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Merry was a ship.
It's all she knew for as long as she was being created, keel and wood and sails. Ropes and rudder, and bow, and mast, and crates, and shelves, and boards that made her whole and not-quite-aware and not-quite-feeling. It's all that stuck to her, as it will stuck to any other ship, because Merry is one, after all.
Merry was a ship, is a ship. A brave caravel that was made for a little girl with a dream of heath, commissioned and checked by a man she shares a name with. She never felt loved by them, though, not in the way that will matter. That might matter. The way that'll make her whole in a different way than just a fix of a loose nail.
Merry is a ship without purpose because the not-her girl is sick and will never be able to sail with her. The not-her girl is not hers because she will not be able to accommodate the ambitions Merry was made for, because Merry knows when she was created, she was made for something bigger than just sailing. Merry is for a purpose she was yet to find, but Merry is a ship of something greater, vaster, more.
And then, Merry becomes the ship a boy in a straw crown dreamed for.
And then, Merry is a ship of dreams, of a crew that dreams bigger than their bodies. Of a child that smiles brighter than the sun, of a girl that marvels at the shine of gold, of a man that wields three blades like they weigh nothing, of a boy that fears with courage, of a stranger that becomes family through his cooking.
And then, Merry is a ship with a crew and adventure waiting behind every second, if not first corner. She loves them, and they love her, and it's the kind of love that makes her whole in the way that the fixed mast will never be able to make. She laughs with them, sails snapping, flag blowing, chains of anchor ringing; she cries with them, boards creaking, doors banging, ropes tightening their knots.
And then, Merry is a ship that is dying. Slowly, painfully, but with so much love that, be she a human, would make her sob herself dry. She fixes herself as much as she can, because her crew doesn't deserve to go with her, because their dreams are vaster than the sea, because she swore she will take them to the ends of this even if it kills her. Merry thinks of herself as a good ship, keeping herself afloat, because her crew is one of dreamers, of hellions, of damned, of willed, of those that the ones in power fear with all their soul, and she's their ship.
Merry is the dreamer, the hellion, the damned, the willed, the one those in power fear, because she is a ship of a D. She is a D, in her own right, and D's go out on their terms only. She is a D, and it was a gift from her Captain, his will, his favoritism, his claim.
She is his, and he is hers.
But Merry is dying.
Slowly, painfully, but loved. Loved beyond love, loved beyond words or feelings.
Merry is still dying.
Does she want to die? Does she want to go in flames, does she want to feel the energy seeping, does she want to go at all?
No. Merry doesn't want to die.
She is selfish like that, just like her Captain taught her. She is his ship, after all.
Merry is dying. She doesn't want to, but she is. Her sails are ash, now, and her broken keel is more than halfway deep, and her consciousness is leaving, but she doesn't want to die. She is the dreamer, the hellion, the damned, the willed, the one those in power fear. She's selfish, just like her Captain taught her.
Stubborn just like him, too.
Merry is his ship, after all.
But it was her last journey. Last adventure. She doesn't want to die, but the fire digs into her with its greedy fingers.
Merry is burning, with flare and crying and goodbyes.
Merry is dying, and she sings in her death with the wind.
Merry is sinking, and the sea swallows her.
Merry is crying and laughing and screaming and whispering and thanking and loving every second of, because-
Because Merry is-
She is-
.
.
.
Merry wakes up.
Her body is yet to be finished, but her keel is done and her figurehead is sitting proudly on the nose of it. The white of paint is not yet deep in her wood, but it won't chip off even so. Her sails are not there, but she would'n be able to sail if they were there either, because she is unfinished and-
And Merry… wakes up, and it's not something that is supposed to happen.
The shipwright startles as she creaks her rudder, hammer falling from his hands in his surprise. She feels a little sorry for the scare, but she just needed to make sure, because it's suddenly so surreal to be in the time that she wasn't. Merry knows she wasn't whole on whatever date is today, knows that she only started to truly gather her Will somewhere at the Twin Peaks, perhaps a little earlier, at the Loguetown. Nowhere near now, before she had a proud Jolly Roger flying, before her crew had been assembled, before her hull had been put together, even.
Merry feels her body, the ship that she is, the ship that only will be, and, quite suddenly, understands why her Navigator is so exasperated about her Captain all the time. Merry has a feeling that her Captain is the one that she needs to blame this one on; the seconds that tick by, as the poor shipwright picks up the fallen hammer, is all but forced upon her with that revelation.
Merry was dying.
Merry is alive.
Merry was, and now she is and isn't. She's dead, and she's alive, and she's the ship of dreamers, of hellions, of damned, of willed, of those that the ones in power fear, of those that took one look at the right order of the universe and spat on it.
Merry is a ship of a D.
She is Going D. Merry, and she's the family of one little boy in a straw hat and a will mightier than the world can compete with.
The shipwright drops his hammer again, because the wood in her body creaks and bends and snaps and shudders, and Merry laughs.
(Oh, she thinks with glee and tears and laughs and cries and shanties in her boards that were not-yet sung.)
Her crew isn't here, not yet, not in the nearest future, and she refuses to sail with anyone less than that of hers, because she is the ship of the freest, of the selfishest man in the Blues; she is a ship of a King, no matter how brief their journey was. She's his, but he is hers. They all are, and she is their ship.
She is their ship of dreamers. They're hers.
(Oh, she thinks. This is going to be fun.)