Chapter Text
“Long ago, when the boundary between the realm of the fae and our own was only a thin veil, five faerie swords were gifted to mortals, each blade powerful enough to turn the tide of war.”
The ship’s deck was cold and dark this deep into first watch, wind piercing the double layer of blankets they were sharing. Buggy tugged at his side of it, burrowing deeper, until Shanks was left with only the outer blanket, but he hardly noticed, eyes wide and fixed on Rayleigh.
“The first of these was Icemelt, ever burning, forged of Summer’s wrath for her Winter foes. And her Winter twin, Coldfire, which could wake a blizzard in the heart of summer. Banshee’s song could move hearts—or drive mortals to madness. And Phantom, dreaded on the battlefield, could stir spirits to rise in aid of its wielder. And finally there was—”
“Gryphon!”
Rayleigh’s expression grew stern. “Who’s telling the story here?”
“Sorry!” “Sorry.” The two children blinked up at him with well-practiced contrition.
Rayleigh stared back, unmoved, until both began to fidget, exchanging worried glances. Then, finally, he smiled. “Gryphon.”
“This is a bad idea.”
Shanks resecured the straps on his pack, full to almost bulging with everything his first mate had insisted he cram into it. “So you’ve said.”
“And it’s no less true than the first time I said it.”
Shanks peered down the trail, which was maybe an overly generous way to describe ground disturbed just enough by foot travel to have worn some of the vegetation down. The trees ahead were tall but thick, spaced apart enough beneath the canopy that the forest didn’t feel claustrophobic, sunlight filtering through leaves to the ground below.
It had rained recently, the scent of damp earth in strong competition with a half dozen other smells—rotting leaves, decomposing wood, pockets of fungal growth around the base of trees. Ordinarily he would have found it almost pleasant, but with the humidity it was overpowering, not even a hint of ocean breeze for relief this far inland.
Shanks turned back to Benn. “I have to do this.”
“You have to chase a myth?”
He tipped his hat off his head, letting it dangle behind him—hair already half damp with sweat—and shrugged, the answer simple. “Yes.”
Gryphon had been his obsession as a child, the stories so often requested that Rayleigh instituted a six month ban at one point, but by then, Shanks had practically memorized them. To most people, stories about the fae were just that—fanciful stories—but Rayleigh had been to the fae realm, many of his stories half spun from his experiences there.
Gryphon was real. As powerful as any devil fruit, but without the curse of the sea to go with it. And through his network of contacts throughout the ports of the Grand Line, a whisper had finally reached him of a pirate who’d washed up on Glowbug Island, babbling about fae, a magical sword, and a cursed maze.
It had taken top-shelf rum, and lots of it, to loosen the man's tongue. Even then, Shanks had barely dared hope, but the pirate had described the labyrinth guarding the blade in even greater detail than Rayleigh. He’d known of Tallefaer and her curse. And clutched in one hand, eyes wild and darting when Shanks had asked to see it—a map.
Shanks had collected many maps of the fae realm over the years, all except two from collectors persuaded to part with them for a small fortune. The other two they’d found gathering dust in a Marine vault during a raid. With the exception of the Marine maps, they were crudely drawn and lacked more than the most basic of landmarks.
The pirate had refused to discuss where he’d found his, and only an absurd sum of berry had convinced him to part with it, but at the end of that negotiation, almost vibrating with the effort of holding back his excitement, Shanks had walked away with something he’d only dreamed of finding: Gryphon’s location within the Wildlands.
For all that Benn insisted the circumstances of finding it had been too convenient—that it was a scam at best, and a trap at worst—Shanks trusted his own read of the man: he’d been terrified, desperate to be rid of anything tied to the fae.
“I can return at any time,” he reminded Benn, patting at the sealed container of sea salt that he’d secured to his sash.
Benn’s stare was unimpressed, and Shanks knew the heart of the issue was the fact that he was going alone. His first mate still seemed to think sometimes that he was the scrawny kid he’d met three years ago, before he could even properly grow facial hair.
The problem was, there was no travel into the fae realm, except alone. Rayleigh had always been adamant about that. Whether it was simply the nature of the doorway between their worlds, or some mechanism by which the fae protected their realm from mortal incursion, there was no other choice.
Just as there had never been any choice about whether Shanks would go. As much as the sea was part of his bones, something about the fae realm called to him. Had called to him since the very first time he’d listened, attention rapt, to Rayleigh’s stories. Shanks had simply known, with an iron certainty that had rattled Rayleigh, that he was meant to go there. To find something.
He’d feel better, though, if he could set Benn’s mind at ease. “You met that pirate. He made it to the labyrinth in under a week, and he’s not exactly someone I’d rush to recruit. You really think I can’t do better?”
“He was not someone I’d rush to believe,” Benn muttered, fumbling through his pocket for a cigarette, then holding his lighter up to it. He inhaled slowly and tipped his head up at the sky to blow out a stream of smoke, watching it for a few quiet seconds before looking back at Shanks. “You’re one of the best I’ve met, but if your stories are to be believed, that sword has been unclaimed for centuries. Do you think you’re the best to ever go looking for it?”
“I don’t know.” Shanks met his gaze. “But I’ll be the one to claim it.”
Benn shook his head. “Shit. You say that, and I can almost believe you.” He took another long drag of his cigarette, and tossed the lighter at him. “Fine. Here.”
Shanks caught it, startled. “I can’t take this.” The lighter—made of silver and engraved with two cresting waves moving in opposite directions, the sun high above them—was one of his first mate’s treasured possessions.
Benn raised an eyebrow. “It’s a loaner. I expect you to bring it back.”
Shanks closed his fingers over it, taking it for what it was: a gesture of faith. “I will.” Then he grinned at Benn, spirits buoyed. “Don’t let the crew get too wild while I’m gone.”
Benn exhaled another cloud of smoke, lips quirking. “Not on my ship.”
Shanks laughed and clapped him on the back. “Mutiny!”
Crossing into the realm of the fae wasn’t just a matter of setting your mind to it and picking a direction. Most mortals who found themselves lost within wandered into it by pure chance. According to Rayleigh, those were places where the mortal realm and the fae realm had temporarily brushed up against one another, the walls ordinarily separating the two worn thin enough that unwary mortals could pass through.
If you were a wary mortal, however, you listened for rumors of mysterious disappearances and strange lights at night in the forest, which was what had led Shanks to this particular trail.
He wasn’t really sure what to expect, so after Benn left, he simply began walking. Tense excitement soon gave way to boredom as several minutes passed and nothing happened. Then an hour. Doubt began to creep in. Disappearances could be just that, no mystical reason behind them, and Benn was going to give him that look, where he didn’t actually say “I told you so,” but it was all but implied.
It wasn't until he nearly tripped on the path, foot sliding over a slick patch of damp leaves atop flat stone, that he realized the foliage here was the vibrant orange and red of autumn, rather than the green of the early summer he'd left behind. The domain of the Autumn Court?
A prickle of excitement traveled up his spine. He was here.
The air didn't feel particularly different or magical. It felt like—air. A little warmer, maybe, the sun’s hue the soft gold of late afternoon despite being high overhead. As he listened more carefully to the sounds of nature around him, however, there was an eerie almost-sameness to it. Bird calls that he'd heard before, but more lyrical. The rhythmic buzzing of insects, interspersed with chirps he didn't quite recognize but didn't feel out of place either.
Shanks continued to follow the path north, confident but alert. Eventually it began to wind. Gently at first, then the curves grew tighter, meandering this way and that. Occasionally he heard a loud flutter of something large taking flight, but he was never able to turn in time to sight it through the branches. Once, he heard what sounded like a huff of laughter somewhere above him, breathless and light, and it sent a shiver of unease down his spine.
If this was indeed Autumn’s domain, then according to the maps he'd procured, the forest should give way to flatlands eventually, which themselves would meet with the Dewspan River that ultimately wound through all four Courts.
But one hour passed, then another and another, and the forest stubbornly persisted, unmoved by his growing fatigue. He heard the laughter once again, and walked a little faster, until the twist of fear in stomach had settled, Observation Haki unable to detect anything within immediate range.
Finally he stopped at a large rock with a mostly-flat surface, its base heavily coated in moss, and took a seat. His canteen was running low, but he took a few sparing sips of lukewarm water and pulled out the map of Autumn.
Of the maps he'd collected, it was the most sparse, with its central woods—which took up nearly half of its expanse—helpfully marked "Forest" and one or two landmarks within labeled cryptically as "Avoid." No pathways were drawn, nor any scale given, but surely he must be nearing its boundary by now.
He had no intention of lingering any longer than necessary within any of the domains ruled over by the fae courts. Although he was curious about them, the safer bet was to avoid any fae altogether on his trek to the Wildlands. Rayleigh's stories were filled with unhelpful fae who were as likely to toy with a stray mortal as they were to actually be helpful. And the ones who did help often exacted a price.
Shanks sighed, wiping away the trickle of sweat that kept building up to drip from his brow. If Rayleigh weren't so pigheaded, he would've asked him directly, but any time Shanks ever hinted at wanting to visit the fae realm, he'd clam up. You don't belong there, kid. They'd eat you alive and spit out your bones.
Well, he thought with a twinge of irritation, it's his own fault for telling us about it in the first place.
Another bead of sweat dripped down his forehead, this time traveling the length of his nose before dripping onto the ground. The soil seemed to froth for a moment where it landed, and Shanks watched in fascination as a small shoot of green poked above the soil, unfurling at first into two small leaves, then extending another pair of larger leaves above it. The plant continued to bolt upward, sometimes growing measurably from one blink to the next, until it was shin-high, a bud emerging from the central stem.
The rate of growth seemed to slow, the bud cracking open to just a tease of color before finally spreading wavy petals shaped almost like the flames of a candle, blood-red at the base before lightening to a nearly translucent ruby.
Something bright entered the corner of his vision, and Shanks glanced over to find a small swarm of gently glowing lights hovering near his shoulder, each roughly the size of a bumblebee, though their hums were higher pitched. It was darker, he realized suddenly, the angle of sunlight much shallower now as it poked through the trees, as though hours had passed rather than seconds.
A faint unease settled in his stomach. He was definitely beginning to see how the fae realm wasn't quite the same as the mortal realm.
One of the glowing bumblebees dived at his shoulder, impacting just below his rolled-up shirt cuff, and the resulting jolt was like the sting of an eel. Shanks shot to his feet with a yelp, more surprised than alarmed just yet. He instinctively avoided the flower, sandals spread to either side of it.
"You've upset the sprites."
Shanks whirled so fast he nearly lost his footing. There was a stranger watching him, hip leaned against the trunk of one of the trees shading his resting spot. He looked roughly Shanks’ height, the hilt of a large blade poking out from behind his back, his long coat—a textured black that transitioned at the lining and sleeves to an eye-twisting pattern of vines and leaves in the muddy palette of sunset—out of place in the oppressive heat.
"I have?" Shanks said warily, wondering how long he’d been there.
The man left the cover of the tree, sunlight catching in his hair, which was black with a hint of wine-dark red at the tips, gathered into a braid that hung to one side, falling to chest level. He looked to be Shanks' age, or a little older, his facial hair impeccably groomed—especially in comparison to Shanks’ three-day stubble. "You were sitting on their home."
Shanks took a few startled steps away from it, closer to the stranger, who he could now see had very strange eyes, irises a double ring of gold that he found himself unable to stop staring at. The realization of what he was hit quite abruptly and he tore his gaze away. "Stop using your glamor on me."
The fae's lips pulled into a frown, and now he was staring at those. "I'm not using any glamor," he said, sounding almost insulted.
"Oh." Fae couldn't lie, he knew that much. He let himself make eye contact again. "So you are just—like that."
The fae regarded him curiously. "Like what?"
"Beautiful," he said, face heating instantly.
The fae blinked at him, slow like a cat, pupils seeming to narrow briefly—also like a cat. "If you say so," he said, with enough hesitation that Shanks guessed he'd been taken aback by the compliment.
"Sorry, you're the first fae I've met. I'm a mortal," Shanks said, mouth continuing to bypass his brain in its best attempt to mortify him.
"I can tell."
Though there wasn't anything patronizing about the way he said it, Shanks quietly deflated. "I’m sure you’ve met plenty."
"No, you're the first."
Fae couldn't lie, Shanks reminded himself, and there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes as he watched Shanks back. He didn’t know why he’d expected all fae to be familiar with mortals. "Well, what do you think?" he asked, offering a hopeful smile.
"I don't know yet." The fae hesitated. "You're—interesting."
Interesting was good. "Being interesting is bad, when it comes to the fae," Rayleigh's voice said from the depths of his memory, and he distractedly shoved it back down. "I'm Shanks," he said, extending a hand.
The fae regarded it with confusion for a moment, then grasped it, arm loose. Already committed at this point, Shanks shook his hand, wishing Rayleigh's stories had covered more fae etiquette. There had been more than you'd expect in swashbuckling adventures, but they hadn't included greetings.
"Mihawk," the fae said, looking at his still-clasped hand. Shanks released it quickly. "Why are you here? Are you lost?"
Shanks stared at him blankly before remembering that he did in fact have a purpose for being here that had nothing to do with the fae. "No. I'm looking for something."
"Oh?"
The interest in his voice was keener this time, and the greedy thought occurred to Shanks that he could win the fae as a traveling companion if he played this right. After all, he knew that fae liked games and that they were bound to honor their word.
"How are you with that blade?" Shanks asked, shifting his gaze to the massive hilt that extended past Mihawk's shoulders.
The fae's stare took on an intensity that froze him in place. "Without equal in this realm."
"Then how about a duel?" Shanks asked, even as his brain insisted that this was a very stupid idea. "To first blood. If I win, you help me obtain the item I'm looking for. And if you win—" This part he hadn't actually considered. "I owe you a favor."
"Owing a favor to the fae has been many a mortal's downfall," Rayleigh's voice intoned, with the faintest note of judgment.
Mihawk smiled for the first time, and Shanks temporarily forgot how to breathe. "Very well. I accept those terms."
The fae drew his sword from its sheath behind his back, its blade black with a faint inner glow, like no metal Shanks had seen. As he swung it into a high guard stance, Shanks could swear he heard a whoosh of wind and a rattle like dead leaves. He drew his own sword, met his gaze, and they exchanged a nod, the language of dueling universal.
In the space of a blink, Mihawk was in front of him, and he barely brought his blade up in time to parry before the fae was in position for another strike, inhumanly fast. Shanks quickly oriented himself, Observation Haki snapping into focus, the entirety of his concentration spent narrowly avoiding strike after strike.
Shanks was an excellent swordsman, trained by one of the best in the world. Until today, he had not met an equal, but Mihawk had the clear edge—to the point that he wondered if he was toying with him. Even with his Observation Haki working frantically to keep up, the fae was still that much faster, his strikes that much more instinctive. He could feel the fae adapting to his fighting style, anticipating Shanks' few counters he was able to fit in between long stretches of reactionary defense.
Swordplay alone wouldn't win him the duel, which meant he needed something else to throw the fae off. He used the momentum of Mihawk's next strike against his blade to leap backward and buy time. The fae's eyes narrowed as he moved to close to gap, but Shanks was ready with a parry, feigning a bout of weakness as the fae drove in and pressed down against his blade, until Shanks was on his back, muscles straining against the force slowly driving his own blade closer and closer to his chest.
Shanks smiled tightly—got you—and kicked the fae's left ankle out, unbalancing him enough to topple the other. The fae tried to catch himself with his free hand, but Shanks pulled it out from under him, and he collapsed onto the ground beside him. From there, Shanks was able to use his broader frame to pin the struggling fae down, careful to keep his sword arm immobilized. The duel was to first blood, and it felt almost like cheating when he had Mihawk grappled, but shit, he was strong, already close to breaking his hold.
And then he did, shoving Shanks off, but there was the slimmest opening where the fae's sword was in no position to parry his own. Shanks slashed wildly, catching the quick flash of skin above his right hip.
The fae screamed, a throat-tearing cry of agony that made every hair on his neck stand up. Shanks froze in place, gaze locking on the cut. Had he cut deeper than intended—? He could see very little blood, but the skin around the cut was an angry red, like a wound already infected, and the fae was flat on his back, shuddering in pain.
"I'm sorry!" Shanks blurted, lowering his sword, free hand fluttering helplessly as he tried to figure out how he could help.
Mihawk scrambled back from him when he drew closer, however, face pale and teeth gritted as he watched Shanks. The interest from before was gone, pain and betrayal taking its place, and then Shanks realized what had happened. Shit. Shit shit shit.
He flung the sword away as though it had burned him rather than Mihawk because fuck, it was iron. "I'm sorry," he said again, desperately.
"You have your victory, mortal," the fae said, tight with fury.
And what could Shanks possibly say that he'd believe? Unless—
"I didn't mean to use iron against you," he said: once, twice, thrice. On the third intonation, there was a strange thickness to his tongue, like it was laden with syrup, but the words passed through it. In the fae realm, no one, not even a mortal, could speak a lie three times.
Mihawk continued to watch him warily, hand pressed against the wound, but he didn’t pull away this time when Shanks crouched beside him. “Is it—is there anything I can do?” To help, to apologize, to turn that pained tension back to lazy curiosity.
“I don’t know,” the fae said, removing his hand to look at the inflamed cut. “This is the first time I’ve encountered mortal iron. Is it…common in your realm?”
“Yes,” Shanks said, wondering if that was why fae never ventured there.
Mihawk looked faintly ill. “How awful.” He touched a finger to the reddened skin and withdrew it with a hiss. “It isn’t healing.”
It hadn’t even been a minute. “Do you usually heal that quickly?”
“Of course.” The fae gave him a startled look. “Mortals do not?”
“It can take a few days, or even weeks, if it’s a deep wound.”
Mihawk’s gaze turned piercing, the narrowing of focus almost a pressure on his skin. “And yet you still offered to duel me. Why?”
“Because I could use your help.” But that wasn’t the whole truth, which built heavy on his tongue until it spilled out. “And because I like you.”
Mihawk blinked. “You barely know me.”
“Well,” he said with a modest shrug, “I have pretty good taste.”
The pressure intensified for a moment, and then just like that, it was gone. Mihawk nodded towards Shanks’ discarded sword. “You’ll need to rid yourself of that blade. If any other fae were to find you wielding it, your life would be forfeit.”
The ground beneath the sword, a delicate, wiry grass, was now a withered rust-brown. So iron was anathema to everything in the fae realm. “Should I bury it?”
“Yes.” Mihawk stared at it with a hostility that seemed almost personal, as though the sword itself had wronged him. “But first, bring it to me.”
Shanks, who had already located a likely digging spot, shot him a startled look. “Are you sure?”
The fae nodded, tension returning to his frame as Shanks walked it over to him, watching him for any signs that he should stop before setting it down on the ground in front of him. Mihawk studied it intently for what felt like a minute but in the fae realm could apparently be anything. Then he rolled up a sleeve and moved as though to touch the underside of his forearm to the flat of the blade.
Shanks caught his wrist, horrified, Mihawk’s otherworldly scream from before still ringing in his ears. “What are you doing?”
The fae reclaimed his hand with a stubborn tug. “I would rather not be taken by surprise again. I need to know—” He lowered his wrist to the blade, inch by nerve-wracking inch, halting just above the surface of his skin. He shivered. “I can feel it.”
Shanks continued to hover anxiously, hand on the sword’s hilt ready to snatch it away at any moment. Mihawk swallowed, then touched bare skin to iron. There was a hiss, and at first Shanks thought it was the blistering of skin, but no, it was just air forcing itself through Mihawk’s clenched teeth as he held it there for one second, three, ten—
“It’s cold,” Mihawk said tightly. “But it burns.”
And still he held his wrist to it, shaking now, but refusing to pull away, as though he could win a battle of wills with a metal that could kill the very ground they stood on. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Shanks caught his unresisting wrist and pulled it back from the blade, then jerked the sword out of reach. He rotated Mihawk’s arm so he could see the underside of his wrist. The skin was unbroken but faintly flushed, and when he touched it, it was ice cold.
Mihawk’s shaking had subsided, but he was still pale, expression slightly distant, as though he were elsewhere. Shanks covered the cold patch of skin with his hand, trying to warm it, and that seemed to break the spell. The fae’s eyes focused on him, then his hand.
“Does that help?”
“Some.”
Shanks traded hands after a few seconds, the flesh still quite cold beneath his warm palm. He continued swapping until Mihawk’s skin only felt cool rather than like ice. He stole one last touch, thumb tracing lightly over barely-visible veins, then released his wrist. “Can you stand?”
“Of course,” the fae said haughtily, managing to make even that motion graceful somehow. He pulled his coat back to check on the wound. The skin was still inflamed, but the cut seemed smaller than before.
Shanks released a breath, relieved. He hadn’t permanently injured the fae. Another apology rose in his mouth, which he swallowed. “You don’t have to go with me, if you don’t want,” he said instead, because though it had felt clever at the time, he’d never forcibly recruited anyone before.
Mihawk’s brow furrowed. “But I do. You won.”
“No, I mean—I wouldn’t force you to.”
The fae continued to look at him like he’d sprouted an extra head. “You couldn’t.” Then he frowned. “You don’t want me to join you.”
“No, I do—” Shanks stopped, frustrated. It felt like they were having two different conversations. “Do you want to come with me?”
“Yes.”
His heart stuttered. “Even if you didn’t have to?” Shanks clarified.
“I do have to.” There was the barest curve to his lips as he watched Shanks, as though he was purposefully being aggravating. “But yes.”
Shanks offered a tentative smile. “You don’t even know where I’m going, or what I’m after.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
The frustrating thing wasn’t that Mihawk didn’t want to come along, because apparently he did, it was his utter refusal to give any hint as to why. “What if I’m here to steal a precious relic belonging to the Autumn Court?”
Mihawk leaned down with the barest wince to pick his giant sword up, then reached behind his back to sheathe it. “I doubt we have any left. Winter has already claimed most of them as tribute.”
Shanks knew almost nothing about fae politics either. It hadn’t even occurred to him that the courts might be at odds with one another, or that traveling with Mihawk could earn him enemies. “Are you at war with Winter?”
Mihawk shook his head. “We are nominally under their protection.”
“Protection from what?” Rayleigh’s stories had covered a multitude of dangers within the fae realm, but usually from a mortal’s perspective.
“Many things, Winter among them.” Mihawk studied him, head tilting to the side. “The more relevant threats depend on what you seek.”
Shanks knelt down by his discarded sword and began scooping up handfuls of dirt, moss and mud wedging beneath his fingernails. “The sword Gryphon.”
“Tallefaer’s Sorrow?” Mihawk straightened, eyes lighting with interest. A cool, pleasant breeze picked up. “A worthy goal, though it’s said to be cursed.”
Shanks paused his digging, lifting an elbow to wipe at the fresh sweat beading at his hairline. “You know it?”
“I know of every named blade within the realm.” He tapped the pommel of his sword, a faceted red gem that seemed to swallow most light, leaving only a soft glow at its center. “This is Yoru.”
Shanks inclined his head. “Pleased to meet you, Yoru.”
Although he’d said it half-jokingly, Mihawk rewarded him with a smile that almost made him cut himself, distracted as his hand grasped blindly for his sword. He caught himself just in time and grabbed it by the hilt instead to lower it into the hole, then push the mound of displaced dirt on top of it. As he patted the earth down, he could see the grasses around it already withering.
“You’ll need a replacement sword for the journey,” Mihawk said.
The thought had occurred to him too. Shanks sprang to his feet, wiping his muddied hands on his trousers. “Do you happen to have one lying around?”
“I have several back home.”
“Several?” Shanks repeated. Yoru already seemed more than enough for one person to handle. “How many do you need?”
Mihawk’s smile sharpened. “It’s not a matter of need. It’s a matter of humbling the other Courts.”
Fae could be petty, spiteful, and obsessive. Shanks wondered which of those was the motivation behind Mihawk’s sword collection. “If you’re offering, I’ll gladly take one off your hands.”
The edge to the fae’s smile didn’t disappear, but there was a heat in his eyes that bloomed warm in Shanks’ chest, like a shot of whiskey. “If you find one that you like, you can duel me for it.”
Shanks swallowed. “Deal.”
“Let’s go, then. I can take you there.”
The fae looked at him expectantly, and Shanks headed back over to him. As he passed the pixie residence he’d accidentally sat on, his gaze landed on the flower that had sprung to life beside it. On a whim, he stopped, leaning over to pinch the stem beneath its blossom to separate it from the plant. He hadn’t noticed it before, but at the very bottom of each petal was a small band of yellow.
“Here,” he said, holding it out to Mihawk. “For you.”
The air stilled, the cool breeze from before dying with a gasp. Mihawk stared at him, the double ring of gold in his eyes a perfect match for that inner splash of color. “You’re—giving this to me?”
“Yes,” he said, faltering at the intensity of the fae’s gaze. Had he made some sort of mistake? He combed through his memories of Rayleigh’s stories, able to vaguely remember something about treasured flowers. Was plantlife held sacred by the fae?
Mihawk took it from him, handling it with surprising gentleness. He brought it to his nose, his gaze still locked on Shanks. “Salt water,” he said, brow creasing in concentration. “Pine tar. Barley.” His nose wrinkled. “Sour barley.”
Shanks felt a strange flutter of hurt. “If you don’t like it—”
The fae snatched it out of his reach, immediately defensive. “I like it.” After a few seconds passed without Shanks making any move to take it away, he lowered it once more, gaze dropping to the flower itself as he twirled the stem between his thumb and finger. “I like red.” His eyes flicked toward Shanks, then back down at the flower.
Then he held it up to his coat, just below his right collarbone, and the dark fabric shifted, threads moving like vines to encircle the stem and weave it into the coat itself, leaving only the flower exposed. The fae smiled at it, expression soft, and Shanks suddenly ached for that smile to be for him—jealous of a flower, of all things.
The breeze returned, and Shanks leaned into it, grateful for the relief from the oppressive heat. Mihawk glanced at him, the softness lingering for a moment longer before sharpening into something almost mischievous.
“Shall we?”
He extended his elbow, and Shanks regarded it with blank confusion before looping his arm through it. The breeze became a roaring cyclone around them, and he closed his eyes against a sudden pelting of debris, hand automatically slapping over his hat to hold it in place. He could feel leaves flapping in the wind, sliding against his clothes, slapping wetly against his cheek.
Just as suddenly, the roar subsided back to a calm breeze, temperature dropping considerably. Shanks opened his eyes—and they were somewhere completely different.