Chapter Text
On and on, the carriage creaked up the rocky path. Every stone sent the wheels rattling, each thump followed by a jolt of irritation for Sakazuki.
The vehicle was no doubt fit for a king: tasteful carvings in wood and metal, a velvety seat, a small cabinet full of bottles clacking inside. All of it a very convincing, very impractical, display of wealth. It clashed with the humble copper-painted farms that peppered the high slopes, the few, isolated towns.
The zig-zagging paths that led to Nightshade were not easy to navigate. A half-day on carriage, or two hours sailing the fjord that stretched between the tall mountains. The latter would’ve been more senseful, but that was clearly not their patron's main concern.
No—the King wanted Admiral Akainu's battleship docked at the nearbiest port. The court would only receive him and a few men of his trust. As a sign of good will, they were to be transported in carriages; he was assured that was the treatment they’d give foreign royalty. Sakazuki took it as a sign that he was invited with the role of a passive guest, not supposed to show much initiative. But he kept his qualms behind gritted teeth.
“ May I ask why, Sir?”
That had been his question to Fleet Admiral Sengoku days ago, after reading the details of his diplomatic mission. It seemed that he was headed to sign a pact with potential allies, but that didn't explain all the concessions.
“The Government is interested in striking a deal with them," Sengoku said, punctuated by his ridiculous seagull hat. “Nightshade is, in fact, a very rich land. Rumor has it that the vales around it are particularly ripe for the appearance of Devil’s Fruits.”
“We don’t act on rumors,” Sakazuki grunted.
Sengoku nodded, and stood up, the medals on his uniform glinting in the daylight. Sakazuki followed him with his eyes; his leadership had always sought to strike a balance between rationale and moral, and it was sometimes mysterious even for the Admirals.
“You do know that the Elders have eyes and ears in many places. And their sources say these rumors are not unfounded. In fact…a Devil's Fruit in possession of the King himself might be very valuable.”
Sakazuki took a deep breath. The pieces were starting to click.
“They want it.”
“It's imperative. The topic of annexation is important too, but you understand—we must compromise on some points.”
It made sense, then, sending him. He understood why Sengoku wouldn't send Kuzan to negotiate—why he, in fact, would want to keep Kuzan as hidden as possible—but Borsalino might be too lenient, too easily persuaded and risk-friendly to truly keep the Navy's interests in mind.
Still, Sakazuki was made for the battlefield, not to rub elbows with aristocrats. Certainly not of kingdoms which didn't even adscribe to their law.
“Nightshade is ruled by warriors,” Sengoku replied to his thoughts, facing the balcony and Marineford beneath it, hands at his back. “I reckon they will respect you.”
Reaching a plateau meant taking a break. The horses needed rest, water, and so did the soldiers. The feeling of ground underfoot was a relief for Sakazuki… Less so the company.
“Heeey! What's up, boss?!”
It was futile to try turning his visage away from Aramaki, for not even the most direct display of disinterest could deter his attention. In a beat, he’d hopped off his own carriage and jogged toward Sakazuki, leaning in so close that the wine in his breath was obvious.
“I ain’t seen so much land in a while. Look at all the colors!”
“Hm.” Sakazuki scowled at Aramaki’s pointed finger. Thick flowers flanked the paths. Fennels, lavenders, pansies. Further in the distance, parts of the slopes had been sowed. He saw the yellow of wheat and corn, the mottled berry bushes spreading for miles. Rich soil.
Approaching the edge of the cliff, he could see where the sea stopped. A deep “v”-shaped vale spread where the feet of the waterfall-riddled mountains joined, and there, sitting on its own natural throne of rock and surrounded by armed walls, was the castle.
Nightshade: high spires pointing heavenward, pinnacles like heads flung into pikes.
“Oh yeah. We’re gonna get spoiled,” Aramaki said. Suddenly at his side, again. Sakazuki didn’t look at him, but even with his eyes closed, he couldn’t escape that mirthful grin.
The first time he saw Aramaki, Sakazuki had been breathless. He had thought of Garp at the God’s Valley, of Master Zephyr, of Fleet Admiral Kong: born leaders, imposing and strong. Like them, Aramaki could belong in the first line of battle, hair tousled, dark skin drenched in sweat and gunpowder, mouth made to utter commands.
Then he’d actually talked…disappointing.
But he had conviction, and the strength to back it up. Critical skills were not his forte , though that was not a problem in combat. So Sakazuki grunted his second-in-command away, and tried not to tangle himself up in too frustrating arguments.
Sakazuki turned his attention to the defense towers. Some were obvious, posted along the wall, but others were half hidden in the green-brown peaks.
He addressed one of the Red King’s bannermen. “What’s beyond those mountains?”
She was robust, and only about a head shorter than Sakazuki. A hog-shaped emblem hung where the straps of her shoulder plates crossed.
She posted the King’s flag before taking a long gulp from her flask and answering.
“That is the Red Creek. A few miles until the next city, which belongs to the House of our Majesty the Red King too,” the Hog said. “A few of our vassals own fiefs on the way, but it’s not easy land to travel. Fearsome beasts live there that have been domesticated by pillagers for their foul purposes.” She spit on the ground.
“Bastards!” Aramaki barked. Sakazuki grunted his agreement. Bandits on land, pirates on the seas. Always, an enemy.
“How many?”
The Hog shrugged modestly, “no match for our numbers, for sure. But as the Gods have blessed us with crops, the outsiders use the devil’s magic to fight.”
“Devil’s Fruits?”
“Aye. Farmers will find them every so often. But we aren’t always the first to retrieve ‘em.”
Devil's magic. The words were spoken like a truly unwelcome thing. What did these people's laws consider him?
“Don’t worry, Admiral—all that religious talk is nonsense,” came another voice, approaching down the gravel path. It was a soldier, the one who acted like their leader. Petite and slender, a bow and quiver hung at his back. His smile was foxlike. “The Fruits may be a thing of the devil, but it is the Gods that put them in our hands. And maybe in yours, as well.”
The World Government would have agreed. Sakazuki said nothing.
There was an exchange of looks between the two soldiers, and the Hog muttered an apology before she went.
“We may proceed,” the Fox said then. And, nodding toward Sakazuki with two joined hands, “now, if you would enter your carriage…”
The prospect of going back inside that coffinlike space was tortuous. But, to his surprise, it was Aramaki who spoke against it.
“Say, chief, the carriages really are awesome, but I need to stretch my legs,” he said, arms crossed. To which Sakazuki reluctantly grunted his agreement.
“Since we are looking at a potential alliance, I would like to watch the country with my own eyes, too,” he said, addressing the Fox. Every one of his words was blunt and honest. The soldier studied him under his helm before nodding.
“Very well. We should walk another hour to Nightshade.”
“Huff, well, that’s-” Aramaki exclaimed, but Sakazuki had already left him behind, leading the way. Aramaki might choose to follow or not, but where Sakazuki went, he went alone.
The way became easier if he was in motion. Leather boots on hard soil followed the path, tracing the fjord beneath them. It gave him some sense of control, to gather all the information he could about the shapes of this land. To watch the soldiers’ behaviors, especially the ones that weren’t conscious. To get a feel for the air, the weather. All of it was strategically important.
“You think,” Aramaki jabbed right through Sakazuki’s train of thought, “if we find Devil's Fruits here, yeah, that we're allowed to keep them?”
“No,” Sakazuki grunted. There were some exceptions, of course, which all traced back to life-or-death situations. But Sakazuki was not in the mood to point them out.
“Got yours from the Government, huh? For Ohara?”
“Yes.”
Undeterred. “Damn, I heard about that. Awesome.”
Sakazuki grimly contemplated the word choice. Awesome. Yes, Aramaki admired the perfect killing machine he thought Sakazuki was. For him, there was no weight to their duty, no difficulty to the decisions that involved lives. And no amount of enthusiasm, of devoted looks thrown his way, could balance that lack of depth.
With Aramaki trotting beside him, Sakazuki pressed his pace.
The walls, partly claimed by ivy, were surrounded by a moat of seawater. Any stretch of ground was thick with weeds, even between the stone tiles of the city.
Within minutes, it became obvious: Nightshade was not only made of riches. The architecture around them was tall and elaborate, but the ground was littered, the air thick with smells too human and dirty. As they approached the center, Sakazuki caught the Hog's soldiers trying to shoo a beggar out of the way.
He scowled—no, it was not only one man. There were more, dressed in tatters, visibly sick. He saw townspeople clearing the path when they saw the Kingsguard. A dog scampering away on three legs, dragging the fourth one.
Sakazuki dragged his eyes away. Unpleasant things had to be done in the name of order.
But, much like in Mary Geoise…once you were looking, you couldn't help but see.
The Hog screeched. “Go work, you pile of scum! Aren't you ashamed?!” She turned toward Sakazuki, her ample cheeks flushed. “I apologize, Sir. They're always crowding the entrances. They should know the guests don't like seeing them.”
Aramaki let out a loud yawn behind him.
“This place's dead.”
“Hm.” Sakazuki dragged his eyes around the empty avenue. "You got other citizens as well?"
In the corner of his eye, he saw that the men had snuck around a cul-de-sac, now half in the shadow, but still watching. The dog wagged its tail slowly like a pendulum. His perked ears sensed something in the air.
Sakazuki sensed it, too. The townspeople weren’t absent. Pairs of eyes stared at the royal party from windows and from entrances. Instead of crowding the streets to see the carriages, they'd been hiding. Afraid, but mutinous.
“Why are you bringing the Devil into our city?!” came the exclamation. Sakazuki could trace it back to one of the windows. “Aren’t you supposed to fight them?!”
It was a strange thing for the citizens to know—they must have been announced. Right next to him, Aramaki let out a dissonant laugh.
“This is the old world for ya, huh boss?”
Sakazuki glared at him. Rather than wasting time trying to spell out how important it was to observe their allies and their reactions, he watched the Hog instead.
She scoffed, giving the men a signal to continue going.
They were about to resume their march, when a growl broke through the silence. Low, subtle, and deeply angry. The dog.
From behind the Hog, the Fox strolled in a few, agile steps to the forefront of the group. In a blink he'd nocked an arrow and pointed it at the animal; the dog was frozen, lips peeled back from his teeth and dark gums, ears glued to its small head.
“Don’t, please!” a man appeared around the cul-de-sac and tumbled to his knees, clasping his hands over his head and putting himself between Fox and dog. It looked like the arrow could pierce through his skull and no blood would be shed, nothing but dust and bones under the papery skin. “Please spare it. Don’t take it away, it didn't mean to! It didn't-”
But the Fox had turned his arrow on the next pedestrian who'd dared step up, flinging him back into the shadows. Then toward a narrow window, where somebody else gasped. Every turn of that steely point was a stab of tension.
“It would be better for you to remember whose protection you live under,” he said at last. He only stopped aiming when he seemed to grow tired of the game, untensing the weapon and throwing his head back. “Look at you lazy paupers, questioning the decisions of your King. Scram or we’ll throw you to the wolves!”
Like that, relief shivered through the seemingly empty square. The contempt scattered like a crowd; Sakazuki’s sensitive Haki could still trace the tense mutterings into the empty streets and inside the houses, but at least, the boiling point had receded.
Sakazuki watched the Fox holding his pointy nose up in the air. People feared what they called the devil’s magic. And fear was the Red King’s weapon of choice, too.
Still, a piece of advice from his master Zephyr echoed in his mind.
Never pull out a weapon you don’t intend to use .
“Man…what a city of geezers,” Aramaki said, as the sounds of armor moving around them resumed with their march. His voice then dropped to a mumble. “And the soldiers, not much better. Should I kick ‘em in, boss?”
The way he spoke earned a glance from Sakazuki. It was suggestive, almost. Come on, tell me to kill for you, his grin said, the lips almost too pretty for a man. See what happens .
“Behave,” Sakazuki killed the thought. “Their order, too, might soon be the Navy’s.” He disliked seeing commoners beg and cry as much as he disliked slavery. But, before he could judge the method, he needed to know what was going on inside of the castle walls. Any Marines he sent there would need to have impeccable records—he had little tolerance for corruption whether from above or below.
Still, there as in their country, the one truth prevailed.
“Whatever we do here, we need to think about Justice first. Think about the greater good.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Aramaki scoffed, so dismissive that it made Sakazuki's patience crumble.
“No. No, you don’t.” He faced Aramaki, and the erosion inside him, the mixed feelings he had about that place, flared in his tone. “You don’t care if any of this is right or wrong. You’re only concerned about power. About recognition. The word on the back of your coat is nothing to you.”
He turned on his heels, sharply. Threw a few glances around to make sure no one had heard the argument. He didn’t want to see the whites of Aramaki’s eyes turn to angry red, either. That faint fondness he couldn't stop feeling, buried deep, deep inside him—that had to stop. Sakazuki walked alone. Acting otherwise was foolish.
But, from his back, that relentless imbecile still spoke.
“Wait… wait.”
Aramaki’s voice was an octave deeper than usual, as if it took him all the effort in the world to push out those words, as if he were wading through clumps and clumps of pride.
Sakazuki eyed him. Warily.
“What’s…what does justice mean to you?” Aramaki muttered. “I…I wanna know. Really.”
Not now. Sakazuki shook his head. He had to remain in check, remain objective in this foreign land. He was alone. It was stupid to think otherwise. No one else bore that weight. No one else could.
“His Majesty, Harald Claudius the III, the Red King.”
The only light in the throne room came from above, through a stained glass shaped like flowers. Poppies, Sakazuki noticed; forest green and blood red. The tinted rays fell on the throne’s sharp decorations and edges.
There was a reason for his epithet. Because the King seemed cloaked in crimson, a starry sky of glass glinting in the darkness around him. He was to be seen as a fearsome light in the darkness, imposant and divine. A scare tactic, like skulls and crossbones on black sails.
“Admiral Akainu,” the Red King said. He was young—younger than Sakazuki, at least. Without his hat on, Sakazuki’s scalp felt icy, and the white leather surcoat he'd been given pulled at his body.
“Sir,” Sakazuki answered.
The Fox shot him a look from his position next to the throne. “Address the King the appropriate way.”
“No, no, please,” the King held up a hand, “allow me to respect these men’s customs as they do mine. Admiral. Admiral, isn’t it? Your prowess in battle is most known. I have heard mighty things about your efforts against that false Pirate King. As well as the Battle of Ohara.”
The Battle of Ohara. Sakazuki wanted to scoff, but he could feel the eyes of that silent court on him. Truth be told, the Reverie was full of monarchs like this poppy King. Wispy men casting long shadows. Clad in lies like silk.
But Sengoku hadn’t been wrong; this one was a warrior. You could see it in the tempered hands, in the scarred face.
“Nightshade is a resilient country,” Sakazuki said. “That is a very important quality.”
“We were blessed with fertile lands by the Gods,” he said. “And it is the Gods that have sent you, as well, Admiral. Though perhaps gods other than our own.”
Sakazuki nodded curtly. A relief, straight to talking.
“The Government recognizes many countries, with or without gods that favor them. There are more important matters that unite us. One, true principle.”
“Is it the principles you are here for?” the King asked. “Or is it our Devil's Fruits?”
Sakazuki looked up, conviction boiling in his veins.
“I am not here for your Devil's Fruits or to take away your Highness's customs. The Navy exists to rid the world of crime. All the world. Accept our authority and jurisdiction, and you'll have our protection.” Perhaps their civilians would be less inclined to rebel, then, but he kept that part silent. “That is what I can tell you as an Admiral of the Navy. But, as a spokesman for the Government, I'll tell you. Nothing is for free.”
The truth was met with glacial silence. He was being bore into, inspected. Each of his words gutted and laid inside-out in that court. The King's eyes had gone small; as if Sakazuki was an object that glinted in the tall grass, and the King wasn't sure whether it was a diamond or a landmine.
“Very direct words, Admiral.”
“There is no time to lose. Your Highness.”
There was a beat of silence. Sakazuki sensed Aramaki's presence, tall and silent behind him. The green eyes deeply fixed on the back of his neck.
“You are sure to have heard of our problems with the beasts and bandits beyond the city walls,” the King continued. “They have stolen more of our treasures and destroyed more of our crops than I would like to admit. Like that one Fruit, the white one. Do you remember?”
“I remember,” the Fox said. And immediately, Sakazuki had a picture of the fruit in his mind's eye, glowing and gnarled with spirals. That. That was the one.
The Devil's Fruit I was sent to retrieve. He had almost forgotten, every word he had said was genuine.
“Rumor has it that you are a Logia user yourself, Admiral,” the King stood up, the poppies dancing on the patterns of his tunic. “Would you show me a sample of your power?”
“In battle,” Sakazuki replied curtly. “If you wish for proof of our capabilities, I will march on the vale. Today.”
Based on the conversations he'd had with the Hog, the bandits' strength was no more than their extravagant beasts. Animals couldn't use Haki—and it wasn't clear if they really commanded them. The vale was a good medium to fight with his magma. He'd need numbers, any estimates of the enemy forces and abilities. His mind started sketching a battle plan.
“Today?” the Red King echoed.
“Now, if you wish.”
Behind him, Aramaki vibrated with excitement.
But the King wasn't swayed. He turned around, the clothing waving around him, and brought a hand to his chin. Then his red eyes landed on Sakazuki.
Diamond or landmine? Which one was it?
“I'd have expected that you would wait for your ship,” he said. “I know now that you are here in good faith to request our affiliation. I’ll be consequent and send a vessel to gather your soldiers. It is our custom that we dine together, too, and share wine before a battle.”
“Hm.” Sakazuki would’ve never made that choice, as a monarch. It was a Sengoku move. He knew that the Fleet Admiral wouldn't want him turning down invitations.
He looked down, spoke to the tiled floor.
“So be it.”
“Eat of our food and drink of our wine,” the Red King enunciated. From his elevated position at the head of the table, he toasted high. “Salt and bread!”
Salt and bread, his court and soldiers chanted, as servants waltzed in and out covering the surfaces with food. Servings of beef, roasted potatoes, brown walnut bread and thick soup; mounts of exotic berries and fruit that felt as tall as Sakazuki himself. Spiced beer and wine completed the meal.
Sakazuki only modestly spoke or ate, and switched to water when the etiquette allowed him. At least, it was a minor mercy not to be surrounded by aristocrats. The King was given to dining with his high guards, rather than his counselors and scarce family—unwed, too. There was some talk of a dead high lady in the castle across the vales, but the violins were loud enough to drown all gossip.
Still, why waste the coming hours if Sakazuki’s battleship could reach the fjord tonight, making the attack at dawn possible?
Well…it doesn't matter. His head could still be on the battlefield. Even if was well aware of the Fox in a corner of his vision—he had barely touched his drink, either. But, for one, Aramaki seemed right at home.Whereas Sakazuki's surcoat only seemed to constrict him and itch around his joints, Aramaki had eased into the clothes he had been given, cotton and leather. He’d been talking to the other soldiers too, maybe arguing. He was a perfect fit for that loud, boisterous mood.
Well into the feast, Aramaki took a huge swig of his beer, turned around to stare at Sakazuki, and said,
“Let's toast.”
Sakazuki blinked. The bright, eager eyes couldn't help but melt some of his irritation.
“I'll toast when we've won,” he said.
“Bring it on! Ra ha ha!” Aramaki laughed, taking a bite of beef and washing it down with a few mouthfuls of beer. “Let's march on them right fuckin' now, boss.” His eyes pierced directly into Sakazuki's, torchlight setting them alight. “Gimme an order. I'll do it.”
A bit of his sneer wore off on Sakazuki.
“Can you fight drunk?”
“Can't you?” Aramaki leant back, his chair groaning against the floor, so that he was facing Sakazuki head-on. “We'll get that Devil's Fruit. We'll get it! Let 'em try to stop us.”
Sakazuki ran a gloved thumb across his jaw, studying Aramaki. He didn't notice Sakazuki's preoccupation; he only saw what he was told to see, what was in front of him. And yet, when he barked out those things, when he showed exactly how stubborn that head between his shoulders was…he made Sakazuki feel human.
And the feeling was a weed with too-spread-out roots. Ripping it out stirred the entire ground. It forced Sakazuki to acknowledge that the face he was looking at was handsome. His lips, his black lashes. The clothes he'd been given, fitted in all the right places, inviting him to think about running his hands under the folds.
Would Aramaki be as scandalized as the Dragons he called divine, if he were to peer into his mind and see these thoughts? Would he, or did he have them too?
Sakazuki looked away and at his plate, now empty. Bitter at his lingering hunger.
Luckily, all it usually took for that train of thought to derail was for Aramaki to open his mouth.
“Wish this weren't just a minor royalty though. If we were doing this work for the Dragons, I'd be a fuckin' hero when I came back,” he said. “Be like you.”
His words hung between them. Aramaki was so close that Sakazuki could breathe them in.
He pulled away.
Don't lose sight . Sakazuki watched the King stand up and nod to the violins, his cloak pinned by rubies the shape of poppies. The Fox was whispering something in his ear.
“Like me?” Sakazuki whispered. “Or like him?”
“Yeah,” Aramaki either didn't hear or ignored him, his voice heavy with alcohol, “you're sayin' it like it's nothing, but you're at the top already. People admire you. 'Tis not easy, to get that. Not easy.”
Admire. His mind wandered with the word. Many despised him, his pursuit of Justice, and no less soldiers feared him. And fear, it was often enough to command them. But not many of those who feared him would die for his Justice. Certainly, none would die for him.
“And you talk like there's nothing else,” he muttered.
In the fickle torchlight the music became mellow, and the King stomped his foot with it. Violins and drums. He gestured to a corner where, from the shadows, a beautiful woman seemed to appear out of thin air, and she was ethereal, clad in silk like peacock feathers. It made no sense, Sakazuki thought, it made no sense how the King twirled her in his arms instead of planning for the battle, and wasn't Sakazuki's ship probably docking by now?
“Admiral,” the Fox said, suddenly next to him, because Sakazuki had stood up and looked down on the table which seemed far, far away. "Admiral, wouldn't you like the beautiful Liliana to…show you to your quarters?"
Clinging to his arm was the woman. That woman. Familiar? Her eyes were gelid, blue icicles stabbing into him, her hair a flaxen bob around her doll-like face. He noticed Aramaki was watching her, too, because alcohol made everything glowing and warm. Because it made things look beautiful that would turn to ashes in the morning.
“No,” he spat. Then cooled down his tone—it had been harsh. Had it? He could hardly feel his face when he spoke. “I don't need anyone. Just tell me where my quarters are.”
“O-oh,” the Fox drew out the syllable in a manner that reminded him of Borsalino, “I see… How about your second-in-command, then.”
Sakazuki didn't reply. He became part of the background, of the torches burning in the corners, as that woman uncoiled her hand from the Fox's hand to wrap it…wrap herself… around Aramaki. Her arms, her slender legs, all touching him. His hands freezing on her waist as she whispered honeyed words in his ear.
An unexpected, unwanted jolt of hot red anger traveled up Sakazuki's throat.
“Fine,” he barked. Aramaki wanted power, then so he should behave. Drink the King's spiced wine and fuck his women.
Sakazuki receded into the shadows, his eyesight fuzzy, fuzzy like a dream, wanting only to reach his bed and smother in sleep. In the back of his head, there was a very distorted voice telling him that something was wrong, very wrong, but he could only contemplate it through a thick layer of amber. He needed to get away from the light and the torch and the heat, get away from his own molten core and assess the situation, but first he needed to find his room and sink on his bed for only one minute, the drums and the violins still ringing in his ears.
When he closed his eyes, he did it alone.
He woke up hours later, with the cold feeling of a seastone blade being rammed into his neck.