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Red skin, slightly firm to the touch and blushing under the light. Hancock ran her thumb and forefinger over the smooth surface of a tomato, nodding her approval and plucking it from the vine with a swift tug. Depositing it in a wicker basket at her feet, she straightened her back and paused to wipe the sweat from her brow. The brim of her straw hat partially obscured the view before her; neatly ploughed rows of ripening fruits and vegetables, each tended to by a pack of chittering apes. She was clad in a simple white sundress, had traded her heels for a pair of comfortable garden sandals. Without the stiletto heels propping her up, Hancock could feel the soft loamy earth beneath her feet, could feel the sprawling roots of plants and an unfamiliar lightness in her stride. Hancock’s garb was humble, but the gaze she cast over the plantation she’d helped tend was anything but. An empress even in this foreign domain, her new subjects were hardly blind to the authority in her step, the sway of her hips, and the apes’ chatter died down as she made her way back to the castle steps.
A figure emerged from the grandiose double doors. A tall man dressed in a plain white shirt; a black scarf draped loosely around his neck. He appeared bearing a platter of rice balls, setting it down before Hancock as she approached.
“About time.” she huffed playfully. “What took you so long, you foolish dithering creature?”
The former world’s strongest swordsman paid her barbs no heed, wordlessly scooping a rice ball from the plate and offering it to her. Hancock took a bite, savouring the splash of roe oil and saltiness enveloped by a cushion of perfectly cooked rice. Feeling suddenly ravenous, she took another bite, then another, ignoring the swordsman’s bemused look and the curious chirps of humandrills approaching for their daily feed.
“You did a good job with the tomatoes.” Hancock glanced up as he addressed her. “Seems that farm work is more befitting of you than you thought.”
“Hmph.” She turned away to hide her blush. “You forget, foolish man, that I have to eat whatever produce comes out of your little farm. While I live here, it is in my own interests to ensure the ingredients in my meals are of the highest quality.”
“The ones you’re willing to eat, that is,” came Mihawk’s dry reply. “If memory serves me correctly, you have only just learned to tolerate potatoes, but still refuse to even touch squash and parsnips.”
“Don’t blame me for being unaccustomed to your peasant food. Root vegetables are low-class fare; fit for soldiers, certainly, but not an empress.”
“Dinner tonight will be roast pumpkin.” Mihawk picked up the now-empty plate and the humandrills dispersed, screeching and yelping as they fought over scraps. “I trust that will no longer pose a problem for you.”
The corner of Hancock’s mouth lifted slightly.
“No. Not anymore.”
It all started with the pumpkins.
Hancock pushed the soft orange chunks of roast pumpkin around her plate, screwing up her mouth and nose in distaste. Across the length of the dining table, Mihawk ignored her obvious discomfort, continuing to eat his share of their meal completely unperturbed.
“I don’t eat…this.” Hancock spoke up, irate. “Fetch me something else from the pantry, man. This low-class fare is unbefitting of my status.”
No response. A vein twitched in Hancock’s forehead and she tapped her fork against the rim of her plate, producing a loud clanging that echoed the length of Kuraigana castle’s cavernous dining hall. Still no response.
“Did you not hear what I said?” Hancock glared at him indignantly. “I’m not eating this.”
Mihawk paused and slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. Deep, dark red, rimmed like whirlpools. Hancock repressed the shudder that ran down her spine. He’d always been unnerving, even without the aura of murderous bloodlust that hung like a stench over the rest of their warlord colleagues.
“This is all that I have prepared for dinner,” he said, enunciating each syllable as though speaking to a particularly slow-witted child. “If you are dissatisfied, you are welcome to venture outside and find your own meal.”
“How insolent.” Hancock fumed. “I am a guest here, and an empress at that. Show some respect you lowly sellsword.”
“I never invited you. You merely showed up here, unannounced, and have thus far refused to leave.”
“I go where I please, fool.” Hancock pushed her seat back abruptly and spun on her heel, turning in the direction of the pantry. “It’s not your place to question my reasons for being here.”
Mihawk watched her leave, a slight frown forming over his sharp, angular features. He hadn’t missed the surge of agitation in her voice, the tension betrayed by her body language, the deep creases in her brow.
Midday on Kuraigana was as overcast as the evenings, drawing a pitch-black curtain over the sleeping empress’s room before the door swung open and Dracule Mihawk strode in. He surveyed the mess around him, the piles of unwashed clothes stacked atop the furniture, draped over the backs of the dressing table and chairs. The empress herself was buried under her blankets, the now-uneven rise and fall of the stained quilt indicating that she was now awake, but ignoring him.
“Get up.” the swordsman ordered. “Those sheets of yours have gone over a month without being washed. This room is a mess, get up and set your affairs in order woman.”
Hancock did not respond, but she rolled over in bed, turning her back to face him in a show of clear defiance.
Mihawk shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been three weeks since the empress had stormed from the dining hall and she had not spoken a word to him since, emerging from her room only to steal food from the pantry in secret. Occasionally, Mihawk would find a used bath towel, a few strands of long black hair stark against the marble tiles, scant evidence that the empress had briefly emerged from her self-imposed isolation. He still could not fathom the reason for her arrival, let alone her strange behaviour, her odd sleeping patterns that saw her days and nights reversed.
“Hancock,” Mihawk growled, and at the sound of her name, she snapped back.
“Don’t call me that!”
Even when muffled by the sheets, the anger in her tone rang loud and clear.
“I’ll call you whatever I please.” Mihawk replied, his patience severely tested. “You came here of your own accord and have been taking advantage of my hospitality while revealing nothing of your reasons to stay. You may be used to the mindless adoration of others, but I am not your subordinate, nor am I one of those simpletons fool enough to be entranced by appearance alone. Now will you get up and show the barest modicum of respect for your surroundings, or will you continue to act like a petulant child?”
Hancock was silent again and Mihawk idly wondered if he might have gone too far in his rebuke. Suddenly, she pushed the covers back and sat upright, her dishevelled appearance provoking an expression of mild surprise from the swordsman.
Hancock’s usually straight, silky hair was a bird’s nest, stray strands sticking out every which way. Her skin, usually bright and glowing, was gaunt and pale, and Mihawk noticed she was visibly thinner, even under a large, baggy nightshirt. Her eyes were what surprised him most however, red and bloodshot with dark circles underneath. She’d clearly been crying.
“Leave me alone!” Hancock’s voice sounded slightly rough from disuse. “I’m ill, stupid man, can’t you see that?”
Mihawk took a seat at the foot of her bed and reached out to place the back of his hand against her forehead, but Hancock immediately flinched backwards as he approached. She glared fiercely at him and Mihawk recognised it for what it was; a wounded animal lashing out against a looming predator.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” he told her emphatically, and he saw her shoulders loosen almost imperceptibly. He leaned forward once more, brushing against the skin on her forehead, burning feverish and hot.
“Hmm,” Mihawk drew back. “It seems you have a fever. You’re not helping matters along, hiding yourself under the blankets like that.”
“It’s not a fever,” Hancock muttered resentfully. “It’s Love Sickness, fool. I’m covering myself because I feel cold, how is that not obvious to you?”
“Love Sickness?”
Hancock didn’t expect her former colleague to know anything about the disease that claimed her predecessors’ lives. She didn’t expect him to understand. What could such a solitary creature possibly know about love?
“It doesn’t matter,” she sniffed. “I’m not going to survive it this time. The previous empresses didn’t, and I shall be no different.”
Realisation began to dawn on Mihawk then. Her month-long isolation. The reason she’d hidden herself away on Kuraigana island, a place where nobody would think to seek her out.
“What happened with Straw Hat Luffy?”
Hancock’s expression darkened at the mention of his name. She didn’t want to remember, but couldn’t stop the memories flooding back. The young red-haired woman wearing his straw hat. His treasure. The twinkle in his eyes when he looked at her, the way she’d punch his arm playfully, and they’d laugh like lovers do. Hancock remembered how, when Luffy had needed her most, she’d been unable to stand at his side. How could she comfort him, soothe the loss of Ace? She hated herself for her cowardice, for hiding away in his hour of need. His navigator was no regal ruler, was barely a fighter herself, but she’d never run. She’d never hide.
No wonder Luffy had chosen her over Hancock.
“Ah, I see.” Hancock looked up, startled as Mihawk rose and turned away. She hadn’t said a word, yet he seemed to understand. He gathered the piles of laundry off her floor, sweeping them into his arms and out the door without a sound. His back still turned, Hancock heard the swordsman address her once more.
“I know of no such thing as Love Sickness, but know only this; your mind, body and soul are as one. As one shall be, the others shall surely follow.”
Hancock sat alone, pondering his cryptic statement and parting words.
“When you decide that you are ready to heal, come find me.”
It wasn’t difficult to find Mihawk with her Observation. His haki had a distinctive quality, loomed large like a shadow, not unlike the man himself. Hancock found herself in a small grove deep within the forest of Kuraigana, a clearing with a small waterfall gushing into a pristine basin and a babbling brook. Mihawk sat on the banks, his boots and cloak resting on a nearby rock. He’d rolled his pants up to the knee, dangling both legs in the water when she arrived.
“What is this place?” Hancock approached the water cautiously, maintaining distance between herself and the bank.
“The spring waters here are rich in minerals.” Mihawk answered without turning to face her. “A good place to heal wounds and various ailments.”
Hancock crossed her arms over her chest. “You do know I can’t swim, right? Why would you bring me to a place like this?”
“I didn’t bring you anywhere. You came here of your own accord.” Mihawk seemed amused as he rose to his feet, discarding his shirt and wading deeper into the pool. Hancock stared at him, and he seemed to sense her eyes on his back, finally turning to face her with a wry smile dancing at the corner of his mouth.
“You…” Hancock found herself speechless at the sight of the deep, ragged scars criss-crossing his torso. Smaller welts and cuts marred the strong lines of his shoulders and collarbone, a particularly vicious wound extending down his side and ending just at the hip.
“Roronoa has truly come a long way.” Mihawk mused. “The first time we fought, he couldn't so much as lay a hand on me. But now…”
“He did that to you? Luffy’s first mate?” Hancock gaped. She’d heard the rumours about the Pirate King’s crew, the legendary swordsman and the prince from the North Blue. But she’d also witnessed Mihawk’s strength firsthand on several occasions, his showings at the Summit War more impressive than she’d ever care to admit.
“Indeed. Our last duel was…” Mihawk’s eyes glazed over, as though recalling something fond.
“Magnificent.”
Hancock shook her head in disbelief. “What’s so great about it? You lost. The fight, and your title. What on earth would you have to smile about, strange man?”
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
She didn’t. For the longest time, Hancock had never suffered the sting of defeat, had never known that kind of anguish and humiliation. She’d maintained her façade of invincibility, keeping the treacherous world of men safely at bay; held everyone at arm’s length so they’d never see the frightened slave behind the queenly mask. Hancock knew that to lose was to leave herself vulnerable to the depraved intentions of men, men who wanted nothing more than ownership of herself, her pride, her people. She could not afford to lose. She never lost. Until now.
“Men are foolish. There is nothing to be had in defeat.” Hancock scowled and leaned against a tree. The water was inviting, the surface glistening with the promise of refreshment, rejuvenation. Yet Hancock could not bring herself to join Mihawk in the spring, to be physically close to a man with her powers all but nullified. He’d never harmed her, and part of her knew he never would. But her pride was a stubborn thing, her hatred and mistrust towards men so deeply ingrained that she could not bring herself to approach him. And so she watched, and Mihawk made no move towards her, exiting the pond and drying himself off. She followed him back to the castle, ate dinner in silence, only to repeat the journey the next day. And the next.
Hancock contented herself with watching her former colleague as he swam. He didn’t try persuading her to join him, merely directed comments her way now and then. She didn’t know why, but she found herself indulging in conversation with the man, telling him about the Kuja, about her crew, her sisters back home. She missed them. She missed their company, their bickering, even Elder Nyon pestering her to perform her royal duties. But she knew she couldn’t return. How could she return in disgrace, having abandoned her post and her people? Better to die alone on a remote island in the Grand Line, she told him. Better to die than admit to her failures as empress, and as a woman.
Mihawk snorted then, and Hancock glared daggers at his back.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded to know.
“It’s a foolish thing on which to centre your self-worth,” Mihawk replied. “Straw Hat Luffy wanted to be the freest man on the seas. From the very beginning, there was no monopolising a man like that. You did not fail. How could you? What you wanted was impossible from the start.”
Hancock’s brow furrowed, but she could not muster a retort. He was right, she knew. Right about Luffy, the person he was. Perhaps he knew something of it himself; wishing, in vain, to monopolise the attention of a man for which the heavens had far greater plans.
“So now what do I have?” she murmured. “I cannot have Luffy, and as of now I have no throne, no title. I am no one.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hancock’s head jerked upwards in surprise as she found Mihawk staring back at her, a strange, unshakeable cadence in his tone.
“I no longer have a title myself, but I do not allow my losses to define me. I am what I am, what I have always been. I am the sum of my experiences, the victories and defeats. I have witnessed the rise and fall of two separate eras of piracy, and I will live to see a third. I have survived thus far, achieved the things I wished. There is value in that, if nothing else.”
Hancock was silent, and Mihawk did not press her further, rising from the stream and gathering his belongings to leave.
“Your existence had value before you earned your title. Before you met Straw Hat Luffy. Remember that.”
And he was gone, leaving Hancock alone in the clearing. She stared up into the sky, the eternally grey clouds that billowed like smoke overhead. She’d felt a hollowness in her chest, a yawning chasm between herself and others since Luffy chose another. She’d been trapped in an iron fortress of her own making for so long, the tower walls promising safety, delivering isolation. Only now, after more than a decade in hiding, did she feel the urge to venture into the world outside. The world beyond Amazon Lily’s shores had scarred her, had inflicted unspeakable trauma on her mind and heart. The outside was a place of terror, with no safe haven in a sea ruled by tyrants and monsters. Yet here on Kuraigana Island, Hancock felt safer, more secure than she’d ever been within Amazon Lily’s walls. Here, she was empress of nothing, mistress of no one, but her lack of control no longer rendered her afraid.
She found herself beginning to understand why.
Hancock realised the grove was different when she visited the next day. The flat rock where Mihawk laid his clothes and hat was now covered with a crisply laundered tablecloth, a set of glasses and a bottle of wine. Mihawk stood by the riverbank, the ghost of a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth upon her arrival.
“What’s all this?” Hancock lifted the bottle and examined the label. A good vintage, she observed. A deep, full-flavoured wine more fit for a banquet than a picnic.
“I thought I might provide drinks, considering the amount of time we spend here.” Mihawk slipped off his shirt and hat, stepping forward into the pool as he usually did.
“I see…” Hancock set the bottle back on the makeshift table and Mihawk continued his daily swim, oblivious to her inner struggle. Hancock had never liked water, had always cloistered herself away from her people when bathing, lest they catch a glimpse of the slave mark on her back. Still, she found herself removing her shoes, padding forward over the rich mud at the riverside and stepping into the water. Slowly, gingerly, she moved forward, wincing at the sudden cold that sent goosebumps running along her thighs. Still wearing her undergarments and a thin robe, the flimsy material weighed heavier when soaked through, drawing her deeper into the spring’s depths.
Mihawk paused and turned to watch her. She held his gaze obstinately, taking one step forward, then another. The water was deepest here, reaching her shoulders and neck, but enveloped in the mineral-rich water, Hancock no longer felt the shivering chill. The water was pleasantly cool, and Hancock felt schools of tiny fish darting around her pale, slim legs. She inhaled deeply, tasting the unsullied forest air. It felt good. It felt right, somehow.
She saw Mihawk’s eyes darken, and she knew he understood. He recognised an expression of vulnerability when he saw it, recognised the risk she was taking. He realised she’d relinquished control. He said nothing of it, continued along as he always had, but for that, Hancock was grateful. Words were unnecessary. He recognised the show of trust from a woman who held nothing but fear and loathing towards men, knew that she had placed herself at his mercy. When she was done, Hancock stepped out onto the grass, rivulets of water dripping from her body’s curves. She felt cleaner, more whole, her fear of the water diminished. A sudden breeze sent goosebumps shooting up her arms and Hancock shivered slightly before Mihawk came padding up behind her, draping a towel around her slim frame. He swept on past without a word, producing a pair of lunchboxes from a basket hidden behind a tree, laying their meal on the rock beside the wine.
Two towels. Two lunchboxes. Two glasses of wine. He’d considered her in all of this, and Hancock felt a strange warmth bubbling up from deep within. For all his selflessness, Luffy had always been myopic when it came to the feelings of others. To him, there was only his dream. His crew. His brother. There had been no room for her. Mihawk had made room though, had treated her as a part of his life. To him, she was not an irritant, not a guest, not a means to an end. She was his…
His what?
Hancock didn’t know how to describe her relationship with Mihawk. She’d always been good at categorising people; outside of her sisters and Luffy, there were only subordinates and enemies. Mihawk wasn’t her subordinate and now, he certainly wasn’t her enemy.
So what did that make him?
“...Hancock.” Hancock blinked at the sound of Mihawk’s voice, only then realising she’d been staring into space for the better part of a minute.
“Eat before it gets cold.” he nudged her lunchbox towards her, and Hancock peered curiously at the green rolls before her. Cabbage wraps, the crisp leaves freshly harvested from the swordsman’s garden. Hunger overcame her usual aversion to foreign food and she took a bite, tasting strips of tender beef marinated in soy sauce and sake.
“It’s… good.” Hancock ground out and she saw another smile flit briefly over Mihawk’s face.
“That’s a first, coming from you.”
“Yeah well, don’t get used to it.” Hancock flushed red and averted her eyes. “I don’t lower myself to cooking as servants do.”
That’s not true, a little voice whispered in her head. You cooked for Luffy. You thought it would make him love you.
You were a damn fool.
“Considering your reluctance to prepare your own food, I’m surprised that you didn’t partake more often in the sumptuous spreads Marine Headquarters provided for us.” Mihawk’s voice banished the voice to the dark recesses of her mind. “The feast they prepared before the Summit War was adequate, though unfortunately sullied by the, ah- unpleasant new arrival.”
Blackbeard. He was talking about Blackbeard. She remembered him vaguely, all swagger and bombast, his theatrics concealing the wicked sharpness of his mind. She’d avoided him like the plague, just as she avoided Doflamingo with his unnerving laugh and his awkward pigeon-toed strut.
“I find men sorely lacking in etiquette and class. Their boorish behaviour puts me off my food.” Hancock shot a pointed look at Mihawk, who she’d frequently seen resting both feet on the dining table after meals.
“I take it you don’t frequent your own island’s mess halls,” Mihawk retorted. “Regardless of gender, pirates are not particularly renowned for proficiency in social graces. Besides,” he added slyly, “I’ve heard rumours of the Pirate Empress being quite the glutton herself.”
“Hmph. “ Hancock felt her ears grow red and hot, recalling the time she’d covered for Luffy during his infiltration of Impel Down. “That was clearly an anomaly, fool. I would never debase myself like that, especially not in front of those imbecilic Marines.”
“There’s no shame in admitting it. We all have our vices.” He was teasing her, Hancock realised, prodding her gently so she wouldn’t shy away. How long had it been, she thought with a pang, since she’d been able to converse like this with an equal? Her sisters adored her, but they also feared her wrath. Elder Nyon was not afraid to rebuke her, but the generational gap between them was vast; too vast to ever consider her as anything more than a loyal advisor. Mihawk didn’t fear her, didn’t condescend to her, nor did he show her any of the mindless subservience she’d come to expect from men. She was used to being approached with ulterior motives, used to being viewed as more an object than a human being. Yet for all the consideration and care he’d shown her, Mihawk didn’t seem to be asking for anything.
She just couldn’t figure him out.
Running a fine-toothed comb through her long dark hair, Hancock teased out the last of the knots and raised her eyes to the mirror. The bags under her eyes had dissipated, her skin looking healthier, less pale and clammy. Three months since she’d started joining Mihawk in the spring, three months of light barbs exchanged across the dining table, memories of their Warlord careers shared over champagne and red wine. Despite her sickness, the fevers and dizziness that came and went, she found herself attending mealtimes in the dining hall, sometimes even reading a book by the fire as he lounged in his own chair only a few feet away. Though she constantly criticised his demeanour, his taste in furnishings, even his cooking, Hancock enjoyed his company, though she’d never admit it aloud. Part of her regretted never noticing it earlier; his dry wit, his intelligence, the understated attention he paid to the things she said and did. She realised she was becoming attentive to him in return; knew what the different cadences in his voice signalled, knew that he was partial to the viola and the cello, knew that he enjoyed reading historical tomes by candlelight.
Hancock shook her head to clear it. She knew she shouldn’t be thinking so much about the man, should treat him with the same distrust she did every other. He wasn’t like Luffy; too young, too naive to understand the full significance of his actions. Where Luffy was impulsive, swift to action, quick to speak, Mihawk was deliberate, considered every word carefully. Where Luffy’s grin drew allies by the dozen, Mihawk was reclusive and acerbic, preferring solitude to the company of others. The two men were nothing alike and yet…
Hancock sighed and lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling in silence. She tossed and turned under the covers, no longer burning with fever, but a mess of jumbled thoughts racing in her mind.
Sleep did not come easy.
The floor was made of marble. Pristine and white, keeping the palace cool year-round. Even in the hottest summer months, the Celestial Dragons shed nary a drop of sweat, ferried between buildings by manacled slaves and extravagant palanquins. Hancock knelt on the cold hard ground, scrubbing it vigorously with a wet towel. She didn’t dare look up, dreaded the disdainful, leering stares of her masters.
She knew all too well the price of being noticed.
A large, well-built slave crawled into the room, bearing the weight of the infamous Saint Charloss and his family. Saint Roswald’s plump figure burdened his shoulders, while Charloss and his sister flayed him with leather strips.
“Faster! Faster!” Charloss cried in his high-pitched nasal whine. “Father, this new one isn’t any faster than the last!”
“Pah!” Saint Roswald hawked and spat. “The auction house promised us a strong one, but just look at him! One week in and he’s already at his limit. Well I’ve had quite enough of this defective specimen.”
The slave let out a low groan, hanging his head in exhaustion. His eyes met Hancock’s, only for a second, and she looked away. His gaze beseeched her to help him, begged for the mercy the Celestial Dragons lacked. But Hancock had no relief to give.
“Ugh…” The slave wheezed and groaned, slumping to the floor with a final dull thud. Blood and sweat stained the marble as the Celestial Dragon family backed away from the corpse, their faces twisting with disgust.
“How droll!” shrieked Saint Shalria. “Now we’ll have to walk back to the fountain plaza! This has completely ruined my day Father!”
“Tsk.” Saint Roswald stepped over the body and stalked away. “The exotic species are the only ones worth buying, it would seem. Worthless louts down below can never find anything else.”
Charloss pouted as his father and sister walked away. “I wasn’t done having fun.” He kicked angrily at the slave’s prone body. “I should never have let Father and Shalria ride with me. They went and broke my new toy.”
Hancock inched backwards, eager to create distance between herself and an irate Celestial Dragon, but she wasn’t fast enough. Charloss whipped around and spotted her, licking his lips in anticipation.
“You there!” he demanded. “Get over here and entertain me, slave. My feet are sore from standing, lick them clean and give me a massage!”
Hancock balled her hands into fists, gripping her ragged skirts so hard her nails drew blood. Another Celestial Dragon emerged from an antechamber and approached Charloss, glancing appreciatively over Hancock’s body.
“Just wait a minute Charloss,” he grinned. “I saw this one first. I think I should get to have my fun before you, don’t you think?”
“You wait your turn!” Charloss grunted angrily. “I need to blow off some steam after Father broke my new toy.”
Two men, fighting over her as though she was property. Hancock felt her blood boiling, bit down on her lip to hold back her furious tears.
“Pathetic aren’t you?” Hancock’s head whipped upwards and the other Celestial Dragon was smirking down at her. Only half his face seemed to have melted off, his flesh bubbling and writhing until it coalesced into the image of Luffy’s.
“This is what you really are Hammock!” Luffy crowed triumphantly, his grin a twisted thing. “Haven’t you had enough of play-pretend? Look at you, squirming like a worm on the trash heap. For all your airs and pretensions, this is where you belong.”
“Luffy? No, I…” Hancock slipped backwards, falling on her rump in her shock. This wasn’t part of her memories. This had to be a dream, but his words cut deeper than any blade.
“Just look at her!” Saint Shalria strutted up behind Luffy, her facial features distorting to take the form of his redheaded navigator. “She’s used goods, a toy that’s been played with one too many times. Who do you think would ever want her now?”
“A teenager, perhaps? Someone too young and dumb to know better?” Luffy tapped his finger against his bottom lip. “That’s how desperate she is, always scrounging for scraps from the master’s table.”
“No! That’s not true!” Hancock covered her ears, willing herself to wake from the nightmare. “You’re not Luffy! This isn’t real!”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Nami knelt in front of Hancock, her nails tearing open the fabric of her filthy slave’s tunic. “Isn’t it time you stopped denying the truth? Luffy never wanted you; he saw through you all along, was disgusted by your rotten heart. Don’t you see? You can cover up with all the makeup, the jewels, the fancy clothes you want, but it’s all the same. You can’t hide a stench that putrid for long.”
“And they said Usopp was a coward!” Luffy threw back his head and howled with laughter. “At least he only runs when there’s monsters! Hammock is terrified all the time, so scared of being found out that she’ll throw her entire retinue out of the palace just to have a bath! Talk about self-absorbed.”
“Enough talk. Why waste any more of our time on her? You’re the Pirate King after all.” Nami coiled her body around Luffy’s with serpentine grace, covering his mouth with hers in a kiss. She moaned sensually, her hands reaching around to caress his face and hair.
“Enough! Please, just stop!” Hancock wailed, burying her face in both hands. Luffy and Nami cackled maliciously, their peals of laughter growing louder and louder til her vision was swallowed by darkness.
Hancock’s eyes flew open, her skin covered with a sheen of sweat. She sat bolt upright, her chest heaving as she hyperventilated, hands trembling where they rested on her lap. The phantom Luffy’s words tormented her, sent her back into the tailspin from which she had only recently emerged. Seeing Luffy with his navigator had hurt, but not as much as the knowledge that despite her best efforts, she would always remain shackled to her past. She would always be the slave; the used plaything of men. She wasn’t like Mihawk; couldn’t hold her head high, drawing unshakeable confidence from her strength. Her worst fears had come to pass when for all her powers and her title, the World Government had gotten the better of her once more. Bested by Garp’s protege, she’d needed Luffy to save her again.
You see? The voice whispered scornfully. No one needs you. For all your talk about strength, you’re still an imposter and a weakling.
You’re wrong! Hancock refuted weakly, but the voice was relentless in its torment.
Am I really? The voice continued to taunt her. You couldn’t get what you wanted, so you came here to leech off a man’s hospitality for months on end. He doesn’t even want you here! At the end of the day, you’re nothing more than an amusing sideshow.
If you left, he would never follow. That’s how little you’re worth.
Hancock surged out of her room, sprinting out of the castle’s double doors and into the forest. She barely registered thorny plants and vines stinging her legs and feet, stumbled once over a thick gnarled root but continued without missing a beat. She burst into the clearing where the spring was, stopping just at the water’s edge. Even under the dim moonlight, the water seemed almost luminous, seemed to pulse with vigour and life. Hancock stripped off her nightgown, letting the fabric pool at her feet. One step, then another, she slipped into the pool, allowing the gentle current to pull her under.
The water’s biting chill soon turned to a gentle embrace. She felt herself sinking slowly, a side effect of her Devil Fruit’s ancient curse, but Hancock felt no pain, not even fear. She let out a soft sigh, watching air bubbles drift lazily to the surface. Surely it would be better this way, to disappear rather than live on with the weight of her failures.
“The strawberries won’t ripen for at least another month. You’ll have to wait until then.”
What…? Hancock blinked as the memories resurfaced, unbidden.
“The soil on this island is rich and fertile. The strawberries here will be larger, more flavourful than usual. Pairs well with the champagne or a light summer refreshment.”
She remembered Mihawk turn to her, saw his eyes shadowed by the rim of his straw hat. He’d been smiling then too. He smiled more than most would have imagined. Certainly more than she ever had.
“I think even you would enjoy them when the time comes.”
Hancock forced herself to ignore the dull ache that sparked deep within her chest. She’d made up her mind. There was no turning back.
So why, then, did she feel the sharp pangs of regret?
Hancock felt her lungs fill with water, felt the corners of her vision grow dark. She spared a thought for her sisters, bidding them a silent goodbye. Suddenly a pair of large hands seized her by the waist, dragging her roughly to the surface and out of the pool. Hancock coughed violently as the hands compressed her chest, laying her on the grassy bank as she gasped for air.
Dracule Mihawk’s face briefly swam into view and Hancock wanted to call out to him, wanted to apologise for running away. But her throat was too sore from coughing, her muscles leaden and stiff from the cold. She reached for his hand, wanting to squeeze it in reassurance. She felt her fingertips brush his before the darkness claimed her once more.
Hancock woke to the sound of rustling and shuffling about. Her whole body was sore, her head spun and she struggled to focus as a black and pink silhouette flitted around her room.
“Aah! You’re awake!” The figure dropped a ceramic bowl she’d been holding on the floor where it shattered into a dozen pieces. Hancock found herself staring at a young woman in gothic clothing, her eyes wide and round with shock.
“I, uh- just stay there!” Perona scuttled out of the room and Hancock rubbed her forehead in exasperation. She didn’t know what the former subordinate of a warlord was doing on Kuraigana Island, much less this noisy pink haired wench. She made to get out of bed but Perona immediately floated back in, pushing Hancock back down into the sheets.
“Oh no you don’t,” she said sternly. “You’re not taking another swim anytime soon. I went and called him, so he’ll be here soon.”
Hancock knew immediately who she referred to. She bit her lip and averted her gaze, too ashamed of her earlier impulsiveness to speak up.
“He’s really kind of a wreck you know,” Perona took the opportunity to chastise the older woman. “When I got here, he was shambling around like a zombie, taking care of you day and night without rest. Never seen him that worried before, not even when he thought he’d misplaced his precious Yoru.”
Hancock’s guilt must have shown on her face as Perona sighed and her expression softened somewhat. “Honestly.” she muttered. “You caused even more trouble than I did when I was a guest here. More than me and that dumb mosshead put together.”
“Perona.” Both women looked up to see Mihawk in the doorway dressed in his nightshirt and slacks. “I’ll take it from here.”
“...Yeah.” Perona stepped out, casting a fleeting backward glance towards Hancock. Mihawk took a seat at the foot of her bed, just as he’d done several months prior, but said nothing for a while. Hancock forced herself to meet his gaze and her heart sank. She’d been expecting anger, was prepared for him to berate her for her foolishness, but she saw only sadness in his dark crimson eyes, the former world’s strongest swordsman looking older and wearier than she’d ever seen him.
“I’m not going to ask why you did it.” Mihawk was the first to break the silence. “I saw the mark. I suppose there was more haunting you than I’d realised.”
That’s right, Hancock recalled stripping off her nightgown before diving into the spring; Mihawk must have seen her brand at some point when he carried her back to the castle.
“So you know.” The last thing Hancock had wanted was for any of the Marines or her warlord colleagues to uncover her secret. How could she maintain her dignity before them then? She’d already sensed them circling like buzzards, waiting for a single glimpse of weakness to strike.
“Yes.” Mihawk met her gaze squarely this time. “I know.”
Hancock laughed bitterly, ignored the tears that sprang to her eyes once more. “Luffy saw it too, long ago. He protected my sisters, made sure no one could see their marks. That’s how I fell in love with him.”
Mihawk nodded thoughtfully. “I always thought it was odd,” he said, “for you to have assisted Straw Hat during the Summit War. At first I chalked it up to his uncanny charisma, but now…”
Hancock shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m a ruined woman, regardless of whether others know. Luffy never cared, but I do. All my life, I’ve done nothing but pretend. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Why does it matter?” Mihawk demanded, and Hancock glanced up in surprise. “Before he joined up with Straw Hat, Roronoa was a two-bit mercenary, too incompetent to even find his way home. That has no bearing on his current accomplishments, nor does it besmirch his title. He is rightfully proud of his growth, as you should be.”
Hancock forced out a strained laugh, even as the tears began to fall. “Even if what you say is true,” she sniffed, “none of it matters anymore. There was a time when I could have been good, could have earned the admiration of others through my character and deeds. It’s too late for me now. No one could ever love me the way I am.”
“I used to think the same way.” Mihawk’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Before I met Roronoa, I had no regard for my own life. I fully intended to meet my end in our final duel. The two years I spent with Roronoa and Ghost Girl made me realise that perhaps I had something to live for after all.”
“And what was that?”
Mihawk chuckled. “Who knows. Perhaps it was restocking my entire wine cellar that Ghost Girl emptied to make sangria. Perhaps it was revisiting the land of Wano where my pupil carved his name into legend. Perhaps it was the prospect of my farm falling into disrepair if I died. Roronoa was the one that suggested it, and I made him plough the land as part of his training. This place was once a battlefield, a desolate space where nothing could grow. Now it is… different. That too is one of Roronoa’s legacies.”
Hancock didn’t know what to think. Her head was throbbing again and she laid back down on the bed, screwing her eyes tightly shut to endure the pain. She heard the rustling of sheets as Mihawk moved to get up, and her hand shot out to grasp his wrist.
Stay.
She didn’t have to say it aloud, the significance of her gesture ringing loud and clear. She shifted over, allowing Mihawk to lie beside her, her hand still holding his, as though afraid he’d slip away.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Mihawk wasn’t one to provide assurances, but she felt his fingers close around hers. “Sleep,” he told her. “I’ll be here when you wake.”
Will you really? Hancock wanted to ask, but instead she nodded, allowing herself to drift away.
The dreamless sleep that followed was a mercy.
Mihawk watched Hancock as she slept, noting the peaceful slackness of her brow, how her rosy lips parted ever so slightly. He maintained a respectful distance from her unconscious form, remembering how she’d bristle whenever lascivious Marine officials approached her at banquets. It all made sense to him now. Her intense hatred of men. Her undying devotion to Luffy. The despair and anguish that sent her plunging into the spring. He thought they’d been making progress, had relished seeing her lovesickness ebb away. He’d seen her reading romance novels by the fireplace, the shadows cast by dancing flames concealing the red in her cheeks, her secret smiles. He’d seen her wandering the fields, no longer flinching every time a Humandrill darted across her path. Like the former battleground he called home, Mihawk had watched her slowly heal, watched her learn to see the world with brand new eyes. Though Hancock was a woman of considerable maturity, her experiences and Amazon Lily’s parochial culture had left her hopelessly naive, both about love and the world outside. Sometimes he’d see childlike wonder spark in her steel-blue eyes, the innocence they’d both thought buried by a world of tyrants playing dangerous pirate games. Sometimes she’d look at him, a clever smile lighting up her pretty face, and he’d feel his pulse quicken. Sometimes she’d curl up in her chair, bringing her knees to her chin, and he’d notice how her bangs framed her heart-shaped porcelain face, how her limbs moved with a strange sinuous perfection.
She was profoundly alluring, even Mihawk had to grudgingly admit, but her frigid exterior concealed a writhing morass of insecurities, a lifetime of concealing her fear and pain.
Absorbed in his own thoughts, Mihawk stared up at the ceiling, not noticing the woman stirring beside him. The Pirate Empress sighed and wriggled closer to him then, pressing her face into his chest and Mihawk stiffened, his eyes widening in shock. He was accustomed to violence, to vicious combat and the squalor of long months at sea. Her touch trailed fire across his skin, ignited a strange and deep-seated heat. This was different to the thrill of anticipation before a grand duel, to the blazing triumph of emerging victorious over a worthy opponent. Mihawk was no stranger to passion, not unfamiliar with zeal, but the way his heart raced around her, the shortness of his breath was of a different sort.
Just what on earth had she done to him?
He remembered the night he’d found her, remembered how his heart stopped when he saw a trail of delicate footprints leading to the water’s edge, with the empress herself nowhere in sight. He remembered the urgency in his movements, how he’d swept her into his arms and warmed her limp body by the fire, his panic ebbing away as the colour returned to her face and skin. For the first time in decades, Mihawk felt desperation, felt fear at the prospect of losing something dear.
Red-Haired Shanks. Roronoa Zoro. Perona. They’d all brightened his world at some point, banishing the shadows that lingered in his mind and heart, but they’d all left eventually.
He didn’t want Hancock to leave.
The realisation terrified and exhilarated him in equal measure.
Red-Haired Shanks raised a tankard of ale, cheering loudly as his crewmates roared with merriment and mirth. Mihawk saw Lucky Roo feasting on a hunk of roast beef, saw Ben Beckmann smirking as he took a drag from his cigar. He saw Yasopp, proudly telling tales of his son. He saw Rockstar reading the paper, grinning broadly at the ever-rising bounties of Straw Hat Luffy and his crew.
“Hawk-Eyes, what are you waiting for?” Shanks turned in his direction. “Come join us! I poured out one for you too!”
Mihawk was lying in a quagmire, a pool of sticky black tar sucking his limbs deeper and deeper into the bog.
“I can’t.” Mihawk didn’t resist the pull. He knew that struggling was futile. “You went on too far without me.”
“What are you talking about Hawk-Eyes?” Ben Beckman walked up beside his captain, peering down at the swordsman, half-sunken in the muck. “You’re the one that gave up. You never even tried to follow.”
“Oh leave him be, guys. He’s always been like that.” It was Lucky’s turn to speak up, his cheerful smirk mocking Mihawk’s predicament. “Talking big about frogs in wells, but always playing it safe. Always staying in one place, too self-indulgent to take risks. Thinks he’s too good for it.”
“Isn’t it boring, treating life like a spectator sport?” Rockstar glanced at him with condescending bemusement. “No wonder everything just passes him by. Who would ever want to stay with someone so dull?”
“At least our Captain tried to change fate, tried to turn the tide of Teach’s age. You stopped fighting the current long ago.”
“Hawk-Eyes.” Shanks’s tone softened and he knelt beside the swamp. “Adventure is hard. Relationships are hard. But if you never try, you’ll never be able to have what you want.”
“And how did that turn out for you?” Mihawk could no longer hide the bitterness in his voice. In the end, Red-Haired Shanks was dead, leaving behind his widow and infant son in the East Blue. Mihawk remembered Roger’s son on the execution platform, haunted by the legacy of a father he’d never known. Red-Hair had condemned his own child to that same fate, the weight of his achievements heavy on those tiny shoulders.
“Yeah, I tried to have it all.” Shanks smiled sadly, wistfully. “Things didn’t work out, but at least I tried. For a while, before the end, I was truly happy.”
“Have you ever been truly happy, Hawk-Eyes?”
Mihawk snorted mirthlessly, even as he felt a dull ache within his chest. “You know the answer to that.”
“So then why not take a chance?” The sun had come up behind Shanks now, wreathing him in a golden halo of light. He reached out with his good hand, beaming like he had when they were youths, two upstart swordsmen ready to take the world by storm.
“What have you got to lose?”
Mihawk struggled to move, forced his hand up through the tar until it breached the surface, his muscles straining from exertion. The goo was heavier now, weighing him down where it had soaked into his hair and skin, but Mihawk ignored the pain, seizing Shank’s calloused hand in a death grip.
“That’s the spirit!” Shanks was glowing brighter now, so bright Mihawk was forced to avert his eyes.
“You better hurry, Hawk-Eyes. Just follow the path! Keep moving forward, and don’t look back.”
Mihawk’s eyes flew open and he sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck as he sensed a presence; not human, but far too familiar for an animal or creature. A single red lily bloomed in the doorway of his room, roots creeping between cracks in the tiles. A string of spectral lilies delineated a path to the castle doorway, and Mihawk wondered, idly, if he was still dreaming. The path extended deep into the woods, the blossoms vanishing each time Mihawk drew close and he picked up the pace, flying through the undergrowth along a trail he knew by heart. Suddenly, Mihawk picked up a child’s laughter on the wind, a sound so brief he dismissed it as a figment of his overactive imagination.
Then it was gone.
Mihawk still wasn’t sure what to believe about his dream, the phantom trail that led him to the spring where he’d found Hancock. In a world of mysterious all-powerful cabals, ancient weapons and fruits cursed by the devil himself, was it so strange to believe that it was truly Red-Hair’s spirit that intervened? Mihawk believed in fate, believed in forces outside of mortal control, but wondered vaguely, what meaning there could be in stringing two souls such as his and Hancock’s together.
“Mmm…” Hancock sighed then, and she buried her head in the crook of his neck. Mihawk froze, then tentatively reached out to curl one arm around her shoulders, holding her close to him. For the first time in so very, very long, he wouldn’t have to face his nightmares alone.
The full moon rose over Kuraigana castle, illuminating the former warlords asleep in each other’s arms. Pale silver moonlight washed over the island, bathing neat rows of crops, peaceful colonies of sleeping humandrills, in a gentle glow. The former battlefield, once knowing only blood and strife, seemed to exhale.
Mihawk woke to the acrid smell of smoke, sitting bolt upright and glancing around the room. Hancock’s side of the bed was empty, with no clue as to the empress’s whereabouts. Mihawk slipped out of the room, following the smoky scent through twisting stone corridors and into the kitchen. He idly wondered if somehow Hancock had set the kitchen alight, half-expecting to find his cutlery and kitchen cupboards seared into the ash by the time he arrived.
“Argh! Why is it stuck!?” Mihawk rounded the corner to see Hancock standing at the stove, surrounded by a billowing cloud of smoke. She was clutching the handle of a saucepan in one hand, frantically scraping at it with a spatula in the other. The contents of the saucepan appeared charred and blackened, stubbornly fused to the metal and refusing to come loose.
“Oh, come on!” Hancock grew increasingly flustered, her face flushing and hair going limp from the heat. Mihawk calmly walked up behind her, extracting the saucepan from her hand and placing it in the sink.
“That pan is not salvageable,” he deadpanned, trying and failing to repress a smirk. “Neither is whatever you were cooking. Judging from the ingredients on the counter it seems to have been bacon, pancakes, or a strange amalgamation of the two.”
“Shut up!” Hancock turned away, pouting. “I tried, alright? Cooking is impossible.”
Mihawk took in the two plates on the counter, the two cups. His, a large ceramic coffee mug; hers, a rose-patterned china teacup. His mug was filled with a dark liquid which smelled vaguely of coffee, though he couldn't be entirely sure. Mihawk steeled himself and took a sip, immediately choking as an overwhelming taste of bitterness and the texture of coffee grits flooded his mouth.
“I… assume that was your attempt at making coffee. Black, just the way I like it, although using half the bag of beans was unnecessary.”
“Damn it!” Hancock fumed and threw her hands in the air. “Why did I even try to make you breakfast? Ugh! Stupid, ungrateful man.”
“And why would you do that? This isn’t like you, Hancock.” Hancock bit her lip at the sound of her name, spoken in Mihawk’s elegant baritone.
“We Kuja do not leave our debts unpaid.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. “After all you have done for me, I suppose I owe you this, at the very least.”
“Hancock.” Hancock’s heart began to pound as Mihawk stepped in, tilting her chin upwards to face him. She felt the cold marble of the kitchen counter at her back, Mihawk looming large before her, but strangely, she felt no urge to slip away. His eyes were dark, revealing emotions she couldn’t quite decipher. Red like the fine wine they shared over many a dinner, by the rocks at the side of the spring. Red like rubies, like freshly spilled blood on a battlefield.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
Hancock exhaled softly, reveling in the swordsman’s closeness. Their relationship, she knew now, was never transactional, had long transcended that of colleagues or companions. She’d chosen to stay, and he’d chosen to have her. For the first time in decades, she felt empowered; knew that she stood poised between choices. She realised what he was waiting for, standing with his face only inches from hers. He’d left the final say in her hands, had relinquished his power and control, and Hancock felt buoyed by the knowledge that regardless of her choice, Mihawk would never resent her.
She knew what she wanted then.
Hancock stood on the tips of her toes, closing the inches that separated them in height. She wound both arms around his neck to keep balance, and felt Mihawk’s hands steady her lower back. She was trembling now, her legs shaking like a newborn fawn. She could hear her heart pounding, felt the heat rise to her cheeks, but she pushed forward, tilting her head to plant a kiss on his lips.
Hancock had only ever read about kisses, had browsed every romance novel and bodice-ripper in Kuraigana castle’s library. They’d described it as magical; a show of two souls coming together in love. Both parties always inexplicably knew what to do, exploring each other’s bodies with all the deftness and precision that only fictional constructs possessed. Her kiss was different. More awkward, her hands uncertainly brushing his neck and the counter pressing uncomfortably against her back. The setting was hardly romantic, standing barefoot in the castle kitchen and wreathed in the smell of smoke, the taste of her poorly-brewed coffee bitter on Mihawk’s tongue, but Hancock hardly cared. Cradled in his arms, one hand caressing the edges of her brand, she’d never felt so safe, nor so happy. They pulled apart slowly, deliberately, and she could not repress the smile spreading across her face, a smile she saw mirrored on his.
“You needed butter.” Hancock blinked at the jarring abruptness of Mihawk’s statement, his thumbs still stroking her arms.
“You can’t make pancakes or bacon without oil,” he stated patiently. “that’s why you burned our breakfast.” His eyes crinkled at the corners and he leaned in, without warning, to kiss her on the cheek before sweeping away to retrieve a new pan from the cabinet.
“Hmph.” Hancock grudgingly handed him the spatula and a pair of eggs, concealing her smile behind one hand. “I will take that into consideration for next time.”
Next time. There would be a next time. They would begin and end their days together, their lives running in tandem like parallel lines.
“If you like,” he replied, “we can make dinner together. Amazon Sea King pasta, albeit less creamy than Straw Hat likes.”
This time, the mention of her former flame’s name drew no adverse reaction from the empress. Hancock simply smirked, snatching the cups off the counter and sauntering away in response to Mihawk’s teasing.
“Did you think,” she called over her shoulder, “that I would dine in the kitchen like some lowly peon? Bring me breakfast in bed, man, and hurry up! It would be rude to keep your empress waiting.”
“At least make a new coffee, woman. Whatever substance you left in those cups is undrinkable.”
Hancock stuck her tongue out at him, throwing her head back to laugh when he was out of sight. She hadn’t missed the heat in his kiss, the longing look he’d thrown her way when she’d left. Living on Kuraigana had matured her in many ways and she felt a thrill of anticipation spark within her, the world of romance opening up before her like the pages of a classic leatherbound book. Blank pages, unwritten; the hope that tragedy could give way to love.
They would write their story’s happy ending.
Epilogue
“What the hell am I even doing?” Zoro grunted in annoyance as he strolled down the streets of Wano, his good eye squinting at the shopping list scrawled in Mihawk’s thin, neat writing.
“Such a thoughtful Zorojurou, running errands for his master!” Hiyori chirped beside him, clasping her hands together in praise.
Zoro merely scowled. “I’m not his errand boy and I’m pretty sure the guy is going through some sort of mid-life crisis. What does he even want with all these building materials? Making his own little arts and crafts project or something?”
“Zorojurou-san, I do believe that the pieces he’s ordered are used in Wano to make cribs. It’s a very expensive material, cut from the wood of a sacred oak believed to confer strength and blessings upon a newborn samurai child.”
“Eh?” Zoro muttered, scratching his head in confusion. “Why would Hawk-Eyes need something like that? And for that matter, who is he buying all these kimonos for? Can’t be Perona, I’ve never seen her wear anything without frills.”
Hiyori bit her lip to stop herself from giggling. As prodigious as he could be in battle, Zoro was incredibly ignorant about the world outside of piracy and swordplay. Nami shot her a sympathetic look, shaking her head at her crewmate’s stupidity.
“I wonder who the mother is? Didn’t think Hawk-Eyes was the type,” she mused, and Luffy raised his head from where he’d been gorging on a generous portion of takoyaki.
“What did you say, Nami? Something about Hawk-Eyes being a mom?”
“Wha- That is absolutely not what I said!” Nami facepalmed violently. “It’s like you guys don’t even listen to anything I say!”
“Well whatever it is, Hawk-Eyes would make a good mom. Nags like one, he does. Always telling me to clean my room, or that meat and sake isn’t a balanced diet. I haven’t been told to eat my vegetables since I was five.” Zoro complained.
“Sounds like your master was very thorough, Zorojurou-san.”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it. He once threw me out of the castle after I forgot to shower for a few days. Said he couldn’t eat while I was around.”
“How long did you go without showering?”
“I dunno, a week? Maybe a bit more, I kinda lost track of time when I was out fighting those rabid monkeys.”
Nami screwed up her face in disgust. “I’m sorry I asked.”
“You might want to purify yourself before you visit your master next, Zorojurou-san. It wouldn’t do to spread germs around the place.”
“Why? He might be an old man, but he was once the world’s strongest swordsman. A few germs aren’t gonna kill him.”
“Maybe I should send a gift too,” Hiyori made a graceful pivot, realising that Zoro’s obliviousness truly knew no bounds. “It’s the least I can do for my future father in law. Perhaps a lovely embroidered quilt, or some of Hitetsu-san’s kokeshi dolls.”
“Dolls? Whatever for? Just send some booze and he’ll be happy. Not the cheap stuff, mind, but any of Orochi’s old stash should do.”
Hiyori chuckled to herself. “Perhaps.”
Zoro could be gruff and clueless, but he did have a way with kids. She’d seen the way he dealt with O-Tama and O-Toko, quietly doting on Yasu’s orphaned daughter and bringing her gifts and snacks. A thug with a heart of gold, reminiscent of her late father Oden. She glanced around the Flower Capital’s main street, bustling and thriving from the Straw Hats’ heroics. The city was rebuilding, the sidewalks newly planted with cherry trees. One day, Hiyori hoped the child would visit, would witness the majesty of Wano’s castle, framed by blooming cherry boughs. They would never know a Wano despoiled by Kaido’s warmongering, never know a world that danced on the Celestial Dragon’s strings.
For the child’s sake, and that of her future children, she would learn to live in their brave new world.