there was a softness about him that didn’t often show itself while he was awake. His skin looked soft as peach and his plump lips curved into a slight smile that made you not want to wake him at all.

He looked happy. You drew nearer, smiling yourself. He looked so comfortable in the soft plush of his royal bed. For the tiniest moment, you kind of wished you could just slip under the silk covers with him and forget about your duties. He had quite long eyelashes; you’d never noticed that before. They began to flutter and before you could do anything, Minghao’s waking eyes were on you.

With a small gasp you fell back, tripping over your robes and falling onto the rug on the floor. Mortified, you jumped back up, unable to look at him. Hoping he somehow, magically hadn’t seen yet another blunder of yours, you bent over your tea set and began pouring the water.

“You, um, you’re expected at breakfast shortly,” you said. Even though you’d told him this exact sentence every morning for the past two weeks, you hadn’t been able to say it properly once. You couldn’t tell whether it was due to you being clumsy or the fact that Minghao always looked like heaven in the morning.

You heard him groan behind you.

“Your tea, your highness,” you added, twisting around to find him sitting up in the bed, disgruntled frown plastered across his face.

Ignoring the biting feeling in your chest, you walked over and set the tray down beside him.

He didn’t even look at you as he took the cup and lifted it to his lips.

You took that as your cue to leave.

You saw him in the dining room next, where you were supposed to make sure the prince’s breakfast experience was on point. In reality, it was a lot of standing around and waiting. The emperor and empresses’ servants were there as well, one a bit friendlier than the other.

“You’ve messed up your hair again,” Mie whispered when no one was looking.

“I know,” you replied as the short girl’s nimble fingers ran through your hair, swiftly pulling back the loose strands into their proper place.

The room was unusually tense this morning and when the emperor finally opened his mouth you understood why.

“I think we should call forth a meeting about these protests,” he said in a deep, droning voice, rubbing a bony finger against his temple. Emperor Xu Yilan was a tall, slender man with hair down to his waist. He had been a promising presence when he’d first ascended the throne but had lost most of the people’s support in recent years, after his naivety had led to the loss of some of their land to a neighboring empire called Yientan.

The empress placed a hand on her husband’s wrist.

“What am I to do?” the man went on, eyes flitting to his only son for the swift fraction of a second.

“I’m sure your men can put an end to the protesters,” the empress said.

“No,” replied the emperor, “the people are right to protest. We need the highlands back. I’ve got to—” he balled his hands into fists on the table.

“Let us talk about something else, no?” the empress suggested, picking at the pickled vegetables in front of her with her chopsticks.

But the emperor’s head seemed to be swarming with thoughts of only one thing. Minghao didn’t speak at all during breakfast and when he rose from the table you noticed he’d barely touched his food at all.

“Follow me,” he said as he passed you on the way out.

Doing as you were told, you slid out the room, shuffling after him through the many maze-like hallways. The tense atmosphere from breakfast seemed to follow the two of you as well. Minghao was stiff as ever and quiet as night.

Through a side door you found yourself on an outdoor walkway. You’d seen it before; you’d had a pretty good view of it from the apple orchard while you’d worked with your parents but you’d never known where it led.

You looked out into the vast gardens spread out before you, hoping to catch sight of your parents. You hadn’t seen them since you’d come to the castle. You saw some tiny heads here and there behind the various greenery but couldn’t make out anything defining. You wondered whether the wisteria were blooming yet. You couldn’t quite see them from here and they’d always been your favorite. You stood on the tips of your toes to peak over the apple trees obstructing your view. Maybe you could go see them after dark, after the prince had gone to sleep and you’d be— the prince.

You spun around, half expecting to have been abandoned, yet there here was. Minghao was standing a bit further onto the wooden path, staring at you in silence.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, remembering one of Tou Ma’s many slogans: to keep a royal waiting is an act akin to treason — over-dramatic of course, “so sorry, your highness.” You bowed toward him and when you raised your head again found he was still looking at you quizzically. He blinked a few times, his eyes never leaving yours. You opened your mouth to say something else but were too scared to make a fool of yourself even more than you already had and closed it again.

Finally, Minghao turned around and continued down the wooden path. All you could do was follow. At the end of the walkway, you came upon a tall structure, protected by a pair of heavy doors. Minghao parted them, revealing the most peculiar square room. You walked in after him, gazing up at the impossibly tall walls of the place. They were lined with books upon books upon books, inter-spaced by large, circular gaps, letting in an abundance of soft sunlight. At the center of the room was a considerable open space, in which only a few low tables stood, their legs digging into the soft rugs underneath.

“Wow,” you couldn’t help but let out. You’d never seen this many books before. You hadn’t even known this many books existed.

The prince turned around to you once again, and, at seeing your amazement, a tiny, smug smile appeared at the corner of his lips. He lead you to the very center before speaking.

“I need your help with something.”

A little pang of angst shot up your spine.

“Help, from me?” you questioned, “here?”

He nodded. “I’m looking for a book but I can’t remember where I put it. It is called A Vast Unfathomable Secret, about this big,” he held up his hands.

“A Vast Unfathomable Secret,” you repeated nervously, “this big…”

“I’m not asking you the world,” he said, scoffing a little as he sat down, “I’ll be here, reading until you fetch it for me.”

You felt yourself go red in the face again and turned away from him. Looking up at the massive walls of books, your legs went weak. Did the prince not know?

You didn’t know how to read.

Where would you even begin? Dread filling your sandals, you realized you had only one option.

“Um,” you started, turning around, “your highness?”

He raised his head out of a book that looked like it contained a whole universe worth of stories.

“Could you maybe tell me a bit more about what the book looks like?”

He gazed at you bewildered for a small moment before sighing.

“It has a brown cover with gold foiled lettering… quite elaborate in style, and if I recall correctly, there’s a small lily indented on the the cover as well.” He finished the explanation with a gentle nod in your direction.

You nodded eagerly back at him.

“Will that be enough?” he asked, already with his head to his book again.

“Yes,” you said at once, “yes, your highness, thank you.”

You walked up to the nearest bookshelf and began your search, thankful the prince hadn’t asked any further questions about why the title alone didn’t suffice for you to find what he needed.

Regrettably, the large majority of the books on the shelves were brown with gold lettering. It took you forever to pull out book after book, only to determine they were most likely not what the prince was looking for. It wasn’t your fault you’d never learned how to read. How could you have? Your parents didn’t exactly have the money for such luxuries. You’d always been curious though, when you’d seen the upper class sit in the sunlit grass, their noses so deep within the folds of the leather bound objects they wouldn’t even notice if a mouse darted right in front of them. What was it about books that enthralled people so?

Minghao seemed to understand. You sneaked a glance at him from behind a large brown cover, finding him hunched over the little table in deep concentration. His index finger treaded gracefully across the page as his eyes devoured the contents. His lips formed inaudible words as he read. Every once in a while he’d run a hand through his hair, only for it to fall back into his face the next moment. You were staring again; you couldn’t help it. Everything about him made you not want to look away, which was definitely not helping you find the book.

No, you thought to yourself, twisting back around towards the shelf and forcing your hand to wrap around yet another brown spine with gold lettering. You kept going tirelessly, working your way up in silence until you needed the ladder that ran all the way up to the topmost shelf, at least twenty feet up in the air.

Your concentration was cut abruptly with the dull thud of a heavy book. You looked down to see Minghao rise from the floor. He walked over to the bottom of the ladder and beckoned you down.

“I’m sorry, your highness,” you said, still finding it incredibly hard to look him in the eyes as you addressed him, “I couldn’t find it.”

“That’s okay,” he replied and you were surprised to find him… calm? Content? Kind? Happy even? All of the irritableness from this morning seemed to have fled out of him. Books really must be wonderful things, you thought.

“You can keep looking next time,” he went on, “I really would like it at some point.”

“Yes, your highness,” you breathed in disbelief at his sunny demeanor.

That night, all you could think about was Minghao. Minghao and the way he’d sort of smiled at you, Minghao buried in his books, Minghao looking at you from across the walkway. Minghao. Minghao. Minghao. But paired with these wonderful images were sickly waves of dread.

Ever since coming to the castle, you’d known you’d had to be careful; you’d known there was a chance you might…

But he’d been so cold towards you that, in the first few weeks, you’d been able to oversee the tiny flutters in your chest. Now, it was as if the lid of the jar had been lifted and a thousand butterflies tickled your insides mercilessly, making you squirm in the sheets of your bed. It seemed almost cruel, how all of a sudden you couldn’t sleep from the thought of his deep, brown eyes. Especially because the prince would be married off in a couple years’ time and you’d be left alone once again. No, pining after the prince was about the silliest thing you could do at this point; you shouldn’t waste your time. The biggest thing you could hope for was for him to smile at you again the way he had when you were children — when you’d been friends.

“Things are getting out of hand, don’t you see that?” a voice boomed over the long, low table, where five men sat.

Emperor Xu Yilan sat at the head of the table, looking flustered. Around him sat his three most trusted advisers, a pudgy, red-faced man, an elder with a beard so long it lay in his lap, and a youngster with heavy-lidded eyes. Lastly, was Minghao, who looked anything but happy to be there.

“I understand that,” said the emperor calmly, hushing the passionate man to his right, “but we can’t just declare war on Yientan. We’re not ready for that.”

“Perhaps it would be more prudent to send another delegation to plea for the freedom of Shingmin,” the elder suggested.

“As if that will work this time,” the red-faced man grumbled, shaking his head, “listen, the Shingmin highlands belong to us. Shingmin people are our people!” he raised his voice again, slapping his palm onto the shiny, wooden table, “it’s time to take back what’s ours!”

“And how do you propose we do that?” the emperor interjected in a high pitch. You’d been watching the scene from the sidelines, waiting to refill Minghao’s cup should he require it. But he hadn’t touched his drink since the start of the meeting. He’d merely kept his head down and let the other people speak. You gazed at him worriedly, wondering what was going through his head.

“This will not just blow over, your highness,” the eldest adviser said, “the people are angry, they demand justice for Shingmin and rightly so!”

“I will not go to war,” the emperor snapped back, putting a bony finger down onto the table.

“So we have lost.”

“How cowardly!”

“Silence!” the emperor hissed, before putting his head in his hands to rub at his wrinkled face, “we are simply not ready. I’ve led our troops once and failed. I cannot live to see that happen again.”

The silence that followed weighed so heavy, you felt like you could barely breathe.

“Your highness,” the youngest of the advisers spoke up at last, making heads turn. He folded his fingers together calmly and addressed the emperor himself. “Forgive me for speaking so boldly but,” he paused, thinking, “there is one option we have yet to discuss.” His eyes then went to Minghao, who looked like he was holding on by a fraying thread.

One by one, everyone’s attention turned to the young prince.

“I understand he is only seventeen years of age and the enthronement usually happens at twenty,” the young adviser explained, “but given his… reputation,” another pause, in which the entire room held its breath, “wouldn’t it be wiser to hasten the ceremony a little?”

Minghao sat very still, but you could see in his eyes that his whole earth was shattering.

The emperor looked at his son, bushy brows furrowed, contemplating what had just been suggested. You wished he would just say something because the tension was becoming unbearable, even for you. You couldn’t imagine what Minghao must be going through.

You knew what the young adviser was suggesting, of course, and why. There was a valid reason to believe Minghao could do what his father couldn’t, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying for the young prince.

There was a story, a myth, concerning the imperial family of Namin that went back nearly a thousand years. You’d heard this story told as a lullaby when you were a child and couldn’t sleep. Your mother would point to the top of the imperial castle, where the golden dragon statue sat, overlooking the empire, and she’d tell you how that statue used to be a real dragon, how the first ruler of Namin had befriended the dragon and even saved its family from death. In return, when Namin came under attack of a foreign army, the dragon had fought for Namin, giving its life to protect the emperor he’d come to love. As the dragon breathed its last breath, it turned into the golden statue that now sat at the top of the imperial castle, promising that it would come back should the empire ever need it.

Only, the dragon had never returned since, even when Namin fell in deep trouble. Skeptics said it was because the whole thing was fake, but most believed the reason the dragon hadn’t returned was because the emperors that had followed the first hadn’t been worth fighting for. Most believed the dragon was waiting for a worthy ruler to fight alongside of, which is where Minghao came in.

The day of Minghao’s birth was the brightest the land had seen in a long time, making the dragon shine like never before. On top of that, there were various accounts of people saying they’d seen the dragon move that morning, this all leading to the common belief that prince Minghao would be the one to awaken the dragon and bring Namin back to it’s former glory.

After what seemed like forever, the emperor finally spoke up.

“What do you think about this, my son?”

Minghao’s lips parted but it was clear no sound would come out. He closed them again and looked down.

"An enlightened idea," the old adviser said, nodding slowly.

"Precisely," the younger adviser replied, "if we have the ceremony this summer we could—"

"He's too juvenile!" the red-faced adviser cut in.

"He's proved himself more than capable I say—"

"He doesn't even know how to wield a sword properly!"

“He's not bad with a bow, I've seen him—"

"The guards barely take him seriously!”

The sharp scrape of a chair brought the heated conversation to a halt. All eyes went to Minghao, who had risen, eyes still cast downward. Without a word, he turned around and strode out the door.

“Son!” the emperor called, though he didn’t follow.

“See!” the loudest of the advisers sneered, “young and reckless! How would he run Namin?”

It took you a few moments to realize what had just happened. The conversation had been so heavy it had sucked you right in. You shook the daze from your eyes and spun around, following the prince’s hurried footsteps. It was hard to catch up to him; you still weren’t too comfortable with the tight sandals and the restricting robes you had to wear. All you could do was shuffle awkwardly after him, watching the back of his head as it went.

“Minghao!” you called after him, forgetting all about proper terms and honorifics. You didn’t even know what you were doing. The only thing going through your head was how dreadful Minghao had looked and how you wanted to help him. It didn’t matter you hadn’t the slightest idea of how exactly to help him.

“Minghao, please wait!” you yelled, watching him approach his chamber doors.

You reached them just a moment after he opened them.

Abruptly, he turned around to face you in the door frame, the grave sight of his face making your insides churn.

“Leave me,” he ordered, his voice loud and stern, before slamming the doors in your face.

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iliumheightnights · 3 years

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New Old Republic OC

Name: Grimm’rryk’irruno, aka Grimm Race: Chiss Age: 35 Gender: Male Class: Sith Inquisitor, Dark Council Member Relationships: Kodo Desyk (@bigfan-fanfic)

Summary: Born on Dromund Kaas with powerful force presence, Grimm was trained from a young age in the way of the Sith. He excelled in his teaching, stepping on his fellow students to reach the top of the ladder. He had no care for who he used and threw away to get what he wants. All of it was proven worth it when at the age of 18, Grimm at become a sith lord. One of the youngest to ever achieve the rank.

Grimm was part of the sacking of Coruscant. He was one of the Sith who broke into the Jedi temple and brought the Jedi to their knees. During the attack on the temple, Grimm had broken into the Jedi temple’s archive. He alone was able to steal MANY Jedi holocrons before other sith destroyed them, which they did without hesitation. He kept many of the Holocrons for himself, to gain the knowledge and an upper hand in future battles...but he also gave many to the Dark Council. This effort also gained him the fruits of his labor. At the age of 25, Grimm was promoted to Darth Blight and given a seat on the Dark Council.

Darth Blight has lead countless strikes on Republic-controlled worlds, bringing them to their knees. But it wasn’t without strategy, each world he attacked held Jedi and Sith artifacts he would study. Each making him just a bit more powerful.

No one really knew what his plan was, just thinking he wanted more and more power like so many other sith. The truth was far simpler than that. He was aiming to take his rightful place...as emperor.

Face Claim: Jamie Dornan

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lo-55 · 3 years

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Lightning In A Bottle Ch. 3

Ace had been in Alabasta for all of a week, looking for his brother. Luffy should be arriving anytime now, if he didn’t get sidetracked when he was in Drum Kingdom.

...okay, so maybe Ace would have to wait around for a couple extra days. It was possible he should have just stayed in Drum and waited for Luffy there, in the cold and the snow, but he knew that he made the locals uncomfortable. They hadn’t realized he was a pirate, but the snow had melted off of his skin and coat and rolled off of him like rain. It made them weary. They knew there was something unnatural about this stranger that had come to them, asking so many questions about a man who had nearly destroyed their kingdom.

Teach left a trail of destruction in his wake, and Ace did his best to follow it, but it seemed like that was all he was able to do. Follow the trail.

And now he had to stop following Teach for a hot minute to wait on a perpetually tardy brother. There were a couple of leads about Teach and his slowly growing crew in Alabasta, but none of them were near enough to the port for Ace to investigate and get back in time to meet up with Luffy.

So he was stuck in town, cooling his heels.

That was fine, Ace had started to learn patience. He could hang out in town, look for leads, and wait for Luffy to show up. He hadn’t seen him in almost three years now, after all. A lot had changed. Luffy was a captain of an up-and-coming crew, Ace had joined the Whitebeards, and hundreds of smaller things that they needed to share with each other.

Ace wanted to tell Luffy that he’d finally met Shanks (and just how the hell had Luffy gotten the hat of an emperor? Honestly), and he wanted to tell him about his adventures in Paradise and the New World, and all about his crew. He just knew Luffy would get a kick out of Deus. In all actuality Ace had a whole laundry list of things he wanted to tell Luffy, everything from getting stranded and eating a devil fruit to being forcefully adopted by Whitebeard. And wasn’t that just the most ironic thing? Luffy, and to a lesser extend Sabo, had basically forced Ace to accept their friendship and later their brotherhood, and Whitebeard had literally kidnapped Ace and swatted every attempt on his life away until Ace finally gave in and let himself be adopted.

In retrospect, Ace should have recognized the stubborn streak in his captain. It was exactly like Luffy’s.

So he was content to wait, and when Smoker showed up he thought he would get a good fight to keep himself entertained for a while, even if he would rather finish his lunch.

He gave Smoker the chance to turn and walk away, but Marine’s were damn stubborn. Ace was halfway out of his seat, heat simmering under his skin.

Then something slammed him through a half a dozen walls and his fight with Smoker was forgotten.

Ace actually blacked out for a minute before he picked upself up out of the rubble, a headache starting to throb behind his eyes. All he wanted to do was find his little brother before he went back to hunting that damned traitor. Was that too much to ask? Did touble have to shadow him every minute of every day?

Of course it did.

“Just who in the goddamn- Sorry, enjoy your dinner,” he bowed quickly to a family in one house while he picked his way through the rubble. “Who in the goddamn Blue’s is picking fights!”

Ace finally climbed back through the first hole he’d made with his head.

“Hey!” he shouted into the restaurant.

A familiar face blinked at him from the spot at the counter he’d held himself only a few minutes before. Ace’s anger evaporated instantly.

“Lu-ouch!”

He was slammed face first into the ground by a gloved hand while Smoker leapfrogged over him.

“Strawhat!”

Ace glared at the broken stucco wall under his face. He could feel his eye twitching in annoyance. Just who did Smoker think he was, ignoring Ace for his brother! And how did they know each other?

“I've been looking for you, Strawhat. So you did come to alabasta. Quit eating!”

Ace could have told him that was a futile thing to say. Luffy would stop eating the day he died.

Ace slowly picked himself out of the rubble and resecurred his hat. He looked up in time to see Luffy shovel the entire table’s worth of food into his mouth and grab the hand of a girl sitting next to him that Ace didn’t recognize. Her red hair was a wild mane around her head and she looked bruised and scuffed up.

“Run!” Luffy shouted around his food, and bolted for the door. The girl yelped and threw something at the chef that clinked like a bag of coins.

Oh good. That meant Ace didn’t have to pay. Which he was totally gonna do, honest .

...Eh, he was a pirate.

“Luffy! Wait! It’s me!” Ace scrambled to his feet and went after them quickly.

Luffy dragged the girl through the streets of Nanohana, with Smoker on their tail and Ace right behind them. There was something a little too familiar about sprinting after Luffy after he’d managed to get himself in trouble while Ace wasn’t looking.

Luffy had to let go of his companion when a girl came at them with a sword so he could jump onto a rooftop out of the way. Ace was almost mad, Luffy was immune to bullets and fists but he could still be cut! But, of course, the little Marine wielding the sword didn’t come even close to Lu.

To her credit, Luffy’s girl drew a short sword from her side and blocked the attack easily. She held her weapon with the comfortable grip of someone who knew their way around a fight. Ace hadn’t noticed it before but her haki was a small step above most people’s he’d seen in Paradise. She must had had some training with it.

Good. Then he didn’t need to rescue Luffy’s swordwoman.

Ace landed next to the two.

“Excuse me, ladies,” he said politely, startling both of them into looking away from their crossed blades to Ace instead. He tipped his hat towards them, then the building that Luffy had jumped up onto. He was blocked from it by their swords. “I have to catch up with my brother now.”

“Uh, sure,” said the marine girl. They pulled their blades away to make a path for him. It was amazing how people responded to polite requests. .

“Why are you telling us this…?” the redhead countered, looking confused. Ace noted that her eyes were as red as her hair. She faltered when she got a good look at his face. “Hey, hold on-!”

“Sorry, I can’t,” Ace waved to them and shot over the rooftops, after his brother and Smoker.

He was pretty sure that girl recognized him. He wasn’t surprised, his face had been plastered all over every inn and tavern in the Grandline for a while, and he was pretty well known as the Second Division Commander.

If she was with Luffy, he’d no doubt see her again later.

Idly, Ace wondered if Luffy’s crew knew what they’d signed on for when they agreed to sail with him. Or if Luffy had even given them a choice.

Ace laughed to himself and picked up the pace. They’d figure it out.

Ace wanted to spend more time with Luffy. He wanted to spend at least a night with him, and drink and talk about everything that had happened in the last three years. He wanted to grab him and check him for injuries, wanted to tell him about his own mistakes and help him prevent making the same ones as Captain.

But.

But, he had to go. With Teach still on the loose and his blood debt unpaid, Ace coudln’t stay with his little brother any longer than he had, not without the excuse of waiting for him. He didn’t know all the details about what they were doing in the kingdom of Alabasta, nevermind why they had the princess of that same kingdom travelling with them these days, but it was just going to have to be, in Luffy’s words, a mystery.

At least, that’s what he thought.

While the crew set up to leave the Going Merry at the mouth of the river Ace excused himself to make a call.

He sat in the seat of Striker, with his shell-phone in hand. It only took a few rings for a familiar voice to pick up on the otherside.

“Whitebeard pirates, this is Izou speaking.”

“Izou, hey, it’s Ace. Is Pops around?”

“Ace! Let me get him, hold on.”

The sound of footsteps and muffled shouting followed, and in a minute Izou was replaced.

“Ace, my son, how are you?”

“I’m good,” Ace felt himself start to smile. “I haven’t caught up to Teach yet, but I’m getting close. I’m with my brother’s crew right now.”

“Ah ha, the infamous Luffy.”

Ace’s smile grew. He’d been rabid when it came to showing everyone Luffy’s first bounty. He’d gone to Blenheim and asked him for all the information they could get a hold of when it came to Luffy’s new crew. So he knew about Nami, Usopp, Zoro, and Sanji. Nami had a reputation among East Blue pirates, Usopp was fucking Yasopp’s son, Zoro was a bounty hunter with a decent name for himself, and as it happened Pop’s was old friends with Sanji’s father, Zeff.

“Yeah. He looks good. He’s just as goofy as he’s ever been, and he picked up a couple of extra crew mates. He’s a doctor, thank the Blues. Tony Tony Chopper. I think he’d a raccoon zoan, or maybe a Mink. I didn’t ask. It seemed rude. And a swordswoman he picked up here in Alabasta. Roche Nao. She’s pretty quick on her feet.”

“Wait.”

Ace paused. “Yeah?” He’d never heard that tone in Pops’ voice before.

“You said Roche Nao. Does she have red hair? And eyes?”

Ace cocked his head. The snail reflected the hard set of Pops’ jaw and the wildness in his eyes.

“She does. Do you know her?”

“... Listen to me now Son. I need you to stay with the Strawhat’s. Teach can wait, you have to keep an eye on Nao. We’ll meet you on Sabaody when your brother’s crew arrives. Do you understand?”

“Wait, what?! But Teach-”

“I understand how you feel about Teach,” Pops’ voice gentled for Ace. “But this is something I have to ask of you. If the government get’s ahold of that girl, what awaits her is a fate far worse than death.”

“She’s like you, son.”

Ace sucked in through his teeth. Like him? How?

“Can I count on you to guard her from the navy?”

“I’ll bring more attention to them,” Ace warned. The idea of shelving his hunt for Teach was bitter on his tongue, but if Pops said he needed Ace to guard this girl, he would. “How do you know her, anyhow?”

“It isn’t a story for a den den. When we meet again, I’ll tell you everything, if Nao hasn’t done it herself. Just promise me, Ace.”

Ace swallowed his irritation about Teach. This was something Pops was asking of him. Something important to him on a personal level beyond what even Teach had done.

“I promise. I’ll do everything I can to keep her from getting arrested.”

The Den Den relaxed.

“Thank you. I’ll see you soon, son.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you then Pops.”

Now Ace just had to find an excuse to stay with the Strawhats. He’d heard a very vague rumor about someone pretending to be Blackbeard in Yuba. He could start with that, and then find another reason to stay later on. He doubted that Nao would appreciate him puppy guarding her.

She’d said it herself. She was her own captain.

#One Piece Fanfiction #one piece #monkey d. luffy #Portgas D. Ace #original character #Whitebeard pirates

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thatsparrow · 4 years

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(read on ao3)

Lapin wakes up in shadow, beaten and broken badly enough that the air is heavy with the sugar-rich smell of his own blood.

In sweetness—, he thinks. But where is my strength now?

His senses return to him slowly, but when they do, the picture they paint is an un-pretty one: a six-by-eight foot cell of hewn stone, matching sets of cinched iron manacles running between his wrists and ankles to bolts in the wall, the feeling of sticky, half-dried chocolate across an aching stretch of his abdomen. His staff is missing, as are his Primogen robes, but there is a small huddle of pink-and-red peppermint near his feet, something with twitching ears and a curlicue tail and sharp button-black eyes.

"So we're alive, then," Lapin says, gingerly lifting himself into a sitting position while the pig—Priscilla? Praline? No, Preston—shuffles forward and nudges at his hand with a soft, damp nose. "Perhaps the Bulb is capable of kindness after all."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, apostate." Walking up on the other side of the bars is the young Commander Grissini, flanked by two fellow Ceresian guards. He looks battle-weary and bloodstained—though, notably, not with his own; blackberry jam, if Lapin had to guess, judging by the smell of sugared fruit. (Heaven knows he'd never respected them, but Lapin will certainly credit the Tartguard for that particular moment of loyalty.)

"Just a joke, Commander." Lapin's mouth narrows in a tight smile. "I know well that the Bulb has no capacity for kindness or mercy. Has your Pontifex told you that, I wonder? Do you know you serve a hollow god?"

"Silence, heretic," one of the guards hisses. "Keep your false words behind your teeth unless you'd like me to cut them from your tongue."

Lapin lets his smile widen but remains quiet; there's surely pain enough in store for him without inviting more of it himself.

"Easy," Grissini says to the guard. "The Pontifex warned us of the lies he would tell. A rabid dog barks loudest when it feels the chain tightening around its neck."

Lapin exhales—not quite a laugh, but not entirely humorless either. A rabid dog. Well, he's been called worse.

"Something funny, apostate?" A line creases Grissini's brow. "I can't imagine what you might find amusing about your situation."

Notting particularly, but Lapin is hardly about to give them the satisfaction of seeing the knotted weight of his concern instead. He'll two-step so long as he has the illusion of stable footing, however rotted and fragile the foundations might really be.

"Tell me," he says after a moment, "Sir Keradin, in the cathedral—he killed me, did he not?"

"He did."

"And yet given that I am here, alive, I must have been revivified, yes?"

"Obviously," Grissini says with a note of impatience.

Interesting, Lapin thinks. And likely inauspicious. He glances between Grissini and the two guards at his side, then lets his eyes alight on the man at Grissini's left, the one who'd threatened to cut out his tongue. He considers the man, makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. "Would you like to know what I saw in the afterlife?" Lapin says to him. "Would you like to know the true form of your Bulb? How many can say they've been blessed enough to behold it themselves?"

The guard looks between him and Grissini, the sharp, irate lines of his expression bent a little by uncertainty. Then to Lapin, voice notably less assured than before, "I would never be so foolish as to trust your falsehoods."

"Understandable," Lapin muses. "But how can you be sure that I'd lie? Even for a man with such conviction in his faith, aren't you the slightest bit curious of what I have to say?" Lapin raises an eyebrow.

The guard hesitates for a moment. Lapin gestures for him to move closer. Slowly, his face warring between anger and doubt, he crouches down to where Lapin sits.

"Ennio—" Grissini says, warning. Lapin leans towards the bars, lowers his voice for Ennio's ears alone.

"It was luminescent and shining," Lapin whispers. "The most beautiful thing for miles, brighter than any that had come before or would follow. To walk closer demands that you shield your eyes, lest your vision be burned away as punishment for your hubris. But I did approach, and I felt its light and its heat and its power, and then I opened my eyes—just for a moment—and do you know what I saw?"

Ennio tilts his head closer, eyes shut, his forehead pressed against the iron as he listens.

"—Nothing." Ennio recoils as if scalded, mouth twisted in a snarl. Lapin raises his voice as he continues, grinning wide. "All that beauty and all that brightness and nothing beneath it!" He feels fingers at his throat as Ennio's hand shoots through the bars, fisting around his collar and yanking him forward. Sharp, bruising pain blooms across his face as he slams into the metal, splitting his lip and the skin above his eye, snapping something in his nose, reopening a healed-over wound on his temple. Lapin can taste chocolate on his teeth and laughs, loud and reckless. "Congratulations, for your faith is akin to a man praying for salvation at the foot of a fucking boulder—"

"Enough!" Grissini shouts as Ennio starts to move again, shouldering him back from the bars, one hand closing around Ennio's wrist until he gives up his hold on Lapin's collar. Lapin falls back against the wall, still smiling as something begins to swell above his eye, blood pooling along his upper lip and against his gums. Grissini shoves Ennio back against the far wall, forearm up under his chin, and says, "Leave—" he jerks his head at the other guard, "—both of you, until you can learn some composure."

Grissini holds himself in front of Ennio until he relents, then gives a curt nod as he straightens his uniform, adjusts the grip on his spear, and turns to walk back down the hall with his compatriot. Before he goes, he spits on the ground in front of Lapin's cell, muttering something that sounds like filthy fucking heretic.

"Have you always been such a fool?" Grissini asks once they've gone. "Or does being in Comida bring it out in you?"

"I can see very few bright spots from my current vantage, Commander," Lapin says, wiping some of the blood from his nose, his temple, his eyebrow. His smile fades. "Forgive me for having enjoying a moment of levity when the opportunity appeared."

"Your situation can always be made worse." Grissini leans on his spear; it at least seems clean of dried jam or crumbs of shortbread crust. Then again, how much difference does it make that he didn't do any of the killing himself? "I say that not as a threat, but as a reminder. You are only alive because it suits the will of the Pontifex. So long as she believes you are useful, she will take whatever steps necessary to wring out your remaining value."

"If that bloated broccoli bitch thinks I'm helping with anything, then I look forward to enlightening her."

"Bulb above, wake up!" Grissini snaps. "Are you truly so oblivious to the nature of your situation that you need me to spell it out for you? There is no future in which you live to see the outside of this prison. While you are here, the Pontifex will make use of the wide scope of her imagination and the tools at Sir Keradin's disposal until you surrender any and all information you have about House Rocks, your fellow Candians and their political intentions, and the source of your witchcraft." Grissini pauses; Lapin is as weary as he's ever been, his eye nearly swollen closed from the bruising blow of the bars, but he could almost mistake the expression on Grissini's face for something akin to shame. "Undoubtedly the process will be both slow and painful. Once it's done, should you have proved to be compliant and your intelligence reliable, she may be merciful enough to allow you a quick death." He blinks, eyes shifting away from Lapin's stare before meeting it again. "Far likelier, though, that she devises some new punishment to fill your final days, simply for the inconvenience you've caused her thus far."

"You don't seem particularly pleased at that prospect, Commander," Lapin ventures, watching the slight shifts in Grissini's face. "Won't you also be excited to watch the 'false prophet' burn?"

Grissini holds himself carefully still. "I have tremendous respect for the Concorde, for the duties of my station, and for the oaths I have taken to Ceresia and the Emperor," he says after a moment. "That does not mean I take any satisfaction in the outcome awaiting you. From what I witnessed on the Sucrosi Road and in the tournament, as well as in the cathedral, you and your fellow Candians seem a group worth admiring." He exhales, slow. "I am—truly sorry that this is the future we find ourselves in."

"Sorry enough to help me attempt an escape?" Grissini maintains his steady, statue-faced look, and Lapin smiles a little ruefully. "No, I didn't think so. I thank you for your insights, Commander, and for your kind words—however hollow they might be." Grissini winces a little; a cheap barb, but at this particular point, Lapin won't deny himself such pettiness. "Was there anything else? If not, I would ask you to let me enjoy whatever remaining peace and quiet I am permitted."

Grissini works at his jaw, brow still creased. "Save your breath on spellcasting; the cell has been enchanted by the Pontifex herself to prevent any witchcraft. I believe your first—interrogation is scheduled for tomorrow morning, so you should still have some hours to rest." He turns to go, then pauses. "For what it's worth, they haven't been found yet—your king and the princesses, nor Sir Theobald or the Jawbreaker boy. If they've managed to escape Comida, there may still be some hope for them."

And then he's gone.

In the dim light of the cell, Lapin lets out a deep sigh, allowing his face to bear all the weight of the bone-deep exhaustion he's felt since waking; he has no way of seeing his reflection, but he wouldn't be surprised to see new wrinkles dug in around his eyes and bridging his forehead. Heavens, he's so tired. Next to him, Preston makes a soft whuffing noise and clambers half into his lap, circling a few times before settling in a tight peppermint curl, his snout pressed into the crook of Lapin's left elbow.

"Alright, but just this once," Lapin says, petting absently at the soft, peach-fuzz stretch of skin between Preston's ears. "And only because this will stay with us." He scratches under Preston's chin, then notices a clump of something sticky dried into the short bristles of Preston's fur, minty-smelling blood congealed around scarred-over skin, ragged wounds that match the barbed edges of Keradin's mace.

"What a bastard." His hands are gentle around the pale pink stretches of new skin. "Who goes after a pig." He murmurs the incantation for a healing spell—both for poor Preston and himself—but true to Grissini's word, nothing happens. Unfortunate; in addition to Preston's wounds, he can feel at least two cracked ribs in his own chest.

"I should give the Pontifex more credit for her counter-charms," Lapin says after a moment. "That, or you've cut your losses and found a new attendant." He smiles wryly. "Likely one who can serve your interests more effectively than from a cell."

He waits, but there's no answer. Were he a hopeful man, he might attribute the silence to the Pontifex's wards, shielding any divine influence from entering the cell as effectively as they've dampened his own spellcasting ability. Far likelier though that he's been abandoned to his fate.

"I suppose it's just you and I now, Preston." He glances down and takes some small comfort in the continued rise-and-fall of Preston's chest. "For the moment, at least. Admittedly, this isn't how I'd envisioned the end of my particular story, but the dice fall where they may. Heaven knows there are worse companions I might have found myself with."

Preston lets out another contented whuff and resettles himself, eyes gently closed.

"I think you have the right idea there," Lapin says, resting his head on the wall behind him, doing his best to ignore the slight crag of stone jutting into his lower back. "If Commander Grissini is to be trusted—and, in this case, I believe he is—then such moments of peace will be few and far between in the days to come."

Whuff, whuff.

"Yes, I'm glad to hear they're alright, too, though I'd place little faith in our paths crossing again. My apologies—I know I'm not the companion that young Liam was."

Whuff. Whuff, whuff.

"Very well, I shall endeavor to sleep. Perhaps we'll wake in the morning to find a kinder world."

Whuff.

"No, I don't think so either."

As Lapin closes his eyes and counts the measure of his breathing, he works very hard to rein his wayward thoughts back from dark visions of tomorrow, of windowless rooms and tables with built-in restraints and long trays of metal-mouthed implements. Focuses instead on remembering his study in Castle Candy, flickering firelight against the bound spines of his books, sugar-spun windows opening up to a view of the grounds below, the purple-tipped peaks of the Great Stone Candy Mountains to the north.

Breathe.

A forest of ice cream-frosted evergreens instead of Sir Keradin's blade digging for secrets under his skin. Spring afternoons by the banks of the Cola instead of the sickly yellow light of the Pontifex's magic. Powdered motes of pastel dust in the castle library instead of hands tightening around his throat or firebrands pressed against his feet. Home instead of a cell. Safety instead of this aching pit in his stomach.

Breathe, Lapin. It is all you can do for the moment.

When he finally drifts off, the sleep he finds is a fitful one, punctuated by uneasy, sharp-edged dreams. Slowly, though, his mind drifts towards calmer waters, the soothing rhythm of a lazy current, true rest for his worn-down mind. At one point, Preston shifts in his lap, still half-asleep, nosing the air around them curiously. Almost as if he'd caught the faint smell of sugar plums.

#dimension 20 #a crown of candy #acoc spoilers #lapin cadbury #d20 fic #my fic

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cienie-isengardu · 4 years

Text

The development of Law’s relationship with Zoro - Part 4: Dressrosa, The Breaking Point (Aftermath)

<<Part I: Before Meeting>> <<Part II: Sabaody Archipelago, The First Meeting>> <<Part III: Punk Hazard, The Alliance (A)>> <<Part III: Punk Hazard, The Alliance (B)>> <<Part IV: Dressrosa, The Breaking Point (The Plan Failed)__ (Saving Law)__(Protecting Law)__ (Birdcage, Pica and Doflamingo)__ (Aftermath)>>

Even though admiral Issho alongside with his men officially apologized to King Riku and the citizens, the king made sure the “outlaws” were hidden from marines. Straw Hats, Law, Bellamy and Kyros ended sheltered in Kyros’s home where he once lived with Scarlet and little Rebecca. First time in a long time, the allied pirates were together again. In the night, Sabo visited the house, but beside Zoro, Franky and Robin, everyone was sleeping. The four had a talk about Sabo’s past and the best time to leave Dressrosa before marines will attack them.

Law’s sleep position was much more relaxed and open than the one from the beginning of Dressrosa arc (chapter 794). Maybe it was just the result of total exhaustion and injuries or maybe Law, after so long of stressing and worrying, finally could relax knowing that A) Doflamingo was in marine custody thus no longer a threat and B) he was safe around Straw Hats.

The available room was small but Law could choose any spot to sleep. Instead, he was shown lying close to drinking Zoro (by frame layout alone, again in between Roronoa and sleeping on bed Luffy, this time without any danger around). Zoro most likely planned to stay awake through the whole night for security measures (he has this habit of sleeping just 3 hours per night after all) and taught by experience, Law didn’t have any reason to doubt that if attacked, the swordsman would protect him, the same as he did during battle.

Law didn’t even bother to pretend he was cautious or wary, he simply slept, trusting allies to take care of their safety.

With Zoro, Franky and Robin being the only one awake, there is a high probability they talked about the latest events. How their fights went, what they learned, what to focus on, what to watch out for in the future with angered Kaido as the next goal on alliance’s list. It’s hard to tell for sure if Robin told others about Law’s choice to stay behind and whether in victory or death, share Luffy’s fate. On one hand, it was a choice made under strong emotions, trauma and even the feel of responsibility for Straw Hat’s wellbeing. A choice made because of very personal matters. On second hand, exactly because it happened under such pressure it was the most sincere side of Law Robin had a chance to see for herself. She and Zoro are the least trusting members of the crew and that night was the best moment to discuss in detail what happened and in the process dispel any remaining doubts about Law as their ally. Both saw his determination and fighting spirit, knew he saved their crew members and kept Luffy out of harm's way despite his own injuries and finally, both had some understanding of Law’s hidden goal in Doffy’s destruction. They may not know the whole truth, just the nature of it, but that was enough because Trafalgar did not betray them. And well, he had the suicide feel about himself what could raise some concerns about him too.

I personally think such talk could happen that night, when memories of battle were still fresh in their mind and everyone out cold beside the three of them. The exchange of information could be another reason for the change in Zoro’s behaviour.

For the three days, the Straw Hat-Heart alliance was left in peace by marines. Once again Law was exposed to Luffy’s antics but this time Zoro acted in a more open way, even showing his more usual irritation at other people’s odd behaviour, including his own captain:

Interestingly, there is a visible shift in the arrangement of characters positions - during battle it was usually Zoro-Luffy-Law and the dynamic changed mainly in face of danger. Now with upcoming frames somehow Law was put more often in the middle between the other Supernovas. Even though Trafalgar still kept some tangible distance from others, judging by their (not so strictly stoic anymore) behaviour, it seems like he and Zoro were now more comfortable around each other.

Then the navy finally made its move against pirates. Unlike Usopp, Zoro and Law didn’t show any distress. Bartolomeo and other fighters prepared themselves for such an occasion by securing for Luffy’s group a safe escape route. Instead of running away with his friends, Luffy decided to visit Rebecca - now a princess - and confront her about her family matters.

Zoro reminded Luffy they don’t have time, so he better get it done quick while the rest will wait in eastern port...

and then again, run in the wrong direction.

At this point, Law may have a good suspicion about Zoro’s no sense of orientation (chapter 797). And who knows, maybe he ran alongside Zoro (on picture below, behind Kinemon and Robin), to make sure the infamous Pirate Hunter did not wander unexpectedly somewhere else… that, or both planned to linger behind and secure the group retreat.

The fellow fighters came to their aid, keeping marines far away from Straw Hats. At the same time, Law disappeared without a word, to find and confront recently arrived on the island Sengoku (unless he did mention his intention to Zoro, while they ran side by side??). Frankly, the manga did not provide the reaction of Zoro nor any other member of Straw Hat crew to Law’s disappearance, so it’s impossible to say if they were worried about him or simply trusted in his strength to return on his own on time.

Meeting with Sengoku was one of the most important breaking points for Law. As it turned out, the former fleet admiral treated Donquixote Rosinante - Law’s savior - as a son. And for thirteen years did not understand why his beloved son didn’t follow the order to stay away from Minion Island.

“One day… a soldier I knew died. He was someone I cared about, someone who meant something to me. I took him in as a boy… and treated him like a son… He was as honest and upright a person as I ever knew… and a valuable, trustworthy subordinate. But there was one time, just once in his life, that he lied to me. I had been betrayed… but there must have been a reason for it. Four things disappeared in the chaos of that fateful day. The Barrels Pirates, the life of my subordinate, the Ope-Ope fruit… and a boy with White Lead disease who was with the Donquixote Family at the time.”

Law admitted he was the boy and confirmed that Rosinante left his post and died because of him. Admitted also he didn’t know if the way he lived was what Cora wanted.

First time in 13 years, Law was assured that there wasn’t any hidden goal in Cora’s decision to save him. The man saw a dying, hurt child with the spark of his brother’s madness and decided Law was worth loving and dying for. It was unconditional love, without any “if” or “but”. The “D.” name and the usefulness of Ope Ope no Mi did not matter. Even stopping Doflamingo meant then little. The only thing Rosinante wanted was to save Law and make him finally free. Sengoku literally told Law to not “attach a reason to the love you’ve received”.

Apparently, english “I love you” does not carry the whole meaning of the original phrase “Aishiteruze (愛してるぜ)”. Rosinante’s declaration was along the “I can’t live without you” level of loving someone (x). Now, after so many years of hiding from Donquixote Pirates, planning and scheming and living just to kill Cora’s murderer, Law finally understood the depths of Rosinante’s love. The breaking point is that: Law at last knows (accepts) he was unconditionally loved and now, is free from Doflamingo for good. He can allow himself to finally live without doubts and regrets the way he wants, without a sense of failing some unknown to him expectations. And I think, to some degree, it is the reason why Law’s secretive / introverted behavior changed into a more open, relaxed act around Zoro and Straw Hats. Because he finally could relax, be comfortable with himself.

Due to danger from admiral Issho, Law couldn’t spend more time with Sengoku and had to run to the rendezvous point. Surprising, no Straw Hats waited for him (in the sense, weren’t shown in the frame). Even more surprising is the lack of Zoro between former colosseum fighters in the frontline of the fight. Anyway, Luffy showed up soon after Law but instead of dodging the blind admiral, attacked him. Because to be Pirate King he must face everyone: Warlords, Admirals and Emperors and beat them down.

Zoro in general agreed with Luffy’s reasoning (chapter 799) but did not exactly understand the way Luffy fought against Issho, telling his blind opponent what kind of attack he was going to use. The admiral himself was very surprised by that too, but ultimately accepted and even respected Luffy’s weirdness. In the end, Issho managed to send Luffy flying - what happened to be a favorable circumstance for allied fighters. They catched Luffy and despite Straw Hat’s protest, dragged him to safety. Zoro was happy about that too, but for a different reason - he wanted to take Luffy’s place to fight with a powerful enemy. Bartolomeo thankfully managed to stop the battle-lusting warrior.

Law’s reaction to that event wasn’t shown but once again he had a chance to see Zoro’s insanity when it came to fighting a strong enemy. Zoro and Luffy in that regard were very similar to each other.

Straw Hats-Heart alliance finally got on ship, the Yanta Maria and with the help of people of Dressrosa (who under the pretext of chasing the pirates away, were actually protecting them from the admiral's deadly attack), the alliance sailed away safely.

Zoro and Law's reaction to Yanta Maria was visibly distinctive from pleasant shock of others (open jaws). Zoro smiled, Law, judging by the frown, looked unimpressive. Both their reactions were more quiet and toned down.

On the ship, Bartolomeo and fellow fighters asked Luffy to drink with them “cups of Father and Sons”, to officially accept them as his underlings.

Luffy of course refused, because he A) didn’t like alcohol and B) didn’t want to be captain of such a big fleet. Zoro warned his allies they wasted time trying to change Straw Hat’s mind (and to just give the sake to him). Yet the fighters were ready to force Luffy into accepting the drink. Further Luffy’s explanation only confused everyone (beside Straw Hats) even more. Including Law.

And then Law’s attention immediately turned to Zoro, who, taking advantage of the opportunity, started drinking sake from Luffy’s cup to Usopp’s displeasure.

Finally, Luffy managed to explain his reasoning:

“If I ever think we’re in trouble… I’ll shout for your help. Then you can come save us! I don’t have to be a boss or a great pirate, right?! If you’re in trouble, call for us!! We’ll come and help you!!! I won’t forget about how we fought Mingo together!!

And the Seven Leaders admired and accepted Straw Hat’s decision. But since Luffy was all about freedom, they simply followed his example. Whether Luffy liked it or not, they decided on their own to make him their boss.

Law thus witnessed the founding of the Great Fleet of Straw Hats. And yet, somehow it looked like he was more interested in Zoro’s drinking sake behind Luffy’s back.

When party started, everyone celebrated their great victory (chapter 800):

Luffy, like always, was in the centre of everything. Law, though smiling, kept his distance from Zoro and other partying people. But soon after that Law’s personal space was invaded by Zoro.

The anime expanded this little moment, first showing Zoro approaching Law sitting alone, asking to join the rest. And then, ignoring any protests, just threw his arm around the other man’s neck. Law’s face spoke how much he minded such treatment and had no dignity about that:

During parties, Zoro always spent his time sharing alcohol with people who fought side by side with him (Paulie, Water 7/Enies Lobby) or actually were his opponents (Braham, Skypiea). Zoro didn’t have a habit of forcing people to drink with him or asking (introverted) person who clearly wanted to be alone to join the bigger group. He himself rarely joined larger groups and usually just sat somewhere far from the noise with a few people around. So, Zoro most likely understood Law's isolation since he used to do so himself. Here though he was the one invading Law’s personal space and not giving a damn if the man was happy about it or not. On second thought, if Law didn’t want to join the others, it made sense for Zoro to join him. In a sense, it could be Zoro’s way to break the ice between them. What is even more interesting, considering the palpate distance he kept from Law at the beginning of the story. The second important detail - Law could easily get out of that situation by using Ope Ope no Mi powers. A simple switch of the places and he would be free for good. Yet Law remained, despite how awkward and/or outside of his comfort zone it was.

We may only wonder what made Zoro act in such an uncommon way. Was that respect for Law forged in the heat of battle? Did it bother him that Law after everything was done, still isolated himself? Did it look like Law felt discomfort to be around people he barely knew or interacted with and who all pledged loyalty only to Straw Hats, thus Zoro decided to keep him company?

Zoro initiating physical contact in itself is an uncommon occurrence. Because as much as Straw Hats pirates can - and will - invade Zoro’s personal space, Roronoa is not exactly the type of person open to such contact. Once again, the shift between the beginning (visible distancing) and ending (invading Law’s personal space) of the Dressrosa arc is tangible. Somehow between one and the other, breaking point in Law and Zoro’s relationship happened and changed for good their dynamic. What was seen day(?) after the party (chapter 801):

Law and Zoro sat close to each other, the previous distance gone. Zoro was reading newspapers, indifferent to his surroundings - instead of facing and observing the Heart captain, like he used to do at the beginning. Both men looked like they were comfortable around each other, even despite - or maybe, because of - the shared (forced?) drink. The change in Zoro’s behaviour is diametrical.

Like was said at the beginning, Dressrosa Arc is one big breaking point. It changed the status quo of pirate alliance and Luffy’s position, from rookie pirate to leader of a powerful fleet. It will lead to the complete dissolution of the Shichibukai system and for good push the main hero into collision with Emperors. For Law alone, Dressrosa was like opening old, still not healed wounds but also so needed a moment of catharsis. He was ready to die there, but was saved time after time by allies. In a sense, it was the final test of how strong the alliance was before facing angry Kaido.

Law changed a lot through the course of action. Or maybe not really changed, but like allowed himself to show hidden emotions and trauma. The cold-blooded, scheming pirate who planned to use Straw Hats crew (and spare his own) turned out to be a man willing to sacrifice himself to finish what his savior started but couldn’t do himself. Who came to believe in Straw Hats, as the ones who made miracles happen. Not only Luffy, but the crew as a whole.

The same as Zoro finally saw Law in hopeless, awkward, sometimes outright humiliating situations (anime extension), Law’s impression of Roronoa cracked too. No sense of direction, insanity to laugh at the dangerous enemy and enjoying the thrill of fight, the fondness of alcohol -- all of this created anew image. This time more flawed but at the same time, more real, human. Despite the flaws and awkwardness of previous situations, both proved to be strong-willed, cool-headed warriors one may rely on in difficult times. Zoro stretched out his hand to him, broke the ice, abandoned the distrust that distanced them for a long time. It seems like Law was finally fully accepted by Roronoa and all unsaid things between them settled down for good.

At the same time, the arc showed their similarities. Both were the quiet ones, the type of people who kept distance from others. The ones with pragmatic thinking in contrast to Luffy’s chaotic madness. Zoro for sure was a helpful presence during running from enemies and meeting a weird fighter after another, especially since he did try to keep his captain in check. That it didn’t work for a long time is a different matter.

Anyway, looking at the beginning and end of Dressrosa arc, there is a visible change in how Zoro and Law acted around each other. How the neutrality changed into something more comfortable.

Here comes things worth examining a bit more.

↪ The Seven Leaders pledged loyalty only to Straw Hat Pirates. As long as alliance between Luffy and Law will work, this is not a big issue and to take down all Emperors, every additional help was good. But if ever those two pirate crews will fall apart, Luffy literally just gained a powerful fleet, thus has advantage over rival captain.

↪ Straw Hats & Heart captain worked together to take down Doflamingo. Luffy of course was the one that finished the enemy, but overall, Luffy’s victory was a result of teamwork between pirates, colosseum fighters, marines and common people. As much as Trafalgar Law was well known as the Shichibukai, Luffy and Zoro were in fact the ones that made the biggest impression on people (colosseum fight, defeating Doffy & destroying Pica) and actually interacted during battle with other fighters. Frankly, both showed their charismatic nature that made people believe in and follow them. Luffy became the hope of the whole country. Zoro was the spark that united people to stop the birdcage and brought Luffy the needed time to recover. Law is powerful and has a reputation and knows how to deal with different people to get what he wants, but he is not really good at interhuman relationships in general. Luffy gains friends on the left and right. Zoro, despite being asocial, rude and introverted person, has the impressive air about himself that often makes him look like the coolest person who is not afraid to challenge everything and everyone; for whom impossible does not exist (destruction of Pica, stopping birdcage). Law… kinda lacks in that department.

↪ Because of the made impression on other fighters, there is a big chance Law may have heard some retelling of the events during the party. Luffy and Zoro aren’t men who brag about their exploits, but Bartolomeo and his companions had a lot to share about battle. With so much alcohol and so many strong individuals that were very impressed by Straw Hats deeds, it seems logical that tales of battle would sooner than later be told. Especially by devoted fans like Bartolomeo. Zoro’s daring plan to defeat Pica and stop Birdcage could be recalled by those fighters who saw it themselves, filling Law with missing fragments of the battle.

↪ Frankly, shonen mangas have this one upside down that the final boss must be defeated by the main hero. Which means that characters who actually could do something useful (damaging) to the enemy are pushed to the sideline. Like Robin, who can snap a person's neck from far away thanks to Hana Hana no Mi. Or Zoro, who could join the other Supernovas in their fight against Doffy (either before Law’s threatening injury or after, instead of stopping the birdcage). Or dwarf princess could heal Luffy for a few minutes to finish Mingo once and for good. It’s not exactly a complaint, because it's the standard formula of One Piece story, but because of such, Law and Zoro were pushed into the background, for Luffy to shine. For most of the arc, Luffy was the main figure in the dynamic of Supernova Trio. They did not interact much in words, but the layout of frames - the character position and background activities - created the feeling of the slowly forming bond between Zoro and Law. Now, after Doffy’s defeat, there is a shift next to whom Trafalgar sticks (Zoro) and Luffy is unnecessary for them to interact on their own.

↪ Law didn’t care how high was the newest reward for his head. In contrast, Zoro was pleased to learn his own increased a lot. Even asked for alcohol to celebrate. What could turn into another moment of Zoro dragging Law into drinking.

↪ The last detail (though I’m afraid it may vary from one translation to another) is the way Law addressed his allies. Luffy usually was the Straw Hat-ya. The girls were titled as Nami-ya and Nico-ya. Usopp as Nose-ya, Sanji as Black Leg-ya, Chopper as Tony-ya. Unless I missed it, I don’t think Law addressed Zoro directly to use either his name or made up nickname. They really didn’t talk much throughout the course of the story. There is a chance it happened after freeing Dressrosa - either during the three days when everyone waited for Luffy to wake up or during the party, once alcohol was shared. Zoro, depending on translation, called him either Law or Traffy (or similar form of the nickname).

With the chapter 802, the Dressrosa arc can be considered closed. Now, the Straw Hats-Heart pirate alliance sail to meet their missing crewmembers and to prepare for the fight with angry Kaido. How truly comfortable Law and Zoro became around each other will show the next place: Zou.

#one piece #roronoa zoro #trafalgar law #The development of Law’s relationship with Zoro #zoro & law #monkey d. luffy #straw hat grand fleet #my analyze #finally the dressrosa is done #dressrosa arc #man this arc was painful to write down #so many things happenings #on one hand so little zoro & law moments #on another the effects and differences between zoro & law and luffy gave a lot to think about

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sumeshi-t · 4 years

Text

[Kiseki no Angst]

akashi seijuro x reader

wordcount: 5k+

tw: cheating, mentions of depression, death :(

"i don't hate you. i'm just disappointed you turned into everything you said you'd never be."

people used to look down on you, never really noticing that you were someone worth respecting. it wasn't your fault, but your surname's fault. you always knew that being born into that family was the biggest mistake. nevertheless, you worked hard not because you wanted to be noticed, but just to tell them that you weren't a piece of trash anyone can just trample on.

despite the insults aimed your way, you maintained your cool. you didn't stoop down to their level because, hey, they didn't know who you really are. that you were someone more than “just what your surname is”, that what it was doesn't really define you.

you were one of those students who aced in tests, and got high enough remarks in every subject.

you were also someone who, in the field of sports, is actually considered good. but you also had your own flaws–one of them being your laziness. you were too lazy to focus on one sport and decided that as long as you don't get a failing mark because of that subject, then you're fine.

friends? you rarely had them, because most of the people who approach you were just looking for your weaknesses, so they can have something to gossip about the next day. so, you usually just sat alone and ate in silence, watching everyone from a certain point in the room.

there was this very outstanding student, and his name was akashi seijuro. he was someone close to perfection–intelligent, sporty, and quite good looking. yeah, he was your classmate but there was hardly any conversation made between you two. due to your constant observations, it was pretty damn obvious that a portion of the female students had a not-so-secret admiration for that guy.

you wondered if anyone was brave enough to confess their feelings, but seeing as how his eyes weren't interested in that aspect of life, his stare could either make a girl combust on the spot or make them bury their body alive. you had a hunch that confessions were rare to happen.

also, since he's too smart, you figured that he could somehow, sense it in a person. akashi seijuro, for you, was peculiar and indeed, someone to look up to. he was something akin to an inspiration, without the need to be interested in him in any romantic way.

you still wonder how on earth he noticed you, as you were playing chess–alone–just a few meters before the gym's entrance, in some lounge in school. that time, news about rakuzan's loss to seirin were being spread around and duh, since you were in the losing school, it was the hottest topic.

usually, people would just glance then whisper amongst themselves upon seeing you. who wouldn't? when they see someone having a fierce battle with their self.

but he was the first, in a long time:

akashi moved a piece on the board and muttered, "checkmate."

you had a scowl on your face from analyzing too much and it was still evident when you looked up at him. your eyes met his, and though you've heard that if you did, he'll “gouge” them out, you were still, just a tad bit frustrated at his interruption. really though, it was the first time you looked straight into his eyes, and you knew well to listen.

but contradicting what your brain had always reminded you, akashi didn't flinch or scowl, and you just couldn't read his expression.

"i didn't mean to bother you, kaname."

akashi just came from practice and you realized, it was about time for students to go home. then it took your brain seconds to register the way he called you using that last name.

you nodded, then proceeded to packing your stuff, turning your attention away from him. you thought he'd leave already, but he was just standing there and was watching you.

not to be rude, you stopped for a while, holding a white queen and a black king in one hand as you looked at him again. "akashi-kun, is there something wrong?"

"why do you prefer isolating yourself from everyone?" the red-haired and red-eyed guy suddenly asked, catching you off-guard. you smiled, not really reaching your eyes, and answered as you continue to pile the pieces back inside their place.

"because they don't like my name. and it's also for them to have a topic to talk about, every once in a while. i pity them," you trailed off.

"but ‘y/n' isn't that bad for a name, don't you think?"

his words made you freeze, a small gasp escaping your lips, which were soon trembling as you tried to hold in tears. “what's… it to you, then? i mean, you barely even talk to me in class, get it?"

this was very sudden, you thought. you described it as awkward, weird; and a lot more words your brain's dictionary could give you. or at least it could provide you. the akashi you've come to know was a bit more hostile than this.

but he smiled.

akashi seijuro smiled at you. it wasn't fake, it wasn't something you daydreamed. it was genuine. the warmth you felt from it, was far from fantasy.

"it's just a heads up for you, that there are some people who won't judge you because of a surname," he paused, waiting for you to react. when you didn't, he continued. "just continue being you, y/n."

"…why are you being like this all of a sudden?"

"you're interesting, and you have potential to do great things. don't let their judgments get in your way."

it honestly just started from that day. that was the first unforgettable moment you shared with the emperor.

you really didn't expect that he'd end up sharing his surname with yours, in the end.

and now, as you wore an elegant and expensive white gown, you knew there were more moments you can look forward to. and you knew, that you were you, he was who he was, and that the two of you were special in your own ways. you honestly thought his father would get in the way of your relationship, but it seems like the odds were in your favor.

your rings were wrapped around your fingers, and a kiss to seal and lock you two together for the rest of your lives.

akashi was a very loyal man. he was sweet, have tendencies to spoil you, despite his busy schedules. you were fine with it, after all, you were there behind him and supporting him.

akashi was also quite a loving husband; he lives up to his title,"the emperor" both on the court, and, although not really surprising, this was the case when it came to your bedroom activities.

still, there was something about him, that your guts have been meaning to tell you, that there was something wrong. or something you didn't know or understand yet. maybe it was his eyes, but really, you just end up drowning in them. so you killed off the doubt screaming at the back of your head.

you were faithful, and you both love each other so much that that love gave fruit to an addition to the akashi family lineage. a boy whose features were a perfect combination of yours and your husband's. for that reason, your child's name had sounded so similar to akashi's.

akashi seiji.

he wanted it so, because you wouldn’t agree to “seijuro jr”. somehow that was childish of the red-haired man (and of you) but it was cute, you figured. even though you two were married, he still rarely showed his, somewhat, other sides.

and there goes that feeling again… doubt? suspicion? you couldn't even find a word to name it.

years have gone by, and before you knew it, you were celebrating seiji's fourth birthday, complete with all of your husband's business friends, and his middle school basketball team, the 'generation of miracles'.

your lives were going too happy, too well, too perfect. just like a fairytale. you began to believe that until one night. things began to take a different turn, perhaps going in the wrong direction.

you came home from work—you had insisted that you won't be a housewife, and you didn't have any interest in the akashi business—and was surprised to see your husband there, doing his paperwork in your room, with seiji on the bed, solving mathematical equations that weren't really for his mere age of six.

your son jumped out of bed and ran to hug you as soon as you came in, his arms wrapping around your waist as he did so. yeah, he was a mother's boy indeed.

and he went on about his day; seiji was getting better at playing the piano, and was also starting to learn basketball. his eyes that had the same shade of color as yours, darted over to sneak at his father, and whispered. "mother… i think father should teach me instead of any other coach. because he is the greatest!" he giggled.

akashi sighed, hearing him clearly, then turned around to face you both with his eyes closed. you expected him to at least smile at your son and his eagerness, but he had this unreadable look on his face. eyes closed, his brows sunk in deeper. this was the usual face he makes when he used to crush his opponents in basketball, the face he makes when a secretary just fails at their assigned task.

it was… terrifying.

"shut. it."

your eyes widened a bit, but seeing how your son reacted, broke your heart more. so you forced a smile, bent down and gave your son's chubby cheek a peck. "come on, ji-kun. it's way past your bedtime. say good night to your father." he did as he was told, bowing before akashi before you led him outside, back to his own room and waited for him to fall asleep.

it was around 9:45 in the evening when you came back to your room and saw your husband on the bed now, reading a book. you quickly went to the bathroom to freshen up before crawling into bed next to him. you leaned your head, placing it on his right shoulder and took his scent in.

"sei? is everything alright?" when you felt that the timing was right, you asked him. with a soft thud, the book was closed and he placed it on the bedside table near him, making you lean on the headboard instead.

"everything is as it should be, y/n." he faced you with a blank look, and it was the first time you noticed that his eyes were now different. again. his golden yellow eye had returned, and looking at him made you feel uneasy.

"and why are you looking at me that way?"

"n-nothing, dear… maybe i'm just tired."

"then sleep, rest. good night, y/n. by the way, try to avoid making too much eye contact with me." he turned around, and slept with his back facing you. you were… shocked; no, that was an understatement. you were hurt. what had happened, you wondered. you tried to think back everything that has happened between you two, if you've said or done anything to trigger this certain side of your husband.

when he was deep in his sleep, you placed an arm over his body and let the darkness your eyelids can give, take over you.

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there was one thing that was constant in this world.

change.

things change. people change. as time passes by. some were for good, for the better.

but the way your husband changed, it wasn't exactly good, no, not at all.

it started out with text messages from women's names you didn't know. and akashi totally didn't care nor bothered if you saw the notifications popping up on his phone.

and in the end, unwelcome women came in every night, sometimes with your husband or the girl was fetched by limo. you were usually late to arrive home since your workplace was much farther than his.

you weren't deaf, dumb, nor blind. you also weren't strong enough to handle this. it hurt to know and be slapped in the face by the reality that you have no power to stop him even if you tried. if it wasn't for your son's presence, you might've snapped. every night you'd sleep in your son's bed, trying your best to just cry it all out once he's gone to sleep.

once he asked why you weren't sleeping with akashi. you only smiled, feeling a lump form in your throat. "well, your father is very busy with work and he doesn't like being disturbed."

that was also the same night you decided to sit right outside your bedroom doors for a few minutes, hearing every single noise completely, and all you could do was to let your tears fall down in streams on your face, sobbing quietly.

you began questioning your worth; this was worse than when you were younger. you much prefer the hushed whispers and gossiping that surrounded you than the way your husband was destroying your pride and your love.

weeks, months, and then it has been a year since akashi has been taking women—mistresses—home for his own sexual desires. for a year, you remained strong, well, as strong as you could and as you would like to believe yourself to be.

and then it was seiji's seventh birthday.

for a day, you were suddenly his 'beloved wife' once more. akashi gave you stolen kisses on your forehead, your cheek and an arm was always either on your waist or around your shoulders.

you excused yourself when it was time to eat, and a certain pink-haired lady followed you to the restroom. "y/n-chan?"

you blinked back the forming tears in your eyes and forced yourself to smile, however you weren't able to fool momoi satsuki. "is akashi-kun… okay?"

you looked anywhere except your friend's concerned eyes. biting your lower lip to prevent from breaking down in front of her, you nodded stiffly.

silence shared between you two until she couldn't hold it in anymore.

"he isn't the real akashi, is he?"

then the restroom doors suddenly burst open, and entered a busty woman with layered auburn hair, wearing a tight dress that reached just above her knees, hugging her body completely, and six inch stilettos that matched her clothing.

her icy blue eyes were familiar to you and then you remembered her as one of the women akashi has taken in.

"oh! mrs. akashi, hello. nice to meet you. you're looking splendid!" she reached for your hand and shook it. "i haven't introduced myself, i'm aya, akiyama aya, one of the new board directors." you put on the best fake smile you could and with a pleasant—yet slightly higher tone of voice—you conversed with the bitch—mistress.

when aya had left, momoi decided to hug you, as if she saw through everything just because of what happened between you and the lady.

"m-momoi… i just… don't know what happened… why things had to be this way, it's so hard for me to be living under the same roof as his."

you let a few tears go, then quickly wiped them off as you pulled away from momoi's caring hug. "please, don't tell anyone about this. i have my son to keep me going, and i'll be stronger. thank you so much."

"b-but, y/n-chan!"

you shushed her, bringing your index finger to your lips. "let's go, they're probably having dessert by now. you should really try it." and you led her out, squeezing her right shoulder lightly as a final way of thanking her.

you watched your son enjoy his special day, as his father sat next to you, running his thumb over your palm he was holding. something about what momoi said had your pulse racing, even if you two were silent. gulping down your fears, you asked him. "who are you?"

his thumb lingered over your skin before he removed his hand from yours. he smiled, and you didn't know if he was laughing at you, mocking you for such a stupid question or was forcing it out of his system for show.

"i'm akashi seijuro, your husband, who else would i be?"

your son suddenly raced towards you. his eyes were intent on his father's, and you swore you saw akashi's eyebrows twitch for a fraction of a second. "father, my friends and i have decided to go horseback riding. may i take yukimura with me?"

akashi motioned for his hand as a go signal, and seiji bowed before running off with a butler to where the horses were kept. and then when they were far away from you two, you resumed your low-volume conversation with the red-haired man.

"do you love me?"

"yes, i do."

"no, do you—you, right now—do you, love me?"

and then he was silent. his face looked troubled, as if akashi was having a war with his own self, with his own mind.

"that's what i thought…" you murmured, and stood up, suddenly feeling numb. you went to follow your son and took pictures of him, innocence and happiness radiating off of him. seiji was your last pillar of strength, and if you can't hold on any longer, you'll have to take him with you.

'that gives me an idea…' you thought.

but as a faithful wife, you still had to think. what if akashi returns to his real state?

two weeks later, seiji made a mistake with the notes of the piano piece he was playing. akashi was there, listening, while you had been busying yourself with crochet; and he made his son stop. the look he gave seiji was a look you'd like to describe as one would use when abandoning or when giving up on someone.

"why can't you be a little bit more like me?" he sighed, patting seiji lightly on his head before leaving, his eyes darting towards you, as you can see from your peripheral vision.

akashi disappeared, probably off to find aya or another woman he kept.

that was the last draw. you were fine if you were being the one trampled on—most of your life, you went through that—but if your son gets affected, oh, things were to change for real.

you hated this change. why did things have to change?

it was funny how you just felt your anger now. determined, you helped your son perfect the piece before letting him have his snacks, leaving you alone with your thoughts. playing a different piece, one you once enjoyed playing with akashi, your eyes were closed since you've mastered every note by heart.

you cried one last time, then made a decision. if akashi couldn't stand your presence, how much more that you couldn't stand those filthy women. it was also for the sake of the child. this was for the better. you loved akashi and you always will, but… things are different.

he is different.

through your own sources, and with the help of your mother, you were able to find a house of your own. you hadn't really told her the complete story, nor do you want to, and you didn't want her to get involved. you're not going to take revenge, of course. you're just going to keep your distance until the real akashi decides to come back... you hoped.

you can just make him—the akashi right now—to love you. but… you're far too hurt and exhausted already. you honestly tried. it was too late, you figured.

he didn't… care.

you know there's a chance you'll also get hurt physically if a confrontation was done. plus, your son, you didn't want him to have to go through that. he was just seven!

tonight you'll set things right, or maybe a bit better. sort of. you were just tired. and couldn't endure anymore. you were but a human after all, and this was your limit.

in just five days, you and your son would stay in the house—bought with your own money—that would be ready once you arrive.

"y/n." akashi's stern voice startled you. for the first time, he was 'available' tonight, which happened to be the last night you were going to see him this close, the last night you were going to hear his voice, his breathing. this was the last night you were going to live under the same roof, where you promised to love him with every passing day; yet the same place he broke his oath to you.

"seijuro." you replied. you met his eyes and tried to look deep into them, trying to find the man you married. you know it's him, he's there, but somehow he just won't come out.

"you bought a house under your name," he began and that wasn't a question. you nodded, not a single emotion slipping from your face. you tried to remain as blank as you could. "yes, and i used my own resources to acquire it, don't worry."

'this house was supposed to be for you, me, our child. and i was supposed to be the only woman to share this bed with you. but if there are too many others, then i guess i'll take my leave.' you wanted to say more, but he just stared at you.

he was trying to read you.

but no, no he won't. he wouldn't understand. because he didn't know you.

"…sei," you took a breath and he turned to face you once more. and you pushed yourself forward and gave him a kiss, and you closed your eyes.

god, you missed his lips. you probably imagined it that his hand tugged on your hair while the other caressed your cheek, down to your shoulders then arms. when you pulled away, it was for real. his upper body was nearly on top of you already, and your eyes widened a bit.

you shied your body away from his, and he probably got the message that nothing would happen between you two tonight.

"…good night, sei." you murmured and turned the opposite side. you felt no movement from his side for a few seconds, nearly a minute or so, until the sheets were pulled and the lights dimmed.

you only took a nap, waking up at around two in the morning. everything was ready. you had your son up and in your car already with the help of his maid. she was eager to help you, and she'll go with you.

with one last glance at your husband, you left a note and placed a clear, glass queen chess piece on top of it.

then, you were gone.

that morning, akashi woke up to an empty bed and saw your note. the first words he saw made him grip on the paper, crumpling its edges a bit.

‘sei.

don't misunderstand this, please. i don't hate you. i'm just disappointed you turned into everything you said you'd never be.’

you had left him the address of your house nonetheless, even if you knew full well that he can just get someone to find it for him but you weren't going to be selfish and keep your child to yourself. it's just… living in two different houses 'cause apparently, one wasn't enough, no matter how big it was.

‘…in case you'd want to visit your son; please do. i hope you find happiness, akashi seijuro. not just you, but also the real akashi seijuro.’

you wrote your name on the bottom right side of the paper, concluding the letter.

oddly, akashi didn't burn the letter or anything like that and instead, threw it inside one of his drawers, including the chess piece. he thought you couldn't stand living away from him, and even if he doesn't want to admit it, he was waiting for you.

the same way you were waiting for him to just come to you as his real self.

the last time you met him was during your child's ninth birthday. you were the one organizing the parties, not him, and you even had to invite him. akashi still had his pride with him, and you expected that. you also expected that he still came home with different women every other night, but he didn't tell you that he'd stopped.

the akashi household… was quiet. too quiet.

two years passed. no child-like voice laughing, no happy piano tunes, no you; it was dull, it was nearly lifeless. it was too late when akashi realized that. you sometimes text him, reminding him of work-related stuff, and that he should be taking care of his self. sometimes leaving subtle hints for him to visit for seiji's sake.

he didn't want you to know that he was missing you. and he wanted it to hear from you that you missed him, but you felt, after two full years of waiting, that you were the only one wanting to continue on with this marriage.

again, for seiji, you decided not to divorce him. it had been in your head for a while. since he is a male akashi, they might snatch your child, the only heir, your only treasure and sanctuary; and force you to live the rest of your days alone. you couldn't take that.

so instead, with the strength left within you, you continued to raise your son, despite feeling down at how helpless you seemed to see yourself.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➴➵➶➴➵➶

akashi seijuro felt empty, and thinking about it, he finally let his pride go off for a bit. this year, his son was turning 10, and during his time, at that age, his father was already preparing him for business-related duties.

yes, that would be a perfect excuse to finally visit his wife and child.

reaching for one of the drawers, akashi grabbed the note and the chess piece. he cursed his self for losing and giving his wife a chance. plus, it had been months since you last contacted him and he wanted to know why. it wasn't like you to just cut him off like that. it has been far too long to be considered as the woman being busy with work.

akashi drove his way using his own car, not a limo, to where his wife and son both lived. he had hoped that they didn't move without her telling him about it. but then, it would've been easy to track them down.

the house was a bit big for just the two of them, he mused upon laying his eyes on a pearly-white, simple, yet elegant house. he went out of the car after turning the engine off, outside black iron gates.

akashi rang the doorbell, and he waited, the glass chess piece in his pocket. after around two minutes, a boy could be seen running to the gate, carrying a basketball with him.

"he's… grown… a lot." the father of the child murmured. since they lived separately, seiji exclaimed in happiness at the sight of his father. he opened the gates for the elder akashi to enter and gave him a big, warm hug.

akashi's heart began to throb, and he returned his son's hug, going down on one knee to hug seiji tighter. he half expected for his wife to be there, running to the sight of this reunion with tears brimming her eyes.

but there was no one.

but, it can't be that she left her child—their child—all alone?

"seiji, where is your mother?" akashi asked upon pulling his son away gently to look at him. the kid looked down, scratched the back of his head and sighed. the young akashi's actions reminded him so much of his wife. "well... you see, she's been away for a while now. and i don't know when she'll be back."

just then, a maid was rushing to the two red-haired males, followed by an elderly woman akashi could recognize even from afar.

it was her mother. his mother-in-law.

the male head of the kaname household has long passed, and the rest of their family have families of their own.

well, maybe except for y/n. her family's status has become quite complicated; and akashi finally admitted to his self, it was his fault.

"seijuro-kun? well, it took you a long while," mrs. kaname said spitefully, with as much venom as her voice could get. akashi knew not to mess nor look down at this woman whose hair was now graying, lines of age evident on her face.

akashi bowed in greeting, "i apologize, mother."

"enough," she paused, motioning for the maid to get seiji out of the elder akashi's reach, and to lead the child back inside to play.

he could only watch, though he was quite confused of this sudden action. "follow me." mrs. kaname ordered, and they both arrived at a veranda, overlooking the backyard where his son was playing basketball.

he let the elderly woman sit first, before him, and when it was not that awkward, akashi began to speak. "is… she home?"

"what if i told you, that she's not? that she's now happy in another man's arms?"

akashi clenched his jaw at the thought of y/n, her refreshing laugh and calming smile, the touch of her soft lips on another man's; how did he put it, he was mad, he was jealous, he… was hurt.

mrs. kaname looked at him skeptically, and could see through his efforts of hiding his feelings.

"though that's not exactly the way she felt when you did that to her, at least, you've had a fair share of your own medicine."

then it struck the emperor. he remained silent, still, and his wife's mother continued.

"if she were here, she would've gotten mad at me for doing that to you."

akashi and mrs. kaname's eyes met.

"however, she's not going to be around to do that anymore."

the redhead saw the pain, the held back tears of the elderly woman.

what? what did she just say?

"mother…? i'm sorry, but… what?"

mrs. kaname took a deep breath, then smiled a sad smile as she explained.

"she ‘s gone; you don't know how much it hurt to just watch her suffer, waiting for you all this time! she wanted to just end everything, but seiji was her only thread of hope. but still… in the end she,"

"…couldn't hold on and wait much longer."

akashi was having a hard time to process all that in an instant. however, he felt his hand reach for the chess piece he hid in his pocket. and he gripped on it, hard, as if letting go of it would have made him lose his grip on life.

he was too deep into his thoughts that he didn't notice mrs. kaname stand up, and retrieve something from inside the house. a few minutes later, she returned, but akashi was just staring straight ahead, frozen in place.

whatever the thing was, mrs. kaname slid it over the table to her late daughter's husband. "here,"

it was a small photo album. on top of it was a crumpled up paper that had y/n's handwriting.

"that was the last favor she asked of me. apparently, she knew… she felt, that, her hopes were slipping away. her heart gave up."

akashi's eyes went down to observe the album but his hands refused to leave his lap.

"as what she wrote there, she told me that if ever you visit, i should give that to you, so you'd know and you'd see the things you missed when your son was growing."

mrs. kaname stared at him for a while, and decided, to stand up and leave him alone, giving him the privacy he should have, since that album's contents were for him and his eyes only. she figured it wasn't part of her right to take a peek.

akashi brought out the chess piece and placed it before him before he hesitantly took the photo album. the glass queen reflected the sun's light, making it shimmer in the background as the redheaded man began to flip through the album's pages slowly.

seiji and y/n in a theme park, a picture taken by seiji himself with y/n staring ahead at the sunset by the beach, seiji making a three-point shot in their garden, seiji playing with his own team of friends, y/n having icing on her nose when she and her son baked together, and lots, lots more.

but then, it seems the album wasn't filled to its pages. and akashi wanted to see more, until he reached the final page and his mouth went open in the slightest.

akashi stared at the image of himself, his smiling self, in the wedding picture; and the emperor reminisced.

the way y/n became his wife that day, her eyes sparkling in delight, her face glowing despite being underneath the veil she wore, her soft lips on his when they kissed; everything was perfect.

until things began to fall apart.

the akashi business was about to face bankruptcy, due to an inside-job by one of his employees—how he didn't even see that, akashi couldn't find out why—and stockholders and investors began to pull out one by one.

because of that, it triggered the real akashi to go into hiding. all the stress, the pressure, the fear—building up in his heart.

his single, golden yellow eye began to diminish, the same time tears began to form in his pair of red eyes.

and now, the real akashi was back.

he took out the wedding picture from the album, and was surprised to see another paper, however this one was neat and organized, meant to be hidden and be discovered by him and him only.

akashi began unfolding it, and read y/n's letter, and he could hear her voice in his head as he did so.

'dearest sei,

thank you for visiting our son after all this time. i tried to forget about us, about you; but believe me, even though i'm no longer by your side anymore, that i love you. i always have, i always will. remember that i'll be here, to support you two—the two amazing men in my life.

from now on, i leave ji-kun in your hands. my mom promised me she would help and guide the both of you.

seijuro, i love you. i love you. thank you.

i love you.

good bye.'

the veranda had a roof, akashi was sure of that, he took note of that.

and it was supposed to be sunny.

then, why was there rain? the letter began to have droplets of water.

when the redheaded man felt something wet trickling down his face, he realized that it was of his own doing. not just about that, but about everything.

immediately, akashi asked where his wife lied in eternal sleep.

he took the time to buy a huge bouquet of her favorite flowers, and he crouched before the gravestone, feeling the weight of her letter in his pocket.

akashi took a deep breath, brought out a black king chess piece and the glass queen one. he placed them, lying down beside each other and pressed down, as if trying to bury them together; but not too deep, just enough for the two pieces to stay there for sure.

"…checkmate, huh?" he sighed, and proceeded to sitting, leaning slightly on the gravestone. "it happened to be that way, because i cheated?"

akashi grit his teeth in a mix of different emotions. he gasped, feeling the pain in his heart.

akashi seijuro cried.

"i'm… sorry; i'm so sorry…"

he closed his eyes, making more tears run down his face. he hated it, that it had to end this way. he regretted his words, his actions, his choice of wallowing in fear when she was there—to help and support him—always, no matter what. the redhead gasped for breath, and he spoke with his voice that could barely be heard.

"i never… realized it… i never realized how much you loved me…. and how much i wasted that love…"

he sobbed in silence, and a gust of wind blew... he felt that you were there, smiling and crying at the same time, as you hugged him. akashi didn't really see you, but then you vanished with the wind; finally feeling your soul at peace.

#kuroko no basuke #kuroko's basketball #kuroko no basuke scenario #kuroko's basketball scenario #kuroko no basuke angst #akashi seijuro #akashi seijuro x reader #akashi seijuro angst #akashi angst #kiseki no sedai #generation of miracles #kiseki no sedai angst #generation of miracles angst #generation of miracles scenario #kiseki no sedai scenario

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kbstories · 4 years

Text

Diachronic

dia·chron·ic (adj.)

Occurring over time; historical.

Kidd is torn apart and Killer is (almost) too late.

(Or: Remember that nebulous Kidd vs. Shanks fight? Yeah, that.)

Tags: Angst, Blood and Violence, Mild Gore, Kidd Is Straight Up Not Having A Good Time, Shanks Is A Bit Of A Bastard

Post-Summit War setting, during the Timeskip. Content warning for lots of blood and some gore. Read Chapter 2 here.

***

“Fight me!”

A shout like a gun going off, sparks flying, black powder catching fire. Two words, bang bang, and the world stops spinning in the silence that follows.

Kidd is grinning, teeth sharp and eyes alight, near-feral with bloodlust. “Did ya hear me, Red-Haired Shanks?”, he calls across the beach, the Victoria Punk behind and an Emperor’s lair ahead. They’re outnumbered, surrounded already, blood seeping into the sand that shifts beneath their boots.

“I want a duel. Just you and me.”

At Kidd’s back, Killer stares at Benn Beckman, watches him raise an eyebrow and continue to smoke. They haven't moved, him and Shanks’ other officers, content to stand by at the very edge of the jungle where the sun struggles to breach its gloom. Something about how casual it is makes Killer lock his jaw, raise his scythes like fangs.

A glance is all he’s worth, an amused uptilt to thin lips. Beckman exhales, breath hazy with smoke, and nods at his captain. Watch and learn.

Next to him, Shanks takes a swig of whatever swill is in that dusty old bottle of his. Eyes, black as obsidian glass and just as sharp, fall on Kidd, track lazily over the fur draped across his shoulders and how his fingers curl around the thrum of magnetism they command.

Shanks sighs.

“My, my, a duel… Listen, kiddo, it’s not even noon. It’s too early for this stuff, don’t ya think?”

Around Killer, the crew bristles. Underestimated, disrespected, dismissed at every turn: It’s more of the same, a mistake the mighty make before they inevitably fall at their hands. Kidd sneers.

“You Emperors are so fucking pathetic. Letting those Government dogs do whatever they want while you hoard the scraps left behind. The world doesn’t need your kind anymore, Shanks! It’s our turn now.”

Shanks’ mouth shapes itself around a low ohhh. “So harsh! I can’t let a speech like that go to waste now, can I, Benn?”

Beckman replies, “Guess not, Captain”, flicking his cigarette to places unknown. Just as bored, he reaches for the bottle in the same instant Shanks pushes it into his waiting hand.

This is it.

“Kidd”, says Killer, little more than a breath between them. Kidd looks over his shoulder, meets Killer’s eyes despite the mask, the grin softening to a smile, no less deadly. This is the moment they carve their names into the sky, the very fabric of the world; the moment they become infamous enough to reach even the junkyard that gave them a beginning and nothing else.

Broad-shouldered, head held high, Kidd is every bit the man Killer knew he would become as he walks into the space their enemies open up for him. A flame chasing away wolves, ready to blaze a path through whatever obstacles remain.

One step, two – Kidd is out of reach and Killer lets him go. This is the moment they’ve been waiting for.

Killer watches it all unfold in snapshots, blink-and-you-miss-it glimpses he will remember to the end of his days:

A ring of surprised looks as weapons of all kind tug free, drawn to Kidd’s outstretched hands;

Red-Haired Shanks, drawing his sword, cloak fluttering where an arm should be but isn’t;

The audible crackling of Haki clashing against Haki, Kidd’s cackling laughter in the air–

There Killer stands, arms crossed and all his senses trained on every move his captain makes. Strike, counterstrike, an engine roaring to life in streaks of red and gunmetal grey, firing from all cylinders. Action, reaction, the indulgent curl of a smile on Shanks’ lips that is the antithesis to that razor-edge gaze.

Shanks lets Kidd come and Kidd does so hard. Over and over, snarling, “Fight me!”, metal claws hooked and closer to drawing blood with every swipe.

Then fabric tears, one long gash from shoulder to wrist if Shanks were whole. “Ah, hell”, the Emperor mutters. Taking the time to pout at his ripped cloak as if Kidd isn’t right there, lunging for his throat without hesitation–

Shanks side-steps it without a single look in Kidd’s direction. “Y’know what? Fine. Make it worth my time, welp.”

And Shanks’ presence, already heavy, already suffocating, drops like a mountain on them all.

Killer grunts out a breath his lungs struggle to take back in, even at a distance. Vertigo paints his vision in smeared black and fading colors within seconds. Shanks moves, and that pressure moves with him – the Kid Pirates breathe as one, a hitched inhale as Kidd staggers mid-step and pulls up his arm just in time.

Metal clangs against metal, and blood splatters the ground.

Yet the grin on Kidd’s face goes nowhere; when Shanks pulls, his sword is slow to follow. The call of Kidd’s powers is strongest at close proximity, even for the blade of an Emperor, and for an instant their eyes lock, at a standstill.

(C’mon, Killer thinks. Kidd strains, and Killer’s arms tighten across his chest to stop his hands from shaking. Hold on, c’mon–)

Shanks smirks. “Huh. Not bad.”

The tension breaks, and Shanks– He lets go. Kidd blinks, draws back, sure on his feet again if cautious. From afar, Killer can see the gears turn in Kidd’s head, sweat trailing down his temples and breath labored while Shanks looks virtually unchanged. The glare of a sun at its zenith is reflected by Shanks’ sword; it shifts, is fully encased in the fist that rises against its master once more.

It cannot last, this tentative lull. They’re in the eye of a hurricane, a realization that finally registers in Killer’s mind, waiting for the storm to hit. They’re mice scuttling straight into the maw of a beast and Killer gasps, jolts forward.

“Captain–!”

A fraction of a second, and Shanks is upon Kidd. Haki sizzles where they meet, metal against bare skin: It’s brutal, it’s vicious, it doesn’t fucking matter that Shanks is missing an arm and a sword, not when his hand bursts Kidd’s fists into their individual pieces and keeps reaching.

Kidd’s eyes go wide; he grabs for Shanks, the red of his nails leaving bloody lines on the Emperor’s arm. Nothing moves in Shanks’ face, nothing as he digs fingers gone black with Haki into Kidd’s skin and watches it split apart.

Killer’s world narrows down to that, a sight that freezes the blood in his veins while Kidd’s spills from his neck and chest and soaks into the sand. “Kidd”, Killer whispers, “No, no”, and he’s tearing away from his crew and towards his captain. Not like this, not like this, until his arm catches on something and he can’t– He’s stuck–

“Kidd!!”

Shanks looks up at that, eyes dark, and it’s all it takes for Kidd to dislodge that grasp. To lurch away and back on his feet, throat working around a groan, a hand on his face. His fingers are drenched in blood.

“Stand back!”

And Killer stops, heart beating up his throat so hard it’s choking him. Kidd doesn’t look away from Shanks, the one eye left uncovered in full focus despite it all. “Knew you’d get serious eventually”, he spits, voice raw from the pain. He wipes his cheek against his shoulder, spreading the mess around.

Shanks merely raises an eyebrow. “Come on, then. Let’s finish this.”

“That kid is done for”, mumbles someone next to Killer, and only then does he realize he’s being held back by someone. Straight blond hair, a bandana, sunglasses – it doesn’t really matter who it is, just that they’re in the way.

Killer growls, scythes snapping out and starting to spin. The guy sighs, “Man, you have bigger problems than me right now”, mildly annoyed at most. “Look.”

Only his captain is allowed to give him orders but– Killer looks, the split-second he wasn’t lingering as Kidd recovers from a hit Killer didn’t see, and Shanks’ torn cloak billows behind him as he approaches in measured steps.

“This is why fighting you rookies is no fun. Got lucky with a fruit and then what? It’s so boring.”

Kidd’s hand goes for the dagger strapped to his chest; goes for it and doesn’t make it, Shanks’ fingers already there around his wrist, crushing. “Fuck you”, Kidd hisses, teeth painted crimson by the blood dripping into his mouth.

Even before the second word is out he’s knocked to the ground, sinking inches into the sand with the force of the boot pinning him there. “It’s not your turn just yet”, Shanks tells Kidd, mournful, almost.

Then he pulls. Kidd’s shoulder snaps out of its socket with a sickening noise, and Shanks keeps pulling, and Killer can only watch as muscle and skin and sinews go taut, are stretched to their limits and beyond. As, fiber by fiber, they give way to the white of bone underneath–

Kidd screams.

No!

Pain radiates up Killer’s side and his arm burns but he doesn’t care. Killer doesn’t care about the yell of “Hey, what the hell!” and the desperate calls of his name – his crew, his friends, so far away now –, doesn’t care it’s his captain who called for a duel and told him to stay away.

He sees Kidd on the ground, and he sees Shanks picking up his sword again, and Killer breaks through all lines drawn in the sand.

The killing blow is struck and Killer is there. Scythes crossed, sparks spraying where blade meets blade: Killer’s arms shake and his knees threaten to buckle yet he preservers through that infinite moment, feels the pressure double down before it lifts and time ticks on, heartbeat for frantic heartbeat.

“Enough!”

His voice rings out despite how rough it is, how every inhale aches all the way to his core. “Enough”, Killer repeats, standing between his captain and certain death. “You made your point.”

(Behind him, Kidd wheezes his name, “Kil”, garbled, weak. It sounds like No, like Get the fuck out of here, and Killer never imagined himself breaking the loyalty he swore to his dying breath and yet there is one imperative that stands above even that.)

Shanks’ head is tilted to the side, a twist to his mouth Killer would call petulant if it weren’t a fucking Emperor he’s talking to. There’s blood on his face, dotted in an abstract pattern up to the scars across his eye. Arterial spray, still wet.

“I don’t think your captain is very happy with you right now.”

“That’s for my captain to decide”, says Killer, coldly. Barely turns his head to call, “Heat! Wire!”, and with familiar steps shuffling closer and Kidd’s agonized gasps of “No, n-no, Killer” growing fainter, Killer takes a stance, scythes ready and lithe body poised to strike.

“You’re fighting me now, Red-Haired Shanks.”

Shanks just sighs, rubs at his brow with stained fingers. “So you know you don’t stand a chance and yet, here we are. What a mess.”

Surrounded by enemies on all sides, Killer doesn’t cower. “Eustass Kidd will be the man to become Pirate King”, he tells Shanks, tells the world, boots firmly planted on the ground thoroughly steeped in Kidd’s blood. It’s the fundamental truth they sail by, the dream they came up with, together.

“He will be King, and I’m the man who will get him there. My life’s as good a price as any to pay for that.”

It’s then that Shanks looks at him, fixes him with that stare like he’s only now bothering to take note of Killer’s existence. “One Piece, huh? Haven’t heard that dream in a while”, he muses, a certain softness there that seems– out of place, somehow.

“Listen. Just ‘cause Whitebeard’s gone now doesn’t mean you kids can waltz in here and start shit you’re not ready to finish. Got it? Playtime’s over. If it's a new era you want, stay alive long enough to carry it.”

There’s an out there, Killer can see it. A line of flight he doesn’t deserve, not after breaking every code of honor their kind adheres to. Shanks sheathes his sword, gestures over his shoulder for the bottle that lands in his palm an instant later. A messy gulp, and Shanks chuckles, all smiles now.

“Your captain’s got some potential, I’ll give him that. The arm’s a goner but it’s not the end of the world. Builds character, and all that.”

Killer should say something about that, about the chatty tone the Emperor strikes as if he wasn’t ripping Kidd apart bare-handed just minutes ago. Beyond the beach Benn Beckman lights another cigarette and he nods at Killer, a pointed gesture. Get out of here.

Nothing. There’s nothing left to say, and so Killer turns his back. Leaves his pride right there in the sand where his captain almost lost his life, and follows the trail of blood through the parting crowd of Shanks’ crew and into the sea’s uncaring arms.

>>Chapter 2.

#one piece #eustass kid #killer one piece #red-haired shanks #kidkiller #one piece fanfiction #fanfiction #i'm back and still on my bullshit as you can see #this fic is also on AO3!!#my stuff #shanks took one good look at kidd and went yup. mini-me in the making

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